With all her going about and partying, Prudence had had to enlarge her wardrobe. She had become one of the models followed by the young fashionable Society of Bath. If she wore a green bonnet with her yellow sarsenet gown to church on Sunday, one or the other of the shops on Milsom Street was sure to have a similar ensemble in the window on Monday. When she pinned a bouquet of posies on her sun parasol one day, she had the satisfaction of seeing a dozen ladies with theirs similarly adorned the next afternoon. Encouraged by these successes, she went a little further. Her gowns, while always remaining within the bounds of propriety, became more sophisticated, décolleté, and Colonel Bereseford told her she had shoulders like the “Venus de Milo.” She undertook to repay some of the social favours conferred on her, and set up a small salon, to which select groups were invited to talk about literature. Twice she was so daring as to attend public functions with no chaperone, but only a male escort. She purposely chose elderly gentlemen for this honour to squash any rumour of her being fast, but Springer had not liked it. Still, it had not slowed down his visits.
A few elderly eyebrows were raised at her daring. The Countess of Cleff, known locally as the Pillar of Propriety, was said to have frowned. Twenty years earlier she had been the supreme arbiter of the ton, but as she aged and conventions relaxed she had become dated. Still, she wielded considerable power, and one did not intentionally offend her. Prudence curtailed her unchaperoned appearances when she heard of the Countess’ displeasure. The “Pillar” had not yet passed judgment on Miss Mallow. She liked to see young notables come to her city, and so long as Miss Mallow could be directed, she might take her up. She watched and waited.
Yes, Bath was a more pleasant change than Prudence had dared to hope, yet she would gladly have been back in her little study, unknown, if only it meant Dammler would come unannounced to her door every few days to entertain her. To think she might have thrown over a chance for even greater familiarity than that bothered her. Ten days had passed, and the silence from her old friend was deafening.
In the morning, Clarence had to view the cartoon and the Pump Room, where his niece was treated with enough curiosity to satisfy him. “I see there is a concert at the Upper Rooms tonight,” he said, reading a poster.
“Yes, but it is only an Italian singer,” Mrs. Mallow pointed out. “You will not want to bother with that.”
“Why, there is no one who can sing a tune like an Italian. Certainly we will go.” He had a new jacket, purchased in honour of his niece’s future attendance at Carlton House, that would be previewed on this occasion. He could hardly wait to put it on. He purchased three tickets before they left to ensure getting a good seat. Wilma decided not to go, but Prudence knew there was no getting out of it.
She went to the concert happily enough. It was better than sitting home with Clarence, and the literary salons would be curtailed if her uncle came. She looked forward to daydreaming her way through the concert in peace.
She was not allowed to do so. No sooner had she taken her seat than she saw a tall, dark-haired man enter on the arm of the Dowager Countess of Cleff and take up a seat across the hall from her. It was Dammler, and if he glanced at the stage at all, it was no more than a glance.
His head was turned in her direction throughout the first half of the performance, until she was fatigued with pretending not to see him.
Chapter 18
Prudence dreaded intermission, yet thought it would never come. The Italian sang at length to thunderous applause. The only change in posture of her observer was a brief mild clapping of the hands at the end of each selection, without once looking to the stage. Her uncle had reserved a table for tea at the intermission, and with her equilibrium in tatters, Miss Mallow went on his arm to take her place. Dammler would come now. Say something-she hardly knew what. Present them to the Dowager very likely. They had not met, but the Countess was known by sight to Prudence. And what on earth was Dammler doing in the company of such a stickler?
He didn’t come. She refused to gape about the room to find him, but as they resumed their places in the hall, he bowed ceremoniously from the waist in her direction. She wondered that he had not come to say a few words at the break; was he still angry over the incident at Reading? It was strangely unlike him to bear a grudge. Flare up and then have done with an argument was his usual manner of proceeding.
During the second act, Dammler looked mainly towards the stage, with only a dozen turns of his head to the left, each seen and counted by Miss Mallow out of the corner of her eye. They did not pass in leaving, and it was with a strange mixture of feelings that Prudence took her way home. Clarence had not seen him at all, which was a blessing. She didn’t have to hear that he had come dashing down to Bath, driving all night, to marry her. But why had he come?
After leaving Prudence in a high state of resentment at “The George” in Reading, Dammler had driven back to London. First he went to Hettie, to inform her she was mistaken about Seville’s intentions towards Prudence.
“I know it well. He has been here already,” she told him. “Such a pity about her mama. He told me the whole story, how he happened to be there and got Knighton to help them. Shocking the way these inns behave. Is Mrs. Mallow recovering?”
“Yes, she will be all right. What did Seville say?”
“I must have mistaken him previously. He was quite cut up that Miss Mallow rejected him. He had meant to reform, one supposes. He found her innocence refreshing, he says, which would account for his treating her with respect, as you say he did. I still find it difficult to see how Phyrnes… but never mind. He was quite sincere, and asked me to let him know if I hear anything, so what have you to tell me?”
“They were to go on to Bath in a few days.”
“And?”
“And I have been turned off.”
“The fool! She turned you down, too? What ails the girl?”
“I never had a chance to offer. Such a trimming as she gave me, Hettie, and well deserved, too, every word of it. My moral laxity, my lightskirts, my drinking…"
“Why, you don’t drink more than your bottle a day, and as to the other…“
“I got her started by lacing into her because Seville happened to be there when I arrived.”
“What time did you arrive?”
“Midnight.”
“She was with Seville at midnight?”
“I thought he told you all that?”
“He didn’t tell me it was midnight!”
“Don’t start working me up about Seville again. I still have a strong urge to kill him. Nothing would put me more in her black books than that. She has a high opinion of him. A perfectly honourable and worthy gentleman.”
“Perfect poppycock.”
“We judge him by our own standards.”
“I judge him by the new piece of fluff he had picked up on the eve of his nuptials to the Baroness.”
Dammler shrugged. “I am determined to say nothing against him.”
“And finding it grim going, if I am to judge by the clenching of your jaws.”
He smiled ruefully at this, then fell into a brown study, looking at the floor.
“What you need is a new love o’ life to cheer you,” Hettie said gaily.
“Hettie, damn your eyes, can’t you see I'm in love?”
"There is nothing like a new love to shake off the shadow of the old.”