Page 17 of The Gentlewoman Author

Chapter Eight

Across the whist table, Mary stared at Agnes until she caught her eye. Then she glared and made a small gesture toward Mr. Bateman, who found every excuse to put his hands on her. Agnes, the instigator of Mary’s discomfort, should do something to remove the man’s attentions. Agnes smiled and laid down her cards.

Mary was partnered with Savage but could barely keep track of their tricks, with Mr. Bateman’s foul breath tickling her ear. It took everything she had to remain in her seat, to refrain from screaming in Mr. Bateman’s face to leave her alone. Good manners tethered her to her chair.

“Have I expressed the utter delight I find in your presence this evening?” Mr. Bateman elongated his “s,” sending uncomfortable chills down her spine.

Have I expressed the utter revulsion I find in yours?“My hearing is very good, you know,” she said. “You may speak to me in the customary way.”

“But I delight in your proximity, your lavender smell.”

I wear rosewater, you imbecile. And you smell of mothballs and sour milk.

He rested his hand on her wrist. “Your humility does you credit.”

It did not. Humility was an indoctrination that served only to make it near impossible for her to say what she really wanted to express. She opened her mouth, determined to put the man in his place, but good manners stopped her tongue. There must be a gracious way to discourage him.

Mr. Savage said, “Your turn, Mrs. Allen.”

Mr. Bateman snaked his arm around the back of her chair. “Do you need advice, my dear?”

“No, thank you. I do not need anything.” Including your disgusting arm around me. Have you no sense for when you’re not wanted? Propriety kept her silent.

He chuckled and patted her shoulder, his arm tightening around her. Being a genteel and proper lady meant she should signal her discomfort by moving away only slightly. Any other response would be frowned upon by the entire party, and she did not wish to cause a scene or jeopardize Louisa’s chances with Mr. Fletcher. But she longed to throw his arm away from her and smack his smug face.

He clutched her closer still, regardless of her stiffness, and she felt the dampness of his underarm penetrate her sleeve.

Her elbow kicked into his side. She turned on him. “Sir, you will refrain from touching me and whispering so intimately in my ear.” She clenched her teeth, pushing down the embarrassment at making such a speak. “You will move your chair from mine.” Her vast patience exhausted, she punctuated her command by slamming her fist on the table. Everyone must be looking at her indecorous exhibition. From her bodice to the top of her head, heat seared through her, punishing her for her outburst. But what else was she to do?

The last note of the pianoforte echoed into silence.

Mr. Bateman withdrew, but his spine lengthened, and he appeared far more intimidating than he had a moment before when hovering over his victim. “I say, such unladylike behavior.” Mr. Bateman grumbled the accusation into his cards and maintained a cool expression, his eyelids half-closed and his nose in the air.

Anger flashed like tinder to a flame. This was outside of enough. How dare he twist his bad behavior and make it her problem? She turned on him. “Pardon me?” She paused, proud of her calm but stern voice. “I endured your attentions with polite, repeated insistence that you give me space. If my conduct is unladylike, what do we call a man who ignores the wishes of a lady?”

Across the table Mrs. Eliot pressed her lips together but could not disguise her mirth. Mr. Savage shook with silent laughter. Mary darted a glance at Louisa, who stared at her as if she sprouted a horn. Beside her Daniel nodded. Censure or approval?

There was only one way to handle this level of humiliation. Lean into it. She flapped her elbows out to ensure she had enough space and placed the next trick. “Thank you, Mr. Bateman. The consideration you have shown me this evening is commendable.” Still simmering, she tried to smile at him, but feared it manifested more like a dog baring its teeth. Time to change the subject. “Mrs. Eliot, dinner was delicious. You possess great skill at selecting a menu.”

At this, the rest of the party, with the notable exception of Mr. Bateman, chimed in with their endorsement of the meal.

The card game soon broke up, and for the remainder of the evening Mr. Bateman bored Mrs. Eliot with long descriptions of his last harvest and the exact remuneration of his efforts.

Mary found a quiet corner wherein to hide with her knitting. Her embarrassment warred with triumph. It felt good to say just what she liked.

Mary was at her wit’s end. Despite the urgency, it did not seem Louisa took her plight seriously. Their time in Bath slid by, already two weeks passed since their arrival and no effort by Louisa to settle on a man.

“I cannot like Mr. Fletcher. He’s an old codger.”

“That is taking it too far. There is no comparison between him and the younger men. Their foolishness is not to be borne. Besides, you do not know Mr. Fletcher yet. He is handsome, is he not?” Mary said, utterly confused by Louisa’s lack of interest in the most superior gentleman in Bath.

Louisa’s look communicated both ennui and scorn, a withering expression that implied she thought her aunt the stupidest woman in the world. And perhaps she was, for she could not comprehend why Louisa’s heart did not beat for Mr. Fletcher. His attractive, solicitous nature put him above every other man, and he singled out Louisa by inviting her to ride in his carriage.

“What about Mr. Savage?” Though Mary herself did not particularly care for the man’s derisive expression, if Louisa liked him, so much the better. She would have performed her duty, for which she began to regret volunteering. It was also information Mary needed as Louisa’s chaperone. If her niece liked him, she would need to know Mr. Savage better.

“I have not seen a man in Bath who interests me. What would you have me do? Flirt with any stranger?” She wrapped her shoulders in a light shawl and draped herself over the settee in the limp manner peculiar to girls under the age of twenty.

“Yes! That is exactly what you do. Flirt a little and get to know them. You cannot judge Mr. Fletcher’s suitability as a husband until you are more familiar with him. It takes time.” Time was in short supply. Only six weeks remained until they must return home. “I am asking you to make an effort. Marriage to a stranger of your father’s choosing is a dreary prospect.”