In his private parlor at the York House, Gabriel lounged in a comfortable wing chair, opening a letter. A little fire crackled cozily in the hearth nearby, and a glass of burgundy, seeming to glow a deep rich red, was on a table at his elbow.
Dear Coz,
I send you greetings from the wilds near the Saint Lawrence River. Tremendous fishing to be had, if only one wasn’t so busy engaging in jolly skirmishes! Lord, how we laughed when my cap got blown off by a Frenchy and I tumbled backwards into a briar patch. Looked like I’d been mauled by a tiger and have been ribbed about it ever since. I’m such an ass.
I know you detest being thanked, having told me so in the most vehement terms for these many ages, but coz, can never truly express my gratitude at your setting me up so splendidly. The Army suits me to a T—never a dull moment—although I do think quite often of the dear ones back in Whitehaven. In the mater’s latest billet she reports you sent a very generous cheque for which I must add my thanks. Did she tell you about young Bertram’s recent exploit? Apparently he blew up one of the attics. All in the name of science, the mater says. He is going to be a Great Man someday, if only he survives to adulthood. A dreadful scamp, you know, but I love him dearly.
What are you doing with yourself now that the Diplomatic Corps have let you go? Cutting a dash among the ladies, no doubt. Trust one day you’ll find one who doesn’t turn your stomach as they all seem to do. How they swan about you! A wonder you haven’t yet developed a head the size of a frigate.
Yours ever,
Hugo
Gabriel smiled slightly, then folded the letter and placed it on the table. Hugo was a good lad, and a plucky one. Although the military held no particular appeal for Gabriel, at this moment he envied his young cousin his active life. Even the idea of nearly getting his head blown off by a French sharpshooter was beginning to sound appealing.
Here he was, cooling his heels in what had to be the most insipid city in the world. Shops filled with feminine fripperies, the Pump Room, the Russian Vapour Baths, the Harmonic Society which sang glees—good Lord! And everywhere the infamous Bath tabbies, whose chief interest in life was apparently that of spying on everybody else, and then nattering about it. How could his grandmother stand this place?
He’d wanted to leave Bath after dutifully accompanying the ladies here, but the mere mention of it had provoked such a firestorm of recrimination from Grandmama that he honestly expected her to drop dead from an apoplexy in the middle of it.
Preemptive guilt. What an effective means by which to keep him tethered here. Still, he was damned if he was going to call at his grandmother’s residence. Let her—them—make the first move: he’d wait forever if necessary.
And here he was, he reflected wryly. Still grappling for the upper hand.
Well, there were worse things than boredom.
Gabriel stretched out his legs, took a sip of the York’s excellent burgundy, and reached for Niebuhr’s Roman History.
Livia stared dismally at her plate. On it was a mashed turnip cake, three limp mushrooms over which had been spooned a lumpy gray sauce, and half a raw artichoke bottom. Not only did Mrs. Penhallow follow a most peculiar culinary regimen, so were she and Miss Cott forced to endure it as well. It was all because of that repulsive Dr. Wendeburgen, one of Bath’s most eminent physicians and a particular favorite of Mrs. Penhallow.
No meat, no fish, no poultry, no milk, no cream, no butter, no eggs, no bread, declared Dr. Wendeburgen. Above all, no desserts! What could be more injurious to the human alimentary tract? He and his medicaments—murky tinctures in small amber bottles, red-painted little caskets filled with tiny round pills covered in black beeswax, long linen cloths steeped in pungent vinegar infusions (to be wrapped around the feet for exactly one hour)—were in great demand among the elderly ladies of Bath, to whom he ministered with absolute authority, and received their enthusiastic expressions of admiration as if they were no less than his due.
Livia, on the other hand, would have liked to wrap one of those smelly cloths about the great doctor’s neck until his eyes bugged out. She frowned at her turnip cake. What were those dark specks? She was so hungry she would almost rather have gnawed on the elegant linen napkin spread neatly across her lap. A deep sigh escaped her and gloomily she reached for a fork.
Opposite her, Miss Cott coughed discreetly and picked up the fork on the extreme far left of her own plate. Quickly Livia followed suit, but not before Mrs. Penhallow sniffed—in that annoyingly audible way she had—and said to Miss Cott:
“After luncheon, do review with Miss Stuart proper manners at table. They seem to present quite a challenge.”