Angel's Touch (4 page)

‘
Parade? Parade?’ echoed her ladyship in disbelieving tones.
‘Bless me, Mr Tyson, whatever next?’

The
master of ceremonies shrugged and spread his hands, uttering in a
self-deprecatory tone belied by the smirk about his mouth, ‘Wiser
heads than mine, Lady Crossens, wiser heads than mine.’

‘
Pish and tush! “Parade” indeed! They shall
never hear such a nonsense on
my
lips, I promise you.’

‘
Are
you speaking of the Pantiles?’ asked Verity, rather at a
loss.

‘
The
Walks,
ma’am,’ explained Mr Tyson, ‘was used to be the
official title.’

‘
Pho!’ scoffed the old lady. ‘The Pantiles it has ever been,
and will so continue, mark my words. All these new-fangled ideas! I
dare say I may find every pleasant custom overset, never mind that
poor old Nash may be turning in his grave.’

‘
By no means, I assure you, dear lady,’ said
Mr Tyson reassuringly. ‘You will find everything just as it used to
be. We still have our little pleasures in the Rooms—our concerts
and balls, and
cards
,
as I know you will be glad to
hear.’

‘
Ah,’ sighed Lady Crossens with satisfaction. ‘Yes, I have
missed my whist. Of balls you may speak to my companion. I am not
going to make a figure of myself in the minuet at my
age.’

The master of
ceremonies turned obligingly to where Verity was seated, by the
windows of the little parlour from where she was enjoying a view of
the main thoroughfare of Tunbridge Wells. For the lodgings that
Lady Crossens had taken, as she always did, were only a couple of
doors down from the coach office, in a suite of first-floor rooms
situated directly over the paved walkway affectionately known as
the Pantiles.

The
effect in the light summer evening was very pretty. On the pavings
below a number of persons, in pairs and groups, were strolling
gently. Across the way ran an avenue of graceful trees concealing
to some degree the buildings on the other side. A theatre was
visible, though clearly just now uninhabited, and a species of
large hall from which plentiful light streamed. There was a small
musicians’ gallery, with trellis barrier and pretty columns and,
looking down the Pantiles, there could just be seen the end of the
colonnade that Verity had been told ran the length of the street
under the low roofs below her. There was a sound of music and an
occasional trill of laughter floated up to the open
window.

A
rising thrill of pleasure fluttered in Verity’s breast as she
accepted with a word of thanks a copy of the master of ceremonies’
rules and regulations as Mr Tyson enumerated the entertainments on
offer.

These appeared to be
considerable to one accustomed to the quiet backwater that
constituted Tetheridge village. Verity hoped her modest wardrobe
would be adequate to meet the demand likely to be placed upon it.
Unlike her patroness, she had donned a simple chemise undress gown
of sprigged cotton and threaded a bandeau through her dark curls.
But it looked as if she must soon delve into her supply of more
formal attire. The programme promised two balls a week with
minuets, a cotillion and country dances, as well as recitals and
theatrical entertainments. All this besides chatting with the
company in the coffee-rooms and meeting at the spring to drink the
waters of a morning.

‘
Not
that I should suppose, with so charming a complexion, you have any
need to do that,’ said Mr Tyson gallantly.

Verity laughed. ‘No indeed, I am in excellent health. Though
I shall be surprised if it does not break down in all this gaiety.
Upon my word, I had not looked for such a round of
dissipation.’

‘
Well, well,’ the gentleman uttered, visibly gratified. ‘I
believe we are not quite in a decline.’

‘
Decline? I dare say I shall be obliged to leave you all to
your revels and take to my bed with a good book within the
week.’

Laughing heartily at this pleasantry, Richard Tyson assured
her that in that case she might surely find some suitable tale on
the shelves of one of the two circulating libraries.

‘
I recall your sister—Miss
Prudence
,
I think?— partaking very lavishly of such
delights some years ago.’

