“She would be pleased to accept,” her mother interrupted, already stepping to the small, ancient bureau they kept near the front door. She pulled out a pair of kidskin gloves from the top drawer. “Penelope, dear, is it all right if Caroline borrows your good sunbonnet?”
“I scarcely think—” Caroline started, but her objections were cut off as Penelope snatched the bonnet from the hat tree, reached up high, and plopped the straw monstrosity on Caroline’s head. She tied the ribbons a bit too forcibly under Caroline’s chin, then stepped back, tilted her head, and reached out to straighten the brim just so, as if Caroline was a china doll in need of dressing.
At that moment, a knock from the front porch echoed throughout the little foyer. They all froze, including Mr. Branson. Caroline stared suspiciously at the weathered wood. As surreal as the morning had already been, this latest development bordered on shocking.
Had there been a time in recent memory when the Tolbertsons had received not one, but two callers during breakfast?
Bess, bless her heart, had enough presence of mind to answer it. The stooped servant stepped back, her lips parted in surprise, to reveal the red-haired reporter, Mr. Hamilton, at the door. The new man’s features darkened to a scowl as his gaze fell on Mr. Branson. “Oh, I say. I didn’t realize you had planned to call on Miss Tolbertson this morning, Branson.”
“I didn’t realize you were either,” Branson bristled.
Penelope was practically pulsing with excitement. “Oh Mama, this is Mr. George Hamilton. I t-told you about him, with the d-d-daguerreotypes.”
Their mother smiled weakly. “Penelope was just mentioning your interesting work, Mr. Hamilton. Mr. Branson and Caroline were heading out for a walk, but perhaps you would like to come in and take tea with us in the parlor?”
Mr. Hamilton’s cheeks flushed a suspicious shade of pink, which unfortunately clashed terribly with his hair. His gaze pulled between the two sisters and snagged a long moment on Branson. “I . . . that is . . .” He swallowed, and then offered a curt nod. “Of course. I would be delighted.”
Penelope took Mr. Hamilton’s arm and led him toward the parlor, stammering away at an impressive pace about silver nitrate solutions and the artistic merit of photographs and such.
Her mother stared after them, finally looking a little flustered. “Have fun, dear,” she whispered to Caroline, squeezing her arm.
And then she shooed Caroline out the door with gentleman caller number one, the better to focus on the problem of Penelope potentially scaring off gentleman caller number two.
DAVID CAMERON DISCOVERED he was nervous as he knocked on the Tolbertsons’ door. Not nervous enough to let the morning go by without calling on Caroline, but nervous enough to find his palms sweaty and his collar overtight as he stood waiting on the porch.
He’d had a hellish morning, starting with a whisky-induced hangover and memories of a night that left him with a good deal to regret. During breakfast, he couldn’t help but notice his mother seemed worse, despite her apparent improvement of yesterday. This morning her lungs squeezed consumptively. The baroness shrugged off his recommendation to fetch a physician and instead insisted on making her way to her noon appointment at Creak’s Bathhouse with only her ladies’ maid in attendance.
Which left him with several hours alone, and nothing to occupy his time but the need to return Caroline’s clothing. And so he had come here, the lost garments hidden in a leather satchel, sick at heart and worried about far too many things.
Would she even see him after how things had ended last night? It pained him to think of her stumbling home in the dark, turning over their kiss in her mind, second-guessing his intentions. He was struggling even to come up with an explanation for what must seem, on the surface, the most egregious sort of behavior.
One did not dally with friends.
Of course, as this was his first experience with a friend of the female variety, he was hard-pressed to enumerate exactly how many rules of etiquette had been breached. He was quite sure that in addition to a dalliance being off-limits, one was also supposed to avoid swimming at midnight with partially clothed female friends.
But some devil in his soul kept whispering he would not be averse to repeating that part of the experience.
