For You Alone (Frederick Wentworth, Captain: Book 2) Read online

  Casting a look over the ladies embroiled in more intense gossip, he said, “Ah, Frederick, my friend, you will learn that not only in the waters of Bath are miracles to be found. I have seen the social fortunes of many marvellously resurrected after submersing themselves in the company of the right hostess or wading through the proper rout. As you heard, William Walter Elliot is now a favourite at the Baronet’s residence on Camden Place.”

  Patrick also knew something of Sir Walter, using his title without hesitation. The feelings of being put upon when first meeting McGillvary were quickly dissipating. His good friend would no doubt be a fount of information concerning anyone and everything of great or little importance in Bath. True to her prophesy, he would have to thank his sister for having insisted he take a stroll in the rain.

  ~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~

  After an hour of gossip and coffee, he left McGillvary’s company and returned home to Gay Street, taking the time to carefully go over the latter parts of the afternoon. Even as he shed his coat, hat, and umbrella, he was still unsure how to comprehend his meeting with Anne. He could detect no particular pleasure or unhappiness in her manner, although she seemed much more at ease than during their former, indifferent meetings at Uppercross.

  Thankfully, the Croft home kept traditional naval time and dinner was just ready when he arrived home at three. The food was generous in amount, and as he had noticed the day before, the gossip was also served in generous portions. He decided to work this to his favour and see if there was any more to know about Anne, or her cousin.

  “I met Miss Anne Elliot today. A place called Molland’s. Do you know it?”

  “Yes, Frederick. It is one of those places one goes to watch and listen. From what I have been told, some of the choicest morsels that come out of the place are not any delicacies which Mrs. Molland creates.”

  Eureka! He thought a moment. “The surroundings are certainly fine, but one could not help noticing it shares many of the same features of the common scuttlebutt.” Croft particularly liked this. He then told about meeting McGillvary and how the group’s main source of entertainment was commenting and speculating upon those entering or leaving the shop.

  “Don’t misunderstand me, I like the place,” Sophia said. She did not elaborate on whether it was the cooking or the gossip she most admired. “You said you met Miss Anne. Was she looking well?”

  “Very. She and her sister were there, waiting for the rain to ease.”

  Sophia’s expression shifted quickly from friendly interest to a smiling mask of disdain. Obviously, Miss Elizabeth Elliot was not a favourite. If the Admiral was even listening, his opinion of the elder Elliot daughter was not important enough to take his mind off finishing a piece of treacle tart. Frederick smiled. Being ignored by the likes of Admiral Croft would probably aggravate the woman to the highest degree.

  “And she was no doubt all smiles and polite chatter.”

  Not wishing the conversation to turn heated in regards to Miss Elliot’s social expertise, he decided to keep her rudeness to himself. “No, we exchanged no words. Someone was waiting for her and she had to leave immediately.”

  The Admiral was just finishing his sweet but thought it important to add, “Luck was on your side then.”

  “So, once Miss Elliot left, did you and Miss Anne have a good chat?”

  It amused him that his sister was, no doubt, rubbing her hands together, entertaining visions of him and Anne tucked away in a quiet corner. “Good enough. We talked about the rain and how she doesn’t mind walking in it. I offered to hail her a chair, which she refused, and then her cousin arrived to take her home.”

  “And that is all?” Sophia asked.

  “No, I then had a great time with Admiral McGillvary and his friends.” He went on to tell some of the more interesting bits of gossip, enjoying the fact that he was thwarting his sister’s sudden interest in his connections with Anne Elliot.

  ~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~

  The sidewalks were crowded the next morning. A heavy shower in the predawn hours had left the air damp and cool, making heavy wool feel just right on the body. Men and women were walking quickly here and there in case the rain returned. Wentworth questioned if, in their hurry, any of them noticed the fresh, sweet scent that overcame even the smell of the horses pulling the numerous carriages up and down Pulteney Street.

