CHAPTER SEVENTEEN #2
Caroline Brailes had spent a full hour in her room prior to getting dressed for the evening, lying upon her bed – not in need of physical restoration, but piecing together encounters, comments and rather more nebulous ‘possibilities’ from the last week.
If one were to look upon them in a certain way, they pointed to Mr Gilmorton, inexplicably, delighting in her company and showing her a flattering degree of attention.
Her hopeful heart told her that what she had assumed was his general kind demeanour was more than that, and that she was in receipt 280of rather more of his kindness than a mere generous attitude towards a less-favoured lady might merit.
It made her feel rather breathless, and very slightly sick, as when anticipating some enormous treat in childhood.
She had dressed with the greatest care, choosing a gown of as near the colour chosen by the wise Mrs Howell as she possessed, though it was a rather more pallid blue that held no hint of violet and lacked the ‘triangles’ that Mr Gilmorton had so admired.
He had seemed so sincere in his tentative commendation.
She had sighed, and dreamt. Now she observed his manner with Miss Newent, and it definitely lacked any spark, for all that the girl was so beautiful.
The party set off the short distance to Sydney Gardens, with Miss Brailes sacrificing herself and walking alongside Mrs Goodworth, so that Mr Gilmorton could escort Miss Newent, and Lord Barkby offering his arm to Lady Dembleby.
Her reward was a look that she felt expressed gratitude and also ‘I would rather have your arm upon mine’.
Lady Dembleby, grateful to Mr Gilmorton, and with some degree of perturbation about Lord Orlando Hurstwood’s likely intentions for the evening, was so aware of her gloved hand upon Lord Barkby’s arm that it very nearly tingled.
It was as though her fingertips were preternaturally sensitive, as though there was neither glove nor sleeve between them and her flesh had contact with his.
It was both disturbing and exhilarating, and was entirely new.
It made her tense a little, and she turned her head and looked up at him at the same moment that he, 281by some chance, looked to her.
His mouth wore a gentle smile, but his eyes held something deeper.
If, however unconsciously, she was asking if he felt the same awareness, then his answer was a very firm ‘yes’.
The difference was that it did not surprise or disturb him; he relished it.
She looked down, unexpectedly shy all of a sudden, and he read the suffusing blush as a good sign.
It was therefore in buoyant mood that he led her into the vestibule of the Tavern, which sounded a most unsuitable title for such a refined building, with its ballroom and loggia.
They passed from the shadows of the building onto the central walk, which inclined gently to the semicircular pavilion at the furthest extent. It was very busy, and Lord Barkby took Lady Dembleby’s elbow and guided her from the straight, broad path and around the end of one of the bowling greens.
‘Since we are a party, you cannot accuse me of seeking shrubbery to hide licentiousness, ma’am,’ he said, looking virtuous. ‘The open air is never as “open” when one has to curtail one’s step to avoid cannoning into others.’
‘It does make it less restful, which is such a shame,’ Lady Dembleby responded.
Upon a quieter path they formed a less regimented grouping, and Mrs Goodworth, seeing that Mr Gilmorton frequently turned his head to attend to Miss Brailes, thoughtfully lagged a little behind, and enabled Miss Brailes to walk upon Mr Gilmorton’s other side.
She was not a highly perspicacious woman, but she thought the mutual attraction between the pair perfectly obvious.
‘But at least, with it being evening and the sun no longer 282harsh, one does not run the risk of being poked in the eye with a parasol.’ Mr Gilmorton was in fine form as ‘man without care’.
‘The way you ladies carry the things, they are more dangerous than French bayonets. I would swear to it. One very nearly had my eye out only a couple of days since.’
‘You do seem to be remarkably unfortunate in your encounters upon the streets of Bath, sir.’ Miss Brailes cast him a saucy look. ‘What with dangerous ladies with parasols and the “perambulating mess of haberdashery”, I am surprised you remain here.’
‘Are you?’ He looked down at her.
There was only the faintest hint of added meaning in the question, but Caroline Brailes caught her breath, and her lips parted. Her heart beat rather too fast.
‘N … No, Mr Gilmorton.’ She dared not immediately look him full in the face, and avoided taking it further. ‘The Duchess would place you in her bad books if you did so, and she is not one to disobey or upset.’
