A Season at Brighton

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  He might, of course, offer himself as her escort in place of Crendon. He pondered this for a moment. No, there seemed no point in that after her cold reception of him yesterday. Why had she been so hostile, he wondered? It might have been different if he had given way to the impulse which had nearly overcome him when she had been so close to him on the expedition to Devil’s Dyke. Whatever her reasons might be, it was obvious that she would spurn any offers of help from himself.

  Besides, he had to admit that he was not facing the issue squarely. Her reputation was no safer in his hands than in Crendon’s. Whichever of them happened to be seen in her company alone at that time of night, there would be gossip. The thing was, he did not trust Crendon. Supposing he went beyond the line of what was pleasing, and Catherine Denham were to find herself for the second time stranded on the roadside as dusk was falling? Who then would rescue her? Perhaps the gallant gentleman of her first adventure; he seemed to be somewhere in the vicinity, as they had encountered him at White Hawk Fair.

  At this point in his meditations, Freddy Eversley demanded to be told why he was wearing such a damned grim expression.

  “Was I?” Pamyngton passed this off with a laugh. “I dare say it’s the effect of yesterday’s musical evening at the Pavilion.”

  “Dev’lish affairs, ain’t they?” agreed his younger companion. “The best bit to my mind was when Sheridan got up to his tricks with old Lady Sefton, dressing up in togs he’d borrowed from the Runner Townsend, and pretending to arrest her. For an old man, he’s a lively spark.”

  “Did he? I missed that.”

  “So you might,” replied Freddy, with a sly look, “for you were doing the polite to the entrancing Denham girls. Tell me, Pam, if it ain’t an awkward question, which of ’em is it to be?”

  “Damme, never say you’re starting off on that tack,” said Pamyngton in disgust. “Everyone seems to be in a conspiracy to get me married off, it seems.”

  “Well, high time, old fellow, now ain’t it? Unless you’ve quite fixed to go to your grave a bachelor.”

  “Whatever my views on the subject,” retorted Pamyngton, dryly, “it will always be the greatest comfort to me to know that my friends show such a flattering interest in my concerns.”

  “Like me to stick my head in a barrel, would you?” grinned his companion. “Be easy — I’ll say no more.”

  He kept to his promise the more readily because their companions drew them into conversation at that moment.

  After he had returned to The Ship, Pamyngton found himself brooding again over Catherine’s proposed escapade. He wondered what arrangements she had made for meeting Crendon, and how she intended to slip away without her family knowing where she was going. Since he could not ask her directly, there seemed no way of discovering these things. It came to him forcibly that he had to be sure of her safety, no matter to what lengths he must go to achieve this end.

  There seemed only one way open to him, and that was not a course to commend itself. In spite of this, though, he knew that he must keep watch over her that evening.

  *

  By mutual consent, Eleanor and Catherine had eaten their evening meal early, and were now sitting in a small parlour at the back of the house, reading. At least, Eleanor was reading, but her sister was making only a thin pretence of doing so. Every now and then she kept glancing at the clock; and as its tinkling chimes told seven, she yawned ostentatiously.

  “Oh, dear, I am so tired!”

  Eleanor looked up with a frown of irritation.

  “Well, if you are, why don’t you sit still for a bit and stop that everlasting fidgeting? You’re quite ruining my concentration, and I’ve just reached a most absorbing episode in this book!”

  “I’m sorry,” replied Catherine, contritely. “Since you’re enjoying your book so much, and I only seem to be disturbing you, perhaps you will not mind if I go up to bed?”

  Eleanor put down the book and stared at her sister. “Go to bed? At seven o’clock? Whoever heard of such a thing?”

  “Well, I really am uncommonly tired.”

  “Tired! You must be ill, Katie, before you’ll talk of retiring at this time of day! You’d better let the children’s nurse have a look at you.”

  “Oh, no, I don’t want any fuss. It is simply that I’m tired — after all, we were very late at the Pavilion last night —”

  “Stuff! We’ve had scores of late nights since we came here, and when we were in London for the season; yet I’ve never once heard you complain before of feeling tired, and wanting to go off to bed. There must be something wrong with you.”

