Caroline finally found her voice. “How fortuitous, then, that such stories shall not be bandied about London.”
“Perhaps she could provide a demonstration for you.” Pen’s voice rang out, shockingly clear and devoid of any discernible stammer. “At today’s swimming race.”
Caroline turned to stare at her sister, her voice once again hobbled. She swallowed, searching for whatever air remained in her pinched lungs. “The posted rules were quite specific, Pen. Gentlemen only.”
Miss Baxter’s bow-shaped lips pursed in wicked thought. “My father is one of the primary sponsors of this year’s race. He has put up half the money for the purse, and has some sway with the judges.”
Caroline’s stomach twisted cruelly, whether in hope or fear, she couldn’t be sure. “That doesn’t mean they will let a girl compete.”
Miss Baxter drew herself up, probably reaching all of five-foot-three. “I assure you, if I ask it of him, he will ask it of the race officials. And if the request comes from my father, you can be sure they will bend the rules.” She paused for breath, and her eyes softened, ever so slightly. “I can ask him if you like.”
Caroline stared at Miss Baxter as if seeing her for the first time. Perhaps she was. Despite her quick tongue and her showy exterior, there was a hint of iron beneath the girl’s skin. That hint of iron now settled dubiously on Caroline, in the form of narrowed green eyes. “Provided, that is, you can produce a swimming costume that is less offensive to fashion than Mr. Dermott’s.”
A thousand thoughts vied for supremacy in Caroline’s head. Could she do it? Could she swim in front of all these people, pit herself against seasoned competitors, for a chance at something she had always dreamed of?
Could she not?
Some proportion of the town had already seen her swim. The rest had read about it, even if they couldn’t quite believe it. For the first time in her life, she had nothing to lose by stepping out of her shadows.
She turned down to look at her mother, who was watching the exchange with sharp eyes. “What do you think, Mama?” she asked.
A slow, unexpected smile spread across her mother’s face, something quite different from the practiced smile she had displayed during the earlier exchange with Miss Baxter. “I think,” her mother said, “that it would make your father proud to see you swim. If Lord Avery can arrange it, I think you should compete.”
Caroline’s decision was reached in a half second. “Then I would be much obliged if you make this request of your father,” she told Miss Baxter, already turning toward the Marine Parade and shops that waited beyond. “And now, if you will excuse me, I’ve an errand to run.”
DAVID HEADED TOWARD the check-in table and the line of competitors that waited there. He made a wide berth around Miss Baxter, who was standing beside the table with a pleased smile on her pretty face. An older man he presumed to be her father was conferring with one of the race administrators, and this negligence left Miss Baxter to her own meddling devices.
“Oh, Mr. Cameron,” she called out, waving him over. “Could I beg a moment of your time for Constance?”
David sighed at the distraction he did not need, but he dutifully responded to the summons. “Who, pray tell, is Constance?”
“My sweet little girl.” Miss Baxter rubbed her cheek against the white bundle of fur in her arms. “Papa brought her down from London with him, but she refuses to walk more than a few steps on her lead this morning. I wonder if I could trouble you to take a look at her.”
David raised a brow at the ruse to attract his attention. “Why would you think I could help?”
She fluttered her copper-colored lashes. “The Gazette claimed you had a miraculous way with small children, after the way you saved that little boy yesterday. I assure you, she is just like a child to me.”
Miss Baxter held out the beast, clearly used to having men jump to do her bidding. The white mongrel—because indeed, this dog resembled no breed David had ever seen, reminding him of a cross between a very hairy rodent and a Siamese cat—promptly held out its right foot.
Good Lord. Did it expect him to shake its paw?
“You know, I was not the only one there yesterday, Miss Baxter,” David said as he accepted the proffered burden. “Miss Tolbertson swam out to save the child.” He held the dog up, meeting it eye to eye. “I did no more than deliver the boy into the arms of its mother.”
