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A Couple In England – Day Six – Part One

 
By the time I woke up the next morning, I felt marginally better, even though the flu/cold/cholera had now settled in my chest and head. I was alone and so I laid in bed for a bit taking stock of the day. It was New Year’s Eve – the New Year’s Eve I’d been planning for ages. We had dinner reservations tonight at Cote Brasserie restaurant for 8:30, with fireworks over the Abbey afterwards. Sigh. Thank goodness I hadn’t booked the horse and carriage drive I’d been contemplating for tonight.
 
Hubby came in the door. “You missed breakfast.”
 
“Don’t care,” I told him.
 
“How do you feel?”
 
“Like crap. What’s it doing outside?”
 
“Rainy, cold and grey. Typical English weather. There’s something fishy about this hotel.”
 
I stared at him. “It’s like they keep moving the Wellington Suite,” he went on. I stared at him some more. “Every time I climb those stairs and think our room is just one more flight up, it isn’t. It’s like they add a flight of stairs whenever I leave the hotel.”
 
“They don’t move the room. You’re just old. What do you want to do today?”
 
“Are you well enough to do anything?”

That was an excellent question. Was I well enough? Had I been this ill at home, I’d have either stayed in bed all day or checked myself into a hospital. As it was, we were in Bath and I was determined to see it.
 

“Well, I’m not dead. That’s something. And if I’m not dead, I’m not losing another whole day in Bath. Let’s start with the bus tour.”
 
“They have a bus tour here? Like in London?” Hubby asked with enthusiasm.
 
On that happy note I got myself washed and dressed and we trundled down the stairs, where we met Eliza.
 
“Are you feeling any better?” she asked.
 
“I’m no longer convinced that I’m going to die, so I suppose it’s an improvement.” Eliza then told us that the tour bus made a stop one block away, in front of the Holburne Museum, which I’d wanted to visit anyway. So Hubby and I headed out into the drizzle.
We arrived at the Museum and spent a few minutes looking at the exhibits before Hubby parked himself on a bench and refused to budge. “You go look around. Take your time,” he told me. So I strolled about a bit, without really taking much in. I was simply too sick to appreciate the fabulous displays properly. Do check the Museum’s link above to properly view their permanent collections.
Before long, I put Hubby out of his misery and suggested that we wait for the tour bus in the shelter in front of the Museum. You can see the bus shelter in the bottom right of the photo above. By this time, it was raining a bit harder, so we huddled together and looked out at Great Pulteney Street.

After a while, I dug into my shoulder bag, found the roll of loo paper I’d put in there before leaving the room and blew my nose.
 
“We’ve been sitting here for more than fifteen minutes, haven’t we?” Hubby asked.
 
“I think so.”
 
“Eliza said the tour bus stopped here every fifteen minutes.” We waited another fifteen minutes in the misty cold. Still no bus.
 
“The main tour bus stop is by the Abbey. We can walk there.” I said, taking my travel umbrella out of the shoulder bag. So Hubby and I trudged up Great Pulteney Street towards Laura Place.
And we arrived at Bridge Street and crossed the bridge.
No sooner had we gotten properly into town than what did we spy but a Cafe Nero. Our spirits soared as Hubby and I shouldered one another out of the way in an effort to be first in the door.
 
 
 
 
Hubby used our loyalty card to get us two free coffees and we sat at a table and gratefully drank our brews. There is a God, I thought as I blew my nose again.
“Do you want some food?” Hubby asked. “You didn’t eat anything yesterday. Aren’t you starving?”
The thought of food was repulsive. I shook my head. I finally knew how Daphne “I’ll eat when I’m dead”
Guinness feels.
“Cigarette?”
Even that didn’t sound appealing, but I accompanied Hubby into the alley at the side of Café Nero’s that leads to a quaint shopping street.  If anyone knows it’s name, let me know.

 

 
 
 
From here, I led us to the bus stop at the Abbey, where we found the errant tour bus.