If only she didn’t make him feel so damned conflicted. One moment they had been sitting in the shallow surf, conversation flowing between them. He might have just as easily been with his good friend Patrick Channing, or any of a dozen military associates, sharing the same comfortable words and the same easy camaraderie.
The next moment she had confided her deepest fears and looked up at him with wide, doubting eyes, and instinct had simply taken over.
Well, if history had taught him nothing else, his instincts were not to be trusted.
A round servant with kindly gray eyes answered the door just as he was raising his hand for a second knock. “Yes?” She sounded vaguely suspicious, and David was struck by the sensation that she ought to be. After all, he was not convinced he had good intentions toward the woman’s young mistress.
“I am here to see Miss Caroline,” David informed her.
“Luh!” The maid’s hand fluttered about her chest, and her eyes flew wide, spreading wrinkles far and wide. “I declare, this is a morning to end all mornings! I wonder what that girl’s done to get so many young men sniffing about her skirts.”
“I beg your pardon?” he managed to extricate from his mouth. The servant’s colorful description about sniffing and skirts and such sent his instincts to blazing attention.
“Miss Caroline’s gone out!” The servant sputtered a moment, clearly nonplussed. “First there was Mr. Branson, and then Mr. Hamilton. She’s gone for a walk with the first one, along the parade.”
David blinked, scarcely able to believe his ears. The servant’s lack of formality he understood. He too had been raised with servants who were closer to treasured family than domestic help. But he had made an appointment to go walking with Caroline today. Yesterday, during their first meeting at the cove. Hadn’t he?
He thanked the woman, took his leave, and stood at the bottom of the weatherworn porch steps, sorting out why the idea of Caroline walking with Branson made him feel so uneasy. Perhaps it was the man’s drunken reference to Miss Baxter’s bubbies last night, or the way he had practically salivated when David had waxed poetic about the merits of long-legged women.
Guilt burrowed its way beneath his collar then. Had David’s enthusiastic description of Caroline’s merits last night brought the boys running this morning?
And moreover, why did it bother him so much if it had? Hadn’t that been the very reason he’d done it, even going so far as to border on exaggeration?
Because, he was able to reason with the harsh insight of sobriety, they were most definitely boys. A man should have been able to see Caroline’s positive attributes without a blow-by-blow description delivered by someone else.
And while it was inappropriate—hell, it was utter lunacy—to resent such a meager interaction as a morning walk, his gut told him he didn’t want her doing it with anyone else.
Startled by the strength of this unexpected and unwelcome jealousy, David glanced behind him, staring up at the south-facing windows of the grand old house where Caroline lived. He wondered which room was hers. No doubt it would be one facing the ocean she loved so much. The house seemed a bit like her. Tall and narrow, it must have once been a commanding presence along Brighton’s oceanfront, although it was now hard to see its raw beauty compared to the dazzling new homes going up in Kemp Town, farther inland and just to the east. Like her, the place lacked polish, but was full of possibilities.
It was the possibilities in the woman that sent his feet moving toward Brighton’s center. If she was out walking with that spot-faced young fool Branson, one thing was certain.
He was going to be there to chaperone.
And there would be no sniffing of skirts on his watch.
Ch
apter 12
CAROLINE WALKED WITH Mr. Branson along the Marine Parade, swathed in such a frightening exuberance of shade-producing paraphernalia she was quite sure the sun was laughing at her.
Not that she could actually hear the sound. Who could, over the incessant nattering of her companion? The man hadn’t stopped talking since they stepped out of the foyer.
So far she had heard all about his fourth term at Oxford, the pair of high-steppers he hoped to purchase for the fast new phaeton his father had promised him upon graduation, and the disdain he held for his brother, who might or might not be simple, but whom overall Mr. Branson felt to be a most useless sort of young man.