  There was no reason he should feel so positive. He could not call their meeting bad. Yet, he had no idea when they might again meet, though his sister had spoken about some social events she assured him were the sort Sir Walter and his daughters were wont to attend.

  “To be sure, most of their socialising takes place in private salons, but I have seen them on rare occasions enduring the masses.”

  “I must say, Sophia, you are much more down on the Baronet than I remember when we were at Kellynch,” he said at the breakfast table that morning.

  “You are right. There is really no reason for me to be so cross. It is just that the first thing from anyone’s mouth is that we lease Kellynch Hall, the family seat of the Elliots. It’s as though a little crier is going before us everywhere and announcing it. I can’t imagine how the news has gotten around so quickly. Or why!”

  “Never underestimate the swiftness of gossip on the lips of sailors with no commission to occupy them,” he said.

  And while that was the truth, any gossip not involving Anne Elliot was of no interest to him. He stopped for a moment to get his bearings and then headed in the direction he thought would take him to Molland’s. Lost as he was in persuading himself that he had made a good impression on Anne the day before, he hoped they might meet at Molland’s again. It was a silly notion, and one that left him as soon as he saw Lady Russell in a carriage, staring directly at him.

  He was not surprised that she did not acknowledge him. It would be deemed ill-mannered to be seen waving and hallooing from a carriage. Even so, a nod would not have been out of line. He was now further convinced that the more gently-bred a woman, the more likely she was to be rude to any man she did not deem suitable.

  Lady Russell looked away. She appeared to be talking with someone in the carriage with her. Anne then emerged from behind her godmother and looked at him as well. The carriage passed, and all he could see were two bonnets withdrawing down the street. Suddenly, the cool sweet air was gone and the wool coat oppressive. Looking around him, there was nothing of interest to keep him on this street. He could think of nowhere else to go at the moment and continued on to Molland’s.

  ~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~

  The clink of china cups being placed on their matching saucers was both maddening and seductive: maddening in the randomness of the clatter and seductive in that careful listening exposed a rhythmic undercurrent that made a perfect background to the voices of the other customers.

  Gad, he thought, I’m going barmy. Benwick’s philosophising has infected me. He turned his attention to the people walking just outside the window. At times, someone looking into the shop would meet his gaze; it was then he thought he knew how fish in bowls must feel. He turned a bit away from the window and thought again of Benwick, which led to thoughts of Anne and the conversation she had with the Admiral concerning their mutual friend.

  Anne’s protective comments were laudable but troublesome. There was no way around the possibility that she might have been disappointed with the news of Louisa and Benwick’s engagement. Another love affair blighted, he thought. Were he a better man, he might feel sorry. As he did not, it was obvious he was rather small, indeed.

  A tap on the window drew him back into the present, and he looked up just in time to recognise Lady Russell’s man, Longwell, turning away and then crossing the street. Wentworth could not help but think the man had drawn his attention on purpose. It made no sense, unless he merely wished to ascertain his identity. If that were the case, the fellow would be scuttling back to the lady’s lair to report on Wentworth’s whereabouts. Was this bit of reconnoitring the first salvo in keeping him
from Anne?

  He left the shop and headed to Gay Street. Even the name was annoying to him just then. What was there for him to be gay about?

  Chapter Eight

  Thankfully, there was no one about the family rooms when he returned, and he was able to make a quiet retreat to his room. He pulled off his coat and tossed it on the bed, suddenly resenting the imposition of such a feminine setting. The flowers, the lavish drapes, the delicate, slim-limbed furniture, and crushing garden motif immediately wore on his patience. Pulling out a chair from the little tea table, he hesitated. He was not a giant of a man, but taking a seat on the slight chair would be practically the same as sitting on furniture for a child’s nursery. The only place to relax was the bed.

