THE BATHTIME CHRONICLES
by W.B. Keeling Esq.
Frontispiece by Misses Rosanna & Nicola Reed
CHAPTER ONE
The Royal City of Bath - 1840
“It was the afternoon of his eighty-first birthday and the bishop
was in bed with his cat when I called to see him.”
So began Mr Richard ‘Bello’ Nash, gentleman and connoisseur,
having first ensured that his four lady guests were fully settled in chairs
with cups of tea to hand. It was a winter’s afternoon in 1840 and an
excellent day to share one’s company with fair-minded acquaintances
as the daylight faded and hearth fires across the city burned bright.
“Don’t titter ladies. You are as yet unaware of the substance of my
story.”
Whilst girls may be allowed to titter, ladies should act with decorum
but Bello, like his great-grandfather Beau Nash before him, had the
extraordinary ability to strip away a lady’s years and return even the
dourest of dowagers to their childhoods. Moreover, such carefree
behaviour, which some say bordered on risqué, was to be expected
when accepting an invitation to tea at 9 Sydney Buildings, an elegant
townhouse bordering the Kennet and Avon Canal. Invitations to this
particular residence in the Royal City of Bath might state Tea & Cake as
the purpose but the expectation was for tea and tittle-tattle. And it was
beyond all but the strongest of wills not to titter at tittle-tattle.
Bello continued, “Among the principles that guide my life ‘never let
a birthday pass uncelebrated’ is among the most important, so I wasn’t
about to have my esteemed holy godfather Georgie Law pass his big
day with nothing more than a nuzzle on the nozzle from that fat feline
creature Horace.”
Titters come in various forms. There is the quiet, suppressed, titter.
There is the low rumbling titter that moves below but never breaks the
surface. Unlike the cascading titter that emerges like a white tipped
wave through straight-faced decorum. And the rampant titter that
leaves established good manners in tatters in its wake.
Of these four titters – and there are many more – the suppressed
titter seemed to have taken hold. Lady Passmore of Tewkesbury Manor,
who considered herself the superior of the four lady guests and liked to
be addressed by her full title, attempted to confront the titter, indeed to
quash it.
“For the purpose of clarification,” she asked, somewhat sternly,
“Are we to assume that you are referring to the Bishop of Bath & Wells,
The Most Reverend George Law?”
Indeed, Lady Passmore of Tewkesbury Manor,” he replied. “For the
purpose of clarification you should most definitely make that
assumption. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, I was entering the bachelor
bishop’s most private chamber – which for the purpose of clarification,
ladies, in this instance is his bedroom – armed with a portion of pie from
Mrs Trimble’s Pie Shop for His Grace the birthday boy and a bottle of
1795 Armagnac for the cat Horace...”
“Ooaah!”
A distinct rattling of a tea cup brought his sentence to a halt. Miss
Phyllis Pettifer of Gay Street, a prolific knitter who had spent fifty years
failing to overcome a nervous disposition, had made a sound best
described as a distressed whimper.
“Ooaah!” she repeated. “Armagnac? For the cat?!”
Bello, who adored Miss Pettifer to the point of informality, said,
“Why not, Phyllis?”
Lady Passmore stepped in.
“This already sounds to me like another of your very tall stories,”
she interjected, leaning over to offer a reassuring pat on the hand to their
friend. “I ask you, what sort of a name is Horace for a cat?”
Bello held his head high and straight. He had planned this occasion
with an ulterior purpose: to introduce to his circle of lady friends a new
companion in his life. Gossip could never be avoided but he had found
throughout his forty-five years of life that a degree of honesty reduced
its ill-effects.
In the past, the ladies had gracefully accepted Gerhardt from
Hanover whom he had met in Berlin whilst admiring Konigliche
tableware. He had been keen to add to his beloved collection of
Germanic porcelain but came home with a Prussian ‘nephew’ instead.
They had similarly embraced his ‘cousin’ Hutch from Grenada whom
Bello had introduced to Bath following his return from an extended
visit. Both relatives had returned to distant climes, their relationships
foundering on a simple truth that honesty among friends is a good deal
easier than honesty among lovers.
Now, for a third time, Bello was to introduce a new companion.
Moments such as this, however, when candour of an intimate nature is
required are rarely easy and he deemed it too early in the tea-time
proceedings to make the introduction. But for the name of the bishop’s
cat there was a delightfully straightforward explanation.
