Romantic Rebel by Joan Smith

dowsing. And you were not even wearing a mantelet, Miss Nesbitt,” she added condemningly over her shoulder.
    Miss Bonham smiled apologetically and said, “You are returning to Bath now, Miss Nesbitt?”
    “Yes, as soon as the rain lets up, we shall be on our way.”
    “We have been visiting friends at Corsham Court,” she said.
    “Lord Methuen.” I nodded.
    “Oh, you know Methuen?”
    “I have not met him. Paton mentioned him this afternoon.”
    “We all chose an ill day for a little jaunt.”
    I had the feeling Miss Bonham was fishing for an explanation of what lured me out in such weather. Her aunt was less devious. I heard her demand of Paton, “Where were you and Miss Nesbitt, if you don’t mind my asking?” but I did not hear his reply.
    Miss Bonham was saying, “Have you known Paton very long? I noticed he rushed to join your set at the ball the other evening. Is that where you met?”
    “No, I knew him before that. We met at a party in Bath earlier.”
    “You were not acquainted before coming to Bath?”
    “No. Have you known Paton long?”
    “Long, but not well,” she said. “We first met him in London some years ago. His aunt in Bath, Lady Forrest, is some connection to Lady DeGrue, not related, but only connected.”
    The water and cups arrived. It was very warm by the fire. My shoulders were not only dried but beginning to scorch. I removed to the table before I should be kippered alive. Lady DeGrue, with vast confidence but weak wrists, lifted the water jug only to the rim of the teapot and poured a great deal of water into the pot without adding any tea. She motioned to Miss Bonham, who did the pouring in a very ladylike way. It was not her fault that the liquid coming from the spout was very little darker than when it went in. It was hot at least, and accepted gratefully. Lady DeGrue took the last slice of bread and butter herself and proceeded to devour it.
    “What a wretched tea,” she complained when she had finished.
    One did not like to say that the inn no doubt had tastier fare than bread and butter and watered tea. “But what can one expect.” She shrugged. “Waxon,” she called toward the corner. “I believe I saw a pedlar in the lobby. See what he is selling. If it is anything I would be interested in, bring him to me. And make sure you shut the door behind you. There is a wretched draft in here.” The place felt like an oven.
    Waxon left. During her brief absence the dame quizzed Paton about a number of people whose names I did not recognize and asked me where Miss Potter was today.
    “She is at home,” I said.
    Waxon apparently found the pedlar’s wares of interest to her employer, for she led him in. He was a round-shouldered old fellow, dressed in dusty fustian. A certain aroma accompanied him.
    “Put your sack here on the table where I can see it,” Lady DeGrue ordered.
    A dirty leather pouch was set on the table amidst the teacups, and the man began to draw out his goods. Needles and threads, buttons and lace and ribbons were his wares.
    “Tuppence for a packet of needles! You’re mad. I’ll give you a farthing for them,” she asserted.
    “Oh, milady. You jest,” he said, showing a set of pink gums with a few shattered teeth. “I could sell you one needle for a farthing if you have urgent need of it.”
    “Idiot. What urgent need would I have for a needle? Your threads, then. That blue just matches your muslin, Isabel. Its seams could do with reinforcing. I don’t know how you manage to tear all your gowns apart. That blue muslin is not three years old, and already the seams are coming loose.”
    “Tuppence,” the pedlar said.
    He was castigated for a thief and a knave, and offered two farthings. The poor man was made to empty his pack item by item, receiving a dozen insults on the shoddiness of his merchandise and the inordinate prices he was asking. And after all that, Lady DeGrue did not purchase so much as a needle or box of pins. I was happy to see