‘Ah very true, ma’am, very true.’
She raised her eyes to see his own laughing, with her but not at her, and it was there, she was sure of it, a sparkle that never lit them when he looked at Miss Newent. For a moment her eyes misted over.
Miss Newent, oblivious to the unspoken messages being sent between Mr Gilmorton and Miss Brailes, had latched on to the comment about bayonets.
‘I do hope you and Lord Barkby are not going to make us march around the gardens, Mr Gilmorton. I am sure I could never keep step.’
283There was a fraction of a delay as Mr Gilmorton awoke to the fact that there was anyone else in the universe other than Miss Brailes.
‘I fear you misunderstand, Miss Newent. Lord Barkby and I are cavalrymen, and horses cannot march. If you want marching, you have to look to the infantry. Dusty fellows you will find them, not least because our horses always raise such a cloud of it when we pass them.’ He shook his head.
‘No doubt they also have very bad feet. I never understood why a fellow would want to walk when he might ride.’
‘But surely the officers have horses, sir?’
‘Oh, they do, but they get off them sometimes and lead a little by example, and of course when it comes to battle, they fight on two feet not four. Not my idea of fighting.’
‘Indeed, and so much harder to get away if one is on foot,’ remarked Miss Newent infelicitously.
‘Strange as it may sound to you, Miss Newent, that never occurred to us.’ Lord Barkby could not keep the edge from his voice, and Lady Dembleby, glancing at him, saw his good humour momentarily disappear.
‘Do not infantry form squares when attacked by cavalry, my lord? If they present their bayonets to all sides it must seem impossible to overcome them.’ She thought a sensible question might deflect him.
‘They do, ma’am, or try to do so. If one catches a column before it can deploy into line it is possible to break it utterly.
The other factor is determination and courage.
A square that falters is a square that fails.
Actually breaking it with cavalry alone is very rare; one usually gets the 284artillery to fire upon them, but the day after Salamanca, where I was wounded, cavalry of the King’s German Legion broke three French squares.
From what I heard, in one case a big cavalry horse was shot at close range and ploughed into the ranks, causing mayhem and opening enough of a gap for a German captain to lead his troopers right into the square, which broke and surrendered.
However …’ He halted. ‘This is not the topic for an evening stroll about pleasure gardens, and I doubt you have the slightest interest in details. I apologise.’
‘But it was I who instigated the subject, my lord. No blame attaches to yourself … on this occasion.’
‘Ah, you qualify it, I see.’ Lord Barkby smiled wryly.
‘But of course. Otherwise I would be saying that you were invariably blameless, and that would not do at all, sir, for it would give you a very false idea of yourself. You might become smug and quite puffed up.’ Louisa contrived to look prim and proper.
‘Then you are doing me a service.’
‘I am.’ Her lips twitched, and, without thinking, he reached across his hand and laid it upon her gloved one placed upon his arm.
She did not flinch; she did not remonstrate.
Her cheeks gained a little extra colour, but that might possibly have been the effect of the light.
They strolled on, the sound of horn and trumpet from the band vying with a blackbird singing his evening ‘hymn’ from a favoured singing perch, and a trilling wren somewhere amongst the tangle of shrubby branches.
As they walked further from the Tavern, the birdsong won.
It was in some ways a strange party. Mrs Goodworth 285felt very much an onlooker, but did not resent it in the least. Her only thoughts were centred upon whether the comfortable life she had experienced since joining Lady Dembleby’s household were going to come to an early end.
It would be unchristian to wish that another’s happiness should not be fulfilled for one’s own reasons, and she quashed it immediately.
Miss Brailes was walking, not upon the path, but upon air, or at least that was how she felt, and although Mr Gilmorton studiously included Miss Newent in the conversation as much as possible, he and Miss Brailes were basking in the tentative knowledge that what they had both merely dreamt about might be true.
Miss Newent was blithely unaware of any of that, and not only from her lack of intuition, but because she had her eyes and ears upon the lookout for Lord Orlando, whom she felt would manage to find her, and secure precious stolen minutes with her.
He had been at pains to represent himself in the light of the handsome prince seeking to rescue his damsel, if not from distress, then from a suffocating domesticity.
Had there been any dragons in the shrubbery, he would have surely slain them all.