‘
Oh,
yes, Prue told me how happy she was to find all the latest
published novels immediately to hand. I shall certainly follow her
example.’

***

It did not take many
days for Verity to become familiar with all there was to do and see
in the social centre of Tunbridge Wells. She very quickly became
acquainted with everyone, residents and visitors alike, and so was
instantly able to pick out an alien face as she hurried from the
Assembly Rooms to execute a commission for Lady Crossens.

A light drizzle was
falling and, clutching her pelisse about her, she ran quickly
across the Walks towards the shelter of the colonnade on the other
side. She stood for a moment, shaking off the drops and pushing her
hood back off her dark curls. She caught sight as she did so of
someone standing before one of the shop windows, looking at the
wares displayed there.

At
once she knew he was a stranger, and choked back the automatic
greeting with which everyone saluted one another as they met in the
street. The place was all but deserted on this inclement morning,
and she hesitated a moment or two, uncertain whether to proceed.
Then the man turned his head at some slight sound she made and
shock rippled through her.

It
was he! That same pale face under the plain beaver hat. She could
not mistake. And as her eyes dropped down as if to verify the fact,
she noted the cane, which had been slightly hidden by the folds of
his greatcoat, on which he leaned a little.

She
saw the startled recognition leap into his eyes and knew a moment
of sheer panic. Should she greet him? What could she say? That
awkward meeting at which she had not hesitated to lash out at him!
And the brief, sardonic comment he had made that showed how
mannerless he had thought her conduct.

The whole, almost
forgotten scene flashed back to her in vivid detail and she felt
her cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. Heavens, she must get
away!

Her
errand was to Mr Sprange’s place and her way unfortunately led past
the shop where the gentleman stood. Lowering her gaze to the
paving, she began to move. But, in spite of herself, she could not
resist a peep up at him as she passed. It was a mistake. Her eyes
looked straight into those black ones and her feet stopped of their
own volition. It was only for a brief moment she hovered thus, but
he lifted a hand to his beaver and doffed it, bowing
slightly.

Verity’s cheeks flamed anew. She gave the tiniest of nods in
response and hurried on, her heart thudding so hard that she felt
breathless.

Absurd! What in the world was the matter with her? The man
was a monster. Had she not intervened, he would undoubtedly have
beaten that poor little boy Braxted. She had no reason to feel
discomfited. It was, on the contrary, he who should feel mortified,
meeting once more the stranger who had been obliged to take him to
task.

It
occurred to her suddenly that there had not been any sign of
discomfiture, either in this brief glimpse she had just had of
those black eyes, or at the time. Had he been chagrined? Abashed?
He had not. Instead he had had the temerity to laugh at
her.

Arrived in Mr Sprange’s shop, it was with the words and
smiles of an automaton that she responded to the lad who served
her, requesting the playbill for Mrs Baker’s next theatrical
presentation with scarcely a thought to what she was about.
Fortunately there was little chance of the assistant mistaking her
needs, for there was only the one theatre in Tunbridge Wells and
Mrs Sarah Baker had a monopoly on the productions that were staged
there.

She
dawdled over the various prints and bills of coming events, hoping
desperately that the young stranger would go away. There was no
sign of him when she eventually came out of the shop, but as she
made her way back to the Assembly Rooms she was conscious of a
slight feeling of disappointment.

The
capacious building she entered was the central meeting place and
the venue for most of the season’s events. The rooms were large and
airy, with huge columns and marbled ornamentation after the fashion
of those in Bath. But they contrived, perhaps because of the many
knots of people seated in the alcoves made by settees and
well-placed screens, to appear remarkably cosy. Yet when the main
room was cleared for dancing, its size showed to
advantage.

In
one of the corners near to the adjoining card-room, the lady’s
favourite haunt, Verity found Lady Crossens deep in conversation
with an elderly widow, Mrs Polegate, whom Verity had already come
to know well. For this crony of her patroness was an almost
constant companion, and it had been obvious to the young lady when
Mrs Polegate visited them on their first evening that her two
elders were ripe for a high old time.

