A Season at Brighton

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  “I believe you may safely leave it to me. We keep to this road until we are about two miles short of Cowfold, then turn left. Isn’t that so?”

  “Yes.” She sighed, with a mixture of relief and fatigue. “I can’t tell you how thankful I am to be going home — and I will never, never try to run away again!”

  He glanced at her sharply. “That is what you were doing?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I was. Oh, it seems rather stupid now, but at the time I thought it a good idea.”

  He hesitated for a moment. “I’ve no wish to pry into your concerns,” he said, diffidently, “but may I be allowed to know why you were running away?”

  “Of course, for I do owe you some explanation. Only it is rather a complicated matter to explain. You see, I have a married sister who lives in Brighton.”

  She paused for a few moments; he waited hopefully, then ventured to prompt her.

  “And the possession of a married sister in Brighton has this unfortunate effect upon you, I collect. Do you run away often, ma’am?”

  She gave a little gurgle of laughter. “How absurd you are! No, of course not. But the thing was, that we — my two sisters and I — were to go down tomorrow to stay with Fanny for the start of the Brighton races. We were so looking forward to it! At least,” she added, with a characteristic liking for accuracy, “Nell and I were in transports, but Louisa was not so well pleased. She — she has her reasons, but that’s beside the point. Anyway, something happened, and Mama said that we might not go until — until” — her voice wavered — “oh, perhaps not at all this season!” she finished indignantly.

  “And so you decided to flout your parents’ wishes, and go alone?”

  She flashed a warm smile at him. “You are very quick, sir,” she approved. “Yes, I did. I don’t usually disobey my parents — it’s not worth while, for they are quite strict — but this didn’t seem so very dreadful. I was only going to my own sister, after all,” she said, with a defiance that was evidently meant to convince herself, “and I know Fanny would have stood up for me. In any case, we were being done out of our treat for such a stupid reason!”

  He was naturally curious to know what the reason was, but it did not seem as though she meant to enlighten him. After another short pause, she continued the story at a different point.

  “They were all going to dine at my uncle’s house this evening. I pleaded the headache — indeed, I had one, truly, after disputing so much with Mama after Lady N —” She pulled herself up short and looked at him in a guilty way. “After the letter came,” she finished, a trifle weakly.

  “The letter?”

  “It was a letter Mama received this morning that made her say we could no longer go to Brighton. Anyway, I said I didn’t wish to go with them to my uncle’s, and they were quite content to leave me on my own. Mama said I would get over my sulks best if they let me alone,” she finished, with a pout.

  “Even the best of mothers can be unfeeling at times,” he agreed. “So when they had gone, you packed your bag and prepared to leave for Brighton. I imagine you would have left a note to explain where you intended to go?”

  She nodded. “With any luck, we should arrive home hours before they do, and I can tear it up.”

  “So you’ve decided against making another attempt to run away to Brighton?” he asked, in a teasing tone.

  “Indeed I have! This one was quite enough for me. Nell says I am no good at concocting schemes, and I begin to think she is right, for absolutely everything that could go wrong with this one, did. First of all, there was Stella.”

  “Stella?”

  “She’s Nell’s pony. She’s very good with Nell, but not with anyone else, and in any case, I am no horsewoman. You may as well know that from the start.’

  “In case I am ever tempted to invite you to ride with me?” he murmured.

  She laughed again, a pleasant, relaxed sound that brought an answering smile to his face.

  “I assure you, it would not be a success. I had far rather drive with you.”

  He looked round at her, noticing for the first time the unusual colour of her eyes, a colour that reminded him of nothing so much as a glass of rich, golden sherry wine.

  “May I hold you to that promise?” he asked, quietly.

