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

  Chapter Six

  Letter No. 11

  Monday, 28th May

  My dear Lady Julia,

  Are you surprised to find yourself endowed with a title? You will be no less surprised to discover the identity of the one who bestowed it upon you—no less a person than the pretty dark-haired daughter of the card-playing Methodist, whom I mentioned in one of my earlier letters. But I suppose you will tell me I should not joke about that; and, indeed, they are not truly Methodists, despite Miss Barr’s hesitant confession that they had once gone to the Argyle Chapel, until Mrs. Smithton discovered and forbade such scandalous behavior, remaining adamant even in the face of Mrs. More’s known approval of the place. It seems Mrs. Smithton has no opinion of Mrs. More, or her books.

  And now that I have drawn the teeth from your nascent scold, let me return to the main point of this epistle, which is, that I have now made the acquaintance of the two handsomest people to be found in Bath—at least, they are so by my reckoning—and if the first meeting was unintentional, the second was all my own contrivance. (It is indeed a fearful thing, to fall into the hands of a bored Ann Northcott.)

  Enlisting Mrs. Farris to my cause—for she alone of all my allies had spoken to Mrs. Barr—I arranged for us to hobble slowly past where the daughter was seated, at which point my shawl, which I had carelessly allowed to slip down my arms, fell away altogether and sank down to land a little distance from her toes. For a few seconds, as we continued past, I feared that she was too engrossed in the pages of her book for my stratagem to have succeeded, and just as I was prepared to discover the shawl’s absence myself, a light touch upon my arm and a diffident voice brought the loss to my attention. From there, everything proceeded as I had planned, for Mrs. Farris, innocently turning about, of course saw the necessity of introducing me to one who had already earned my gratitude. A few questions and replies later, and Miss Barr had returned to her chair, while I, recalcitrant shawl firmly in place, had taken my seat beside her, and Mrs. Farris, relieved of her role as Miss Northcott’s walking stick, had eagerly scurried off to find a vacant seat at a card-table.

  It did not take long to establish that my new acquaintance suffered from a Kitty-like degree of shyness, which would have made conversing an excessively difficult exercise, were it not for the presence of the book in her hand. She was a trifle ashamed, I think, to be forced to admit that it was the first volume of a novel—Emmeline—but this was all the better for my purposes, since we cannot all excel in the art of polite conversation, but almost everyone is capable of eloquence in abusing something they particularly dislike. I had only to acknowledge to her that I was myself a disciple of Lydia Languish, and request from her the name of the worst novel she had ever read, and that was the end of almost all awkwardness between us. Once she had finished explaining to me her reasons for her utter loathing of Nature and Art, and I had exclaimed, and laughed, and agreed with her on several points, her anxiety had abated enough that she was able to remember that she could easily keep the conversation afloat by returning the question to me, and from thence we proceeded apace. Having begun with Worst Novels, we moved on to Best, and then to works of a more improving nature, such as Histories and Memoirs, until we came at last to Evenings at Home (which she loved as much now as she had done as a child), Devotional Works, Mrs. More and Argyle Chapel.

  As I mentioned above, they lay no claim to Methodism, but Mrs. Barr is so great an admirer of Mrs. More’s writings, and received such help from the Strictures in particular, that almost the only consolation she found in the prospect of removing to Bath, was the knowledge that she might one day rest her eyes upon the celebrated author. Learning that Mrs. More frequently attended the Chapel, they had ventured within one Sunday morning while Mrs. Smithton lay abed (no doubt mourning the Corporation’s heartless restriction against card-playing on the Sabbath), and been very kindly received, though they did not stay long afterward, and had, in fact, seen no evidence of Mrs. More. Since I could see that Miss Barr feared that she had irretrievably sunk her reputation in my eyes by this confession that her feet had crossed the threshold of a Dissenting Establishment—is not this a nice contradiction of terms?—I assured her that if Mrs. More could attend such a place without calling into question her loyalty to the Church of England, I saw no reason why others could not do the same, and that, in fact, my best friend’s parents had advised me to go there myself, if ever I had the opportunity while in Bath. (And yes, such an opportunity continues to elude me; my mother still insists that we say our prayers in the Abbey, where she can at least admire the monuments and complain about the chorus.) Miss Barr looked quite shocked by this speech, and at first I thought this due to her inability to accept me as anyone with Non-conformist sympathies, but her next words showed where the true astonishment lay, for she exclaimed, “Do you mean an Earl wished you to go to Argyle Chapel?”

  We were perhaps ten minutes straightening out this misconception, which arose from a certain description of my mother which Miss Barr had overheard last week, while standing in the door of the card-room, awaiting the egress of her own parent. Apparently my mother was at that time being pointed out to someone as “Mrs. Northcott, of Hellwick Hall in Warwickshire; her daughter practically lives with the Earl of Meravon’s family.” (A description which I am sure my mother has herself done everything to foster except hand out broadsheets.) Once I explained to Miss Barr the difference between the Hall and the Dower House, and the sad falling away of titles between a daughter and a granddaughter, she found your parents’ advice to me easier to comprehend; I thought it best to say nothing of your grandmother, as any mention of Lady Meravon’s chapels might have entirely unnerved the poor girl. I collect that in her mind Aristocrats are incapable of encouraging Dissent. Clearly, she can never have heard of Lady Huntingdon; no mean feat, here in Bath.

  Our conversation continued well past this juncture, but as I mean to get this posted to you today, I will give you here an intermission, and in my next letter tell you all the more personal details I learned from Miss Barr. Unlike Mr. Grayson, she had no thought of holding in reserve any part of the offering; or perhaps I am merely a more winsome priestess than Mrs. Warren.

  Metaphorically yours, Ann Northcott