Summer Is for Lovers

by Jennifer McQuiston

  Caroline cringed at Bess’s well-meaning words. The kindly, stooped servant had been with them for ages, and was as much a household fixture as afternoon tea. “I told her I would try, Bess. But sometimes I . . . er . . . get a little lost on my walks.”

  “Hrmph.” The servant’s snort was all too audible over the clatter of porcelain. “Distracted is more like it.” She headed down the hallway balancing the overfilled tray, the smell of fresh baked scones wafting behind her.

  “Do not tell Mama,” Caroline pleaded as she and Penelope followed Bess into the parlor. She received no definite answer from her sister, but she did attract the notice of their mother, who was already seated on the threadbare blue settee.

  Mrs. Tolbertson’s gaze swept her Caroline’s windswept hair, and her mouth tightened like a drawstring. “Tell me what? And heavens, child, your hair is an absolute fright. Why you insist on taking a long walk every afternoon is beyond me.”

  “I enjoy my walks.” Caroline reached up a hand try to smooth the humidity-snarled wisps at her temples. Her mother had never understood Caroline’s desire to walk about.

  Then again, her mother rarely left the house.

  As per usual, Mama was dressed today in a high-necked black bombazine gown, though it was nigh on sweltering in the house. Her blond hair, which was showing just the beginning streaks of gray, was still as perfectly curled this afternoon as it had been at breakfast. She might head a family who had not been able to afford a London Season for either daughter, but she nonetheless insisted on appearances, even if there was no one to see her but family.

  And in the area of appearances, Caroline was usually a disappointment.

  “Did either of you happen to see today’s Gazette?” Penelope asked as she removed the day’s wrinkled newspaper and a small mountain of books from her favorite chair. “Someone should speak with the editorial d-department. It was an absolute d-d-disgrace, full of grammatical errors and lacking any direction. Papa would have never permitted such shoddy editing when he was alive.”

  Their mother’s lips thinned into the usual line that accompanied any mention of Penelope’s interest in anything bookish. “I hardly think that is an appropriate topic for afternoon tea,” she reprimanded. “Home should be an oasis of tranquillity, not a nest of critical thinking. It upsets the digestion, dear. Why, in London, my mother would never have permitted such a topic of conversation during tea.”

  Determined to avoid being drawn into the agony of reminiscing about Mama’s London upbringing, Caroline leaned forward. “I heard a bit of news today. The royal family might take up residence this summer.” The memory of Miss Baxter’s soliloquy on the virtues of dancing until dawn sent an indelicate shudder across her spine. “If it goes the way it did when the queen visited this February, I imagine Brighton will be quite overrun.”

  “It d-does seem as if there are more visitors down from London than usual.” Penelope cleared her throat. “I imagine there will be a great many parties to celebrate.”

  Irritation twisted beneath Caroline’s skin at her sister’s obvious intent. “Pen . . .” she warned, low under her breath. “I do not want to go.”

  “Go where?” Mrs. Tolbertson glanced up from the task of pouring the tea. “Whatever are you talking about?”

  “Er . . . go to visit the new modiste on East Street,” Caroline improvised. She picked up her cup and took a tentative sip, stretching for time to think. “Madame Beauclerc. I believe she’s French.”

  “French?” Their mother’s blue eyes widened in surprise. “Why, when I first moved here from London after marrying your father, there were still fish nets being laid out every day on the Steine. It is hard to believe Brighton now has a French modiste.” Her gaze settled on the old dress Caroline still wore. “I confess I am surprised to hear you noticed such a thing, dear. As I always say, a well-dressed lady stands a far better chance of making a good match than a woman dressed like . . . well, someone from Brighton.”

  The old familiar pattern of anger and guilt set up its dependable beat inside Caroline’s skull. She had been born in Brighton, as had Penelope. Mama might have been raised in London, and once upon a time been presented at court, but she had chosen their father, and in doing so had chosen this town. What was so wrong with Brighton?

  Or, for that matter, with her?

  “I think we should procure the services of the new modiste, Mama,” Pen said. “We could have new dr-dresses made for this summer.”