  “Well, perhaps I do have just a little bit of a headache — nothing to speak of, really —”

  “That settles it,” said Eleanor, firmly. “Ring the bell and we’ll ask Nurse to step downstairs for a moment. It’s no use protesting — you know very well Fanny would insist on it if she were here.”

  Catherine was silent for a moment, while she turned over in her mind what was the best thing to do. There would be little difficulty in persuading the children’s nurse that she was ill and ought to go to bed; but if she did so, she would certainly not be free of cosseting attentions for at least the next hour. Even after that, it might be difficult to escape from the house, as Nurse would be keeping a watchful eye on her. All things considered, perhaps she had better tell her sister the truth — or part of it, at any rate.

  “I must say,” remarked Eleanor, judicially, “you don’t look to be ill. Are you going to ring that bell, or must I hobble across the floor to do it myself?”

  Catherine sat up suddenly. “All right,” she said, in a more alert tone. “You win. I’m perfectly well — never felt better, in fact.”

  “Ah, I was beginning to suspect as much! Then just what are you up to, Katie?”

  “The fact is,” said Catherine, slowly, “I had promised to meet Captain Crendon.”

  Eleanor stared again. “A secret assignation, do you mean? Oh, Katie, is that wise?”

  Catherine shrugged. “I don’t know — perhaps not, but what does it signify? I want to go.”

  “Whereto?”

  “Oh, just for a drive.”

  “But suppose you are seen? People are sure to talk.”

  “We won’t be. He is not calling for me at the house. We’ve arranged to meet in that lane just a step down the road. Hardly anyone ever uses it, and, anyway, most people are still indoors at this hour. He’s to leave his carriage somewhere nearby, but in a spot that isn’t overlooked. It will go splendidly never fear!”

  “It is prodigiously romantic,” said Eleanor, with enthusiasm. “But — you’re not eloping with him, are you, Katie? Because I really don’t think I should let you — Papa and Mama will make my life a misery if I do!”

  “No, silly,” replied her sister, scornfully. “It’s not at all like that.”

  “Then what is it?” asked Eleanor, puzzled. “You don’t need to take all this trouble to go out with the Captain, for Fanny has allowed you to go driving with him once already. There must be something else — something more than you have told me!”

  “Well, perhaps there is,” conceded Catherine. “But it’s of no use to pester me about it, as I don’t mean to tell you anything more at present. But I can assure you that I shall return here safe and sound by about ten o’clock.”

  “That’s all very well, but if I am expected to cover up for you,” said Eleanor, obstinately, “I think I should be allowed to know what’s afoot.”

  “Oh, and did you think to tell me before you dashed off into that crowded fairground and had Pamyngton and myself hunting high and low for you for an age?” demanded Catherine, indignantly. “If you’re determined to be a spoilsport, Nell, after all the trouble you caused that evening —”

  “Oh, very well! Don’t go on so! Of course I don’t mean to spoil your fun. As long as you know what you’re doing,” she added, darkly. “They do say that the Captain is no end of a lady-killer.”

  “Trus
t me to look out for that.” She rose and flung her arms around her sister. “You’re a dear, Nell, and I will tell you all about it soon, I promise. I’m not doing this for myself, although you may think it’s just one of my hare-brained starts. But I can say nothing more at present.” She broke off and made for the door. “I’ll just get my pelisse and bonnet, and then I’ll be off. Fanny and the rest ought not to be home before midnight, but if they are, you’ll know what to say.”

  Eleanor laughed. “Yes — that you went to bed early with the headache, and don’t wish to be disturbed!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE WATCHER

  Catherine had chosen a time of day when she judged that there would be few people about in West Street; and after slipping quietly from the house, she was able to reach the meeting place unobserved. A man loitering in the lane turned as she approached. With some relief, she recognized Crendon.

