“I’m hoping this will cool me a trifle. It’s devilish hot in here. Is it always as bad as this?”
Brummel nodded. “Of course, my dear Pamyngton. Anything less than a tropical atmosphere does not suit our Prinney’s taste. I collect this is your first visit to the Pavilion?”
“It is indeed. I’ve been at Carlton House once or twice, though, and must admit that the atmosphere was just as stifling there. But that was some years ago, and I had hoped, perhaps, that in view of the Prince’s increasing — shall we say girth? — he might nowadays have favoured a slightly cooler climate.”
“On the contrary. He persists in doing everything which is least conducive to good health — in eating too much, drinking too deep, and surrounding himself with intolerable heat and noise.”
“The music is rather loud,” admitted Pamyngton. “A trifle less enthusiasm, possibly, on the part of the wind instrumentalists might be no bad thing.”
“My dear chap, it would be no irretrievable loss if they were all to drop dead,” drawled Brummell. “Conversation is almost impossible.”
“There seems to be plenty of it going on, all the same. But perhaps no one really hears what his neighbour is saying. I suppose that might not be without its advantages, at times.”
“Indeed not, especially if one happens to be sitting next to Prinney when he has dined well. I believe he has embarked now on one of his interminable stories to Lady Berkeley. You must listen, Pamyngton. You’ll have no difficulty in hearing him, for he means the whole table to do so. I can promise you plenty of entertainment.”
Pamyngton smiled, and obediently directed his attention to the Prince, who was leaning across the table, wine glass to hand, addressing the company at large through the medium of Lady Berkeley.
“I was out one day, ma’am, with my harriers. We found a hare, but the scent was catching and uncertain, so that we could go no continuous pace at all. There was a butcher out, God damme, ma’am, and he rode slap over my favourite bitch, Ruby. I could stand it no longer, but jumping off my horse I said ‘Get down, you damned rascal, or pull off your coat. None shall interfere with us, but you or I shall go back to Brighton more dead than alive.’ God damme, ma’am, I threw off my coat, and the big ruffian, nothing loth, did the same by his. We fought for one hour and twenty minutes; my hunting field formed a ring round us, no one interfering, and at the end of it that big bully butcher of Brighton was carried away senseless, while I had scarcely a scratch!” His Royal Highness paused at the end of this recital, drew a deep breath and turned to Sir John Lade. “Ain’t that so, Jack?”
Sir John hastened to corroborate the Prince’s story, and murmurs of approbation were heard round the table. Not from Mrs. Fitzherbert, however, who frowned at the Prince and shook her head. She did not care to see him expose himself to ridicule.
Shortly afterwards, the meal came to an end and the ladies retired to the drawing-room, a circular apartment with windows looking out on to the lawn of the Pavilion. Here they chatted until ten o’clock, when the Prince led the gentlemen in, and a fresh batch of guests arrived to swell the party.
Pamyngton knew that among these would be Colonel Hailsham and his relatives. He found himself watching for them with growing impatience. They were among the last to come, and he noticed at once that Eleanor was missing. Evidently she was not sufficiently recovered from her mishap of yesterday. The Prince gave a gracious welcome to the family, more especially to Louisa and Catherine, for he had always a quick eye for an attractive female.
It was some time before Pamyngton could make his way to them. When he did, his first concern was to ask after Eleanor. He was told that she had hurt her ankle rather more than she had been willing to admit, and would be obliged to rest it for some days.
“Still, it is entirely her own fault,” said Frances, “as she readily admitted afterwards. The trouble is, she’s so hare-brained, she is always falling into stupid scrapes. And she’s not the only one” she added, darkly, twinkling at Catherine. “I have my hands full with them, I may tell you.”
“If I may say so, ma’am, there must be many who would willingly relieve you of the charge,” said Pamyngton, with a gallant bow towards Louisa and Catherine.
