Charming Miss Atherton

Seven

"I do not know which is worse - sitting alone in a room where my thoughts can prey upon me or being in the company of a gentleman who completely unnerves my senses." -Bridget Atherton in a letter to her cousin Lady Helen, May 1813

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Bridget scurried about the room as she waited for Betsey to finish drawing her bath. Bridget twirled a lock of her golden colored hair around her index finger. She was running out of time. Bridget bit her lip in an effort to control her anxiety. It was customary for a lady to take considerable care bathing and dressing when invited to dine in the company of a gentleman.

Supper was set at seven o'clock and the numbered face on the escritoire read quarter past six. Bridget had ordered a bath to be drawn at five o'clock but there had been some confusion amongst the kitchen staff as to who should have the honor of said duty. Hence, it was not until six o'clock that any water could be made ready for Bridget's bath. Bridget paced the room. In the last ten minutes alone, Betsey had frantically run up and down the stairwell to fill Bridget's tub.

Betsey had finished emptying her pail of hot water when Bridget finally threw her hands up in exasperation, "Enough!"

Betsey reeled back dumbfounded.

"I shall begin bathing this instant," Bridget strode past Betsey and leaped into the bathtub with a loud splash.

"But miss, I haven't finished administering the water."

"No matter," Bridget waved her hand dismissively.

Betsey held onto the empty water pain until her knuckles had gone white, uncertain how to proceed. "I shall fetch more water, miss, otherwise you are sure to catch your death."

"Fine, fine," Bridget answered distractedly as she examined her abrasions in the porcelain tub. The water barely covered the top of her legs. She did not notice that Betsey had already departed from the room.

Betsey returned directly and poured hot water over Bridget's back. The hot water immediately prompted Bridget's exposed skin to bubble. Bridget's breasts tightened at the peaks, poking through her bathing gown. With great urgency, Bridget splashed her front side with hot water to acclimate her body to the bath temperature. Betsey ignored Bridget's obvious distress and modesty. The young servant busied herself by crumbing red and magenta-colored rose petals into the steaming bathwater. She handed Bridget a bar of tallow soap made of bergamot oil and lavender. It had a musky citrus scent that when rubbed generously onto the skin, absorbed all the unpleasant odors that one acquired after traveling on horseback. Bridget soaped her body until the water had turned from clear to milky white and rubbed fresh lemons on her elbows and feet to soften the rough skin. She may not be a beauty, but at least she could take comfort that she would smell lovely.

After thoroughly bathing, Betsey assisted Bridget into a floral silk robe. She placed her on a slight platform positioned in front of a full length looking glass. Betsey's fingers flew like hummingbird wings as she fastened Bridget's silk stay and white chemise. Next, Betsey led Bridget to the vanity table to dress her hair and apply ointment to her wounds. They discussed amiably how her wounds were healing nicely.

Still, Bridget could not prevent sending a scathing glare at her reflection. Much as she hated to admit it, her appearance suggested that she had recently escaped the clutches of a mad butcher. Betsey glanced up and noted Bridget's displeasure. She quickly moved in front of Bridget and blocked her looking glass image whilst she powdered Bridget's bosom generously.

Bridget sighed as Betsey wordlessly fastened her flaxen hair into a tight chignon. Surely there must be a law against pulling one's hair out of one's head. Even if it is for the sake of fashion. Bridget dared not complain. She was far too nervous to speak, even if she wished to.