  She was taken aback for a moment. “Oh — well — I am driving with you now,” she said, hastily. “But — let me finish what I was telling you, for I don’t doubt you will find it vastly diverting. I took Stella because she was the only animal I could get at without the grooms noticing. Of course, it was a mistake,” she added, bitterly. “The wretched creature wouldn’t let me tie my baggage on, so I had to place it before me on the saddle. Then no sooner did we get out on to the road than she started to play off her tricks on me. I managed to keep her going for a few miles, but soon the portmanteau rolled off, and when I dismounted to recover it, she took to her heels and went back home.”

  “How do you know she returned home?”

  “Oh, she always does, whenever I come off her! Depend on it, she’ll be safe in the stable when we reach the house.”

  “Had you planned to ride this frisky beast all the way to Brighton, Miss Denham? Surely that was a little optimistic?” he asked, with a smile.

  “Oh, no. I am not quite so stupid as that! I meant to ride to Cuckfield, then take the stage coach.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “The stage coach! That was — enterprising — of you.”

  “Well, I know it isn’t the thing for a female to travel by stage coach, but I really had no choice. I couldn’t use the family carriage, and I hadn’t enough money by me to pay for a post chaise. In any case,” she went on, a little crestfallen, “I forgot to put the money in my reticule in all the flurry of getting away, though I didn’t discover that until later.”

  “Oh, dear,” he said sympathetically, “I fear you are not very expert in this business of running away.”

  “If you knew me well,” said Catherine Denham despondently, “you would know that I’m not really very expert in anything.”

  “Come,” he said, in a rallying tone, “you are still suffering from a natural chagrin at the failure of your scheme. Just now you will be more in charity with yourself, and ready to admit that you have the usual number of accomplishments laid claim to by every young lady.”

  “Well,” she admitted, grudgingly, “I am not so bad at some things, perhaps. Anything of an artistic nature — but that is little to the purpose when one is trying to keep one’s seat on a skittish creature like Stella! I tell you, I had far rather have been a famous horsewoman at that moment than almost anything else in the world!”

  He nodded sympathetically. “So what did you do after your horse took to its heels?”

  “I thought I would walk the rest of the way. I’d left home in plenty of time, and had less than four miles still to cover. Four miles,” she said, with a rueful laugh, “does not sound very much, at the start of a journey. But by the time I had done half of it, I began to think it was not such a very good notion to run away, after all. The road was so rough and dusty, and my shoes seemed painfully thin and the bag unbearably heavy —! However, I was not going to give in, because I now had farther to go back home than to go forward. I trudged on, and reached Cuckfield at last, only to find that the stage coach had left half an hour previously! I could have wept,” she declared, tragically, “but that it wouldn’t have done the slightest good.”

  “It was certainly very hard on you,” he said, sympathetically, “after so much valiant effort. So what did you do then, ma’am?”

  “Well, then,” she replied with a laugh, “I made the unwelcome discovery that I’d come out without any money. I spent ages trying to persuade the landlord of the inn to hire me a chaise that would be paid for at my destination. I almost succeeded, too, for he was quite a sympathetic man; but his wife wouldn’t hear of it.” She sighed. “I always find men are much easier to persuade into anything than females.”

 
He smiled. “I dare say you might. So I suppose there was nothing for you to do but start to walk back home again?”

  “I couldn’t think of anything else,” she admitted, “though I dreaded the prospect. That was why I was so foolish as to accept a lift from that — that abominable person! Of course, it was most improper, I realized that —”

  “But you were scarcely in a situation to consider the proprieties,” he suggested.

  “No. And he did seem very respectful, at first. But then he stopped at the inn we’ve just left, saying he must have some refreshment. He constrained me to get down, though I assured him I wanted nothing but to reach home as quickly as possible. And then — and then” — her voice faltered, and died.

  “I know the rest,” he said quickly. “Pray don’t distress yourself by dwelling on it. My only regret is that I never set eves on this — gentleman — myself. But at the time I thought there was some kind of tipsy brawl going on, and my only concern was to avoid it. It wasn’t until I heard you mention your name —”

  “What a mercy that you were there, and knew my family! I can’t think what I would have done next, even if, as you suggested, that dreadful man had really no intention of returning. I don’t think,” she finished, doubtfully, “that I should have had any more success in persuading the innkeeper there to help me than I did with the one at Cuck-field.”

