Mr Forster's Fortune (3 page)

Just at the time tha
t his mother was issuing this kind invitation to her new acquaintance, Mr Forster was in the process of making some new acquaintance of his own. He had just met up with Mr Thomas Springfield, his cousin, in the pump room. Mr Springfield had been lucky enough to inherit his father’s fortune almost two years previously at the tender age of sixteen, though (from his current perspective at the least) unlucky enough for his father to have enlisted Lord Barnham to be its custodian until he should eventually come of age. Had they ever stopped to think about it the young gentlemen might have expressed some surprise at the late Mr Springfield’s selection, for Lord Barnham was his brother-in-law only through marriage, whereas his wife had a brother of her own who might have seemed a more likely candidate for the role. But they had never stopped to think about it. They never stopped to think about anything very much. Tom only regretted the fact that during his minority his uncle allowed him only a small proportion of the income to which he knew he was entitled. The fact that it was one uncle rather than another who was denying him his rights did not enter into his limited consciousness at all.

‘But even so
my father allows you four times what he gives to me, Tom,’ Mr Forster was reminding him, as his young companion was complaining, not for the first time, about his devilishly out-at-elbow state. ‘I was hoping for an increase as soon as I came of age, but there’s nothing on the horizon quite as yet. I suppose I shall have to have a word with him about it. God, how hateful. I loathe having to go to him for anything. I daresay he’ll remind me that I’m ‘not the only drain on his resources,’ as he usually does. You’re damned fortunate in being an only child, my friend, and at least you’ve inherited already. Once my father passes on I’ll have Rachel to keep as well as myself, unless she finds a husband somewhere to take her off my hands.’

Mr Springfield had to acknowledge the truth in
this.

‘Very true, cousin,’ he said
. He spoke with a slight lisp. ‘And, you know, I can’t bring myself to think of her as ever being spliced. She’s got that – oh, I don’t know – that sort of dreary, mealy-mouthed air about her. She’s far too clever by half, if you ask me – far too bookish. It quite puts a normal fellow off.’

Mr Forster tacitly accepted his cousin’s opinion on his sister and resumed a somewhat leisurely perusal of the room.

‘Not like the mort over there, you mean?’

His attention had been caught by a very pretty,
very dainty but very ornamental lady who was just then holding a lively conversation with one of her own acquaintance at the other side of the fire.

Mr Springfield followed his cousin’s glance.

‘Oh, Mrs Wetherby, you mean, Forster? Mr Wetherby’s little widow? Taken lodgings up on Rivers Street, so I understand. Rich as a Jewess, so they tell me. Like the look of her, do you? I’ll introduce you if you like.’

Close to, Mrs Wetherby looked maybe a little less
alluring, and considerably less youthful, than had seemed the case at the distance of several yards and to a young gentleman who had only just that week attained his majority the thought of a widow on the shady side of thirty was becoming less attractive by the second. However, having played a part in instigating the introduction it would have been churlish of Mr Forster to retract. And indeed, from the lady’s perspective, the knowledge that the heir to an ailing viscount had requested her acquaintance was altogether a most attractive proposition.

‘Most pleased t
o make your acquaintance, my lordship,’ she bobbed, completely unembarrassed by Mr Springfield’s revelation that, at the present time at least, the viscount-in-waiting was, sadly, to be addressed as just plain ‘Mr’. ‘I was just saying to my good friend Fanny ‘ere,’ (failing, though, to introduce her good friend Fanny, perhaps due to a fear of diverting the exceedingly handsome young viscount-in-waiting’s attention from herself. She needn’t have worried. Poor Fanny, with several years’ experience in excess of her own, was singularly less attractive to the young viscount-in-waiting even than, on closer examination, Mrs Wetherby herself was proving to be.) ‘I was just saying to my good friend Fanny ‘ere that the pump room, as well as anywhere, is quite the place to meet with all the nobs.’

Mr Forster smiled mechanically, pretended not to notice the kind lady’s hesitating hand, and retreated as quickly as common politeness would allow
him to.

