A Season at Brighton

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  “We’ll leave the curricle here, and finish the journey on foot,” said Pamyngton. “Jump down and open the farm gate, will you?”

  As Oliver started to obey, a man came out of the cowshed and stood for a moment staring at them.

  “We want you to take charge of our vehicle for a while,” explained Pamyngton. “We’re going up to the house yonder, but that lane’s too rough for traffic.”

  “Going up to the house, are you, sir? Well, now if that don’t beat all! Almost a year since anyone set foot in the place and in the space of half an hour a carriage arrives with young squire, and visitors follow him. Likely you’re expected, sir?”

  “Not precisely,” replied Pamyngton. “But will you take charge of my vehicle?”

  “Oh, ay, if you desire it. But his carriage went up the lane all right; although,” he added, casting his eyes over the light well-sprung curricle and the high-bred horses harnessed to it, “it weren’t by any manner of means as dainty a turn-out as this, nor yet the cattle couldn’t compare, these being as prime bits o’ blood as any man could wish to see in a month of Sundays.”

  “I’m glad you appreciate them. Obviously I need not scruple to leave them in your care. So Captain Crendon has just gone up to the house, has he? Come, Seaton, we’ll follow.”

  They set off along the road at a brisk pace.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  CRENDON TAKES A TUMBLE

  Crendon swore luridly, and putting his head out of the window, signalled to the coachman to stop. Then he pushed open the carriage door and, seizing Catherine from the seat where she was reclining in a much too graceful attitude, bore her inanimate form to the grass verge which bordered the road. Here he set her down none too gently, and began massaging her hands.

  After a few moments of this treatment failed to bring about any result, he stood up and glowered down at her.

  “Hey, you,” he called to the coachman, “what the devil do you do to bring females out of a swoon?”

  “Ye can leave ’em be — they usually comes round after a bit. Or else loosen their stays,” offered the man, helpfully.

  A tremor ran through Catherine at this suggestion, but she controlled herself with an effort. It would be time enough to stage a recovery if the Captain looked like acting on it. Meanwhile, the longer she could keep him here, the better. She dared not think what terrors awaited her when they reached their destination, wherever that might be. Even if the note she had left somewhere at home should be found, it might be hours before anyone could come to her rescue. Only her wits would serve her now.

  Crendon evidently favoured the first piece of advice that he had been offered, for he left her alone, striding impatiently up and down the road beside the carriage. She half opened her eyes and looked cautiously about her for some means of escape, but found none. There was a hedge quite close to her; but even if she succeeded in getting through it when his back was turned towards her, it would take him no time at all to capture her again. Yet now that she was out of the carriage she had the best opportunity for escape. If only she could think of something! If only someone would come along the road, as Pamyngton had on that unforgettable evening when she had been running away to Brighton. Pamyngton — an involuntary tear escaped her eyelids, and trickled down her cheek.

  But no one appeared on the country lane, and very soon she had to shut her eyes tightly, for Crendon was approaching her again. This time he bent over her, raising her head a little, and tried to force some fiery liquid from a flask between her lips. She could no longer keep up her pretence. She sat up abruptly, choking and coughing.

  He laughed. “That’s better! Shall I carry you to the coach, or can you walk?”

  She could say nothing for a moment. He took her hands and attempted to raise her, but she resisted.

  “I’m not going in the coach,” she said, when she could get her breath back, “at least, not unless we’re going straight back to Brighton at once.”

  “But what about your friend Seaton?” he replied, persuasively. “We’ve only a few miles to go now, and he’s very anxious to see you.”

  She looked him straight in the eye. “Do you know what I think?” she asked him. “I think you’ve made all this up about Oliver — I don’t believe he ever sent you for me at all!”

  “You do, do you?” He stood looking down at her appraisingly for a moment, then suddenly laughed. “Oh, very well, the act has served its turn. Yes, I was fooling you — your clergyman friend doesn’t come into this at all, except as a useful excuse for getting you to come with me. Although it’s quite on the cards,” he concluded, with a sly look, “that I did not need any excuse, and that you would have come willingly.”

  “You flatter yourself!”

  “Naturally you will say so. For an elegant female, there must always be the appearance of modesty.”

  “I don’t think of myself as an elegant female, and I certainly should not carry modesty to such lengths!” retorted Catherine. “Nothing would have induced me to come with you, had I not at first believed that we were to meet Oliver.”

  “Oh, come, now. Confess that you have a certain interest in me,” he said, with a knowing smile.

  “Nothing of the kind! I think you are the most detestable, conceited, selfish man it has ever been my misfortune to meet!”

  “That’s a pity, but it makes no odds. You’ll marry me, nevertheless.”

  She had begun to tremble now, but she gripped her hands tightly together and managed to keep her voice firm.

  “That I will not! I’d rather die first!”

  He shook his head. “Unfortunately, your death wouldn’t serve my purpose. You’ll have to defer it until after our marriage.”

  “You are contemptible!” she said, through white lips. “You only want my fortune.”

  “Well, yes. But I do quite admire you, and I think we are tolerably well suited. You might go farther and fare worse. You’ll find me an easy-going spouse — I’ll not interfere with your pleasures, and you must do the same by me.”