  “Perhaps not; but you needn’t think of the disagreeable affair any more. There is one thing I would like to know, though, if you feel disposed to enlighten me.”

  “At the moment, I am so grateful for your help I feel disposed to tell you anything. What is it you wish to know, sir?”

  “Only the part played by Pamyngton in this affair,” he said, after a slight hesitation.

  “Oh!” She glanced at him quickly and was silent for a moment.

  “If you would rather not, of course —”

  “It’s only that he’s a friend of yours, and I have no wish to embarrass you,” she replied quickly.

  “What on earth can the wretched fellow have been up to?” he asked, turning a dismayed look on her.

  She laughed. “It’s not so very bad — indeed it’s not really his fault at all. You see, the thing is — perhaps you may know this already — that my Lord Pamyngton is looking about him for a wife.”

  The horses swerved suddenly, and for a few moments Mr. Gerard gave his attention to setting them right.

  “Careless of me,” he said, presently. “Really, Miss Denham, I find your information most interesting. I myself had no idea of it, I assure you.”

  “Hadn’t you? Well, at any rate, it must be true, for we have it from his mother, the Countess of Nevern, who is a very old friend of my Mama’s.”

  “It is truly most creditable, the way in which mothers busy themselves with their offspring’s most intimate concerns,” he remarked dryly.

  “Yes, I know what you mean. Females expect it, of course, but it must be vastly disagreeable to a gentleman. But, all the same, I believe Lord Pamyngton must indeed be thinking of marriage, for he is the only son, is he not, and almost thirty years of age?”

  “True,” he answered, curtly. “But I don’t quite see why any such notions of his could possibly affect your plans for a visit to Brighton.”

  She looked at him in some embarrassment. “That isn’t quite so easy to explain,” she said, slowly. “You see, it was like this. Mama received a letter from Lady Nevern saying that her son was staying with his parents at Nevern Hall for a few weeks, and inviting all of us to dine there tomorrow. And — and she said that he was — was thinking of marriage, and where better could he look than among the family of her dearest friend — that meant Mama, of course,” she explained, hurriedly.

  He nodded, but made no reply. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that his mouth had taken on a stern look. She wondered if she had offended him by speaking of the personal affairs of one of his close friends, and fell silent.

  “I collect that your mother concurred with this view?” he asked presently. “And that was why she insisted that the visit to your sister should be postponed?”

  Miss Denham nodded. “Of course, you must realize, Mr. Gerard, that Mama has five daughters still to establish in the world,” she replied, a little on the defensive. “Apart from that, she and Lady Nevern have always wanted a match between Viscount Pamyngton and one of us. You may, perhaps, have heard that at one time it was to be my eldest sister, Frances. Nothing came of that, however.”

  He nodded, keeping his eyes on the road.

  “Of course, Lord Pamyngton didn’t precisely jilt Fanny,” continued Catherine, reflectively, “for nothing was settled between them in an official way, so to speak. But I do remember hearing that it was a great disappointment to both families when he fell madly in love with someone else. I wasn’t supposed to know anything about these matters, though,” she concluded, turning to him with an impish smile, “because I was only a schoolgirl of fourteen at the time. It’s surprising how much one does manage to hear, I must say, even in the sheltered precincts of the schoolroom!”

  He made no answer for a moment, then said abruptly, “As you remark, that all happened long ago.”

  “Yes, more than five years since. I never saw the lady in the case, any more than I did Lord Pamyngton, but I was told that she was ravishingly lovely — they called her the Toast of the Town. Pray, sir, did you ever meet Georgiana Eversley, as she was then?”

  Twilight had gathered about them, and she could no longer see the expression on his face clearly; but there seemed to be some constraint in his voice as he answered her.