  Their mother shook her head. “You already have three dresses apiece. Now that Caroline has finally stopped growing, it would be wasteful to spend money on new clothing when you have a wardrobe in hand.”

  “I am not suggesting replacing our wardrobe,” Penelope clarified. “B-but maybe a formal gown or two appropriate for parties.”

  Their mother’s brows formed a deep furrow between her eyes. “You know money is dear, Penelope. I hadn’t wanted to say anything, but . . .” She sighed. “The truth of the matter is we have less than a hundred pounds remaining in our savings. I am afraid it will only stretch so far.”

  Caroline cringed to hear their financial situation explained in such bald terms. They had lived off Mama’s small inheritance for so long, it sometimes seemed as if it might stretch on forever. Of course, that was a childish fancy. She had known their finances were tight, but this was the first time in memory her mother had put an actual figure on the amount they had left.

  She squirmed in her chair, reminded anew that she was not keeping the promise she had made to her father. Oh, she watched out for Pen, and tried to obey Mama when she could. But in the matter of ensuring their financial security, she had done little to fulfill the promise she had made her father.

  “P-perhaps just one gown?” Pen asked wistfully. “Mayhap we could even sew it ourselves.”

  “I am afraid that spending what little we have left on dresses for parties you will not be invited to would be a dreadful mistake.” Their mother sighed.

  Penelope placed her cup and saucer on the little table at her elbow as precisely as if they were live ammunition. She drew the invitation out of her pocket, avoiding Caroline’s glare. “But that is just it, you see. We received an invitation for a d-dinner party tonight. From Miss Julianne Baxter.”

  Their mother picked up her quizzing glass from the chain around her neck to give the proffered note a thorough perusal. She turned it over to examine the seal.

  “And if we make a g-good impression tonight,” Penelope added, “additional invitations might follow.”

  Their mother’s finger smoothed over the broken red wax imprint. “Miss Baxter is the Viscount Avery’s daughter?”

  “Yes,” Caroline replied. “Do you know the family?”

  “I knew Lord Avery, once upon a time. I had read that his wife passed, about a year ago. They must be out of mourning then.” Mama’s eyes narrowed in thought. “It was kind of Miss Baxter to include you, although it is odd that the invitation only arrived today.”

  Yes, it was odd, Caroline wanted to scream. And telling. They were an afterthought. They were not being invited to enjoy the entertainment, they were the entertainment.

  “If the peerage imagines the royal family will be in residence here, it stands to reason that many Londoners will choose to come to Brighton this summer,” their mother mused. “I must say, our current financial circumstances would be much ameliorated by a good match for one of you.”

  Caroline suppressed a groan. This was rapidly devolving into a situation so much worse than a single humiliating dinner party.

  “You know I have always regretted not being able to afford to give you a come-out in London. But if the Season comes to us . . .” Their mother tapped the invitation on her outstretched palm, her forehead creased in thought.

  “There will likely b-be a score of eligible young men there tonight,” Penelope added, a bit too helpfully.

  Their mother rose in a flutter of black skirts and rosewater essence. “You are quite right Pe
nelope. It is already past four o’clock, the invitation says dinner is at seven, and we don’t have much time. Caroline, for pity’s sake, you don’t have time to wash your hair, but you must brush it properly for once. And you’ll have to make do with your current selection of dresses for tonight, but I am inclined to agree that a ball gown apiece might be a wise investment this summer.”

  “Mama, will you come with us?” Penelope asked.

  Caroline couldn’t fault her sister for trying to draw her mother out of her shell, but they both already knew the answer to Pen’s hopeful question. Her mother lived a reclusive existence, at best. She had been this way ever since Papa’s death, although the oft-repeated stories of her time in London painted a gayer picture of her life before.

  Their mother’s eyes widened in alarm. “Oh no, dear. Lord Avery . . . well, I am sure his daughter does not mean to invite me.” She rubbed a telltale hand against one temple, a sure sign of an impending headache. “I am feeling a little off, truth be told. And the invitation suggests this is a young persons’ party. You are both of an age and capable of serving as each other’s chaperones. And after all, we are in Brighton, not London. The rules are more relaxed.”