  “So you managed to come,” he greeted her. “I was quite prepared for a longer wait. The curricle’s round the corner in a quiet enough spot, so with any luck we should get off without attracting notice.” He glanced approvingly at her bonnet, the brim of which almost obscured her face. “You did well to choose one like that.”

  “I particularly detest this,” answered Catherine, speaking in a whisper. “I can’t imagine whatever possessed me to buy it at all.”

  “It answers the purpose admirably tonight. Come!”

  He drew her arm through his and walked with her briskly down the lane and round the corner into another street. Here the curricle was waiting in the charge of a skinny youth who closed his hand tightly on the coin which Crendon thrust into it, then vanished silently down a nearby alley.

  At first, they made a wide detour in order to avoid the ever-popular Steyne and the sea front, where there was a risk of meeting someone they knew. After Brighton’s busier thoroughfares had been left behind, they joined the coast road once more.

  The white cliffs stretched invitingly ahead, with the sea, blue-grey and deceptively smooth, at their foot. A few gulls were circling, uttering the plaintive cries of their kind. The sun was setting in a burst of red and gold. It was a balmy evening, and the scene was rich in beauty; yet Catherine could derive no pleasure from it. She was unaccountably ill at ease.

  They talked little, and only of trivialities when they did find anything to say. It was evident that Crendon was as preoccupied as she was herself.

  Dusk was gathering as they came into Rottingdean. Crendon pulled up, and leaned over to hand his passenger down.

  “Can you manage? I see your man’s already there, by the pond. He’s coming over now. How long do you want?”

  “Only a quarter of an hour,” replied Catherine. “I daren’t stay longer — perhaps not even as long as that.”

  Crendon nodded, and wheeled the vehicle to face in the opposite direction. At the same moment, Oliver Seaton reached Catherine’s side. He touched his hat distantly to Crendon, who replied with a flourish of his whip before moving away down the road.

  “I’m deuced glad to see you, Katie!” exclaimed Oliver, taking both her hands in his for a moment. “I wasn’t counting on your being able to come, knowing how difficult it would be for you. And indeed,” he added, “since our last meeting, I’ve been plagued with remorse. I ought not to have asked you to meet me clandestinely in this way and I must certainly never do so again.”

  “Oh, fiddle!” replied Catherine, inelegantly. “I didn’t come here to listen to your moralizing. Do you or don’t you want to hear some news of Louisa?”

  “There is no other subject that matters, God help me. I have tried earnestly to keep my thoughts away from her, but to no purpose.”

  It was spoken with a controlled despair that frayed the girl’s already overwrought sensibilities. Her lips twisted.

  “I’m bound to tell you that she seems to be making more success of keeping her thoughts away from you. She is always praising Pamyngton of late,” she replied, almost brutally. “He’s become quite a favourite with her.”

  He said nothing for a few moments, staring at the ground. “And Pamyngton?” he asked, looking up at last.

  She gave an unhappy shrug. “Oh, who can tell? He is certainly most attentive, even to the point of holding her hand at a musical evening at the Pavilion. But this does not prelude his using words to others which” — she choked a little — “which could easily give them the impression that they were the true object of his attentions. But I suppose it serves them right if they’re so foolish as to take him seriously,” she finished, with a defiant toss of her head which was belied somewhat by a slight unsteadiness of the lips.

  “By —!”

  Oliver controlled the oath by a great effort; his brow was like a thundercloud. Catherine shrank away from him, recognizing the rare anger of her childhood playmate. He took a few moments to master his feelings, and when he did speak, it was in a dangerously controlled tone.

  “What you tell me convinces me that this man is unworthy of the fairest, gentlest creature —” His voice trembled momentarily, and he paused to steady it. “Leave this to me, Katie. In such a case, I feel justified in breaking my promise to your parents.”

  “You mean to see Lou?” demanded Catherine. “Do you want me to tell her you are here and —”

  He shook his head. “No. Keep silent for the present. I must think over what is best to do. I do not think it likely that I shall ask you to meet me here again; but should I decide that it’s really necessary, I will contrive to send you a message somehow or other.” He looked up as he heard the carriage returning. “Here comes your escort. Good-bye, Catherine, and forgive me if you can for entangling you in my concerns. You’re a good child.”