  “Yes, I was acquainted with her. As you say, she was — very lovely.”

  “He would have done better to have taken Fanny, though,” remarked Catherine, wisely, “for Miss Eversley married someone else in the end. But I’m glad he didn’t, for I like Fanny’s husband, Colonel Hailsham, prodigiously. And I’m not at all sure that I should like Viscount Pamyngton — if you’ll forgive my saying such a thing of a friend of yours!”

  “How has he incurred your displeasure? By depriving you of the visit to Brighton, even if inadvertently? Or is there anything else that you hold against him?”

  “W-ell,” she replied, drawing the word out while she thought this question over, “perhaps not — though I have an uneasy feeling — oh, dear, it is rather difficult to tell you.”

  “Perhaps I should not ask.”

  She studied him thoughtfully. They had just come to the point at which they left the main road for a side turning, and she watched as he skilfully guided the horses round the bend into the narrow, winding lane which led eventually to Eastridge House.

  “The thing is, you see,” she said, emboldened by the fact that his attention was not wholly upon her, “that I have a strong notion Mama thinks I am the most likely candidate for his favour. Not that I am the best looking of the three — far from it — Louisa is the handsomest, and Nell the most attractive. But the trouble is that Louisa is not precisely in either looks or spirits at present. Poor Lou,” she added, compassionately, “she’s fallen in love with someone quite unsuitable, and I fear Mama will never relent towards him. And, of course, Nell is younger than I am, so naturally Mama will think first of my claims to notice.”

  “So it is to be all settled without reference to my friend Pamyngton?” he asked, with a dry little laugh.

  “Oh dear! I fear I have vexed you,” she said, looking doubtfully at him. “Perhaps we had better not speak of it any more.”

  “Not at all. I am merely amused to have this insight into the workings of the female mind.”

  “You are vexed!” she exclaimed, in dismay. “I am so sorry. I should have held my tongue — Mama often tells me that I allow it to run away with me.”

  “Let me assure you, ma’am, that I would not have missed your revelations for a good deal,” he replied, smiling into her eyes for a moment with restored good humour. “I find your conversation most refreshing, and of far more
interest than if we had merely passed the time in talking of the weather, or some such socially acceptable topic.”

  “No, do you really? I expect,” she added sensibly, “you are just saying that to be kind, but I don’t care, for it is vastly pleasing!”

  “Will you carry your candour a little further?” he asked. “Will you tell me honestly what your answer would be if it chanced that Pamyngton should come seeking your hand?”

  “Readily,” answered Catherine, with a light laugh. “I do not wish for the honour of his addresses.”

  “Although you have never met him?”

  “Meeting him could make no difference to my feelings.”

  “You are severe,” he said, mockingly. “Is this all because of your disappointment over Brighton?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “What, then?”

  “Because,” replied Catherine, warmly, “I have no wish to be a second-best bride.”

  “Second-best? I don’t quite see —”

  “We know, don’t we, that he was head over heels in love with Georgiana Eversley? So if he wants to wed now, it would be simply a marriage of convenience. And that,” she finished, decidedly, “would not be good enough for me!”

  He looked at her again. The twilight had deepened, and her face showed palely in the gloom, the eyes darkened and mysterious.

  “You would prefer a love match?” he asked, quietly.

  “Indeed I should. If I ever marry, Mr. Gerard, it will be because I find myself unable to live without — whoever it is! And he must love me to distraction,” she went on, with an expressive gesture of her hands, “and load me with jewels and gee-gaws, and send me flowers every day — but only those that are out of season — and — oh, all manner of absurd and extravagant things! But it is quite certain that I wouldn’t want anyone who was languishing with love for some other female, and only offered for me because he wished for a marriage of convenience!”

  A short silence followed this outburst.

  “I see,” he said, at last. “Yes, I think you are very wise. With all your charm and beauty — if you will allow me to say so — you have the right to expect nothing less.”