“My biggest regret is that I was not there to see such a thing myself.” Miss Baxter pouted a moment. “Father has kept a close eye on me since he’s come down from London, I’m afraid, and wouldn’t let me go to the new beach yesterday.”
“I can scarcely imagine why,” David drawled sarcastically, recalling the dinner party she had thrown not a week ago.
“Well, I can scarcely imagine a woman who swims. She’s going to compete, you know.”
David looked up from his halfhearted inspection of Miss Baxter’s pet. Here, at last, was a reasonable explanation for the girl’s creative attempt to engage him in conversation, given that there was nothing at all wrong with her dog except for the fact it was quite a hideous-looking creature. “Miss Tolbertson?” At Miss Baxter’s nod, he said, “I was not aware that they would permit a woman to compete.”
“My father is arranging it at this very moment.” She inclined her head. “I thought I would warn you, so you would not be disappointed at the starting line.”
“Why would I be disappointed?” This was an unexpected pronouncement, coming from Miss Baxter as it was, but not disappointing. In fact, David’s first instinct was to scratch his entry. But what good would that serve? If both he and Caroline competed, their odds of having one of them win against Dermott were improved. Then again, Dermott was now, for better or worse, Caroline’s fiancé. Would she permit herself the win, if it meant besting the man she planned to marry?
There was also the small matter of the five-hundred-pound purse, a prize he still planned to share. David’s need for it had not diminished in the slightest just because Caroline had accepted Dermott’s proposal. But none of that mattered in the face of the most important fact of all.
David could not bring himself to abandon the hunt just because his prey had been claimed by another.
“There are some impressive wagers being laid down among the summer set,” Miss Baxter continued. “I thought you would want to know now, rather than later.”
“Well then, I’m much obliged.” David returned his attention to the squirming bundle of fur in his hands. The dog blinked up at him, no doubt in response to the hard edge of his voice. The little thing offered its paw again. This time David shook it solemnly, only to discover a small thorn, lodged in the thickened pad.
“Ah, there’s the trouble.” He picked it out of the poor creature’s paw and returned the dog to its owner. “I imagine that might account for some of Constance’s behavior this morning.”
Although having a busybody mistress who paid more attention to the latest gossip than to her own pet might explain the rest.
Miss Baxter’s eyes shone with admiration. “You’ve quite a way with animals, Mr. Cameron.”
David shook his head. “No. ’Tis actually my friend Channing who has a way with beasts. The thorn was just a lucky find.”
“Channing? Do you refer to Mr. Patrick Channing, from Yorkshire?”
“Aye,” David said suspiciously. He supposed, if he reached far back in his memory, he could recall that Patrick had claimed his family hailed from that part of Britain. “Are you acquainted with him?”
“Our fathers are good friends.” Two green eyes narrowed on him in a manner he was coming to associate with this woman’s nose for natter. “Is he in Scotland, then?”
David’s guard went up in an instant. “Mr. Channing is just Moraig’s veterinarian,” he said, shaking his head. “Nothing to worry about.”
At least, nothing for her to worry about. He could not claim the same for himself, or his friend. Patrick had been quite closemouthed
about his family since arriving unexpectedly in Moraig last November. If Miss Baxter’s prurient interest was any indication, Patrick Channing was hiding in Moraig for a reason.
And he was quite sure he didn’t want to know why.
CAROLINE WAS BREATHING hard as she burst through the door into Madame Beauclerc’s shop. The modiste rose in alarm as the door slammed shut, a tinkling bell the only indication that the door could, on occasion, herald the arrival of a more composed sort of patron.
“Have you come for the new dresses, chérie?” she asked, her painted brows drawn down in confusion. “We agreed this afternoon to finish them, oui?”
“Oui. I mean yes. I mean no.” Caroline shook her head against the trio of answers, none of which was the real reason she was staggering into this East Street dress shop so out of breath. “I’m here about the other thing.” She lowered her voice to a ragged whisper. “The swimming thing.”