  And then she was gone in a swirl of dark skirts, translucent excitement trailing in her wake. Perhaps she was recalling the single Season she had enjoyed before marrying their father and moving to Brighton, or dreaming of happier days before Papa died and left them in genteel poverty. Or perhaps she was hoping that this, finally, was going to be the key that unlocked her daughters’ futures.

  Whichever it was, Caroline didn’t have the heart to tell her it was a farce.

  Penelope picked up her cup and saucer and offered Caroline an apologetic smile. “I am s-s-sorry, truly I am, but I’ve never attended a dinner party before.”

  Caroline responded with a terse nod. She didn’t blame her sister. She didn’t blame her mother. She didn’t even blame Miss Baxter, although she really, really wanted to.

  No, she blamed Mr. Dermott. This was really well played of him. It was as if the scheming man could see inside her head to her most hidden vulnerabilities, and knew just how to capitalize on the knowledge.

  It had been taken out of her hands, and so she would go. She would brush her tangled hair and put on a false smile. She would endure the whispers and try to protect her sister from the sorts of veiled barbs and hidden insults she herself had grown used to over the past two weeks.

  But whatever else she did, she would not enjoy it.

  BY THE TIME he had made his way back up the rocky coastline and sighted the line of houses and hotels lining Brighton’s Marine Parade, David was ready for nothing more stimulating than a quiet evening and a hearty dinner. Instead, his mother pounced as soon as he walked through the door to their lavish Bedford Hotel suite.

  “Where have you been?” She set aside a tray of untouched food and dismissed her ladies’ maid with a nod. “You are filthy,” she told him. Her face pinched with worry beneath her halo of gray hair. “And late.”

  David kissed his mother dutifully on her presented cheek, the skin threadbare beneath his lips. He could not object to her characterization of his cleanliness. His collar was damp with sweat and humidity, and the relentless wind along the chalk cliff route had left his exposed skin pelted by grit and coarse sand.

  But surely “late” was a matter of debate. It was six o’clock, with the sun still high in the sky.

  He sank down into the wingback chair beside her bed and rested a tired foot across his knee. “I took a long walk this afternoon. Per your orders, if you recall.”

  His mother leaned back into a mountain of embroidered pillows, which, like those on his own vast bed in the adjoining suite, seemed to change in shape and color every hour or so. The Bedford was renowned for its exemplary service and luxurious rooms. To David’s eye, that notoriety seemed to be expended mostly on the production, cleaning, and changing of bed linens. These were not the sort of lodgings he would have chosen for himself.

  Hell, these were not the sort of lodgings he could have afforded for himself.

  But as his father had made the arrangements and was footing the bill, he did not begrudge his mother a few luxuries, not if they brought her comfort.

  “Brighton scarcely strikes me as the sort of town that can absorb six hours of a man’s time with nothing more stimulating than a stroll,” she observed. “Did you meet anyone of note on this walk?”

  David suppressed a frown. Yes, he had met someone of note. And no, he was not going to reveal her identity to his mother. She would immediately begin reconnoitering the poor Tolbertson family, including sussing out their ancestral history, the amount of the girl’s dowry, and quite possibly her shoe size.

  Which was probably something monstrous, given the girl’s height.

  “I engaged in quiet contemplation,” he said, unwilling to throw Caroline into his mother’s matchmaking hands.

  “Well, I hope you at least contemplated meeting an eligible young woman.” His mother pretended to frown at him but could not hide the hopeful smile that threatened.

  David grimaced at the blatant reference to his mother’s desire to see him married. Seeking to change the subject, he glanced over the untouched filet and wilted mound of watercress that sat on the tray by his mother’s side. The doctor had prescribed a blood-building diet, but it could not work if she did not eat. “You had a tray sent up? I had thought we were taking dinner together tonight.”

