But the curricle and pair my lord had hired from the Old Ship Inn had already shot off down the road to Hove at a brisk trot, his wife’s chortle of glee sounding above the merry spinning of the wheels. “Sarah! A walk, minx—I said nothing above a walk!”
“Silly!” said his wife, the wind whipping her bonnet back from her face and licking strands of strawberry-gold from her once-neat coiffure. “Dickon is a mean whip and taught me well.”
“You’ve not the strength of a tabby cat,” Davenham informed her roundly. “If the horses get away from you—”
“If they do”—his wife turned her head far enough to flash an insouciant grin—“you will seize the reins and save the day. I have complete faith in your skill, my lord.”
Lord Davenham, oddly disgruntled, subsided onto the bench. His attempt to make up for his poor showing of the night before had certainly succeeded. His wife seemed happy as a grig. But somehow . . . he had had visions of teaching her all she needed to know, putting his arms around her petite figure to demonstrate the proper angle of the ribbons . . .
Fool! It was just as well she had needed so little instruction. Separate ways. Separate, separate, separate.
They hit a pothole that jarred them both—enough to send Sarah’s small hands into an inadvertent jerk of the reins. The horses increased their sedate trot to a bone-shaking rattle. “Bridge!” Davenham shouted, grabbing for the leather ribbons.
“I see it!” She shook him off.
Harlan sucked in his breath, clamped his lips over his teeth, and held on. The curricle charged down the narrow lane toward the stone bridge, holding the center, straight and true. They clattered across, gradually slowing to a halt on the far side, just as a heavy farm wagon lumbered onto the road from a path hidden by a stand of maple trees.
Into the ensuing silence when nothing could be heard but the rumble of wagon wheels and the farmer’s cheery whistle as he squeezed by the curricle, Lord and Lady Davenham recovered their breaths and contemplated their close call. At the pace they had been going, if Sarah had not already been pulling up the horses, they would have run smack dab into the wagon in an accident that could have put a permanent finish to the Davenham marriage before it had ever begun.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah whispered. “I was driving as if I were at the Abbey, with no one else on the road. I could have killed us both.”
“You could,” the viscount agreed, then took pity on his wife’s woebegone face. “But you had sense enough to know you’d overstepped your reach. You pulled up in the nick of time.” He laid his hand on her shoulder, provoking a shiver—contrition, fear?—which he echoed all the way down to regions he would rather ignore when with his overly young wife.
“It was difficult,” Sarah admitted. “They nearly grabbed the bit and got away from me. I am the veriest fool!” She hung her head, adding with quiet dignity, “You need not buy me a curricle, my lord.”
And then her head came up, her stubborn Ainsworth chin jutting up and out of abject misery. “I suppose that was the point of this exercise—to prove to me that, however fine I might think it would be to tool myself around Hyde Park, I was not ready to drive in London.”
For once, Harlan considered his words with care. “You must remember that in order to get to Hyde Park, one must drive down the streets of Mayfair, and who knows how far that journey may be from our new home. And Hyde Park at the fashionable hour is the most abominable crush. One must creep along at a pace so slow it cannot even be called decorous, nodding and bowing, stopping to chat. A most dreary plod, I assure you.”
“I saw you there, driving Miss LeFay, and looking quite as if the world were your oyster.”
“I believe we agreed to leave Miss LeFay out of our conversations,” declared Lord Davenham, with severity.
“I,” announced his wife in something close to her usual confident tones, “do not recall any such thing. You may have wished to exclude her, but I most certainly did not agree.”
Silence. The horses snorted, sidled, stamped their impatience to be on the move.
“May I drive now?” Lord Davenham inquired through clenched teeth. She would be the death of him yet! His wife thrust the reins into his hands, crossed her arms over her dark blue carriage dress, and sat upright as a poker beside him.
The drive back to Brighton was accomplished in silence until they reached the stableyard of the Old Ship. As Lord Davenham handed down his bride of two days, he ventured an heroic smile. “After nuncheon, perhaps you would care for a stroll along Kings Road? There is usually a good bit of activity, from boats to bathing machines, as well as a view of the ocean.”