“Ah.” The dressmaker’s face spread into a smile. “Wait here a moment, s’il vous plaît.”
She disappeared through a curtained door, where the dull murmur of other voices could be heard. Caroline refilled her lungs with the sharp, rich scent of a dozen types of fabric, wool and cotton and the peculiar dull odor of silk, and tried not to think about whom those voices might belong to. If she was to go through with this, she was going to have to be brave. The thoughts and opinions of a few shopgirls were going to be the least of her worries.
And then her heart began to pound as Madame Beauclerc returned and held out a . . . shift.
Not even a particularly pretty shift. It was starched stiff, and lacked all ornamentation. No ribbons, not even a lace border. It had longer sleeves than the shifts she was used to wearing, but in all other ways it might have been something she pulled from her own bureau at home.
Caroline groaned. The hope that had borne her feet all the way to East Street faltered. “I can’t wear that,” she said, shaking her head. “I thought . . . I thought you had fashioned something different. Something appropriate for swimming in public.”
“This is far more appropriate than those silly robes they give you for the bathing machines,” the dressmaker huffed. “There is no chance of this gaping in the front, or floating up at inopportune times. Of course, if you prefer something prettier, I might add a ribbon about the neckline.”
Caroline gritted her teeth. “Unless you are going to put an entire army of ribbons here”—she pointed to the chest area—“and here,” she added, gesturing lower, “I am afraid it will still be quite hopeless. I cannot swim in a shift today, not in public.”
She was willing to pit her skill against a group of men. She was even willing to flash an arm or show a bit of calf. But she was not going to present herself on Brighton’s eastern beach—the beach where all the fashionable people strolled—in a shift that when wet might as well be made of glass.
“This is no ordinary shift.” Madame Beauclerc’s lips turned down. “ ’Tis duck cloth. They will not be able to see through.” She held it out. “See?”
Caroline rubbed the fabric between two fingers. “Oh,” she said, understanding dawning. What she had presumed to be muslin was actually a thick, substantial linen. And whatever else it had been treated with, it wasn’t starch. “What has it been painted with?”
“Linseed oil, among other things. This seems to hold up to the seawater better than other things I have tried. The fabric is stiff enough so it will stand away from the body when wet. No one will be able to see through this.” The modiste smiled. “I told you, chérie. You will be a goddess.”
Caroline held it up against her, measuring it inch for inch against her own dress. It came down longer than her usual shifts, almost to mid-calf, and provided far more coverage than she was used to while swimming, but that didn’t keep it from being utterly scandalous. “It is a bit short, isn’t it?”
“You need the freedom to kick, oui?”
“Oui.” Caroline sighed. “I mean yes. I do. I . . . I am just not sure I am brave enough to be seen in this.”
“Are you worried about what the women will think? Or the men?”
“Neither. Both. I don’t know—”
The modiste patted her arm. “Let me tell you a secret about women. We are our own worst enemies. Do you think men object to the length of a woman’s skirts? The other women on the beach, they may gossip about you. They may turn their backs on you. But inside? Secretly they will want to be you.”
Caroline clenched the swimming costume in her hands, mesmerized by the dressmaker’s silken tones. “And the men?” she breathed.
“The men, chérie? That is a simpler matter altogether. Not a man who sees you in this will think poorly of you. Indeed, they shall be unable to tear their eyes away.”
Chapter 33
“IT IS NOT to be tolerated! Why, I would rather withdraw my application than swim against a . . . a . . .”
“Fiancée?” David broke in, enjoying the view of Dermott’s bulging eyes. The race officials had just announced their decision, and while a few of the competitors were uneasy, Dermott had chosen a more infantile response. “I believe that is the word you are looking for.”
“Woman!” Dermott barked, spittle flying. “I shall not compete against a woman.” He pointed at something, just behind David’s shoulder. “And most certainly not that woman.”