Bath City Tours offer two routes, the Skyline Tour and the City Tour. We began with the Skyline tour, boarded the bus and settled into front row seats on the top.
“This is great, Hon.”
We adjusted our earphones as the bus pulled away from the kerb and headed towards Manvers Street and North Parade, a terrace of Grade I listed buildings built by John Wood the Elder circa 1741 as a summer promenade, ending with a viewpoint high above the river.
In the distance, we could see Sham Castle, a folly that appears to be the entrance gate to an impressive baronial hall, but which is nothing more than a single wall. It was built at the direction of  Ralph Allen “to charm all visitors to Bath.”
 

Then we arrived at Great Pulteney Street. “Look, Hon, there’s our hotel!” I nodded. “And the Holburne Museum.”
Before long we arrived at Cleveland Bridge and the toll house.

The bridge, the third across the River Avon and the most northerly, was built by a private company at a cost of some £10,000 for the Earl of Darlington, owner of the Bathwick estate, who was created Marquess of Cleveland in 1827. One of the finest late Georgian bridges in the Greek Revival style anywhere, the bridge opened up the Bathwick Estate to considerably more traffic, and provided a new, and more dignified approach to the City by bypassing Walcot Street.
Leaving the City, we meandered along country lanes and were treated to gorgeous views of both the countryside and the City of Bath.
We passed the American Museum and  the National Trust Landscape Gardens before we returned to the City centre, where we left the bus, hand in hand. The weather was still bleak, but we had both enjoyed the tour, which had lifted our spirits. Somewhat.
 
“Do you want to do the other tour?” Hubby asked.
 
“Sure, do you?”
 
“Yeah. I love these tours, Hon.”
 
I smiled at Hubby. “I love you. Sorry I’m sick and ruining your time in Bath.”
“You’re not ruining it! We’re having fun, aren’t we?”
 
“Yes,” I said determinedly. “We are.”
 
 
Part Two Coming Soon!

 

The Secrets of Bloxley Bottom, Episode 13: Eye of the Beholder

       The artist Tournell choose a room with northern and eastern exposure for his working studio at Bloxley Hall, positioning the pianoforte to place the girls in the best light. He needed to make some sketches of various poses for Lord Bloxley to approve, and one version might well be at the instrument. And what the baron would want them to wear was still to be decided as well.

       Upstairs in her boudoir, Daphne fussed with her hair while Valeria tried to help.
       “You know,” Valeria said, her voice tinged with irritation, “He is going to have us sit several days. If your hair is not perfect this afternoon, let’s make it better tomorrow. We don’t even know how he wants us to pose.”
       Daphne yanked out two pins and stuck them back with a vengeance. “Ouch! I know, Val, but he won’t want us just sitting side by side. My hair has to be right from every perspective.”
        “Honestly, you are being very silly. In a moment, Mama will be up here fretting about us. We have to go downstairs.”
        “Oh, I suppose you are right. I will have Clara do it tomorrow.”
        “I am surprised Mama hasn’t sent her to us today.”
        “Haven’t you noticed? Mama seems very preoccupied about something. She hardly heard a word anyone said at dinner last night.”
        “I noticed that too.”
         As if she’d bee eavesdroppng, Lady Bloxley peered around the door. “Mr. Tournell is waiting for you. Oh my, you look lovely, both of you.”
        “Mama, can you have Clara come in and help me with my hair? It refuses to behave.”
        “Of course, dear.” She hurried off.
        Tournell hoped he wasn’t going to have to wait around like this every day he came to the hall. Patience, mon ami, he muttered to himself. He was being handsomely compensated for his efforts and if sitting and waiting was part of it, he would endure.
        At last the two daughters swished into the room followed by their mother. “How do you want them to arrange themselves?” the baroness asked.
        They were very pretty and well-formed females, Tournell thought to himself.
        “Ladies, please be seated at first, s’il vous plait. One of you will be standing in the final picture but I will do some preliminary sketches to start with.”
       “What about the clothing, Monsieur? Do you think they should be in these day dresses or perhaps, ball gowns?”
        “These will do for the moment.” He was not fond of the relatively high necked bodices of their ensembles, but he decided against making any changes immediately. Later, perhaps. With his charcoal, he began to draw outlines of their coiffeurs.

