The Girl in the Mask (11 page)

‘It’s very pleasant,’ I said. ‘Although I should prefer somewhere less formal. Up there perhaps.’ I pointed to the wooded hills that rose steeply on the far side of the river.

‘The Beechen Cliff? It’s a fine place with grand views, but few ladies venture so far.’

I shrugged, and then winced, regretting the incautious movement. I decided I should certainly explore the Beechen Cliff before I was much older. ‘Do you know, sir,’ I said, changing the subject, ‘that I still do not know your name? Are you as disinclined to part with it as you were yesterday?’

A slight smile touched his lips and I regretted my words. ‘I’m delighted to hear that you are so interested in me,’ he remarked.

‘Oh, I’m not,’ I countered hurriedly. ‘But I can’t keep calling you ‘the arrogant man from the ball’.’

‘You confuse arrogance with poise, Miss Williams,’ he told me.

‘I’m not sure that I do,’ I replied thoughtfully.

I felt the arm my hand rested on shake with laughter, and risked a swift glance up at him. ‘You are a worthy opponent, Miss Williams,’ he said, smiling down at me. I looked away, uncomfortable at how attractive I found his smile.

‘We
are
enemies then? I suspected as much,’ I told him. ‘But one should always know one’s adversary’s name.’

‘For in the unknown lies fear? My name is Charleton, Miss Williams. It’s ordinary enough to dispel any sense of menace, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Oh yes. I shall now enter the battle fearlessly.’

‘I have an idea you are not prone to fear very much,’ he remarked.

‘My cousin Jack always says I have no sense of fear at all.’ I bit my lip, immediately regretting my confidence. We reached the far end of the walk and paused a moment, looking across the brown river to the shadowed, misty cliffs opposite.

‘So where is your cousin Jack now?’ Mr Charleton asked. ‘He’s not with you at the Bath?’

‘He’s gone into the army,’ I replied briefly.

‘And the lady in whose care you are is your aunt, I understand?’

‘My aunt Amelia is my father’s sister.’

‘And has she lived with you long?’

‘No, not long. She’s recently widowed.’ Seeing he was about to ask another question, I interrupted him: ‘I had no idea that my family interested you so much.’

‘I’m merely making polite conversation, Miss Williams. It’s what people do.’

‘There’s a difference between conversation and interrogation,’ I pointed out.

He paused, looking up at the hills, a slight frown creasing his brow. ‘Do you read the newspapers much, Miss Williams?’ he asked abruptly.

‘Not often,’ I replied, taken aback. ‘I prefer plays, poetry and stories.’

‘Ah! Such as?’

‘The poems of Pope and Dryden among others.’

‘Have you read
The Rape of the Lock
? That is Pope’s latest and very popular.’

‘Not yet. I will as soon as I can obtain a copy. But my absolute favourites are the plays and tales of Aphra Behn. I love that she was a spy for King Charles the Second, and led such an exciting life. I wish I could live as she did.’

‘You wish to be a spy?’ He smiled enigmatically. ‘The king rarely paid her, you know. A fate common to spies, I believe. She was thrown into a debtor’s prison. I imagine such lives are more exciting to read about than to live. Alexander Pope is staying here at the Bath; you will meet him, I daresay. But to return to the newspapers. Have you read them recently?’

‘Yes, just this morning,’ I said. ‘Why?’

‘Then you will have seen an account of the riots around the country.’

‘I read about them, but I don’t pretend to understand them.’

Mr Charleton lifted mildly incredulous eyebrows, and I felt irritated. ‘It makes no difference to me who the king is,’ I said.

‘Mobs fighting in the streets might concern you, however. People have died. Does that not trouble you?’

I turned puzzled eyes on him. ‘I suppose so. But it’s all a long way from here, after all. What does it have to do with me?’

‘That’s what I should like to know,’ he said, puzzling me further. ‘What if the unrest were to come closer? Right into the city of Bath itself?’

I shook my head in bewilderment. ‘Could it do so?’