Davenham was trying, Sarah knew he was. Under all that elegant sophistication was a man with a good heart. She would not have married him else. But it was all very lowering. Cutting a dash in a curricle of her own was a long-cherished wish, a notion difficult to give up, even though common sense, combined with a good stiff fright, dictated that she should. Yet what was the point in cutting a dash if one came a cropper in front of the cream of the ton, not to mention the doxies, Cits, and shabby genteels who also had access to Hyde Park’s fashionable late afternoon parade?
Lady Davenham favored her husband with a winsome smile and told him she would be delighted to stroll along the King’s Road embankment.
Hmm-mm. What on earth did he mean by bathing machines?
Chapter Five
“Oh, do hurry, Davenham!” Sarah called, bouncing up from the chair in which she had been fidgeting for ten minutes or more. That was the trouble with dandies—they were worse than females about their clothing. The smooth fit of a jacket, the perfect waistcoat, the exact fall of a cravat, gloves that were molded to his hands like a second skin, a single fob in exquisite good taste—niceties calculated to draw every eye to the elegance of Dandy Davenham. Sarah smacked her closed fan into her palm—once, twice—glared at the closed door of her husband’s bedchamber, then stepped right up and put her lips to the crack. “Davenham, I cannot believe I have married a man who takes longer to dress than I do!”
The door flew open, nearly spilling her into the bedchamber. She jumped back, blushed, but her eyes spat fire. “Really, my lord, you might have warned me!”
The viscount offered his wife a slow insinuating smile. “And how was I to know you were peeping at the keyhole.”
“I was not!”
He raised his eyebrows. Harlan had to admit there were moments when he quite enjoyed the give and take of marriage, the simple pleasure of exploring his bride’s charmingly innocent view of their world. He held out his arm. “Come, child, another evening of dancing awaits.”
His wife took a step back. “I must inform you, my lord, that if you call me child one more time, I shall scream. Even if it is in the midst of a waltz.”
“Then what shall I call you when you ‘my lord’ me from morn ‘til night?”
“Oh.” Sarah considered the matter, her fan clutched so tightly the carved ivory sticks were sorely strained. “You may, of course, call me Sarah, or Sally as my brothers do.”
“Only if you address me as Harlan.”
“When we are private?”
“When we are private.”
“I shall try to remember, my l—Harlan.” With shy grace Sarah accepted her husband’s arm.
The viscount made a leisurely inspection of his wife’s ensemble, from the pearls and plumes woven into her shimmering reddish gold curls, down over a gown of cream satin and lace, to the tiny heels of slippers decorated with a fan-shaped spray of lace. She would do, his little Sally Davenham. Marriage might be the last thing he wanted, but Dickon was right. His sister was a good sort, a pragmatical chit he only had to steer in the right direction.
His direction.
Lord and Lady Davenham, each content for the moment, walked arm in arm toward the ballroom of the Old Ship Inn.
Now at their fifth day in Brighton, the Davenhams had become old hands at the seaside stroll from the Old Ship Inn to the Steine. B
athing machines, Sarah discovered, were machines only in that they were carefully crafted for the task at hand. And they moved. The odd structures, like small rectangular fishing shacks on four wheels, were strung, cheek by jowl, along Brighton’s pebbled beach. But instead of their locomotion being provided by horses, sturdy females pushed the roofed wagons into the sea . . . then hauled them out again. At her first sight of this odd phenomenon Lady Davenham had been struck by an attack of the giggles.
“This is the way ladies sea bathe?” she choked out. “Surely not. Come, sir, this has to be a hoax perpetrated on gullible visitors.”
The viscount’s lips twitched as he struggled to retain the customary bland countenance of a London dandy. “You would have the ladies rise dripping wet from the sea in full view of anyone and everyone on shore?”
“But”—Sarah took another look at the wooden bathing machines that were in use, perhaps only ten or twelve feet out from the shoreline. It was true—they quite successfully blocked sight of the women who were indulging in the much-touted benefits of bathing in salt water, no matter how frigid. “It is ludicrous,” she sniffed, “but I suppose you are right. I would not care to be ogled by every buck on the beach.”
“Do you swim?”
