Letters from Bath; Or, A Friend in Exile Read online



  Letters from Bath; Or, a Friend in Exile

  By

  Meredith Allady

  Copyright 2012 Meredith Allady

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  To A, B, D, H & M--you know who you are.

  (And no, plumbago is not a type of pudding.)

  Selected Letters from Miss Ann Northcott to Miss Julia Parry

  Bath, England, 1804

  Chapter One

  Letter No. 1

  Tuesday, 8th May

  My dearest Julia,

  I have only a moment before my dread captor returns—already I can hear that familiar voice approaching, the footfalls descending the creaking stairs, advancing toward the room in which I am being kept to await whatever black tortures may have been devised by those who brought me here against my will. They must have underestimated my ingenuity, else they would never have dared place me in this room with the means of telling my sad tale so close to hand—perhaps they had forgotten that the neglected writing desk (elegantly fashioned after the style of Louis XIV) even contained these few scraps of paper, and an old half-dried inkwell (which I have managed to moisten with my tears). But I must waste no more time, uncertain, as I am, how many minutes—breathless with alarm—or even seconds—filled with the rapid beating of my heart—I may have before those ominous steps halt outside the door, the knob turns within the grasp of my abductor’s hand, and the heavy panel swings open to reveal the stern lines of that most terrifying visage—

  But no, it was only Nell, come to advise me that a Mrs. Thingumbob has called unexpectedly, and since my mother would not, therefore, be able to go out as soon as she had intended, I might return to the garden if I so wished.

  I find that I do not wish, however, for the garden had begun to feel a trifle cool, even with a shawl—though it did not suit me to admit this earlier, when I was summoned—and this is really very lovely paper I have found, of a pleasing creaminess that begs to have confidences and complaints scribbled onto it. No doubt my mother uses it only for the most exalted missives—advice to Bishops, replies to duchesses—in which case it is most appropriate that I should purloin a sheet or two in order to send you an account of my Cruel Circumstances, my Numerous Travails since the day I was Ruthlessly Torn from the Embrace of my Most Affectionate Friend, and borne away to this benighted spot, this blight upon England, this horridly Parry-less city of Bath.

  To begin with, the journey was quite dreadfully tedious and uncomfortable. Ten hours—or twenty—it matters not; after thirty minutes, the seats might have been fashioned from brickbats for all the ease they offered my poor rattled bones, and since I had nothing to say to my mother, nor she to me, and she had chosen to send all the house-servants ahead on the stagecoach, I had perforce to take up my book—and almost immediately begin to regret the impulse that had led me to select de Retz as my sole companion for the journey. Yes, yes, I recall with bitter clarity that I insisted on choosing the Memoirs precisely because I knew there was little chance that I would ever pursue them if I had anything else to engage my attention, and I was quite right: if I could have found even a few pages of Mr. Hill’s ‘gentle strictures’ against Mr. Wesley, abandoned and crumpled in some crevice of the carriage, I would joyfully have smoothed them out and read every denunciatory passage thrice over, before I would ever have voluntarily returned to the scheming Cardinal. Thus, our journey: my mother, elegant and composed, intent upon Lord Chesterfield’s Letters; myself wriggling about in futile variations of Weary Passenger, determinedly keeping my attention fixed upon paragraph after paragraph of tiresome French politics. Our stops were too few, and too infrequent: the relief of walking about; the disappointment of discovering that we were not to stay longer than it took the horses to be changed; that food was to be made ready to send with us; the awful realization that the squabs had grown even more unyielding in our brief absence…

  But I will spare you more. It is too late to halve my misery by sharing it, and why should you suffer needlessly? Eventually, Bath was attained, Gay-street traversed, and I staggered up the steps and into my prison—and yet another flight of steps became necessary—and then—and then my cell—a lonely pallet met my eyes, and then I felt myself falling forward onto a pale green counterpane, with fat and unforgiving pillows standing in stern array above my head, and Nell’s voice reaching me, faintly, as if from a great distance: “For pity’s sake, Miss Ann, at least let me take your shoes off first!”

  Your most affct. Friend,

  Ann Northcott

  PS. Although this letter is directed to you, I have no objection if the rest of your family wishes to share in my wretchedness as well, though perhaps it might be best if you read to them only select portions, so that Kitty might be spared the more affecting details. When I have somewhat recovered, I mean to begin enclosing separate pages to them, describing my days here, and of course these will be of a far more erudite and edifying nature, than those I direct to you alone. To you, I reserve the right to complain as much as I wish:

  “Take, then, my friend, my words of truth,

  While you at home do spend your youth,

  Enclosed within that blessed sphere,

  Domestic comforts all quite near,

  Not sent, by parent’s harsh decree,

  To share the woes of Bath with me.

  [Editor’s Note: This is clearly based upon lines from Christopher Anstey’s The New Bath Guide

  “Take, then, my friend, the sprightly rhyme,

  While you inglorious waste your prime,

  At home in cruel durance pent

  On dull domestic cares intent,

  Forbid, by parent’s harsh decree,

  To share the joys of Bath with me.”]