  He stretched out and enjoyed the luxury of a broad, immobile bed. Being landlocked did offer certain amenities, such as the absence of worry about falling out of a hammock in a rolling sea. But then there were the pillows. He’d never given them much thought until now. He held up a frothy confection of lace and colourful, finely woven fabric for scrutiny. A small square of cloth stuffed with feathers was what he was accustomed to, but in this den of excess, the bed was overloaded with them. He launched a small one, drenched with frills, at a huge, gaudy tassel that hung from the bed’s canopy. The tassel swung crazily, and he caught it, satisfied that he’d hit the mark for the third time since taking to the bed. He tossed the little missile again and returned to the idea of presenting himself at Camden Place. To what end? He would be forced to interact with the Baronet with no guarantee that Anne would be present. If she was, there would be no privacy; she might not even see any reason for privacy. A picture of them sitting together, silent and awkward, being watched by her family was highly disturbing.

  That idea scrapped, he took heart that his reconnoitring had paid off. She took tea at Molland’s. He could frequent the shop in hopes of meeting her “accidentally” again. It was a chancy proposition, and there was always the possibility she had only gone to Molland’s on that particular day to please her sister or the nefarious cousin. Perhaps her usual place for refreshments was elsewhere, closer to home. He would keep Molland’s in mind but would not rely on it to figure heavily in his plans.

  After more thought, he also put aside any advantage her driving out with Lady Russell on Fridays might mean to him. An open, crowded street would do him no good at all. He needed to meet her in a place where she could openly acknowledge him and where they would have the opportunity to talk. The Pump Room came to mind—Sophia had said she and the Admiral often met friends there—but the results of it would be as haphazard as haunting Molland’s.

  He rose and waded through the pillows that he had tossed one by one. Later he would find a place to store them out of his way. Just now, he had to find Sophia and question her about the social habits of the Elliots and their set.

  ~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~

  Saturday was again spent wandering Bath. Again, the mission met with failure on almost all fronts. The only exception was that he now knew where all the major and minor attractions lay. He also knew where the better hotels, restaurants, and music venues were gathered. He’d gotten a bead on McGillvary’s massive Belsom Park mansion and grounds. He had also noticed and followed the nefarious male cousin for a time. When the man met with a lobster colonel, he had gone his own way back to Gay Street. Perhaps Saturday had not been as much of a loss as he had first thought.

  ~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~

  Sunday proved to be diverting. Church was dull, but several gentlemen joined the Crofts for dinner. It proved to be as entertaining a meal as he’d had in some time, although his sister was not pleased with the great wine stain that came from reworking several minor battles that had led up to the Trafalgar action. It was not the small spots that came from quickly shifting glasses out of the way of the battle lines, but the one that took up a quarter of the table when a bread plate, representing a French hulk, tried to cut down a significant part of the English fleet, represented by a nearly full bottle of a lovely dark red burgundy.

  After the older gentlemen directed the conversation towards events long before his time, Frederick excused himself, collected his umbrella, and went walking again.

  ~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~

  The previous evening Wentworth had resisted the urge to haunt Milsom Street and Molland’s. The walk to Camden Place was too distant considering the setting sun and the cool evening breezes. He had taken a new street, Westgate, and had found a grimy and sad but quiet part of Bath.

  It was a neighbourhood that would have been considered fine at one time. Most of the buildings would offer rooms of generous size judging from the placement of the windows. The street was not cramped and narrow as in neighbourhoods where planning depended completely upon the caprice of the builders. Unfortunately, as new areas of the city were built and those with money moved up and out, areas such as Westgate Street, notwithstanding their amenities, lost more and more of their value until they could offer little more than physical protection from the elements. That could disappear as well if the charitable feelings of the owner changed. As Wentworth admired the mature trees lining the walk, he was surprised to find Patrick McGillvary, along with a surveyor, studying one of the many run-down buildings lining the avenue.

