Once Upon a Time in Bath (The Brides of Bath #7) - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,4

forego his own happiness as penance for his wrongdoing. After all, he was now head of the Appleton family. For the first time in his thirty years, he had others to care for. He must put their needs before his own. “Pray, what is this woman’s name?”

Blanks looked perplexed. “Hmmmm. Her surname is uncommon. I cannot recall it.”

Elvin nodded. “There’s a Pank in there, I do believe.”

“I believe you’re right!” Blanks said.

“Like Pankcrest or something to that effect?” Appleton asked.

“Very like that , I’d say.” Elvin eyed Blanks.

Blanks screwed up his mouth. “But not quite.”

“I supposed if one were to lolly about the Pump Room day in and day out, one could meet her.” Appleton was resigned to his melancholy fate. “One would know her by the cat she’d be clutching.”

“Excellent plan,” Melvin said. “It is to be hoped you’re enamored of felines, old fellow.”

Appleton frowned. “I’m a dog person.”

“Pity.”

* * *

“Would you bring me a rug, love,” Westmoreland Pankhurst asked his daughter. “It’s getting colder in this chamber.”

Dorothea stroked the black-and-white cat that curled upon her lap, loudly purring. “The physician said it would do you good to walk more, Papa.”

“But my gout’s flaring up today.”

Today it was the gout. Yesterday it was his back. The day before it was a throbbing head. Sighing, she lifted the cat and set it on the Turkey carpet. “Here you go, Fur Blossom. Duty calls.”

She stood and eyed her silver-haired father, who sat before the fire, one foot propped on a stool three feet from the hearth. He had begun to remind her of an Oriental potentate who lay about being waited upon. He needed only curly-toed slippers and a turban to complete the picture of total indolence.

She took him a thick woolen rug and covered his lower extremities. “Perhaps this will keep your foot from burning. It’s far too close to the fire.”

“Be a dear and get me one thing more,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed. “Let me guess. A glass of brandy.”

“Ah, my daughter is clairvoyant.”

She was neither physician nor apothecary, but she believed her father’s affinity for strong spirits contributed to his health problems. After she offered him the drink, she returned to her favorite reading—the Bath Chronicle—this time putting her white cat, Preenie Queenie, on her lap, but after a few minutes she tossed the cat down as punishment for clawing at the pages.

It was really the most peculiar thing the way she eagerly perused the gossip within the pages of this newspaper. She knew not a soul being mentioned. Perhaps it was because she had lived in so remote a place for the entirety of her three-and-twenty years that these snippets fascinated her. In a few short weeks she had memorized the names of many of Bath’s figures of Society.

“Now that we’re in a city,” her father said, “it’s time you see about dressing like the wealthy young woman you are. You’ll never attract a husband in those old rags you persist in wearing, and you need a husband. I’m not always going to be here.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re but nine-and-forty, Papa. I declare, you speak as if you’re twice that age—though I daresay you’re beginning to act it, too!”

“Would that I enjoyed more robust health,” her father said in his most martyred voice.

“I’m willing to make a pact with you, Papa. I will see a dressmaker if you will walk there with me.”

“The lure to see you in lovely clothing with men clamoring for your attention is very strong.” Mr. Pankhurst sighed. “I suppose I could force myself to endure so exhausting an excursion for you.”

She tossed her head back and laughed. Love was, indeed, blind. The likelihood of men falling prostrate over her was ridiculous. Nothing about her could possibly elevate her above average. “How am I to even meet young men?”

“You could go to the assemblies this town is noted for.”

“By myself?”

“Perhaps you’ll meet other young people. I feel bad I’ve kept you to myself all these years at Blandings with no exposure to anyone close to your own age.”

“I’ve had you, and I’ve had my cats. I didn’t need anyone else.”

Mr. Pankhurst shook his head solemnly, tenderness in his eyes that were the same shade of brown as hers. “I can’t chance exposure to damp, rainy weather with my delicate health, but if it’s dry tomorrow, I will walk with you to the dressmaker’s.”

Chapter 2

The following day proved to be dry, though very cold. That her father consented to walk along the streets