A greater contrast to
Lady Crossens could not have been found than this lifelong friend.
She was a dewy-eyed sentimental dame, with the mind of a butterfly,
who took the world as it presented itself to her eyes, never
troubling to look beneath the surface. She had none of the
shrewdness that characterised her friend, but equally none of her
acerbity. Inveterately though she gossiped, she had not a particle
of malice in her nature, and this trait endeared her to her friends
even while the more discerning among them dubbed her a
fool—including Lady Crossens, who did not scruple to call her so to
her face.

‘
Dear Emilia, I was quite overcome with happiness when you
wrote you was coming at last,’ she had fluttered that night, her
plump countenance wreathed in smiles that crumpled the remnants of
an erstwhile prettiness into a multitude of wrinkles. ‘I declare,
it has been a desert here without you. And last year in particular,
when we had such frolics and jaunterings about—so
delightful.’

‘
If
it was so delightful, my presence can have only been superfluous,’
said Lady Crossens drily, unimpressed by the worth of her friend’s
protestations.

‘
Oh,
yes, but your being there would have added so much to our
pleasure,’ uttered the other lady sincerely.

Biting back a laugh,
Verity wondered if Mrs Polegate was merely impervious to irony or
quite incapable of recognising her own inconsistencies. Lady
Crossens had no such doubts.

‘
Your wit has not improved in my absence, at any rate,
Maria.’

‘
Oh,
but I am not at all clever, Emilia, you know I am not.’ She looked
across at Verity. ‘I never was, you know. Poor Emilia has had much
ado to put up with my silliness all these years.’

‘
Pish!’ scoffed her ladyship, adding gruffly, ‘You’re a
good-hearted girl, Maria. And that, believe me, counts for a deal
more than a sharp tongue.’

To
hear her patroness address a lady quite her own age as a
girl
almost overset
Verity, but she contrived to keep her countenance, smiling kindly
at the visitor.

‘
Very true, ma’am. But I wish you will tell me, Mrs Polegate,
how you became acquainted.’

‘
Oh, I know what you mean. So unlikely a
friendship, don’t you feel?’ said the lady, displaying so
unexpectedly accurate an understanding of Verity’s thought that she
felt herself redden a little. But Mrs Polegate did not appear to
notice. ‘You may say we are
Wellsian
friends, I suppose, for we
met here, both in our very first season. What days they were!
Dancing on the green! Do you not remember,
Emilia?’

‘
Do
I not? I ruined my best satin shoes and lost a diamond
buckle.’

‘
How
your mama did scold.’

Like
all the elderly habitués of Tunbridge Wells, the two ladies were
forever to be heard reminiscing about the ‘dear old days’. Today
was no exception, and while they rattled on Verity had time to
recover her poise, which had been very much overset by the
unexpected encounter with the angry young man of her
adventure.

She
therefore greeted the sight of the widow’s plump, unsuitably
clothed figure with relief. In spite of Lady Crossens’ freely
expressed criticisms, Mrs Polegate arrayed herself always in the
chemise gowns she loved, exposing a good deal of bosom and
demonstrating the girth of her thickened waistline all too clearly
with the gathered-in style, and the sash that all but vanished
between the rolls of flesh above and below. She was addicted,
moreover, to large mob-caps which most unflatteringly framed her
round pink face and only added to the unfortunate impression of
mutton dressed as lamb.

‘
And
of course you recall that dreadful Mrs Montagu and her
blue-stocking set,’ she was saying to her friend. ‘So clever. I
never could understand the half of her discourse.’

‘
That woman!’ Lady Crossens snorted. ‘She was not near so
clever as she would have us believe. Setting herself up for a queen
to all the men of letters. I was never so happy as when her coach
overturned.’