  “Have you forgotten you are attending the dinner party organized by the Viscount Avery’s daughter? You have less than an hour to wash, dress, make yourself presentable, and convey yourself there.” Her voice rose in pitch, her concern now directed to the matter of his future punctuality, rather than the question of his past whereabouts.

  Uneasiness sent his spine rigid. His mother’s insistence on such things was beginning to grate. “I do not want to leave you when you are not feeling well,” he protested. “Is your appetite off again?”

  “The only thing ‘off’ is my worry that I shall leave this world without grandchildren.”

  David leaned forward, tenting his fingers. “You have grandchildren,” he replied dryly. “Three, last I counted.” Thank God his older brother had not shirked his duty in providing a future succession.

  “I want your grandchildren,” she lamented. “You are the son who takes after me in coloring and temperament. I want a pretty, blond-haired granddaughter before I die, and as your brother seems to produce only male issue, I must resort to whatever means necessary.”

  David sighed. “You are not on your deathbed, Mother.” At least, he prayed she wasn’t.

  A blue-veined hand fluttered at the hollow of her neck. “Are you trying to put me there? I declare, you give me palpitations every time we have this discussion.” She lifted a brow that, despite her oft-lamented fragility, was anything but delicate. “David. You are a grown man, a decorated military hero, a respected Moraig citizen. Yet you are still living under our roof. Isn’t it time you at least thought about starting a family?”

  David’s foot slid off its perch and hit the floor in a hard thump. He didn’t enjoy living with his parents. What self-respecting man would?

  But he was a second son, lacking fortune and title. A past military career was not a path to solvency, and the investments he had funded with the sale of his commission had yet to pay out. Serving as Moraig’s magistrate was a good solution to dispel the boredom that had initially threatened to drive him insane after ten years of busy army life, but the position did not come with a stipend.

  Marrying a young woman with a decent dowry would be the obvious solution for most in his position. But there was a good reason he was still unmarried, and an even better reason why he would remain so.

  He wondered, not for the first time, how much his mother knew of his past. Moraig was a small town, and rumors had a way of finding a solid foothold there. Ten hard years in an infantry unit and countless acts of sacrifice for
queen and country had dulled some of his pain, but not his determination never to marry. He had not courted a girl in eleven years, not since he had destroyed the life of the only girl he had ever loved. He might not be a man of honor, but he had enough decency left to understand he did not deserve a second shot at it.

  That wasn’t to say he hadn’t bedded plenty of women, women who understood his personal limits and welcomed him anyway. The army’s camp followers had warm beds, open arms, and few expectations. The serving girls in Moraig had a way of falling over themselves to bring his first pint and whatever else he might be interested in sampling. Plenty of women had stirred his lust, but the transient comfort they offered was as much as he permitted himself. He didn’t deserve more, and so he didn’t seek it.

  Not the sort of thing one told his mother.

  “And you will attend this dinner,” his mother continued, “because I accepted the invitation in your name. Your reputation as a man of his word requires it.”

  David leaned back and contemplated his response. He had not come to Brighton to attend parties or flirt with eligible young ladies or, God forbid, find a wife. He had come to improve the delicate balance of his mother’s health and to spend as much time with her as possible, in case the doctors in Moraig were correct in their dire prognosis.

  But he had also come to make her happy, and that expectation now poked at him with the persistence of a sharpened stick. He sighed in resignation. A wise soldier, after all, knew when to retreat. He took up her hand and squeezed it, taking care of her fragile bones. “Just tonight, then.”

  “And the Traversteins’ ball on Friday. I’ve already returned your acceptance, David. It would be rude to change your mind now.”

  He sighed. “All right, Mother. But I did not come to Brighton to find a wife, so please, do not accept any more invitations without first consulting me. Agreed?”

  His mother offered him a long-suffering smile and patted the top of his hand with her free palm. “Of course, dear.” Her eyes narrowed. “You know, Viscount Avery’s daughter, Miss Baxter, is as yet unmarried. I met her at the bathhouse yesterday. A lovely redhead, the picture of decorum. Will you at least promise me you will seek her out tonight?”