“Of course I swim. I was rescuing myself quite well that day you and Dickon pulled me out of the river.”
“You were screaming your silly head off.”
“Was not!” Well, perhaps a little, for why else had she fallen in except to get Harlan Dawnay to rescue her?
“If you would care to try it, I should be happy to make the arrangements,” Davenham offered.
“Do men not sea bathe?”
“Yes, but in quite another portion of the beach.”
“Will you try it?”
“I am more likely to sprout wings and fly to France,” the viscount declared with undisguised disgust.
Sarah’s eyes gleamed. “You are daring me, are you not? You would not so discommode yourself, but you would see me turned to ice quite gleefully.”
Lord Davenham shrugged. “That is how Brighton has mushroomed into a seaside resort. Ever since that confounded Russell pronounced sea bathing beneficial to the health, everyone from Great Aunt Tabitha to the lowliest Cit has abandoned the warm springs of Bath and flocked south to suffer in the waters of the Atlantic. I confess I am unable to understand the attraction. If I wished to freeze my—ah . . . why anyone should wish to bathe in ice water I cannot imagine,” Harlan finished on little more than a mumble.
“Yet you wish me to do it.”
“When one visits Brighton, it is an experience not to be missed,” he responded brightly. “A tale to tell your friends when we return to town. I assure you I even did it myself once when I was a youth of twenty.”
He had, had he? “Oh, very well, Davenham, I accept your challenge. I confess I wish to see what goes on inside those sheds on wheels and how the ladies manage their sea baths. But in return I demand one full evening of your undivided attention. No Chumley and friends unless you see them on the dance floor. No cards, no pipes, no cigars.”
“A devilish bargain,” Harlan grumbled, then flashed a broad grin. “Very well, minx, I shall arrange it, but I advise you to grow a coat of fur before the fatal day.” A good sort, indeed. Perhaps marriage was going to be more amusing, and less of a nuisance, than he feared.
During their stay in Brighton Lord and Lady Davenham had also shopped in The Lanes, walked several times around the Regent’s Marine Pavilion, marveling at the architectural splendors clearly visible in spite of the current reconstruction. They had explored the countryside on hired hacks and attended assemblies at the Castle Inn as well as the Old Ship. For the most part, Sarah, a sensible girl, acknowledged that her husband was making an effort to be companionable and had not, until now, protested when he spent time with Adrian Chumley and other male friends, old and new. Just as sensibly, Harlan recognized that Chumley was right when he pointed out that the viscount quibbling over his wife’s dancing partners was decidedly dog in the manger. If he wished to play cards, he was in no position to tell his wife she could not dance.
Compromise was reached in the form of Mrs. Hooten-Sculthorpe, who kindly undertook to keep an eye on his bride when Davenham withdrew to the cardroom. A similar arrangement was made with a dowager at the Castle Inn. So smooth was Dandy Davenham’s approach to this delicate problem that his young wife was able to tolerate her chaperons because he convinced her that he cared for her welfare. Not, of course, that she was foolish enough to think Davenham cared for anything more than the look of it, or for protecting what was his, like a dog over a bone, but still . . . she could always dream that she was cherished.
Yet Sarah’s sigh was more than a bit forlorn. Why could they not have gone to Chesterton where they could have been alone?
Because, you ninny, taunted her inner voice, your husband does not wish to be alone with you for all that time.
“My lady . . . Sarah!” Mrs. Hooten-Sculthorpe was pressing fingers to her arm, bringing her wandering thoughts back to the ballroom. “I should like to make you acquainted with Miss Esmerelda Twitchell and her aunt, Mrs. Twitchell.” Sarah, bemused, missed the remainder of the introduction as she took in the newcomers. Her first thought—Davenham is going to have a fit— for if ever she had seen someone who could be termed a “shabby genteel mushroom,” it was the elder Twitchell. Short, fat, and fiftyish, she wore a gown of puce satin, cut far too low for a bosom even stays could not hold up, and augmented with enough ruffles to increase her more than ample girth by at least half. Three ostrich plumes, in a clashing shade of puce, waved from a towering head of brassy blond that had to be a wig. Indeed, Mrs. Twitchell was such a striking figure of fun that it was some time before Sarah could drag her eyes away to look at Miss Esmerelda Twitchell.
