The Girl in the Mask (18 page)

The next morning, Dawes came to my room at a quarter to six, wrapped a morning gown about my nightgown, tied back my hair and then sent me downstairs. She was serving me in hostile silence; I wasn’t forgiven for my tantrum or the wreck of my wardrobe the previous day.

My aunt awaited me, attired as I was, but with the addition of a large black turban tied around her head. None of my arguments, entreaties, or promises had prevailed with my aunt. She’d remained adamant that she could no longer leave me alone in the mornings. She’d clutched her vinaigrette and threatened a fit of the vapours, but I was becoming convinced this apparent weakness was mere affectation. Beneath it I sensed a sternness of purpose and a determination to have her own way that made me question my previous reading of her character.

As we left the house to climb into sedan chairs, I noticed a tall young man lounging against the railings of next door’s house. I glanced curiously across at him. With a start of pleasure, I recognized Bill Smith. I wanted to run to him at once, but the watchful eye of my aunt made me hesitate.

Instead, I let fall my pocket handkerchief as I walked to the chair. Bill grasped the hint quickly, stepped forward to pick it up and presented it to me with a bow.

‘Thank you so much,’ I said aloud, then lowered my voice to a whisper. ‘Bill! Can you write to me care of Mr Allen? I can’t speak now.’

‘Sophia!’ called my aunt sharply.

Bill gave a tiny nod, and then stepped back. ‘You’re welcome, Miss,’ he said.

I climbed hurriedly into my chair and was carried away, hoping that Bill understood my predicament.

We were greeted on arrival at the Queen’s Bath by attendants who ushered us into small, cramped changing rooms. I shed my nightgown for a stiff, canvas monstrosity that billowed about me like a large tent. I objected strongly to its colour and smell: the deep yellow stain of many trips into the mineral-rich spa waters and the throat-catching stink of rotten eggs.

‘Must I really?’ I asked my aunt one more time as we emerged from the changing cubicles into the fog and fetid steam near the waters. ‘Can’t I wait for you here while you bathe?’ I looked distastefully at the murky brown waters in which a number of canvas-clad men and women, most of them elderly, were already floating around. I felt sick at the thought of getting into the great stone bath.

‘Nonsense, child,’ snapped my aunt irritably. Then she seemed to regain command over herself and smiled at me. ‘It’s for your own good, Sophia,’ she said in her usual tone. ‘Your father trusts me to care for you and you persist in being disobedient.’

I looked at her uneasily. It was almost as though my aunt were wearing a mask. It slipped from time to time, revealing a different person underneath. She turned from me, descended carefully into the steaming water and floated away without another word.

Gingerly, I dipped one toe into the water. It was surprisingly hot. I placed one foot on the first step. The stone was repulsively slimy underfoot. Slowly, reluctantly, I lowered myself into the steaming, stinking water, trying not to think of all the diseases that were probably floating around in it. My canvas gown billowed about me. I drifted around a little, at a loss for what to do with myself. I wished this whole experience to be over as soon as possible.

As I moved across the pool, my aunt’s face emerged through the steam. She was in earnest conversation with two men. One was one of her partners at cards: the sallow man whom I normally recognized by his distinctly shabby clothes. The other was Captain Mould, looking greyer and more sinister than ever through the swirling steam, beads of moisture collecting on his moustaches. He was talking fast, his face expressing no emotion at all, while my aunt and the other man listened intently. My aunt saw me approaching and nudged Captain Mould significantly. He stopped speaking at once and turned to me, his face growing even blanker as his eyes met mine. ‘Why, Miss Williams,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘What a delight to see you here. I hope your decision to take the waters is not due to any ailment?’

I disclaimed, and did my best to withdraw from the conversation, but was not permitted to do so. ‘You manage to make the costume of the baths positively fetching, Miss Williams,’ Captain Mould remarked tonelessly. ‘The flush from the steam has given you roses.’

I didn’t believe a word he said. I wasn’t sure he intended me to. Even in the heat and steam of the water, his presence sent chills down my spine. I was relieved when at last I was allowed to leave the water and shed the revolting canvas gown. I towelled myself dry, wishing I could rub the sulphur smell off my skin, and wrapped my morning gown about me once more. It’s over now, I told myself.

I was wrong about my ordeal being over. From the baths, my aunt led me into the pump room. A great crowd of bathers was gathered there, inelegantly clad in morning robes, all of them with that steamy, scorched look the hot waters gave. A distinct aroma of sulphur clung to them still. My aunt led me to the pump, where she purchased a glass of the spa waters for each of us. I stared at the cloudy liquid in distaste. I could smell the rotten eggs without lifting it to my mouth.

‘I’ve just been
bathing
in that,’ I objected. ‘And so have all those other people. I’m not
drinking
it!’

‘You are under a misapprehension, Miss Williams,’ said Captain Mould in his level voice. ‘This water is taken from the spring,
before
it passes into the bath. It is quite clean, and remarkably beneficial, we are told.’