  “You can’t force me to marry you, you can’t!”

  He gave her a pitying smile. “I shan’t need to. Your reputation will be in shreds after you’ve passed a night under my roof. What other course is open to you?”

  At this, she leapt to her feet and started to run. He caught her easily and began to drag her towards the coach. In desperation she screamed and screamed, until he placed his hand over her mouth, choking her cries. He half-dragged, half-thrust her into the coach, calling to the coachman, who had been an interested but passive spectator of this scene, to drive onwards.

  She collapsed, shaken and breathless, on to the seat.

  “You see, it’s no use,” he said, in a reasoning tone. “You may as well accept the situation.”

  She was too exhausted and panic stricken to make any reply to this, but sat crouched in her corner, shivering.

  Not long afterwards, the carriage pulled up briefly at a toll gate. Crendon moved closer to her.

  “Don’t scream,” he warned her. “I’ve no wish to manhandle you again.”

  But for the moment she was past screaming, or, indeed, offering any resistance. The carriage continued on its way until it turned at last along a rough lane. Catherine was shaken and jolted so that once or twice she almost fell from her seat, had not Crendon put out his arm to steady her. The jolting ceased as they turned into a carriage drive, and presently the coach stopped.

  “Here we are,” said Crendon, alighting, and reaching out to help Catherine down.

  She was obliged to take his hand because she was still trembling so much that she would have lost her footing without some support. He escorted her up the crumbling stone steps and, thrusting open a heavy oak door, led her into a cold and musty hall.

  “Faugh!” he exclaimed. “The place has gone to rack and ruin — still, it will serve our purpose for a night or two. Now, where’s that woman?”

  He tugged hard at a bell rope, but it came away in h
is hand. With an impatient oath, he strode across the floor, opened a door which led to the servants’ quarters, and bellowed “Mrs. Samson!”

  In a few minutes a little old woman came hurrying out like a frightened mouse.

  “Have you obeyed my instructions and made all ready?” he demanded of her.

  She bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, sir. Beds are aired and there’s victuals enough for two days, like you said. But the house ’bain’t ’ardly fit for livin’ in, Captain Crendon, on account of me not having the staff to do things proper, like.”

  “No matter. There’s no one here now but yourself, is there?” he asked, sharply.

  She shook her head.

  “Well, then, take this lady upstairs so that she can freshen up a bit. We’ll dine in twenty minutes’ time.”

  “Yes, sir. Please come this way, ma’am.”

  She led the way up an oak staircase that had once been handsome, and Catherine followed her as if in a trance into a large bedchamber with faded hangings and heavy mahogany furniture. Having shown Catherine where everything could be found, Mrs. Samson vanished for a time, to reappear later with a can of hot water. After setting this down beside the wash-hand stand, she was about to leave for good, but Catherine detained her.

  “You must help me — please!” she said urgently, in a low voice. “I must get away from here — Captain Crendon has abducted me!”

  “Oh, dear,” replied the old woman, in tremulous tones. “Oh, dear, that’s very bad, Miss.”

  “But you will help me, won’t you?”

  Mrs. Samson shook her head. “I daresn’t, Miss; I’d lose my place, and I’m too old now to get another. Besides, he’s a shocking temper, has the Captain. You’d not believe.”

  “But you can’t let him do this to me — you’re a woman, after all, and you surely can’t stand by and see another woman wronged!” exclaimed Catherine, vehemently.

  A troubled look came over the thin, lined face. “I wish I could do something, right enough, but I daresn’t, and that’s an end of it. Bathe your face, Miss, and you’ll feel better.”

  Oddly enough, this lack of support served to put Catherine on her mettle. The weakness which had previously overcome her passed off, and she was ready to make another determined bid for freedom.

  “Where is the Captain now?” she asked, in a low tone.

  “In his room, Miss, I expect, making his toilet.”

  “And where is his room?”

  Mrs. Samson jerked her head at the wall. “Next door to this.”

  “Then will you do just this one thing for me?” asked Catherine. “Will you make quite sure that he is safely in his room, then come back and tell me?”

  The woman hesitated for a moment, then said, “Can’t be any manner o’ harm in that, as far as I can see. I could take his hot water in for him.”

  “Yes,” agreed Catherine, eagerly. “But take this, so that you’ll be back here more speedily.”

  She seized the can, and poured a little hot water from it into her own wash basin. Then she offered the can to Mrs. Samson, who took it, and, shaking her head a little, went out of the room.

  Once she had gone, Catherine calmly began to bathe her face in the warm water, and felt greatly refreshed by this. While she was drying herself on the towel which had been placed ready, she moved quietly over towards the door, trying to hear what was happening outside.

  She heard the door of the next room opening, and a low murmur of voices; but she was unable to distinguish any words. Then the door closed again, and silence followed.

  She threw down the towel she had been using, quickly smoothed her hair and donned her bonnet, then stood near the door, waiting.

  Mrs. Samson returned in a few moments. She closed the door quietly behind her, and spoke in a whisper.

