Eleanor declared her intention of sitting down to a game of Loo, which was one of the many diversions offered by the library. She managed to persuade Frances, who was very fond of the game, to join her; but Louisa and Catherine refused, preferring to wander round the bookshelves and search out the latest novels.
They soon drew some distance apart. Catherine had picked a book entitled Adeline Mowbray, by a Mrs. Opie, from the shelves, and was perusing the opening chapter earnestly, when a voice at her elbow made her jump. Turning, she saw Pamyngton standing there.
“Don’t let me interrupt you,” he said, with a deprecating smile. “I could not pass you by without enquiring if you had quite recovered from your shaking up of the other day.”
Catherine closed the book and replaced it on the shelf. “Yes, indeed, thank you.” She turned to him with an answering smile. “It was nothing — though I’m most grateful to you for bringing me home. I believe I did not thank you properly at the time, being in a rush to present myself to Fanny before she went off into hysterics.”
“That I don’t credit — Mrs. Hailsham is made of sterner stuff, like yourself, Miss Catherine.”
“Me?” she queried, ungrammatically. “You must be flattering — you can’t really believe that I’m much of a heroine, when you know only too well how nervous I am with horses!”
“We all have our Achilles’ heel,” he replied, with a twinkle in his eye. “But you are certainly not without strength of purpose, or resourcefulness. I recall, on the occasion of our first meeting — indeed, how could I possibly forget any circumstance of that occasion?” He broke off, as he saw a faint cloud of embarrassment dim the pert brightness of her face, and continued smoothly — “But that is by the way. What I particularly wished to recall to you was the quick-witted way in which you simulated a fainting fit when every other resource had failed you.”
“You are very good to say so,” said Catherine, recovering. “But any fool of a girl can pretend to faint. You must realize we do it all the time, when things aren’t going well.”
“Do you, indeed? How very reprehensible,” he said, reproachfully. “And I had not the least idea of it, of course.”
She gave him a saucy look. “You are a great humbug, my lord. Do you know that?”
“Not ‘my lord’,” he pleaded, shaking his head. “Can you not call me Pamyngton?” He hesitated a moment, then added “My closest friends call me Pam. It’s not perhaps an attractive name, but endeared to me now by long usage. I make you free of it — willingly — if you will honour me by using it.”
“But whatever will people say?” demanded Catherine, a little nonplussed by his unusually earnest manner. “I — we — have not known you long — it would not be at all proper, I am sure!”
“I am not suggesting that you should use my name before company, necessarily, but merely when we are talking tête-à-tête, as now,” he said, quietly. “Besides, our parents have been close friends for years. Surely that should make some difference?”
Her face cleared, and the familiar impish look which so delighted him appeared once more.
“Oh, well, in private, why not?” she returned, airily. “And I suppose there’s no very good reason why you should be for ever calling me ‘Miss Catherine’ or ‘ma’am’. In return, you may call me Katie, as my family do — though not within my brother-in-law’s hearing, I beg you, for he’s a stickler for convention, and especially where we girls are concerned, I may tell you!”
“Very proper: he is, after all, responsible for you while you are under his roof. You need have no fear that I shall abuse what I regard as a very great privilege — an honour beyond my desserts —” He broke off, his quick perception warning him that she was embarrassed by his serious manner.
“I am quite in despair,” he said, in a lighter tone, “of ever finding any flowers hereabouts which you would care to receive. Would you believe it, the wretched flower-sellers have nothing which is out of season? However, if you will favour me with a list of those you most fancy, I will send to the farthest corners of the earth to try and obtain them.”
She gave a little gurgle of laughter. “Oh, you are so absurd, my l — I mean, Pam.”
The name came out diffidently, with a shy glance from her unusual, gold-flecked eyes that brought a quick leap to his pulse.