“I don’t doubt you’re right,” put in the Colonel, pinching Catherine’s cheek, “and we mean to push them both off with some young sprig or other before long, don’t we, my love, eh?”
No one answered this, as they were joined at that moment by several other new arrivals. Among these were Stephen Fullerton and his sisters, and the two officers who had been with them on the expedition yesterday, together with their wives. All enquired solicitously after Eleanor, Sally and Jane Fullerton asking permission of Frances to visit her on the following day.
In spite of the crowd now surrounding them, Pamyngton contrived to remain close to Catherine. He noticed that she was looking about the room as though in search of someone.
“I wish I knew who it was you were looking for so eagerly,” he said, in a bantering tone that could only reach her ear. “I would seek him out and suggest a meeting at dawn — but certainly not with yourself.”
He expected to be rewarded with one of her saucy looks and an answering quip; but to his surprise she barely glanced at him before resuming her scrutiny of the room.
After a moment, she replied, in a matter-of-fact tone, “I thought duelling was not allowed in Brighton.”
He was a little disconcerted by her manner, which was cool to the point of indifference, and anxiously racked his mind for anything which he might have done to offend her afresh. After last night, he had hoped… He turned his thoughts from last night, and strove to answer her in a calm, unconcerned manner to match her own.
“I would not go so far as to say that, though it certainly isn’t encouraged. Townsend has once or twice put a stop to it, so I hear.”
“Townsend?” she queried, without sparing him so much as a glance.
“The Bow Street Runner who guards the Prince. You must have seen him — he’s never far from the Royal side. He’s here tonight.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, indifferently. “I had forgotten his name, that’s all.”
He was silent for a moment, subdued by her evident reluctance to continue the conversation.
“Are you by any chance looking for Crendon?” he asked at last, trying in desperation to rouse her to some show of interest. “If so, I may as well tell you that he won’t be putting in an appearance here.”
“Why not?”
That had fetched her head round for a moment, even if she did favour him with nothing but a hostile look.
“Because he is not invited.” He tried to keep the satisfaction out of his voice.
She shrugged. “Oh. It’s no matter — I shall be seeing him tomorrow, in any case.”
Then she turned towards Stephen Fullerton, who had been watching for some time for a chance to speak to her, and proceeded to give him the benefit of a flow of bright conversation and sparkling looks.
Pamyngton reflected that women were the devil: there was no making any sense of them. He turned his attention to Louisa, who as usual seemed slightly out of the general conversation, although several people had exchanged a few remarks with her.
Presently there was a move to the Music room. The Prince was very fond of music, and on these occasions he usually called on those of his guests who were capable of it to play or sing an air to entertain the rest.
Fullerton offered his arm to Catherine to lead her into the other room. Observing this, Pamyngton followed with Louisa; but the two couples were soon separated by others entering the room, and eventually found seats a little way apart.
The Prince was prevailed upon to open the concert by singing a glee. He had a good bass voice; he performed with verve, and certainly deserved some of the generous applause which followed his performance. After that, a self-confident young lady, with bright yellow locks, played a showy pianoforte solo. The Prince begged her to favour the company
with more, and even went so far as to offer to turn over the music for her; but Mrs. Fitzherbert with great presence of mind insisted that the lady looked fatigued, and must on no account be persuaded to do more than she ought, an equivocal remark which at once took the fair performer back to her chair against the wall.
Her place was taken by Frances, who had often performed before at these musical parties at the Pavilion, and knew just what would please. She played a selection of soft country airs, occasionally singing one in a melodious, though not very strong, voice.
“Your sister performs delightfully,” remarked Pamyngton to Louisa, in one of the short intervals between one song and the next.
She nodded; and, looking down at her, he surprised a look of gentle melancholy on her face. No doubt the tunes Frances was playing were old family favourites, he thought, and might hold memories of happier times for the girl at his side. It was possible that she and her lover might have sung them together in the days before they had been forced to part. He watched her sympathetically while Frances struck the opening chords of her final song.