He said, “Once again, ladies, forgive my lack of clarity. The beloved
cat is named after Horace Walpole, the late, great gentleman of letters
who was a fond admirer of the feline form. Deceased in the year of my
birth, he was a close friend to our dear bishop’s father and, indeed, my
own celebrated great-grandfather Beau Nash.”
Lady Passmore of Tewkesbury Manor saw the opportunity to make
a point.
“Who was master of ceremonies at our Assembly Halls and made
Bath the attractive city it is today, at least for the people who matter,”
she explained to the third guest, Miss Charlotte Timsbury, the youngest
daughter of Mr and Mrs Timsbury of Timsbury Hall, Timsbury.
“The hot waters of the city helped, too, of course,” said Bello
modestly. “Now, let me return to the matter at hand. Or would you care
for more Assam tea, Mrs Merrigold?”
His fourth guest, Mrs Marjorie Merrigold of Lansdown Hill, had
caught his eye by dabbing at her forehead with a lace-edged
handkerchief, a clear indication that she required attention.
“Thank you, Bello. The tea is very fine and I unexpectedly have a
thirst,” she explained.
“You should control your urges better, Marjorie,” commented Lady
Passmore, who liked to tell people what to do and especially Mrs
Merrigold in whose company she was habitually seen.
Their host, a long-limbed and elegant man and every bit as
handsome as his famous ancestor, was as ever impeccably dressed in
the latest fashion: a finely tailored charcoal grey morning coat with light
trousers over a white linen shirt and single-breasted waistcoat. Around
the collar of his thin neck Bello had tied an ascot-striped cravat knotted
into a bow-tie as if on one of the grand tours of Italy that he so enjoyed
and during which he had earned his sobriquet. He rose from his chair
and refreshed the ladies’ cups. Not a drop was spilt.
“And a slice of cake, perhaps,” he further offered. “Or a petite
madeleine? The madeleines are quite superb.”
“Should I?” said Mrs Merrigold, reaching out a hand.
Lady Passmore laughed.
“Whether you should or should not is immaterial. We all know you
will, Marjorie.”
“It’s true, I can’t resist. I will have a madeleine,” said Mrs Merrigold.
“That’s most kind. Somewhere in this house there is an excellent cook.”
Bello passed around a Frankenthal plate on which twenty perfect
scallop-shaped sponge madeleines had been arranged. On reaching
Miss Timsbury, he paused and then smiled.
“And for you, young Miss Timsbury?” he asked. “It’s such a delight
that you have come today, your first occasion here and one I trust you
will remember fondly. I consider four to be the perfect number of guests
and the indisposition of our dear friend Mrs Haig Thomas this
afternoon, engaged on a matter of some importance no doubt, upset the
equilibrium of the day. With your presence, it has most assuredly
returned. Please take a madeleine. For such a small treat, they offer great
sustenance.”
The alabaster skin of Miss Timsbury had developed a tinge of pink
that he took for mild embarrassment and contrasted nicely with the
powder blue of the high-ceilinged walls. She was not as timid, however,
as her name or appearance might half-suggest.
“No, thank you,” she replied demurely but then with gathering
confidence continued, “Your tale is sustenance enough. I find it quite
enthralling and desire to know more.”
“Excellent,” he declared, waving a hand aloft as if in triumph, “A
yearning for knowledge! Prepare yourselves, ladies, and I will continue.
Let the tea provide you the courage of an empire and the madeleines
the strength of er… something really strong.
“But I digress. There was I entering the bishop’s bedroom, a portion
of pie in one hand and a bottle of Armagnac in t’other. And there’s old
Georgie Law propped up in bed dressed in his finest ecclesiastical
nightgown – red satin no less – with the creature Horace on his lap.
Beside them on the bed is a saucer in which there’s a puddle of Horace’s
favourite tipple, namely a tincture of warm milk and Armagnac.
“Hence the gift of the bottle, Phyllis. As always, I have a perfectly
innocent explanation to ease your suspicious mind...”
He could only hope that she would find the explanation of his new
companion similarly innocent.
1.
My great uncle’s opening lines were clearly inspired by the
great novelist Anthony Burgess and his masterpiece Earthly Powers.
This dates the typed manuscript to circa 1980.
2.
George Law was Bishop of Bath & Wells in 1840. He
oversaw the removal of ramshackle buildings around Bath Abbey,
although this was in the 1820s and 1830s, so Great Uncle William is a
couple of decades out in his telling.
3.
I can find no evidence for Horace the cat existing. However,
Horace Walpole, son of Prime Minister Robert Walpole, was for real.
He entered into a childless marriage and was certainly gay. He and
his circle of effeminate friends were noted “finger twirlers”.