And so Caroline walked, keeping a weak smile plastered on her face and half an ear on the conversation. The focus of her thoughts pulled more toward her surroundings than Mr. Branson’s words. To their right, the businesses along the Marine Parade were awash in cheerful awnings and colorful shutters. To their left, the ocean sat, bright and quiescent. A few miles to the east, her cove waited, the rough, murky surf a distant cousin to the sparkling azure landscape of Brighton’s beach.
“My mother and sisters spent much of last winter knitting socks for the Children of Destitute Iron Workers,” Mr. Branson said, out of the blue. And then, for the first time all morning, he asked her a question. “Do you knit?”
She blinked. Heavens. Had they just devolved into a discussion about sock knitting? Or was this more of a conversation about women’s philanthropic pursuits? She swallowed uneasily. This was what came of keeping half an ear on the conversation. She wondered what other scintillating topics she had missed.
Decided she didn’t want to know.
“I am not as proficient at knitting as my sister, Penelope,” she murmured in answer. She scratched at her collar with an inefficient, gloved hand, and wondered if it would be considered ill form to fan oneself during a discussion of socks and the like.
They turned onto Shop Street, and the view of the ocean shifted to their backs. Here, a profusion of brick-and-mortar bathing houses lay along the street front, each proclaiming the guarantee of a seawater cure on their painted walls. Just as prolific in number, the Shop Street taverns had their doors flung open, with scullery maids sweeping the stoops in preparation for the noon crowd. The soothing smells of the ocean were crowded out now by the odor of heated shoppers pressed into fashions designed for a more northern clime, and the equally stomach-turning smells of fried fish from street vendor stalls.
Caroline took one sluggish step, then another, and still outpaced the dawdling Mr. Branson. At the speed her companion seemed determined to set on this stroll, her hoped-for afternoon swim would not just be unlikely, it would be close to a mathematical impossibility.
Caroline ran through the options in her head, her thoughts chased by Mr. Branson’s unending monotone. Allowing two hours to walk to the cove and back, she needed, at a minimum, a three- to four-hour window to attempt a decent swim. It was almost noon, and tea was at four, and she could feel her irritation rising from a long, slow simmer to something threatening to boil.
Why in the devil had Mr. Branson called on her this morning anyway? Not that she objected to a gentleman caller, per se. After all, one needed an occasional suitor to progress to the much-lauded stage of being affianced.
But she didn’t like the idea of having to keep his time instead of her own.
And in a flash of insight that made her stomach reach for her knees, Caroline realized what it would mean to marry. There would be an expectation to listen to a husband, even if the conversation made her want to tighten the ribbons of her borrowed bonnet to the point of asphyxiation. The issue of whether she had time to take a clandestine swim would be a moot point: a husband could forbid her even to leave the house, particularly if he was keen on sock knitting as an appropriate wifely enterprise. Marrying someone like Mr. Branson, who lived in London and traveled to Brighton only for the occasional holiday, would mean she might never be able to swim again.
She drew in a deep, startled breath. How could she not have seen it before? And why was she seeing it now?
You know. Her conscience prodded her with a hot, gloved finger. Last night, for a few breathtaking seconds, she had glimpsed an alternative to such misery. David Cameron had shown her that, damn the man. And now the idea of the marriage she thought she had wanted felt like a chain-link noose about her neck.
Oblivious to her inner turmoil, Branson stopped in front of a small deserted shop and peered through the window, rubbing the dirty glass with a handkerchief he produced from somewhere in his jacket. “This shop is well positioned, isn’t it? I was thinking of suggesting my father consider opening a small shop in Brighton. The city’s recent expansion seems lucrative to the issue of dry goods.”
It was the first intelligent group of sentences he had strung together this morning, but Caroline couldn’t even applaud him for it because her attention was caught by an advertisement that had been plastered to the outside wall of a shop across the street.
She stepped away from the still-chattering Mr. Branson. Picked up her skirts and hurried straight over. Stood in front of it and stared.