‘By whom?’ I asked suspiciously.

He smiled. At least I assumed it was a smile. He could equally have been baring his teeth at me. ‘Our doctors themselves recommend it. Our good Queen Anne once obtained the gift of good health from these waters. Long live her rightful heirs and the
true
King of England!’

My aunt frowned at him, but he responded with his usual bland look and took a pinch of snuff. He’d shown his politics very clearly; King George the First was
not
a descendant of Queen Anne, even I knew that much. I made a non-committal noise in my throat and made no move to drink from my glass. My aunt sipped at hers with a look of great concentration on her face. I thought of being forced to accompany her here every morning and my heart sank.

On our return home, Mr Charleton was just emerging from his own house across the street. Seeing me dressed for the baths, he gave a satisfied smile and tipped his hat to me. My aunt curtsied in return, but I pretended I hadn’t seen him and went indoors in silence. It was the last glimpse I saw of him for some time. After this meeting, he seemed to vanish from the Bath altogether. Did that disappoint me? I was too angry with him to miss him at first, but gradually admitted to myself that the city was dull without him.

Meanwhile I found myself completely tied to my aunt’s routine. When I finally managed to escape her supervision for half an hour one afternoon to run to the post office, Mr Allen was absent. ‘Did you say your name was Sophia Williams?’ asked Mr Allen’s assistant, looking at me over her spectacles.

‘That’s right,’ I agreed hopefully.

‘Mr Allen asked me to give you this,’ she said, putting a screw of paper into my hand with ‘Miss S. Williams’ scrawled across it in an unformed, semi-legible hand. She handed me a letter too, and to my great joy I recognized Jack’s writing at long last. I handed over the payment to receive the letters and with a hurried word of thanks, I left the post office. I opened the note whilst walking swiftly back home.

I folded the note up and stuffed it into my sleeve, arriving home breathlessly a bare five minutes before Aunt Amelia came downstairs from a rare afternoon nap. I was sitting with my stitching in my hand and a book of sermons open before me when she came into the room. She gave me an approving look and I bent my head over my work to hide a smile.

Although I was relieved to hear from Bill, I had no idea when I’d be able to contact him. I also needed to find Jenny and ask her whether she was willing to meet him. I had no wish to incur her anger again.

It wasn’t until bedtime that I had an opportunity to read Jack’s letter. It was brief: a scrawled account of army life which was obviously suiting him. He’d signed it ‘your loving cousin, Jack’, and I treasured his words, glad for his sake that he was so happy.

* * *

The days passed without another opportunity to leave the house alone. My aunt seemed tireless, not needing to rest during the day nor stirring from the house without me. Although she still spent her afternoons in play at Harrison’s, I could no longer slip away from there either, as she now had a willing deputy-chaperone in the shape of Captain Mould, who watched me closely.

It was quite astonishing how fatiguing doing almost nothing could be. I’d been active and busy all my life without ever experiencing exhaustion. And yet the round of social nothings, the endless chatter, the trifling, insipid activities that made up daily life at the Bath, wore me out completely. I had nothing to live for, nothing to hope for and it drained my energy as exertion had never done.

‘You’re very quiet, Sophia,’ remarked my aunt as we sat over dinner one evening. ‘I do believe you are learning decorum at last.’

‘Aunt, I fear you may be right,’ I agreed wearily. ‘I clearly misunderstood the word until now.’

The weather grew hotter as the summer advanced. The city air was as thick as soup, with no movement or freshness in it. I found every breath an effort in my layers of restrictive clothing. The smells were intensified and the fashionables were carried through the streets with scented handkerchiefs to their noses. The sedan chairmen sweated profusely as they bore their passengers. I felt bad accepting a ride at all, but, as my aunt pointed out, if we walked to spare the men, they would starve.

A day came that was hotter than ever. I had little inclination to go out into the scorching streets. The early trip to the baths had been bad enough. Aunt Amelia insisted, however, and chairs were called at eleven o’clock. The bells had been ringing all morning until my head ached with their clamour, and as we passed by the abbey on the way to Harrison’s I could scarcely think for the noise. They always rang for new arrivals and for services, of course, but this was something else. This was an excited, prolonged peal.

As we alighted from our sedan chairs outside Harrison’s, the opportunity I’d been longing for came at last. Mr Allen was walking past. I scrabbled frantically in my pocket for the reply to Bill I’d been carrying with me.

‘Mr Allen!’ I cried, hurrying after him, catching his sleeve to get his attention. He turned in surprise and then smiled.

‘Why, Miss Williams,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s been quite some time.’

He began to make his bow, but I prevented him, tugging on his sleeve and speaking quickly, knowing the clamour of the abbey bells would drown my voice and there was no way my aunt would hear a thing. ‘I can’t get out at present, Mr Allen,’ I said hurriedly. ‘But I have a letter here for Bill Smith.’ So saying I reached out and shook his hand, passing the note and a coin as I did so. ‘Will you make sure that he gets it?’