Respectable Trade by Philippa Gregory Page B

improved. These trees are new planted. For years the place has been open to anyone—you can take a cart from the city for sixpence to come here and drink the water for free. Any tenant who takes it on will have to charge more and exclude the common people. A successful spa must be for the fashionable people only, don’t you think? Will you take a glass of the water? I am sure you do not need it for your health, but you might enjoy the experience.”
    They walked toward the pump room, which stood on the very edge of the river, its windows overlooking the water and the Rownham Woods on the far side of the bank. Josiah paid an entrance fee, and they went in. The place was busy. A string quartet positioned in a corner of the room played country dances. Invalids advertised their ill health with yards of shawls and rugs across their knees, but there were others, whose visit was purely social, flirting and laughing in the corners. A few people promenaded self-consciously up and down the length of the rooms, stopping to greet friends, and staring at the new arrivals.
    Frances straightened her collar where it fell elegantly at the neck of her walking gown, and held Josiah’s arm. He seemed to know no one. No one stopped to speak to them, no one hailed him.
    “Do you have no friends here?” she asked after they had walked the length of the room. They paused before the fountain of the spa. Josiah paid for a glass of water, and the woman pocketed the coin and poured a small glass for Frances. It was light-colored and cloudy, sparkling with little bubbles.
    “My friends are working traders, not pleasure seekers,” Josiah said. “They will be at their warehouses at this time in the afternoon, not dancing and walking and drinking water. How does it taste?”
    Frances took an experimental sip. “Quite nice,” she said cautiously. “Bland, a little like milk. And quite hot!”
    “Very strengthening!” the woman at the fountain asserted. “Especially for ladies. Very effective for skin complaints, stomach complaints, and the lungs.”
    Frances blushed at the frankness of the woman’s language and forced the rest of the glass down. “I would not care to drink it every day.”
    “Many people do,” Josiah replied. “Some of them are prescribed a glass every couple of hours. Think of the profit for the tenant in that! Many come and stay for weeks at a time to drink it. And it is cried all around the city and sold like milk at the back doors. And bottled and sent all around the country. A very good business if one could afford to buy in.” He took her arm and walked her back down the length of the pump room. “How does it compare to the pump room at Bath, in your opinion?” he asked. “I have a reason for my interest.”
    Frances thought for a way to tell him that would not seem offensive. “Of course it is smaller,” she began carefully. “And very much prettier. The scenery is wonderful, much better than Bath. But Bath has more . . . Bath is more . . . established.”
    “Only a little place, but I think it will grow,” Josiah said asthey left the room. “But I am glad you like it. I am glad you like the rocks of the Avon Gorge even if you do not like the taste of the water.”
    “One could not help but admire it,” Frances said. The carriage had followed them down to the pump room; she took the driver’s hand and stepped in. “I am a great admirer of fine landscape.”
    “Do you draw or paint?” Josiah asked her.
    “A little,” Frances said. “I should like to come to try my hand at drawing this scene.”
    “So you shall,” Josiah said. “You shall hire the carriage whenever you wish, and my sister will drive with you. You shall teach us how to enjoy leisure, Mrs. Cole. And we will teach you about business!”
    “I shall be happy to learn,” Frances said. The carriage turned back toward the city and to the dark little house by the noisy quay filled with the stink of the harbor. “I shall be happy,” she