‘How in God’s name do you know a woman of that ilk, Tom?’ he demanded,
departing the vicinity as soon as he could in case the charming young lady should take it into her head to pursue their acquaintance any further. ‘She’s surely a wretched city type.’

Mr Springfield seemed singularly unabashed.

‘Yes, but she’s devilish pretty, and quite a friendly sort, as I’m sure you can tell. I’m developing quite a liking for the company of pretty wenches – especially the friendly ones. I’ve probably met half of them already. Just ask me if you want any further introductions, cousin. I’m sure I could set you up with anyone you choose.’

Despite his cousin’s apparent rejection of the friendly lady in the pump room, Mr Springfield was sufficiently encouraged by Mr Forster’s reception of
his offer that the two young gentlemen agreed to meet up again later that same evening in order to effect a voyage of discovery amongst the less reputable female residents of Bath. He was aware, he had assured his cousin, of a very salubrious establishment at which a selection of said damsels might at any time be discovered – an establishment where they would be guaranteed a warm and extremely friendly reception from the young ladies who called the place their home. And so, the evening being cold, but fine, and the gentlemen’s courage well shored up by a large number of brandies in the Sydney Tavern beforehand, they set out in high spirits and a not-inconsiderable sense of adventure towards the maze of alleyways and narrow streets which together formed the heart of the city’s notorious ‘Lower Town’.

They ventured out of the confines of the Walls and into a roadway known as
St James’ Parade before branching out in a westerly direction along a somewhat less savoury-looking alleyway which Mr Springfield assured his cousin was the very best way of reaching their goal. But before they knew it they found themselves in a veritable labyrinth of streets and alleyways - streets which crowded in on each other so closely that the midday sun, even in summer, scarcely penetrated their topmost storeys, streets which housed the most vicious, most degraded, most hopeless individuals that the city of Bath had to offer. And as the alleyways grew darker and grimier, and their shadowy inhabitants grew noisier and increasingly menacing Mr Springfield’s earlier confidence began quickly to desert him. He had thought to have conned the route to perfection, he assured his cousin, as Mr Forster demanded – not for the first time – to know whether he knew what he was at. He had thought he had not miscounted the streets. But, then, of course, things always looked somewhat different in the dark, and he could not be entirely certain that they had come down the road he had expected, and, when all was said and done his courage was now so far evaporated that he was heartily wishing that he had decided to stay at home.

Mr Forster groaned loudly.

‘So you are saying that we are lost. Is that it, Tom?’ he enquired.

Mr Springfield acknowledged that this was, indeed, a distinct possibility.

‘Then perhaps we should turn back?’ Mr Forster was obviously no more convinced than his cousin was that the idea was as good as they had first thought it. ‘I can’t say that I’m all that impressed by the surroundings around here and I do wonder whether the establishment – even were we fortunate enough to locate it, which I doubt – will prove quite as salubrious as perhaps you were led to believe.’

Mr Springfield was inclined to agree. But just as they were in the process of turning round and star
ting to retrace their steps an elegant-looking young lady in a pale muslin robe materialised as if from nowhere next to them and took Mr Springfield, who happened to be closest, most tenderly by the arm.

‘’
ello mah dearies,’ she greeted them, effusively. ‘’ave yer come in search uv somethin’ in partic’lar?’

‘Well, as a ma
tter of...’ Mr Springfield began, hopefully. He had obviously recovered his spirits no end.

Mr Forster, however, was
now feeling less than keen. A glimmer of light from an opening door had just revealed a couple of extremely dubious-looking characters. They were hanging about in the doorway towards which the young lady seemed intent on dragging them. He eyed the scene with a good deal of suspicion.

‘Err...no, thank you, miss,’ he assured her, grabbing his cousin’s free arm and
pulling at him determinedly. ‘We seem to have lost our bearings, that is all.’