The contrast was extreme. A tall, willowy girl, she was garbed in pure white, the design so plain and unassuming one could only suppose it had been chosen in deliberate contrast to her aunt’s ensemble. Her hair was a shining shade of golden brown, her eyes tawny, full of understanding—and apology—as she curtsied to Sarah and murmured, “My lady.”
Though young, Sarah was the daughter of a marquess, a life-long product of the haut monde. Esmerelda Twitchell might be as much as two or three years her senior, but it was she, Lady Davenham, who controlled this introduction. In but a few moments the situation became perfectly clear. Mrs. Hooten-Sculthorpe, having found Lady Davenham to have a kind heart, had taken a chance on this introduction because she felt Esmerelda Twitchell deserved something better than the hand life had dealt. It was, however, the young Viscountess Davenham who might choose to take her up. Or not.
“Such an honor, my lady.” Mrs. Twitchell tapped Sarah’s arm with her fan. “Imagine us getting to meet the likes of you. So kind of Mrs. Hooten-Sculthorpe, so kind.” The ugly puce plumes waved as the plump Mrs. Twitchell glanced around their corner of the ballroom. “And where is his lordship, pray tell? Can’t go home to Kidderminster without saying we met a peer, don’t you know.”
Sarah opened her mouth to tell Mrs. Twitchell that her husband was not yet a peer, then nearly bit her tongue as she closed it again. Unkind. She must not be unkind. “I fear Lord Davenham is in the card room at the moment, Mrs. Twitchell, but I shall make every effort to be sure you make his acquaintance before we return to London.”
The glimpse of gratitude Sarah caught in Miss Esmerelda Twitchell’s eyes was almost painful, before the girl ducked her head to hide her emotion. No doubt about it, the Twitchells were going to enliven her evenings, even as they would undoubtedly send Davenham into a fiery scold.
Before the night was out, Sarah had invited Miss Twitchell to join her venture into sea bathing. The offer was accepted by the young lady with a gratitude nicely combined with awe. By Mrs. Twitchell with a series of inarticulate mouthings of, “So kind . . . so condescending . . . so gracious . . . noblesse oblige at its finest . . . not to be expected in one so young .
. .”
Sarah, desperate to escape, accepted an offer to stand up with Lord Southwaite. If Davenham was going to challenge her, she might as well challenge back. She had never meekly accepted the rule of her older brothers. Why should she behave any differently now?
Clutching her skirt to keep it above the damp pebbles, Sarah allowed one of the burly proprietresses of the bathing machine to help her up the ladder into the landward side of the shed on wheels. Inside was a bench along each side, and she and Miss Twitchell promptly obeyed the instruction to sit down, as did the three other ladies joining them in this excursion—one a girl younger than Sarah, the others appearing to be her mother and grandmother. The door shut, and the light grew dim, coming in from narrow windows high up on the front and rear doors. A startled gasp from the youngest of their group as the bathing machine began to move. Water slapped at the wheels, swished beneath the floor. The young girl’s eyes grew wide. Her mother put an arm around her, holding her tight.
The bathing machine came to a halt. A head poked round the corner of the outer door. “Time for bathing gowns and caps, ladies. Not a stitch else.”
“She can’t mean stays too,” Sarah hissed to Miss Twitchell. “We’ll be in here half the day!”
“But my dear Lady Davenham, we can scarcely put our gowns back on over dripping wet undergarments.” This was so logical Sarah was astounded she had not had thought of it.
“Lively now, ladies. If’n you’re shy, just drop the bathing gown over your head. Makes a right good tent, it does.” The outer door slammed shut.
A tedious business, but at last all five women were enveloped in shapeless gowns of cheap brown fabric with their hair tucked up in matching caps as ugly as the gowns. The rear door opened, a ladder put down into the water. Gingerly, one by one, the ladies descended, each one shrieking as her toes entered water that belied its location on the southern coast of Britain. It might as well have been Scotland, Sarah thought, as she clamped her tongue between her lips and refused to cry out. It was perfectly horrid. Just wait until she saw Harlan!
Steeplechase Page 5