43rd Annual BRIGHTHELMSTON
Swimming Competition
Monday, July 25th, Chain Pier
Interested Gentlemen Should Apply in Advance
Creak’s Bath House, First Street
Prize: £ 500
The words swam in front of her eyes, familiar and terrifying, all at once.
The competition was held every year and attracted hopeful swimmers from all over England. It was not the first time Caroline had stared at such a poster, or imagined testing her mettle against the hard-weathered locals and soft-bellied London gentlemen who swaggered about the beach each July.
But it was the first time she had actually considered applying.
“See something interesting?” The words were whispered so close to her left ear that Caroline felt the puff of air escape David Cameron’s lips.
A startled gasp escaped her. She whirled and knocked a boneless hand against the wall of the man’s chest. “I . . . no . . . Oh! You startled me!” she hissed.
“It appears you have abandoned the young Mr. Branson in search of reading material. Did the conversation grow so stilted?”
She glared at him, pleasure and annoyance colliding in the pit of her stomach at the sight of his tanned skin and curling blond hair. Unlike every other person on the street this morning, he wasn’t wearing a hat.
Lucky beast.
He had a leather satchel over one shoulder and was wearing trousers, an old brown sack coat, and a white linen shirt with the top buttons undone. It occurred to her, as she took in his state of casual dress, that she still had this man’s evening jacket shoved under her mattress.
“Have you been following us?” she whispered, keeping half an eye on Branson where he still hovered across the street. He was speaking now to the proprietor of the haberdashery located to the left of the empty storefront, and was gesturing to the man with a great deal of enthusiasm. As near as she could tell, Branson had yet to notice she had stepped away.
David shrugged. One rakish brow rose above eyes so blue the ocean looked drab by comparison. “Only to be sure Mr. Branson carries himself off as the gentleman he claims to be. Someone needs to look after you, lass, to make sure these boys stay in line. Who better than a friend like me?” He paused, then offered her a brotherly smile. “I stopped by your house this morning to return your . . . ahem . . . missing items.” He patted the leather satchel. “Your servant told me you had already gone out and I dared not leave them with her.”
The reminder of their illicit night sent something like gladness rolling through her, and she cursed her instinctive response, given that he seemed unaffected by the memory. He considers you a friend, she reminded herself, yet again.
She was becoming sick of the reminder.
“Mr. Branson stopped by and asked me to take a walk,” she murmured. “
I admit to being surprised by his interest.” Why she felt the need to explain, she couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t as if David had intended to call on her for anything other than the delivery of lost clothing. She might have kissed this man last night, but he seemed unperturbed by the memory.
A thought flew in then, borne on the recollection of her folly. “Branson sounds like one of the men in the cove last night,” she said, lowering her voice to the merest of whispers. “Is there any chance he discovered my identity?”
David’s eyes narrowed and he considered the back of the man’s head a moment before shaking his own. “No, I don’t believe so. I stayed awhile after you left to make sure they did not follow, and they seemed convinced I was swimming with a fellow.”
Relief flooded her veins. For once, her height and lack of curves had played to advantage. And she supposed it wouldn’t have made sense for Branson to present himself so formally this morning if he had discovered her identity.
Indeed, it would make more sense for him to go sprinting the other way.
David jerked his chin toward the poster. “Does the boy Branson know you are considering entering the swimming competition?”
Caroline cast an uneasy glance back at the notice, realizing that if David had so easily guessed her thoughts, Mr. Branson might be able to as well. Not that the young man seemed to have thoughts centering on much beyond dry goods at the moment, but still, the danger was there. “He’s not a boy, and I am not considering entering.”
“It’s as plain as the freckles on your nose that you want to.”
She turned her back on the notice and glared at the smiling, golden man standing next to her. “Are you trying to ensure my ruin? Because, trust me, teasing me about it where others might hear would do the job as well as anything else.”
David’s smile faltered. “Ruin is the last thing I have in mind for you. And I wasn’t the one who was staring at the notice as if it was an iced cake.”
Summer Is for Lovers Page 11