Mr Charleton subjected me to a searching gaze. His eyes were hard, I would almost have called them suspicious; only what could he possibly suspect me of? But then he changed the subject abruptly. ‘You hold yourself very regally today, Miss Williams,’ he observed.

‘What?’ I asked blankly.

‘Or perhaps merely carefully. Do your shoes pinch your feet perhaps? Or is your gown uncomfortable?’

‘Ladies’ gowns are always uncomfortable,’ I said, disconcerted. I was sure no one else had noticed anything amiss. Had he seen me flinch after all? He could scarcely guess the cause. But before I could myself change the subject he lowered his voice and spoke again.

‘Miss Williams, I had too many beatings myself as a stripling, not to recognize someone with a painful back,’ he said. ‘Does it hurt you very much?’ His voice had changed. It was softer, no longer harsh. It was almost kind. I experienced a rush of emotions in reaction to his sudden gentleness. My throat tightened and I found myself unable to speak.

Embarrassed to be receiving sympathy from a stranger, and terrified I might be about to cry, I snatched my hand from my companion’s arm and fled back along the walk, my skirts swaying around me, heedless of the pain in my back. It was not my nature or my habit to confide my troubles, and certainly not to someone I barely knew, who seemed only a moment earlier to have been hostile to me.

To defeat my father, I needed to stay alone, aloof. I couldn’t afford to feel weak as Mr Charleton had just made me feel, no matter how kind his intentions were. Not that I was convinced he
was
kind. Some motive or other he had, I thought, in befriending me.

I was up at dawn the next morning. While my father and aunt were at the baths, I went through my father’s papers, and found Jack’s direction. He was based in a training camp near Windsor with his regiment. I felt better simply knowing where in the country he was.

I helped myself to my father’s writing paper, pen, and ink, and wrote letters to both Jack and Bill and then walked into the city. There was a very pleasant young postmaster at the post office who kindly explained the complicated system of cross-post charges to me. It seemed it was going to cost Bill a great deal to receive the single sheet I’d written and that made me anxious. The postmaster smiled kindly when I told him my worries. ‘The letter to Windsor can go with the London post,’ he told me. ‘But I think it will be better to send the Devon letter by private carrier. There’s a carrier in Cheap Street who passes that way every week and would probably only charge you a penny to deliver it. He’s very reliable and he won’t charge your friend.’

‘Thank you for your trouble,’ I said, holding on to the letters still.

‘It’s never trouble to give good service,’ said the man with a friendly smile.

I hesitated. A swift glance around me told me that the middle-aged woman who worked at the postmaster’s side was busy with another customer and there was no one to hear what I said. ‘If I were to be sent replies to these letters,’ I said, speaking low, ‘is there any way I could receive them without my father knowing?’

An expressionless look descended on the postmaster’s face. He regarded me for a moment in silence, and I held my breath. Would this nice young man merely scold me or would he find a way to report me to my father? But his words were reassuring.

‘Of course. You can have them sent care of Mr Allen here at the Bath Post Office,’ he replied. ‘In that case I would hold them until you came to collect them. I can assure you of my discretion.’

I sighed with relief and wrote the return address as he had directed on the back of my letters. At last I handed the letter to Jack to him, offered him my heartfelt thanks and left. The negotiations with the carrier were straightforward enough and with a feeling of satisfaction, I hurried back to the house before my relatives returned, pink-faced and damp from their emersion in the hot spa water.

‘You really should come with us and try the waters, Sophia,’ said Aunt Amelia, as she took her place opposite me at breakfast. ‘Now you’re no longer taking dancing lessons. It does one so much good.’

‘Thank you, Aunt, but I’d prefer not to,’ I said, recalling the stray dog in the water and the stench of rotten eggs.

My father entered the room and sat down, signalling that we could start eating. I helped myself to porridge and stirred some cream into it, while my aunt reached for the buttered rolls. My father poured himself a mug of ale, carved a slice of ham, but then laid down the knife with something of a snap and sat back, looking at me. ‘It seems Sophia has business she attends to while we are out,’ he remarked in a silky voice. I froze in the act of lifting my first spoonful of porridge to my mouth and stared at him, my heart beating uncomfortably fast.