  A good child! After she had climbed aboard the vehicle and they were homeward bound once more, she brooded ruefully on this remark. She would have done better to have held her tongue about Louisa and Pamyngton, and pretended that all was right. But the pent-up resentment of the past twenty-four hours had been bound to find some outlet.

  She was sorry now that she had given Oliver the benefit of it; she had not intended that. She wondered what he would do, and hoped fervently that she had not precipitated any action on his part that could only add to his present distress.

  “You are not particularly lively company this evening, Miss Catherine,” Crendon remarked, after a while.

  “I suppose not. I’m sorry — I was thinking.”

  “And who is the fortunate subject of your thoughts?”

  “Since you ask, Oliver is.”

  “Oliver!” he repeated, mockingly. “I see how it is — you are falling in love with the fellow yourself.”

  “I am not so addicted to falling in love,” she retorted, with dignity, “as you seem to imagine!”

  “That is a pity.” He regarded her mockingly. “I had hoped that you made quite a habit of it, and might presently make your way round to me.”

  She was a little taken aback. If the remark had been made in a crowded room on some social occasion, it would have been easy to treat it as just another light-hearted gallantry. But here, miles from home in the fast gathering shadows and alone with a man with whom she had been acquainted for so short a time, she felt vaguely uneasy.

  “I am not in the mood for flirtatious remarks,” she said, coldly.

  “Who said anything about flirting?”

  He turned towards her, his eyes fixed on her in that intense look which she remembered from the last time they had travelled along this road together. As on that occasion, her pulses gave a sudden leap; but this time, it was as much from fear as excitement.

  It was with a sense of relief that she heard the pounding of hoofs on the road behind them. Evidently they were not the only travellers abroad that evening on this particular stretch of the highway.

  “There’s someone behind us,” she said, glad of the chance to change the subject.

  He withdrew his eyes from her, and glanced briefly to the rear.

&n
bsp; “A solitary horseman,” he replied, indifferently. “I’ll slow up so that he can pass.”

  He drew the curricle in to a walking pace. The horseman showed no inclination to pass, however. Instead, he slowed his pace to maintain the same distance as before from the vehicle.

  “Damn the fellow!” exclaimed Crendon, in disgust. “He was galloping a moment since, and there’s plenty of room for him to get by. Perhaps he doesn’t trust the light. Oh, well, no point in hanging about — let’s shake him off.”

  He urged his horses forward to a spanking trot.

  “Oh, pray don’t let us go too fast!” pleaded Catherine. “Recollect what happened last time!”

  He laughed. “No fear of that on this road! But you’d best hold tight, all the same.”

  He held the pace for another five minutes or so, then slowed. The hoof beats still sounded behind them; and looking back, Catherine and he could faintly discern the outline of a horse and rider at no great distance away.

  “Hell and the devil!” said Crendon. “You’d think the fellow was deliberately dogging our trail!”

  “Pay no heed to him,” pleaded Catherine, alarmed lest Crendon should respond to the seeming challenge, by setting a headlong pace that would only land them in trouble a second time. “What does it matter whether he is behind us or in front?”

  “Not a whit, I suppose,” he answered, with a shrug.

  The incident seemed to have put him slightly out of humour, and to Catherine’s relief he showed no inclination to return to the conversation at the point where they had left it. Neither of them spoke at all for several miles until they were coming in to the outskirts of Brighton. By this time it was dark; they could no longer see the unknown rider in the distance, but they could still hear the faint clopping of hoofs.

  “Damned fellow!” grunted Crendon. Then, dismissing the subject as unprofitable — “When are you to meet your clergyman friend again?”

  Catherine started out of her reverie. “He said not at all — or, at least, only if some emergency occurred. In that case, he is to get a message to me by some means or other — but I don’t think it will arise.”