“What’s this dull town to me?
Robin’s not here…”
The plaintive tune was matched by the words. Pamyngton saw Louisa’s hands clench in her lap, saw the blue eyes fill with tears. She bowed her head as a choking sob escaped her, too low for anyone but himself to hear.
Instinctively, he put out his hand and covered hers with a strong, comforting clasp.
At the same moment, Catherine glanced towards them and observed the gesture. She raised her chin a trifle, and stared defiantly away. It was quite evident that Viscount Pamyngton was the most abominable flirt. Only yesterday evening he had held her, Catherine, in his arms — even if only inadvertently — and allowed her to think…
Her thoughts broke off at this point, refusing to dwell on what she had been encouraged to believe.
When Frances rose from the pianoforte, there were some more glees, and then it was time for supper. Catherine watched Pamyngton draw Louisa’s arm through his and lead her away to the supper room. She herself, in a fresh burst of lively spirits, followed with Stephen Fullerton.
There was quite a crush in the room, and at one point she found herself standing behind Mrs. Mostyn and Mrs. Drummond, although the ladies were too earnestly engaged in talking to each other to notice her. Fragments of their conversation drifted back to Catherine, one part in particular riveting her attention.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Mostyn, with relish, “did you notice Pamyngton holding Louisa Denham’s hand just now?”
Catherine did not catch the reply, but Mrs. Mostyn hardly waited for it before launching into further speech.
“I wasn’t certain myself, yesterday, which of those two he had fixed his fancy upon. It seemed to be first one and then the other, don’t you agree? In fact, I began to wonder if he meant anything at all by it. But now it does look, don’t you think, Margaret, as if the elder girl will get the handkerchief?”
Catherine darted anxious looks at the people surrounding her but soon realized that probably no one else could have heard the remarks. They were all too busy chattering away themselves while her escort had concerned himself with finding her a chair. Presently he steered her towards it; and the remainder of the evening passed without her having any very clear idea of what was happening around her.
Chapter Fifteen
PLANS FOR AN ASSIGNATION
When Catherine came downstairs the next morning, it was in the hope that Captain Crendon would soon present himself on their doorstep so that she could discuss with him the plans she had made for keeping her assignation with Oliver that evening.
They did have some morning callers. Sally and Jane Fullerton came to see Eleanor, who was sitting with her foot supported on a stool and wearing a very glum countenance until her friends put in an appearance, when she cheered up at once. But as the morning wore on and there was still no sign of Crendon, Catherine decided that she must go out in search of him. She eventually managed to persuade Louisa to accompany her to Donaldson’s, ostensibly to change a book. She buoyed herself up with the hope that she was almost certain to come across the Captain somewhere on the Steyne, as on a fine day practically everyone in Brighton could be found there.
What she did not bargain for was meeting Pamyngton, yet he was almost the first person they encountered whom they knew. He was on horseback in company with several others, among them Frederick Eversley. Although both gentlemen bowed to the young ladies, it was evident that they could not conveniently stop at that moment, however much they might have wished it. Pamyngton, indeed, glanced back more than once.
“How well he sits a horse!” exclaimed Louisa, suddenly.
“Who do you mean? Mr. Eversley?” Catherine was deliberately obtuse.
“Oh, yes, I suppose so, but it was not Mr. Eversley I was speaking of. But then he does everything well — Lord Pamyngton, I mean — and he is so kind, so understanding.”
Catherine ostentatiously stifled a yawn. “Oh, yes, so you’ve said before. My dear Lou, you must be careful, or you will become a dead bore on that subject.”
“I wish I could make you see how good he is,” said Louisa, wistfully.
“Why? One of us going into raptures over him is enough at a time,” replied her sister, with a scornful laugh.