David turned around. Caroline was pushing her way through the crowd, which parted before her with an audible gasp. Her hair was up in that tight bun he was coming to dream about in his sleep. Somewhere, a sailing vessel was missing its foresail, having given it up for the purposes of dressing this woman today. She looked as if she might toss up her accounts at the slightest provocation. But God help him, she also looked beautiful.
The crowd found its predictable voice.
“It’s Miss Tolbertson!”
“What on earth is she wearing?”
“Swimmers, on the ready!” the race official shouted.
“You can see her ankles,” Dermott sputtered as Caroline took her place with the row of swimmers. He gestured to the crowd of onlookers lining the shore behind them. “There are ladies watching today, ladies whose delicate sensibilities should not be subjected to such a spectacle. It is unseemly!”
“We can see your ankles too,” David said, taking his own place in line. Truly, he had never seen anything like the costume Dermott was strutting about in, a suit of shapeless gray wool that, if one had the misfortune to peer too closely, was embroidered with some sort of songbird around the neckline. David had chosen to wear his trousers, though he had retained a shirt today for those delicate sensibilities Dermott was sputtering about.
“My ankles do not call my character into question,” Dermott said.
David turned on him. The man’s antics were getting tiresome now. “What is bothering you here, Dermott? The fact that her swimming costume is more attractive than yours? Or that she might best you today?”
Dermott’s face turned a mottled shade of red. “This is my betrothed, and I will not stand by and permit her to—”
“You shall not have a say in the matter,” Caroline interrupted. She might look bloody nervous—hell, David was nervous for her—but her voice rang clear. “I want to race. And when this day is over, I am still going to want to swim. So you shall either have to accept me as I am, Mr. Dermott, eccentricities and all, or you shall stand down.”
“On your marks!” the official said, raising a pistol above his head.
She turned toward the ocean, the skirt of her costume bunched in her hands.
David crouched. Water lapped at all of their feet as the line of competitors tensed, staring out at the buoy that marked their mid-way target. Finally, Dermott took his place in line, still grumbling about rules and women and ankles.
Then came a terrible noise as the pistol fired just over their heads. The race was on.
CAROLINE DOVE INTO the first row of breakers a few steps behind the rest of the swimmers. She held herself
back, wanting to avoid the inevitable jostling that she knew from long observation of this annual event came at the start of the race. The group of swimmers pulled away in a fearsome froth of water, arms working like pistons, chests rising above the water only to come crashing back down.
David, clearly visible on account of his white shirt, was caught near the back, and was struggling to employ the stroke he had worked so hard to perfect. That was something they hadn’t planned on, the need for space to accommodate the full of extension of his arm. She could see now how a breaststroke might be preferred, at least until the swimmers started to scatter out a bit more.
Determined to avoid getting caught in that snarl of arms and legs, Caroline hugged the western side of the pier. The overhead shadows gave the water a dark, ominous appearance, and the motion of the waves against the structure pulled against her, but her experience swimming in the cove, with its underwater currents and myriad hidden hazards, served her well. Her lungs were burning as she broke out of the shadow of the pier and aimed for the bright red buoy tied off shore. Her fingertips brushed the hard, solid surface, and then she was past.
Now began the real race as the swimmers started toward home. She was five yards behind the last swimmer, a large distance to close. Her hesitancy at the start of the race now proved costly, and she wondered, for a moment, if she had the strength to do this. Pen and Mama were watching from shore, and the thought made her lungs squeeze tighter. She thought of Papa. What would he say, if he were here now?
Probably something wise. Something poignant.
Caroline smothered a smile. No, he wouldn’t. She had raced against her father, more than once, during their lessons in the cove. He had never let her win, not even once, urging her to try harder, reach deeper inside herself. If he were here now, he would not waste his words on gentle reassurances.
He would tell her to hurry it up.
Caroline kicked harder. She passed the first five stragglers, their mouths gaping like fish on land. Then another five. Where was David? She couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, but the thought—the hope—that he was near the lead, battling it out with Dermott, drove her on.
Summer Is for Lovers Page 30