His manner was calm, however, as he said, “I’ve been wondering if I could persuade you young ladies to join an expedition to Devil’s Dyke, which is planned for this afternoon. A number of people whom you’ve already met are going — young Eversley, Fullerton and his sisters, one or two of the officers and their ladies —”
“Captain Crendon?” asked Catherine, quickly.
He looked at her intently for a moment, then shook his head. “No, Crendon is not one of our party. If you would like him to be included, however —”
“Oh, no, it’s of no account. I just wondered, when you mentioned some officers.”
“Major Drummond and Captain Mostyn,” he explained. “Their wives first put forward the suggestion the other evening at the ball, and your sister Eleanor was quite enthusiastic about it. Has she said nothing to you?”
“Why, yes, I think she did; but Nell has so many enthusiasms! She has been pestering Fanny the last day or two to let her go to the fair on White Hawk Down, but Fanny says it’s not at all the thing, because it attracts such a tatterdemalion crowd, full of pickpockets and other desperate characters.”
“Mrs. Hailsham is quite right, of course; though I can understand the attraction of a fairground for a lively young lady like Miss Eleanor.”
“Well, yes, it might be fun, don’t you think? I would dearly love,” said Catherine, with sparkling eyes “to have my fortune told by a gipsy!”
He laughed. “Would you? I am tempted to dash out and pull one in by the hair — except of course, that I am somewhat put off by the thought that a gipsy’s hair is unlikely to have more than a nodding acquaintance with soap and water!”
“Oh surely that cannot be so? They live by babbling brooks, and run barefoot through dewy grass —”
“Only in poetry, I fear.” He shook his head in a melancholy gesture.
“I am making the humiliating discovery that gentlemen are sadly unromantic,” she said, sighing.
“Ah, yes, we’re a poor lot of wretches. Yet I think” — he dropped his voice to an intimate tone that brought a sudden catch in her breath — “we can summon up sufficient romance to pass muster — on an appropriate occasion, Katie.”
She turned away, suddenly, taking a spurious interest in the bookshelves. “Well, you must ask Fanny, of course, if we may join the party but I think I may answer for both my sisters that we would like to come. See, there is Lou; we’ll ask her now. And you’ll find Fanny and Nell playing Loo in the other room. What a place Brighton is for gaming, to be sure!”
“You can scarce call it gaming in this establishment. The stakes are so low, only ladies will play.”
They moved over to where Louisa was sitting, engrossed in a book. She expressed her willingness to make one of the party, and Pamyngton then sought out Frances and Eleanor. He found no difficulty in persuading Frances to agree to the plan. Everyone in the party was known to her, and there would be two married ladies present to act as chaperons and absolve her from the duty of going herself. She felt pleased that Pamyngton was to be in company with her sisters for a whole afternoon; this would be welcome news for Mama.
Eleanor was delighted with the scheme, but urged that they might return home by way of White Hawk Down, so that they could have a glimpse of the fair, if only on the outskirts. Pamyngton demurred, saying that the approaches would be very crowded, but he allowed himself to be overruled when he saw how disappointed she would be. Another slight hitch followed, over the travelling arrangements. It had been planned for the ladies to go in coaches and the men to ride; but Eleanor declared firmly that she wished to ride, too.
“Nonsense, Nell, you can’t be the only female to rid
e alongside the gentlemen,” protested Frances. “Only think how singular it would look!”
“Oh, stuff!” retorted Eleanor. “Besides, Sally Fullerton will ride with me — I know she is a very keen horsewoman. I have only to ask her.”
“Oh, well, in that case. And possibly some of the other ladies will ride, too. What about her sister Jane?”
“No, she does not care for riding as much as her sister does. I don’t know about Mrs. Drummond and Mrs. Mostyn, of course.”
“They are firmly determined to make the journey by coach,” said Pamyngton. “I had some thoughts of taking my curricle,” he continued, diffidently, “in which case I could convey one of your two ladies, leaving the four others to share a coach. It would perhaps be more agreeable than splitting the party up into two coaches which must be done if there are five of you.”
