Page 14 of The Lady of the Lamps (Vows in Vauxhall Gardens #1)
E ven though it was clear that the waters were not helping his affliction at all, Spencer stayed in Bath for a few more weeks before returning to London.
He was filled with embarrassment and frustration at the scene he had caused at the Assembly Rooms. Ducking when the glasses were dropped, running from the room, and then the moment with Lady Beatrix in the abandoned card room which should not have happened…
And yet part of him hoped to see her wandering the streets of Bath. Even though he knew that he was being foolish. She had come to check on him in that small, dark room, and held his hand, and she could have been ruined for doing so.
There had been a moment when he had thought he could fix himself, and pursue Lady Beatrix.
But the incident at the Assembly Rooms had made it clear that if he possibly could overcome his destroyed nerves, it would not be for a long time.
And he would not destroy Lady Beatrix’s reputation—especially when he was in no position to offer marriage.
By the time he returned to London, sick of the waters and with no idea what he was going to do once the Season ended, the early summer sunshine was already filling the sky.
He traveled by horse again, his belongings following in the carriage, and when he reached his London townhouse, his skin was bronzed more than current fashions would approve.
Not that he cared. If people wanted to gossip about him, there were far worse things they could say than that he had stayed out in the sun a little too long.
On the off chance that they would be there, Spencer decided to go to the club on his first night back, to let Timothy and James know that he had returned.
They had surely been wrapped up in the social events of the Season, and barely noticed his absence—but it only seemed right to inform them that he was now home.
If this was his home… Was he to stay in London permanently, even when the fashionable set left for their country estates?
Or could he bear to return to his own seat, and live the life that should have been Jack’s?
Perhaps he could choose another of the houses belonging to him to settle in. One with no memories…
He was surprised at how pleased he was to see his friends at their usual corner table. He had come early, hoping to catch them before whatever ball or musicale they were attending that night, but he hadn’t expected to find he had missed their company so very much.
He still wasn’t sure how to behave in any company, but it had been lonely in Bath. He didn’t want to always be alone, even though his mind plagued him, and socializing did not feel natural any longer.
“Leighton!” Timothy called out, raising his glass in welcome. “You’ve returned!”
Spencer signaled that he wished for a glass to join his friends in the decanter of port they were enjoying before taking a seat. “I am. And pleased to be so.”
James beamed. “Good. Did Bath offer everything you hoped?”
Spencer took a sip of his drink in order to think of an answer. “I saw Lady Beatrix, while I was there,” he said, in order to avoid discussing his taking of the waters, and their lack of effectiveness.
Knowing glances passed between Timothy and James. “Did you indeed. And was that the reason you went?”
“No, but—”
“It’s even more sad, if she only just got home from her travels. Was her father with her in Bath?” Timothy asked.
“Yes, he was. What’s sad?”
“Well, unless I’ve heard wrong… At the races today, the talk was all of how Lord Haxbury had been found dead, by his daughter no less.”
“What?” Spencer’s mouth dropped open in shock and he nearly spilled the ruby-red liquid across his lap. “What do you mean? I saw the man only a fortnight ago…”
He had looked rather feeble, it was true. But surely not at death’s door?
“Perhaps I heard wrong,” Timothy said, although Spencer could tell he was merely trying to placate him. “Or it was a lord with a similar sounding name.”
“I was sure I heard them mention Lady Beatrix by name, though,” James chimed in.
Spencer felt like he might be sick. She would be heartbroken. She doted upon her father, and had hoped so much that the waters would cure him. If he had truly passed shortly after they had returned home…
He glanced up at the clock. It was far too late for it to be acceptable to call upon her. And there wasn’t anything he could do… But he wanted to be there for her. To offer his condolences. He knew the pain of grief better than most.
Beatrix was in shock. She sat alone in the parlor, the drapes still drawn, feeling uncomfortable in her ill-fitting black dress.
How could everything change so suddenly?
One moment she had been enjoying the early summer sunshine, and the next she had returned home, and checked upon her father, and discovered…
The doctor said his heart must have given out.
She’d known for a long time that he was ill and weak, but she had not truly expected him to suddenly leave her.
In the blink of an eye her world was turned upside down, and there she was, seven days after the awful discovery, wearing the dress that she had not worn since Ambrose had been killed in that duel, and trying to see how to escape from this misery.
The house seemed so quiet and empty without him. The grief was overwhelming. She could not sleep, could not eat, could not think of anything but her dear papa, and how she had not been there in his final moments on this earth.
Why had she gone on that walk?
Why had she dragged him to Bath? Yes, she had hoped that the waters would help him. But it was also for her own selfish reason: to escape the odious Lord Filton, because she still had dreams of a love match.
She hated herself for hastening her father’s end with so much travel.
Although she felt alone, she was not entirely.
The staff continued as they normally did, making meals that Beatrix could not eat, and clearing them away untouched.
Jemima, her dear maid, had taken to checking in on her every hour, and so when there was a knock on the parlor door, she presumed that was who it was.
“All is well, Jemima,” she called out, her voice sounding hollow. She loved her maid for caring so much, but she just didn’t have any conversation in her.
“Sorry, milady,” a male voice said, pushing the door open. “It’s not Jemima.” Beatrix looked up to see the awkward expression on the face of their butler, Samson, at the door. “You have a visitor, milady.”
Beatrix shook her head, her eyes welling with tears at the thought of having to speak to anyone. “I cannot, Samson. I am in mourning, please tell whoever it is—”
“He’s very insistent. Says you must admit him…”
Beatrix pressed her eyes closed momentarily to keep the tears at bay and stood. She was the lady of the house, after all—well, she would be until the heir came to take it all away. But that was a thought for another day.