  “He’s there, seeing to his toilet and such like. Reckon he won’t come out till his dinner’s on the table.”

  “Then you return to the kitchen,” directed Catherine, in the same low tone, “and stay there. If I succeed in escaping, you can say that you were too occupied to notice.”

  The old woman shook her head doubtfully, but she was given no opportunity to remonstrate. Catherine slipped past her through the door, paused for a second on the landing to listen, then sped down the staircase, her light slippers making no sound that could carry through the closed door of Crendon’s room. She ran across the hall to the front door of the house; and, seizing the heavy iron handle in both hands, attempted to turn it.

  It was very stiff. Panic rose in her as she pulled and wrenched without any effect. Could the door be bolted as well? She cast an agonized glance over its surface. The light was dim, but at last she located the bolts, and saw that they were drawn back.

  Mrs. Samson passed behind her at that moment, scuttling for the shelter of her kitchen. Catherine turned the handle again, exerting all the pent-up force of her fear. It yielded with a loud click that sounded in her ears like a clarion call; and, to make matters worse, as the door swung open, it raised a high-pitched note of protest.

  She heard the door of Crendon’s room open and his voice calling “What’s going on?”

  With racing heart, she fled through the open door and down the neglected carriage drive towards the lane. Soon she could hear the crunch of boots on the gravel behind her, and knew with mounting terror that Crendon had started in pursuit. Although she realized that flight was hopeless, that he must surely catch up with her before long, desperation urged her onwards. She must run, run, run, until her legs would carry her no longer, until her lungs burst with the effort…

  She heard a shout from in front of her, and now there were more footsteps pounding on gravel; but she did not pause in her headlong flight. Blindly she hurtled onwards, until suddenly she found herself brought to a halt by the haven of protective arms.

  “Oh, my love!” said Pamyngton’s voice over her bent head. “Here, take her a moment, Seaton!”

  She was passed over to another pair of arms, and clung there, gasping pitifully for breath. She heard a sharp crack from behind her; when she had recovered sufficiently to look round, she saw Crendon lying at full length on the drive, a trickle of blood running down his chin, and Pamyngton standing over him, white-faced with anger, his fists still clenched.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  CATHERINE MAKES A SACRIFICE

  It was almost an hour later, and Catherine, resilient as ever, felt quite recovered from her recent harrowing experiences. She had wanted to return at once to Brighton, but this Pamyngton had refused to allow.

  “I don’t think you should undertake a journey of sixteen or more miles after the ordeal you have just been through,” he said, firmly. “We are less than half that distance from both your home and mine, and I propose to convey you to either one or the other, as you would prefer.” He hesitated, then continued. “I can’t help feeling it might be better to take you to Nevern. My mother is a most understanding woman, you know; and after you’d had a night’s rest under our roof, she would go with you to your own home and help you to explain everything to your parents.”

  Catherine inwardly flinched at the thought of explaining her escapade to Mama, and was ready to agree that Lady Nevern would be a most useful ally.

  “But what about my sisters?” she demanded, agitatedly. “They’ll be waiting for news in Brighton

  “Seaton and I have settled all that,” replied Pamyngton, looking at Oliver, who was jogging along beside the curricle on a plough horse hired from the farm. “He’s to take a post chaise at the first inn we come to, and with any luck he’ll be in West Street in less than two hours.”

  Catherine had nothing more to say. Everything seemed to have been settled for her, and she was quite content to have it so.

  It was not long before they reached a posting inn where they hired a chaise to take Oliver to Brighton. As he was about to step into it, Pamyngton shook hands, and seized the opportunity of having a quiet word with him out of Catherine’s hearing.
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  What he said brought surprise and gratification to Oliver’s face.

  “I — you are very good,” he stammered. “But I really don’t see how I could accept — there is no reason why you should do this for me —”

  “There’s every reason, my dear fellow,” murmured Pamyngton, reassuringly. “But for you, I might never have learned in time—” He broke off, his face grim; then he continued, “You may perhaps hesitate to accept an offer of this kind from a mere acquaintance. But it would make a difference, would it not, if we should chance to be distantly related — say, by marriage, for instance?”

  Oliver grinned, and made Catherine an elaborate bow. “I thought the wind lay in that direction,” he said, as the post chaise moved off.

  “What did Oliver mean?” she asked, as Pamyngton handed her up into the curricle.

  “Oh, nothing to signify,” he answered, carelessly.

  There was silence for a time. Catherine realized that they were now travelling along that same road where she had first met him; and a host of memories came crowding back to her, shutting out completely the more recent unpleasant events which concerned Captain Crendon.

  “I trust it will not put out Lady Nevern to have an unexpected guest thrust upon her in this way,” she said, politely.

  “My mother is never put out by anything. She is possessed of a most equable disposition. And, of course,” he added, with calculated audacity, “she will be delighted to welcome you when she learns that I am going to marry you. It is a scheme on which she has long set her heart.”

  Catherine gasped. “I — you — whatever are you saying? How can you jest on such a subject?”

  He gave her a long, serious look, which brought the colour to her cheeks.

  “I am not in jest, Katie. I was never more serious in my life.”