They all exclaimed that this was an excellent idea, but there was some difficulty about deciding whether Louisa or Catherine should accompany Pamyngton. Both girls were diffident, and clearly Pamyngton could show no preference, even if he felt any. In the end, Louisa insisted that Catherine should go.
It was a fine afternoon, and they started out in good spirits. Catherine, knowing that she looked well in her gown of soft green sarsnet, chatted gaily all the way and treated Pamyngton to more than her usual allowance of saucy looks. He responded gallantly, and at times one or two of the riding party would draw alongside to share in their effervescent conversation. Inside the carriage, too, tongues were far from silent; and Louisa, who was gradually learning to overcome the low spirits that had visited her ever since the parting from Oliver Seaton, was today as talkative as anyone else.
“What an attractive girl your sister Catherine is,” remarked Mrs. Drummond, who, far from being a staid matron, was a lively woman in her late twenties. “When she smiles, she looks so impish, I’m sure all the men’s heads must be turned; and in repose, her face has a great deal of sweetness. No wonder Viscount Pamyngton looks so well pleased with his present situation.”
“You should never praise one woman to another, my dear Margaret,” protested Mrs. Mostyn, “even if they are sisters, they take it ill.”
“On the contrary,” said Louisa, warmly, “I take it as a compliment to hear any member of my family praised so you may sound Katie’s praises as long as you wish. And if you could also put in a good word for Nell,” she added, with a smile, “I should be prodigiously flattered.”
They laughed at this. “Oh, well, my dear Louisa,” said Mrs. Mostyn, “you are all handsome girls there’s no denying, and to my mind you’re the handsomest of them all. Tell me, is it true that the Countess of Nevern once wanted your sister Fanny for her son? I have heard it said often enough.”
Louisa hesitated. “I think there was some such notion, once,” she said, at last. “Mama and Lady Nevern are friends of long standing.”
“Then perhaps,” said Mrs. Drummond, with a significant glance at the window which was meant to indicate the curricle ahead of them, “the notion need not be altogether abandoned.”
Louisa was grateful to Jane Fullerton for at once changing the subject to the latest fashions; and afterwards nothing personal was touched on again.
Eleanor rode most of the way beside Frederick Eversley, who was still a favourite with her, in spite of the many young officers she had found to flirt with since coming to Brighton. Stephen Fullerton, finding it tame to ride beside his sister, occasionally broke up the jovial partnership to claim his fair share of Eleanor’s sunny smiles.
The whole journey was a gradual ascent with fine views all the way, first of the sea and then of the great expanse of the Downs. At last they reached a huge, curving cleft in the hillside which Freddy Eversley announced to be the Devil’s Dyke. The party continued a little farther, to the summit of the hill. Then everyone left the vehicles and horses, and stood in comparative silence to admire the view.
“Why is it called the Devil’s Dyke?” asked Eleanor.
“The legend goes,” explained Major Drummond, “that the devil thought people in Sussex were too pious, and so he dug this great trench with the notion of bringing in the sea to flood all the churches. He had to finish the task before dawn. An old woman held up a candle at the window of her cottage and this deceived him into thinking that the sun was up, whereupon he downed tools with the task unfinished; but he left this Dyke for us to admire.”
“But surely the devil is supposed to be full of guile?” laughed Catherine. “How then did he come to be so taken in?”
“Ah, that is not explained by the legend as we know it,” said Captain Mostyn. “But I think your objection very sound, Miss Catherine.”
“It is so quiet up here,” remarked Louisa, in a dreamy tone, “so remote. Who would believe that down there in Brighton the Steyne is at this moment crowded with people?”
“You prefer solitary places?” Pamyngton asked her, moving over to her side.
Louisa, always reluctant to express her opinions in a crowd, glanced about her. She was relieved to see that for the moment the others were talking among themselves, and paving no attention to herself and Pamyngton.
“Sometimes,” she admitted.
“But more often of late, I believe?” he asked, gently.