  “I may buy it, though I am not fond of being a landlord,” McGillvary said after Wentworth greeted him. “The bank is forced occasionally to take one in a foreclosure, but we try to rid ourselves of it as quickly as possible. The aggravation of trying to collect the paltry rents is never equal to the expense of keeping the place from tumbling in on itself.” He spoke as one who had never scrambled to make even a paltry payment. The surveyor consulted with him as the equipment was carefully packed. The two agreed to meet the next day, then Patrick was at his leisure. The conversation was unremarkable, but it had ended with an invitation to Belsom Park for dinner the following day.

  After refusing his friend’s offer of a ride to Gay Street, Wentworth made to turn off Westgate Street completely when a fashionable barouche came around the corner. The gleaming, warm polish of the box and flash of the spanking new brass made the vehicle stand out remarkably from the dreary regimentation of the buildings. It was something interesting in an otherwise uninteresting walk.

  McGillvary had spoken about the properties in the area and made it clear that one of the reasons he would be reluctant to buy was that most of the poorest residents made their living from various illegal and immoral means. “Between the destruction that is inevitable with fights and drunkenness, the number of fires around here is alarming. One good blaze can wipe out an entire block of these shambles in no time. Not that I begrudge a man, or particularly a woman, making a living by whatever methods they are willing to undertake, but those sorts are not precisely careful about their surroundings.” This being the case, Wentworth wondered if the proud owner of an expensive carriage like this one might not be up to some mischief.

  Any ill behaviour on the part of the smarter set was really none of his affair, and he was about to move on when curiosity got the better of him. He chose to blend in rather than cower and took a seat on a set of stairs a safe distance away. Even with the wide avenue, the driver’s turn was too wide and the wheels on one side of the carriage jerked over the low kerb, and dropped heavily back to the street level. Something was said from inside the carriage and was answered with strong feelings by the driver. Frederick entertained visions of the fine occupants being jostled about like cats in a sack. To his further delight, the door opened and out of the carriage stepped none other than the shining likes of Mr. Elliot. Following him was Miss Elizabeth Elliot’s companion from Molland’s. She was obviously not wanted wherever Elliot was headed as he bid her remain. She re-entered the carriage. It shook when she slammed the door.

  “He won’t like that,” Frederick muttered. On cue, Elliot shouted an epithet and tapped the window sharply with his walking stick. Evidently satisfied with his set-down, he went immediately to a particularly decrepit looking b
uilding.

  It was only one room wide and four floors high, crammed between two larger buildings. It might have been a single house at one time, or perhaps still was, elbowing for its place amongst the shabby lugs surrounding it.

  There was no hesitation as Elliot stepped up to a door with most of its black paint peeled away. He used the stick to knock. There was only a little wait. He was recognised quickly and entered.

  Wentworth doubted Elliot was visiting the poor or tending the sick. After his exchange with his female friend, he doubted that Elliot knew very much about charity. An uneasy feeling kept him spying, but good sense made him give up any notion of doing more than watching in spite of what might unfold.

  ~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~

  The next day over dinner, McGillvary found Wentworth’s intelligence work interesting and highly amusing. “So, the conniving little pettifogger was in there for an hour. Certainly long enough to do all sorts of despicable things.” McGillvary considered the possibilities for a moment and then began to slice his beef with energy. “Though, I think him too pale and slight to have the sort of stamina required for an hour-long rendezvous.”

  “I doubt that was his business. There was a woman outside in the carriage.”

  “Oh please, Wentworth, you know some men are thrilled by the prospect of getting up to no good just outside the view of a woman. He’s just the sort; believe me.” He paused a moment. “But, in this case, if he was down on Westgate, he was doing business.”

  “What sort of business?”

  “Don’t know,” McGillvary said. He quietly chewed and considered. “He may have heard I’ve been nosing around down there and decided to take a look for himself.”

  “He deals in real estate then?”

  “Not generally. But of things legal, there’s not much going on down there otherwise. No, come to think on it, Elliot enjoys dealing in smaller, more manageable items than plots of land and buildings.” With a smile, Patrick twitched his brow and took a generous bite of beef.