Mrs Sommersby’s Second Chance. Laurie Benson
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glass until they walked away, giggling and whispering as they went.
When they were alone once again, he eyed Clara across the fountain. ‘And you, madam, certainly you are much too young to suffer from any of those ills you spoke of. What brings you to the spa?’
‘I am not as young as you might think.’
‘Come now, you’re not any older than I am.’
Ah, so he was one of those gentlemen who liked to flatter women. She had run across many of them in her life. By her estimation he appeared to be in his midthirties, which was ten years younger than she was.
‘Perhaps this fountain also holds the key to a youthful appearance,’ she teased. ‘I have been drinking from it for many years now.’
A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips and softened the hard angles of his features. ‘Then the waters here are far better than those in Tunbridge Wells. I don’t believe they’d dare to make that claim.’ Suddenly, his features hardened once more as he appeared to study her. ‘Perhaps you are one of those charlatans, like the men and women selling miracle elixirs outside in the streets, only you are employed by the Pump Room to convince people they should drink this odd-smelling liquid.’
‘I assure you, sir. I am not. I am simply an honest patron here for my daily dose.’ And to recommend a certain hotel to those who happened to be in need of one whenever she was here, but that was neither here nor there. ‘And how do you think our water compares to those of Tunbridge Wells?’
He peered out of the window behind him, down at the steaming spa waters below which, if it weren’t for the rain, at this hour would have been full of bathers who had come at this early hour of the morning for the restorative benefits. Once again, his attention was back on his glass. ‘The smell is similar. However, the water is cold there, not hot like this, and that water comes from a small spring. People do not bathe in it.’
‘You will not find hair in your water, if that is your concern. This water is not piped in from the baths.’
His face scrunched up as if that disgusting thought hadn’t occurred to him. ‘I am much relieved.’
Quite deliberately, Clara raised her glass and took a long sip of the hot water. It was not exactly a pleasant taste, but over the years she had grown accustomed to it. She wondered what he would think of it.
His gaze rested on her lips as she lowered her glass. Then he fixed his attention on her face and it appeared he was trying to determine what she thought of the taste. She would not give him any reason to think the water people were consuming in Tunbridge Wells was better than the water that flowed here. Bath needed people to believe in the waters, if the town was to continue being a popular destination. And, as the owner of The Fountain Head Hotel, she needed those people—those gentlemen—to keep returning to her establishment. The Hotel meant everything to her. It was her security for financial independence and its success was something she took great pride in.
‘I’m trying to determine if you’re a good actress or if indeed the water is not as bad as I’ve been imagining.’
Had anyone ever been this hesitant to try the water? His procrastination was rather amusing. ‘There is only one way to find out.’ She cocked her head to the side and gave him an encouraging nod.
* * *
It wasn’t as if a small sip of water was going to change his life. It might keep him close to a chamber pot for a good part of the day, but that would pass. At least that’s what Mr William Lane silently hoped was the case as he had accepted a glass from the attendant and walked over to the King’s Spring fountain in the Pump Room in Bath. Water cascaded down from spigots at the top of a pale stone urn into the open mouths of painted fish below. It was a clever feat of design engineering to get the water to fall just so and Lane took note of it, along with the other observations he was making of the interior design of this public space.
He dipped his glass into one of the streams of water, breaking the flow and filling his glass with the warm liquid. He had yet to try the thermal water his workmen had uncovered underneath the building he had just purchased, but thought it wise to try the popular water in the King’s Spring first so he would have something to compare it to. If he offered it to customers to drink and reap the reputed benefits, he knew people would expect it to taste the same.
Lane raised the glass slowly to his lips and gave it a sniff as if he was sampling a fine bottle of wine. The bouquet in his glass was nowhere near as appealing. Instead of fruity notes or the scent of the oak barrels that wine was stored in, this water possessed a metallic scent. He had tried the water at the spring in Tunbridge Wells, when a friend procured a glass for him after an evening of too much ale at a local tavern. He didn’t know if it was the water that had caused him to be violently sick shortly afterwards. That was not a sensation he had enjoyed and he would rather not do anything to bring it on again. Certainly not all of these people would be coming to the Pump Room and drinking this water if they knew they would be sick afterwards.
Just as he was about to ask the woman in front of him, an expensively dressed, slight, elderly woman and two older gentlemen joined them at the fountain, forcing him to step closer to the striking, petite brown-haired woman he had been conversing with. The faintest scent of roses replaced the metallic scent of the water, giving him a brief reprieve. It brought back a vague memory of laughing while running through a garden surrounded by roses, as a small child. Lane couldn’t recall much of that memory. It was one of the earliest ones he possessed and remembering it always seemed to somehow create a sense of longing for a time that was best forgotten.
Pushing back against the sensation, he took note that the three new guests nodded a greeting to the woman beside him before they filled their glasses with water and immediately began to drink it as if they were returning from a long trip in the desert. At five pence for a glass and with the crowds of people standing about in the classical, sparsely decorated room, offering a similar arrangement in the spa he might build appeared to be an excellent idea. Perhaps if he charged four pence per glass for the first few months it would be a way to entice patrons of this spa to the one he might build. He just needed to find a way to convince his partner that this was a lucrative investment.
‘Drink up, my boy,’ the balding man wearing spectacles called to him from the other side of the fountain. ‘You will experience none of the benefits of the water if you simply hold it in your glass. The water needs to be hot to be at its most effective.’
Lane must have been eyeing the room longer than he realised for it to be remarked upon. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the woman beside him take another sip from her glass.
‘You find the water beneficial? I admit I’ve been hesitant in trying it.’
There was a faint tsking sound from the woman next to him and he could see her shake her head ever so slightly, right before the white-haired, portly gentleman answered him.
‘Nonsense,’ he replied, his runny pale blue eyes narrowing on Lane under his thick, bushy, white eyebrows. ‘There is no reason to hesitate. This water will not kill you. It cures rheums, palsies, lethargies, apoplexy, cramps, forgetfulness, trembling of any manner, aches and swelling of the joints, and even deafness.’
‘What was that?’ the other man asked him.
‘I said the water has been known to cure those who are deaf.’
The balding man shook his head. ‘Well, it helps with ailments, does nothing for theft.’
‘Deaf. I said it cures deafness,’ the other man said louder.
‘Oh, rightly so. I’ve been coming here every day for a year and drink three pints a day. Works wonders.’
The calculations of revenue started to happen in Lane’s head. ‘You’ve been coming here for a year?’
‘Near to what?’
‘He was verifying that you’ve been taking the waters here for an entire year,’ the elderly woman chimed in, rolling her eyes. The diamonds in