She coloured under his kind scrutiny, and nodded. “There are times, sir, when one needs peace and quiet for reflection,” she said, in a low tone.
“But not today, Miss Denham,” he pleaded half in jest, half in earnest. “Not on my outing, which I had hoped would give everyone pleasure. I beg you to laugh a little today, just to please me.”
She looked up at that, and for a moment he caught the likeness to Catherine as she smiled at him.
“Very well, sir — to please you,” she said, lightly.
He gave a satisfied nod. When he turned towards the others, he noticed that Mrs. Mostyn’s gaze was fixed upon Louisa and himself. Evidently she had been watching them with interest during their short conversation. He knew the woman had a reputation for being a gossip, and wondered wryly what capital she would make out of his dealings that afternoon with both Louisa and Catherine Denham. The thought worried him not one jot; and he rather fancied that it would not greatly concern either of the young ladies.
Chapter Thirteen
WHITE HAWK FAIR
The party lingered some time in the vicinity of the Dyke before starting on the homeward journey by way of the charming little Downland village of Poynings, where they stopped to refresh themselves at an inn. They then joined the turnpike road, and it was well after six o’clock before they reached the point near Brighton where they must turn off to go round by way of White Hawk Down.
Here carriages and riders halted while a brief discussion took place. Most were in favour of returning home by the shortest route; they spoke of the imminence of dinner, and the delays they were likely to meet in the crowded vicinity of the fair. Eleanor’s disappointment was so outspoken, however, in spite of Louisa’s frowns, that Frederick Eversley declared at once that he would go that way with her, and the rest might return straight home. Catherine and Louisa both felt that this would not do; Frances would certainly not approve of Eleanor, the youngest and flightiest of the three sisters, being left alone in such a rowdy setting with a young man whom she scarcely knew.
Seeing their doubts, Pamyngton suggested that he and Catherine should accompany the two riders. He felt Mrs. Mostyn’s cynical eye upon him, and guessed that she was storing this up to add to a lurid account of his flirtations that afternoon. He reflected that one of the evils of being an eligible bachelor was that one became a constant target for gossip. It was a pity that he had been obliged to include the lady in the party, but unfortunately no man could choose the wives of his friends.
Louisa was obviously relieved at this solution to the problem. She undertook to explain everything to Frances, but begged her sisters not to be too long in following her home. Catherine promised readily enough, for she was going only to oblige Elean
or; but Eleanor waved an airy good-bye and wasting no time in words, cantered off along the road which they were to take, closely followed by Freddy Eversley.
They had still some way to go, so that the sun was setting as they approached White Hawk Down. The noise of the fair reached their ears well before they came in sight of it; as they drew nearer, they became entangled in a press of vehicles and people on foot. Catherine gazed across the heads of the noisy throng to the tents and stalls already lit by flaring torches although daylight had not yet faded, to the gaudy roundabouts and swings from which came screams of delight. A runaway pig, perhaps part of some ludicrous sideshow, charged squealing into the crowd surrounding the curricle.
Catherine watched, laughing, as it ran hither and thither, eluding all attempts to capture it. At last, it turned suddenly and scampered back by the way it had come, blundering into a girl who was carrying a bucket of water which promptly discharged itself on the yelling bystanders.
“Oh, dear!” gasped Catherine, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, “that was one of the funniest things I’ve seen for a long time!”
Pamyngton agreed; then looked sharply about him for Eleanor and Freddy Eversley. So far, his attention had been divided between the antics of the pig and following the expressions on Catherine’s face as she showed her uninhibited enjoyment of the scene. Now he frowned, seeing no trace of the others.
“I’ve lost sight of your sister and Eversley,” he said. “Can you see them anywhere in the crowd?”
Reluctantly, Catherine dragged her gaze away from the pig, which was now being driven back to its base by an incensed girl with an empty bucket while the onlookers laughed and cheered.
After a few moments’ scrutiny, she had to admit that she could not see their companions anywhere in the vicinity.
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