Louisa was a little hurt by this reply, and said no more for a while. They reached Donaldson’s and were about to pass inside when, to her relief, Catherine saw Captain Crendon sitting alone on one of the benches in front of the building. It crossed her mind that he wore a somewhat dejected air, but she was too intent on her plans to concentrate on this thought. She hastily touched Louisa’s arm.
“There is Captain Crendon,” she said, quickly. “I must see him for a moment alone, so do you go in, Lou, and I’ll join you presently.”
Louisa hesitated. “I ought not to leave you alone with him. Fanny wouldn’t like it.”
“What, in full stare of everyone passing by? Don’t be absurd, Lou! One can be too missish.”
“Oh, very well,” replied her sister, reluctantly. “But I do wish, Katie, you didn’t show such an interest in that young man. Everyone says he is not quite — oh all right! I am going.”
She went into the library, and Catherine approached Crendon. He came slowly to his feet on seeing her, but did not look overjoyed.
“I’ve been waiting in all morning hoping you would call,” she began, impetuously. “Why did you not come?”
“Naturally I’m flattered,” he drawled. “All the same, I can’t quite imagine —”
“Stupid!” she exclaimed, impatiently. “Can you have forgotten my appointment with Oliver?”
He stared at her for a moment. “With Oliver? Who the devil — oh, that! Yes, I must confess it had completely escaped my memory. I’ve had rather a lot on my plate, lately.”
“Well, after all, you did volunteer to escort me. But if you don’t find it convenient,” she said, with dignity, “pray think no more about it. Good morning, Captain Crendon.”
She was about to sweep on but he touched her arm to detain her.
“Not so fast — there’s no need to get in your high ropes. I said nothing about convenience, only about having forgotten in the press of more urgent concerns. Of course I’ll take you to Rottingdean to meet this clergyman fellow — between eight and nine o’clock this evening, wasn’t it? Tell me where and when, and I’ll meet you with my curricle.”
As far as she was able, Catherine had already laid her plans. The family were to dine out that evening, but Eleanor would remain at home on account of her injury. Although she declared that she would be quite content to remain alone, provided she could have first turn at the latest novel from the library, Catherine had insisted on staying behind to keep her younger sister company. She had been almost foiled in this by Louisa, who had persisted in offering herself in Catherine’s place until Frances settled the argument.
“No, no, let Katie imm
olate herself on the altar of unselfishness if she wishes!” she declared, laughing. “You are always too ready a sacrifice, Lou!”
Once this was settled, it meant that at least Catherine would be at home and relatively unsupervised that evening. How she would contrive to slip out and meet Crendon was another problem, which must be left until the event. It might even entail taking Eleanor into her confidence; though she was reluctant to do this, knowing how indiscreet her sister could be at times. For the present, she arranged to meet the Captain in a narrow side turning quite close to the house, as near to half past seven as she could manage.
“And leave your curricle somewhere not too far away in as inconspicuous a place as possible,” she warned him, “for it will still be light, and we shall be perilously near the house.”
He undertook to do this, and they parted.
*
Although Captain Crendon had forgotten the arrangement made a week previously, Pamyngton had not. Riding past Donaldson’s, he noticed Catherine in conversation with Crendon, and at once was reminded of her appointment in Rottingdean for that evening. He frowned. If only the fair Katie were not such an impulsive little wretch when she was in the grip of an idea! How did she think she could trust any man to keep the line when she made secret assignations such as this with him? It was a thousand pities that she had asked Crendon to help her, instead of himself. That charm of hers — the quicksilver blend of demureness and sauciness — what man could hope to withstand it for long? And Crendon was notoriously a womaniser: more, he was known at present to be in very deep water financially.
He shrugged. That side of things did not signify, of course. The girl had relatives to protect her, and by all accounts they were quite equal to the task of fending off impecunious suitors. The question of placing her reputation in jeopardy was another matter. There were plenty of curious eyes and ears in Brighton, and malicious tongues to finish their task. What could be done to safeguard her?
A Season at Brighton Page 13