The young lady, though, was made of sterner stuff than this. Having identified a suitable young victim – a young victim who, from his somewhat startling
ly elaborate attire, quite obviously had a good deal more darby than sense, it would take more than the efforts of a similarly chuckle-headed young companion to wrench the prize from out of her grasp. So she clung tenaciously to Mr Springfield’s captured left arm, whilst his cousin was equally tenacious with his right.

‘What the devil...let go of me, you imbecile. Can’t you see that the lady is...?’

‘For God’s sake, Thomas – hike yourself out of here as quickly as you can. Can’t you see it’s a trap? There’s a couple of scaly bruisers not a dozen yards away from you. They’ll be robbing you blind before you even know it.’

And as if to prove the veracity of his assertion, within another two seconds
they could clearly hear the thud of lumbering boot steps heading threateningly towards them, accompanied by a frantic squeal from the young lady intimating that ‘they should go along wiv ‘er’.

In a way, therefore, it was fortunate that Mr Forster’s grip was a little more secure than that of his gentle adversary, who had made the mistake of clinging more to Mr Springfield’s clothing than to his actual arm. With the strength of desperation he gave his cousin an almighty tug, which caused Mr Springfield to reel into the gutter and drag his attacker
down with him. Her counterweight was insufficient for her to retain her hold on her target, though it was sufficient to rip the sleeve quite from the rest of his coat. With an ominous ripping sound and an equally ominous shriek the lady fell to the ground, sleeve in hand, whilst the gentlemen beat the hoof in the opposite direction as quickly as their somewhat trembling legs would carry them.

Twelfth Night fell on
the Sunday evening that year – an unfortunate mischance which occasioned a more restrained gathering than some of Lady Barnham’s younger guests might ideally have liked. Even so, Cecily could not help but feel just a flicker of excitement at the thought of acquainting herself with the intriguing Mr Forster, who would most certainly be attending his mama that night. She had spotted him about town on a couple of occasions since her arrival, looking elegant and important in his caped boxcoat and beaver, but – to her own mild and private amusement – he had remained singularly innocent, both of her presence, and of the fact that he had managed to catch her eye.

Lord and Lady Barnham had taken one of the smaller houses overlooking Sydney Gardens, though it was still a most charming property with
a most magnificent drawing room, decorated in soft pink and greyish-blue, conveniently overlooking the park. Cecily was wearing a half-mourning gown of a delicate grey silk, edged in black, together with long black gloves, a string of black pearls and a simple bandeau to adorn an intricate array of glossy mahogany curls. The hair had been styled to a new design, spotted just that week in ‘La Belle Assemblee’. Browne had been a good half hour in its manufacture, a half hour of such tugging and pinning that Cecily was desperate that the torment should prove itself worthwhile. But she had smiled at herself as she studied her reflection in the mirror. Yes, quite successful, she decided, and she was in remarkably good looks just now. It was lucky that grey actually suited her. It seemed to bring out the lustre of her dark, expressive eyes.

She was not immediately at liberty to
verify this opinion, however, for the necessary introductions and pleasantries took a fair amount of time: Lord Barnham, looking stiff and worn and surprisingly out-dated against the easy style of his eldest son; a sprightly, elderly lady in a remarkably fancy lace cap referred to as ‘Aunt Forster’ who turned out to be his lordship’s sister; a Mr Churchman and his relative Mrs Blackman, passing through Bath on their way across to Ireland; young Mr Springfield, whom she found to be a somewhat unpromising-looking youth sporting a rather odd-looking outfit apparently of military influence; Mr and Mrs Bairstow, en route to York; one or two others. Lord Barnham was all politeness, though perhaps a little forbidding in his formal evening clothes. He was quick to ensure that the servant pandered to her every need, and severe on every imagined inattention.

It was quite some time before she was fully at liberty to be sought out by his son
. But, whether the greyness of the gown or the torment of the hairstyle had anything to do with it or not, she was then able to detect sufficient admiration in his steadfast gaze to satisfy even more-inflated hopes than her own had been. Cecily felt quite small as she finally bobbed him a demure little curtsey. She hadn’t realised just how tall he was.