        Elizabeth sat down beside the window and gazed across the lawn. She needed to find more flowers, flowers she was unsure of. The Latin names for them were unfamiliar and she needed their common names. Tomorrow Lionel was going to some meeting of the vestrymen, of whom he was the leading member. As soon as he left the hall, she would take a look ion the library.
       Daphne and Valeria conversed as though neither the artist nor their mama was within hearing distance.
        “Would you prefer to be painted in a ball gown, Val?”
        “I would like to see how we look in these sketches first.”
        “I think a lower neckline is more flattering.”
        “Perhaps. Or at least less prissy.”
        “Or would we look too grand?”
        “Remember that picture of Grandmama. She has a big hat with a wide brim and not a hint of skin below her chin. And she looks quite lovely.”
        Tournell listened to their chatter. Ball gowns with very low décolletages would be his choice. But he was not the decision maker in this case. He doubted he would be able to get more than a glimpse of their endowments if ball gowns were not chosen.

Video Wednesday

Happy Wednesday!
 
Here’s an eclectic round up of videos
we hope will serve to amuse.

Watch, and listen to, the sheep at Walmer Castle.
 
 
 
 
 
 
The World’s Oldest Photographs
(including Whitehall in 1839)
 
 
 
 
 
 
Morris Dancers, Bampton, Devon
 
 
 
 
 
How to chop an onion by Gordon Ramsay
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Fawlty Towers: Basil’s Best Bits
 
 
 
 
 
Dame Helen Mirren’s Olivier Awards
Best Actress Acceptance Speech
(this past Sunday)
 
 
 
 
 
 
The Attic Sale at Chatsworth 2010
 
 
 

A Couple In England – Day Five – Part Three

Finally, and all at once, taxi’s drew up at the Station and I left Hubby to choose one and get our luggage into the boot while I climbed into the back seat. Okay, I fell into the back seat.  And I have to tell you that I have no memory of the drive to the hotel. It’s all a feverish blur. But before long, we pulled up in front of Duke’s Hotel – the place I had been longing to be for months.
I peered out the back passenger window at the building and could have cried. Literally. It was perfect; just as I’d imagined it would be. And here I was, arriving as a hot, feverish mess. Sigh. Hubby climbed out of the cab and went around to the boot in order to wrestle our bags to the sidewalk, while the taxi driver came around to open my door. I was still cognizant enough to know that this was my signal to exit the taxi and I tried my best to comply, rocking myself back and forth in an effort to propel myself from the rear seat. At least I think I rocked, but in any case I made no headway at all. The driver stooped to peer into the cab at me.
“Look,” I told him, “If you want me out of this cab, you’re going to have to pull me out. I haven’t got  the strength to do it myself.”
 
Somehow, Hubby and the cabby together got me out of the taxi and into the hotel, where we were greeted by a lovely young woman named Eliza. Duke’s Hotel is nestled within the confines of a Georgian townhouse, with a lovely staircase in the entry and a reception room to the left. It is furnished like a gentleman’s townhouse and filled with comfortable furniture, period fittings and artwork. What I recall most is that Duke’s was filled with warmth and a feeling of home.
 
“Are you not feeling well?” Eliza asked kindly as I collapsed, all loose limbs, onto a sofa.
 
“I’m not. In fact, I think I may have died on the train somewhere around Didcot. Or it might have been Swindon.”
 
“You came on the train?” Eliza refrained from adding in that condition? “Perhaps some tea would help?”
 
Oh, Eliza, you angel. I nodded.
 
“What kind of tea would you like?”
 
“Hot.” I still felt as though my bone marrow had been removed and replaced with ice. I could not get warm.
 
Eliza bustled efficiently out of the sitting room in order to fetch the tea and I gazed around as Hubby put a hand to my forehead.
 
“You don’t look so good, Hon. And you have a fever.”
 
I nodded, expressionless.
 
“This is a nice place, huh?”
 
I nodded again.
 
Hubby went to peer out of a window. “Looks like there’s a nice garden back here.”
 
I continued to nod. A wooden Indian had nothing on me.
 
Eliza came back with the tea tray. “Shall I pour it for you?”
 
More nodding.
 
“Sugar?”
 
Nod.
 
“Milk?”
 
A raised hand. She gave me the cup and saucer and I sipped gratefully. Oh, joy! The tea felt wonderful going down my throat. It was hot and sweet and just the ticket.

 
 
 
 
“Thank you.”
 
“My pleasure. We’ve all been looking forward to your stay with us. We’ve been reading and enjoying your blog.”
 
“Thank you.”
 
“I’m amazed at how much you know about British history.”
 
Nod.
 
“And the content. It’s excellent.”
 
“Thank you,” I repeated, taking a long pull at my cup of tea. I was dimly aware of the fact that this was the point at which I should probably mention Victoria’s equal contribution to our blog, but I wasn’t up to the task. Sorry, Vic.
 
“And you know so much about the Duke of Wellington. He was a fascinating man, wasn’t he?”
 
Nod. Nod, mind you.  Now, as you are well aware, I would normally have welcomed nothing more than a relatively captive audience who displayed an interest in Georgian and Regency history, not to mention one who was also at least familiar with the Duke of Wellington. At any other time, I would have settled in for a nice chin wag about all manner of period topics. And all I could do in the moment was to nod.
 
“Let’s get you upstairs, hmmmm? The Wellington Suite, yes?”
 
Oh, Eliza, you angel!
 
“This is a listed building and I’m afraid there’s no lift,” Eliza told us over her shoulder as we headed towards the stairs. I climbed the first three or four tre
ads before I realized that I just might not be able to make it any further. I felt as though I might pass out. Good thing Hubby was bringing up the rear, I could use his body to break my fall should it become necessary.
 
We got to the second landing and I had to rest. My coat now felt has though it weighed three stone (forty-two pounds), at least.
 
“Give me your bag,” Eliza said, taking my traveling shoulder bag from me and thus lightening my load by what felt like twenty pounds (or roughly one and half stone). Up we trudged until, finally, before us was a door marked “Wellington.”
 
We entered a sitting room complete with a sofa, desk and television and then went through a set of French doors into the bedroom.
 

The Wellington Suite, at last! Eliza was giving us an overview of the room, where the hair dryer was, the tea making facilities, etc. etc. etc. but I heard none of it. As she spoke, I pulled off coat and scarf and threw them on a chair. I caught a glimpse of the townhouses across the street through a window but only marginally registered the fact that I was, at long last, in Bath. Sitting on the edge of the bed, and with poor, kind Eliza still speaking, I pulled off my boots, pulled down the bed clothes and climbed between the sheets with the blanket and duvet pulled up to my chin.
After a time, I realized that I no longer heard Eliza’s voice. “Is she gone?”
“Yeah. This is some room, huh? Even nicer than London. It’s huge, Hon. Look, we have a living room.”
“Are there bath robes in the bathroom?” I asked. “There are supposed to be bathrobes.”
“You feel like crap and you’re worried about the amenities?”
“Only the bathrobes. Go and see. Please.” Hubby came out of the bathroom with a terry cloth robe in each hand and stood holding them out to me like some two fisted corner man at a boxing match.
“Can you cover me with them?”
“You’re under all the covers already.”
“Freezing. Lay them one on top of the other over me. Please.”
I felt the warmth and weight of the robes as hubby tucked them around me and that’s all I remember. My head sunk gratefully into the crisp, clean and very comfortable pillows and I promptly passed out.

Sometime later, it could have been an hour or a month, I woke to find Hubby offering me orange juice. He’d gone out into Bath, all on his own, and found a nearby newsagents where he bought juice. There was even ice in the glass. I sipped. Nectar!
“They didn’t have your usual orange, pineapple and banana juice, so I got this. I think it’s orange and mango.”
I drank some more and looked at my surroundings – huge windows, a desk, even a window seat. The Wellington Suite. I fell back upon the bed.
“Medicine,” . . . croaked I, and passed out again.
The next time I woke up, it was growing dark outside and Hubby was sitting on the side of the bed and handing me a chicken wrap.
“Where’d you find that? I croaked.
“There’s this great take-out place over that bridge up the street.”
Pulteney Bridge, I thought.
“I’ve been walking all around Bath. You were right, this is a great City. And not half as crowded as London.”  Well, at least one of us was getting something out of Bath. If only Hubby’s personal scavenger hunt would include something more practical. Again I collapsed upon my pillow and croaked, somewhat more forcefully, I hoped, “Medicine.”
The next time I surfaced, Hubby had indeed found me some sort of vile tasting cough and cold syrup and a packet of throat lozenges. As I sucked on one, I noted that it was well and truly dark outside now. Our first day in Bath was gone and I had spent it bed, barely on this side of living. Cholera might have been an improvement.

Day Six Coming Soon!

Secrets of Bloxley Bottom: Episode 12: Anne's Treasures

            Anne shut the door of her bedchamber behind her and leaned against it.  How she would love to have a sketch of Prudence, her own beautiful child.  Though even now, after sixteen years, she  winced at the name Prudence,  which was not a name she would have chosen for her daughter. If only….if only…
         Anne opened her wardrobe and reached inside for the worn bag in which she hid her treasures, the little brooch that contained Frederick’s hair woven into a pattern preserved now beneath glass and the two cherished remembrances of  their child.  The tiny cap she’d knitted with the finest strands of soft lambswool and the little silver rattle that had grown dark with tarnish.  She pressed them to her bosom and let the tears flow, recalling the panic and the helplessness she felt when Frederick went off to the battle, just hours before their wedding was to be held. She remembered how he had kissed her and how he had reassured her that her worries over his safety were for naught.
            Anne had felt uneasy as she watched him ride out; she’d wondered for years if she suppressed her premonition of his loss. Somehow the  feeling of utter despair that had come over her as he rode away was as alive today as it had been seventeen years ago.  Some days she fought it better than others, but there was a great dark hole in her heart, a hole that she was certain would never again be filled.
            After the Battle of Waterloo, Anne had fled Brussels, then tended the wounded before scouring every published report of the fighting and interrogating every man she encountered in an effort to learn more. She’d been desperate. Eventually, four days after the battle, she and a few others had searched the looted battlefield, seeing firsthand what the horrors had been. She could still smell the stench of decay, see the mutilated corpses of horses, the tangle of broken cartwheels, and watch in her mind’s eye the human vultures picking through the debris.
            She had not suspected a child was already on the way, even as she searched the makeshift hospitals and private homes of Brussels.
            It had been Lady Louisa, via the Duke of Wellington, who had finally found the man who’d seen Frederick die. Anne had insisted upon speaking to him personally, no matter how chilling his account. She’d kept in touch with him until he died two years later, never recovered from his wounds, but at least in the arms of his wife. No such last respite for Frederick, who had died without knowing that he was to be a father.           
            Lady Louisa had taken charge of Anne, keeping her safe and once they could travel, bringing her back to London. Anne had almost nothing to her name at that point, no money, no family, no husband.
            All she had was a baby girl, born as the next winter turned to spring. How she loved the precious little bundle she’d held for those first few weeks. She’d defied Lady Louisa and nursed the girl herself, though there had never been any question that parents would have to be found for the child.
            Louisa had handled all the arrangements, whilst protecting both Anne and the new family from gossip. And in all these years, as far as she knew, there had never been a whisper of a rumor. No one knew Anne had given birth to Prudence Newton, the pretty young daughter of Bloxley’s rector and his wife. No one suspected that Prudence got her good looks from Frederick Weston, who died at Waterloo, and her sweet disposition from her mother, Miss Anne Humphrey, longtime companion to the dowager baroness Bloxley.
            Anne now cherished her afternoons with Prudence in Lady Louisa’s drawing room at the Dower House. But the young lady that Prudence was today seemed a different person from that tiny child. There remained a connection and Anne’s feelings for Prudence were warm and sincere. Yet there was a distance she thought would never be bridged.  From the day Lady Louisa took the baby from Anne’s arms in order to deliver her to the Newtons, there existed two children in Anne’s heart – one forever the infant at her breast, the other growing up as the daughter of the rector and his wife.
          Anne clutched the cap to her and sank onto her bed.  She could not stop the tears and only with a great effort was able to keep herself from sobbing out loud.