‘I’ve had an interesting word with the servants. Sophia has been in my study and has been out of the house this morning.’ My father’s cold eyes rested on me. ‘Where did you get money from, Sophia? Not from me.’

My aunt gave a muffled shriek, and through her mouthful of buttered roll, said: ‘Did you not spend that money on jellies, Sophia?’

‘I bought Mary a jelly, Aunt. I wasn’t hungry,’ I said. I didn’t dare look at my father, certain he would see the guilt in my face. At least the letters were safely in the post. He couldn’t stop them now.

‘I have sent the butler to the post office to retrieve the correspondence,’ said my father, dispelling my hope. ‘I told you not to write to your cousin, Sophia. You have been dishonest.’ He paused a moment, looking at me. ‘What punishment do you think you deserve,’ he asked in a soft voice, ‘for such disgraceful disobedience?’

When I didn’t reply, he got up, picked up the mustard pot, took a generous dessert spoonful out and walked towards me. My heart thumped with momentary dread, wondering what he was going to do with it. He stirred the spoonful thoroughly into my porridge, and then sat back down and looked at me.

‘Eat your breakfast up, Sophia,’ he commanded quietly. ‘Otherwise you will be hungry by suppertime. There is no luncheon for girls who engage in clandestine correspondence.’

I felt my stomach protest at the mere thought of the strong mustard taste. I hated it of all things. Under my father’s pitiless gaze, I took a spoonful, put it in my mouth and swallowed. I gagged. The bitter taste burned. But I took another mouthful and another. My eyes were watering now, but I carried on eating until the bowl was empty. Then I sat back and looked defiantly at my father, choking down my nausea.

‘Thank you, father,’ I said. ‘That was delicious.’

He stared back at me, his eyes unreadable. Then he turned to my aunt. ‘Amelia, I’m desolated to have to inform you that I’m obliged to go away next week. My solicitor has found tenants for Littlecote and there are some formalities to see to. I shall be gone some time. On my return, I shall of course look forward to hearing a
detailed
account of how you and Sophia got on in my absence.’

He threw his napkin upon his plate, rose from his chair and left the room. I reached for the milk, pouring some into my glass and drinking it, in the hope it would slake the fire in my throat and in my belly. For a second it eased, but then I was forced to rush to the outdoor privy where I threw up violently. I leaned against the rough wooden wall, feeling some relief, though my insides still burned. I was shaking; growing weak. My father was defeating me. I needed to fight back, before I turned into the quivering, cowardly kind of weakling I despised.

My father had taken the letters back, but I would write more. All I needed was money. At that moment, an idea so daring, so completely outrageous, came into my mind that I caught my breath: had my father not said he was going away? What if I were to find a way to hold up his chaise and rob him? A shiver of horrified excitement ran through me. I could scarcely believe such a desperate thought had crossed my mind.

I passed my father as I went back into the house. His smug grin showed he knew he’d made me ill, despite my bravado. Well, he could just wait. I no longer felt so helpless.

My aunt dragged me out to a service in the abbey and then to Harrison’s rooms, where I was mildly disappointed to see that Mr Charleton was absent. I told myself I didn’t want to see him, but nonetheless I couldn’t help but find the rooms dull without his presence.

‘Fetch me a dish of tea, would you, Sophia?’ Aunt Amelia asked hurriedly as the same sallow-faced man wove his way through the busy throng to speak to her. I kept an eye on them as I did so. They conversed in hushed tones, their heads close together. Then he left the rooms, and my aunt looked around uncomfortably, as though checking whether anyone was watching her.

‘Who is he, Aunt?’ I asked her, when I returned with her tea.

‘Oh, no one!’ she said nervously, almost snatching her dish from me, so that some of the liquid splashed out. I looked at her, puzzled, as she sipped her tea, her colour heightened. Feeling my curious gaze, she explained: