In Bath (one-shot)

DNA: This is what happens when we spend the weekend together. We watch too many movies and write silly stories.

In Bath

When Mr. Perry suggested to Mr. Woodhouse that he would benefit from taking the waters in Bath, he initially pooh-poohed the idea. Mr. Woodhouse dare not leave his warm hearth to visit the neighbors, let alone travel almost a hundred miles to that ancient Roman watering hole just to dip his gouty foot in the baths. There was water in Highbury, for goodness sake. With his shawl and his gruel. He was not convinced that the waters of Bath had any salutatory effects that could not be found in Highbury.

It took the joint effort of Emma, Mr. Knightley, Isabella, the other Mr. Knightley, Mr. Elton, Mrs. Elton, Mr. Martin, Mrs. Martin, Mrs. Bates, Miss Bates, the Westons (and even Mrs. Churchill, nee Fairfax, who condescended to send him a letter begging him to take the waters), for him to agree to the journey. And of course it was only the assurance that the Knightleys and the Knightleys and the Westons and all their respective children would accompany him that ensured he even deign to go.

They were two days on the road and no matter how much his relations assured him, he found no inn capable of preparing his gruel just as he liked it. And, like Bilbo Baggins, from the moment they had left Highbury, he thought of nothing but his soft bed, his warm hearth and his thin gruel all the way to Bath.

Entering the gates of the city, Mr. Woodhouse groaned to himself at the sight of so many buildings. Highbury, after all, was a very small village. Their carriage stopped in front of a handsome building at Camden Place.

“Here are the rooms we've secured,” said Mr. Knightley. Mr. Woodhouse allowed his sons-in-law to help him alight from the carriage, and he stumbled into the lodgings. A smiling housekeeper offered a seat by a crackling fire, a comfortable chair with a footstool, a shawl for his shoulders, and a bowl of gruel. And thus he sat, ignoring the bustle of the Knightley and Weston families as they retrieved trunks and other belongings to settle in to their temporary residence.

The next morning he was conveyed to the Pump Room, protesting the whole way. Upon arriving, they all took the water, and gagged. Only Mr. Woodhouse did not complain. He discovered it tasted astonishingly like Highbury gruel, and he loved it. While the others were emptying their cups discreetly in the topiaries, he looked around and spied a lovely older lady sipping the waters from a pewter cup.

He nudged Emma and pointed. “Who is that lady? Find out who that lady is!”

Emma was shocked and dismayed. “Papa, you are not here to look at ladies and talk to ladies. You are here to take the waters.” She turned her face.

He turned to Isabella. “Find out who that lady is!”

“Papa, you are not here to look at ladies and talk to ladies. You are here to take the waters.”

He tried again with Mrs. Weston and received the same answers.

Alas, he hung his head in sorrow. He would never would learn the name of the lady who drank the Bath waters with such aplomb. No one else seemed to appreciate the hearty substance as much as he.

However, while he was looking down, he noticed that a lady was passing by and had dropped her handkerchief. Despite his lumbago, he bent over and retrieved it and looked into the very eyes of the woman whose identity had been denied him. He returned the scrap of linen and was persuaded to speak. “You pierce my soul,” he whispered.

“Why, thank you, kind sir.” She tucked the handkerchief into her not inconsiderable bosom. “I was just dabbing my eyes. I was so sad, because my dearest protege, my darling Anne, has gone away to sea with her new husband. Initially, I thought it a most unsuitable match, but he has proven himself to be most worthy.”

“Magnus Woodhouse, at your service.” He would have swept her a florid bow, but he had already bent over once that day.

The lady did not give him her name, merely thanked him again and glided away. As he turned back to reality, he noticed several ladies speaking with Isabella. He soon discovered their discourse was to invite the entire party to a private ball on the following evening.

“A ball? Balls are dreadful things! Exposed chests and jumping about could never be healthy. You may attend as it pleases you,” he said to his daughters, “but I will be in our lodgings, by the fire with my shawls and a bowl of gruel.”

“That lady will be there,” said his eldest granddaughter, pointing to the elusive mystery woman. Emma put a hand over her niece's mouth, trying to keep her from making such a disclosure.

“What? Who?” Perhaps a ball was not so bad after all.

* * * * *

The next day, Emma Knightley and Anne Weston were surprised to learn that Mr. Woodhouse was preparing to attend the private ball. None of their efforts could persuade him to stay home by the fire.

That evening, Mr. Woodhouse awaited the carriage in his best suit of clothes.

“There are no shawls to be had a ball, Papa,” Emma said. “What if someone should open a window?”

“But...”

“There is no gruel to be served tonight, Papa,” Isabella added. “There will be all manner of greasy, heavy foods, copious amounts of wine, and oh, the sweets!”

“But...”

Mrs. Weston chimed in. “Can you just see all the people exerting themselves on the dance floor? I do not believe Mr. Perry was recommending balls when he suggested Bath.”

“But...”

“If he wishes to go to a ball, I do not mind too much dancing myself and shall accompany your father home at any time he pleases,” Mr. Knightley said, adjusting his woolen waistcoat.. His wife scowled at him.

“You're a good lad, Knightley, a good lad.” And that settled that for the moment.

* * * * *

The ball was all the ladies could have wished in regards to deterring Mr. Woodhouse, but he would persevere. Yes, there were open windows and many a heaving bosom, but there was also his mystery lady, on the dance floor with some jackanapes wearing a flowered suit. Did someone have their clothes made out of draperies?

The mystery lady was tall, with short dark curls that peeped out from under her turban. Her face was rendered uncommonly pretty by the intelligent expression of her dark eyes. Mr. Woodhouse was filled with rage and jealousy at the sight of his lady dancing with that drapery-decked dandy. With a wardrobe like that, the fellow was dashed unworthy of such a gorgeous goddess. Mr. Woodhouse knew he could not ask her to dance. He could barely hobble about the room with his gouty gait. He needed to find a reason to make her sit with him in front of the fire, draped in shawls, bowls of gruel in hand, and talk. He wanted to get to know her better.

What was her name? Who was her family? What was her favorite color? How accomplished was she at bandaging gouty toes? Did she own a decent gruel recipe? All important considerations.

His chance came later, when a young, obnoxious man, this one dressed correctly in black and white evening attire – even though it poked out at irregular intervals due to all his rolls of fat – asked the lady to dance. Mr. Woodhouse shuddered. The sight of the two of them on the dance floor was not to be borne.

“A dance, if you are free, Lady Russell?” the young pup asked.

“Oh, Mr. Thorpe,” she said with a sneer. “I am deeply sorry, but I promised to keep this gentleman company until supper.” She gestured toward Mr. Woodhouse, whose eyes widened with surprise and delight. “I bid you good evening, sir.”

“Yes, yes, we are engaged to converse until supper!” Mr. Woodhouse repeated, waving his arm in a clear dismissal. “Off with you, young nodcock!”

Mr. Thorpe backed away from Mr. Woodhouse and Lady Russell as he stared in wonderment at the old gentleman. He stumbled backward into a lovely young woman, falling and knocking her over, landing forcefully on top of her and ripping her bodice, causing a severe wardrobe malfunction. Instinctively, he tried to cover her bosom with his hands to avoid exposing her to all the eyes in the room, and in the process, compromised her quite thoroughly. All the other guests gasped at the sight.

Although the young lady did not dare move the man's hands, lest she be revealed to the crowd, she cried out. “Get off me, Mr. Thorpe!” (A phrase she would soon become accustomed to saying.)

“They must marry!” Mr. Woodhouse insisted, and soon the entire assembly began to echo the sentiment.

Lady Russell nodded her agreement. “Yes, they must marry, but he is such a man!”

“What a smashing idea, Miss Crawford! We must marry! Just like that chap, Bilbo Baggins, I happen to have a ring in my pocketses, dammit!”

And before Miss Crawford knew it, she had a shawl tied around her bodice, a few strategically placed pins in her gown and a ring on her finger. She found herself encircled by the crowd, everyone applauding her engagement.

Mr. Thorpe thanked the crowd and said, “I was in the middle before I even knew I had begun.”

They were married by special license the next day, courtesy of Mr. Woodhouse and Lady Russell.

Mr. Woodhouse and Lady Russell did indeed chat until supper, at which time he was impressed when that lady refused everything, even the ragout, except a bowl of gruel. “Make that two,” he said to the waiter, smiling at Lady Russell.

“My stomach cannot bear anything rich,” she confessed.

“Nor can mine.”

A young, handsome and vibrant naval officer sat down next to them with a pretty little debutante on his arm. They had just come from the dance, panting away. “Make that four,” he requested, earning his elders' approval. As for the young lady, well...

“Not to worry, Miss Dashwood, you will love it.”

“Much like Bilbo Baggins, I prefer to sample a great variety of delicious foods, Mr. Price.”

“I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours.” Mr. Price ordered lobster patties and Mr. Woodhouse winced.

“My dear Miss Dashwood, I would caution you against choosing a man of unknown prospects... A man from the Navy,” she whispered, in an attempt to be discreet. It was unwarranted, as the two men were in a deep discussion concerning gruel. Still, she persevered. “This Mr. Price, what fortune has he? What prospects?”

Miss Dashwood cleared her throat, squared her shoulders and called out to Mr. Price.

“Mr. Price, Lady Russell has persuaded me that accepting your recent offer of marriage would be in my best interests. I will marry you.”

“I am delighted, Margaret, my love,” he said and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. She smiled and listened as she observed how well the expression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him.

Mr. Woodhouse gave Lady Russell all the credit for this glorious match.

“Who is the beflowered gentleman with whom you were dancing earlier?” he asked of his dinner partner.

“My neighbor, Sir Walter Elliot, recently engaged to Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Her nephew, Col. Fitzwilliam, is also here.”

“Nephew, Schmefew, I cannot tell you how happy I am to hear about Lady Catherine and Sir Walter, whoever they are. But I wish to know more about you, my dear Lady Russell.”

“Well, my dear Mr. Woodhouse...” They chatted until it was time to return to the dance floor.

Col. Fitzwilliam had not been able to travel to Rosing this year, as his cousin, Anne de Bourgh, was entertaining several of her girl friends there. So he came to Bath and donned his best kilt for the evening. He was casting about for a rich dance partner who was handsome enough to tempt him when he spied the Honorable Miss Morton. Unlike Bilbo Baggins, Col. Fitzwilliam did not have two chests of troll gold under his bed.

The Honorable Miss Morton was willing to be caught. Her family had tried to set her up with that horrid Mr. Ferrars and she was ready to disoblige them. And she found kilts to be quite fetching. Especially on military men. There was no better set of men in England, she thought. Or a better set of uniforms.

“May I have this dance?” asked the colonel, bowing. Several matrons seated behind him strained their necks to catch a glimpse of what might lie beneath that kilt.

Miss Morton accepted graciously, but could not help but wonder what the matrons had glimpsed from their vantage point.

As they were both inclined to bring their first dance to its most natural conclusion, it was apparent to everyone that there would be another wedding in Bath. Ballgoers' imaginations are very rapid; they jump from dancing to admiration, from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment. What are men to rocks and mountains?

Yet no one thought of matrimony when they looked at Mr. Woodhouse and Lady Russell. Nevertheless, Mr. Woodhouse continued to wonder about Lady Russell's domestic talents. She had already shared three gruel recipes, had changed the bandage on his gouty foot and deftly adjusted his shawl four times. He found all her ministrations to his satisfaction. She was a treasure to rival even the famed Miss Pope.

He could not help but notice the looks of misapprobation he received all evening from his two daughters and Mrs. Weston. Clearly they disapproved, but he cared nothing for their opinion. They would come around.

And so they did, about ten months after the wedding, when their baby brother and new heir to Hartfield was born.

Fin