“I don’t know,” the blond lady said, eyeing the book the younger held. “I’m not sure if it’s quite appropriate.” She glanced up, caught Clara’s eye, and smiled. “Good morning.”
Clara bobbed her head. “Good morning.” How strange of this lady to speak to a stranger. She edged away, fixing her attention on the shelves. Miss Burney’s novels always appealed, but had she not read all of them several times now? Surely Donaldson’s could get more in.
“Excuse me.”
Clara turned to see both ladies gazing at her, sisters if the wide blue gazes and matching features were any indication. The redhead’s smile seemed more hesitant than the other’s.
“I was wondering if you’ve ever read Waverley. I understand from my brother that it has some graphic battle scenes.”
“I have not, although I have enjoyed some of Walter Scott’s poems.”
“Oh, I love Marmion!” the blond exclaimed. “I don’t care what those critics say, I like a flawed hero. Makes him so much more believable, would you not agree?”
“Er …” Who was this strange lady? As for offering her opinion on flawed heroes … “I suppose so, yes.”
“We know only too well that heroes can be flawed, don’t we, Tessa?” She turned to the redhead, whose bright hair crackled with light as she nodded. “Some can hide their good hearts under a layer of tease.”
Clara thought back to her rescuer three nights previous. “Or anger.”
“Exactly so! Oh, you must excuse me.” The blond held out her hand. “My name is Mrs. McPherson, and this is my sister, Miss Kemsley.”
Clara shook their hands. “Miss DeLancey.”
“Well, Miss DeLancey, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I wonder that we have not met before.”
“I … that is, my family has only lived in Brighton for the past year or so.”
“By all that is wonderful, so has mine! Well, more like six months, really. I moved here when I married.” Mrs. McPherson smiled engagingly. “I previously lived with my brother in Kent, you see.”
Clara nodded as if she really did see. Had she ever met such a firecracker of a lady? Mother would have a fit! Father would no doubt call Mrs. McPherson a vulgar mushroom. But something spurred her to stay and continue the unsought conversation. “Is that the brother who read Waverley?”
“George? No, I rather doubt he’s read anything beyond a racing guide in years, the more’s the pity. No, Benjie is the one who has always liked reading, which is fortunate when one spends so much time at sea, don’t you agree?”
Benjie? What a peculiar name, like something one might call a pup. He must be quite young, though somewhat precocious to be offering opinions on Scott’s novels at such an age. Aware that both ladies were studying her curiously and awaiting her answer, she finally said, “I imagine it would be.”
The blond chuckled, a warm sound that prodded recent memories, but before Clara could pinpoint which one, Mrs. McPherson said, “So Miss DeLancey, should we risk it?”
She had hooked a hand through her sister’s arm and was moving slowly through the room, necessitating Clara to keep up.
“Risk what, exactly?” Clara said.
Mrs. McPherson held the book aloft. “Shall we endeavor to see if this novel be worth reading?”
“I suppose if you do not like it, you can offer it to your brother to read again. Provided he’s not in school, of course.”
“School?” The ladies shared a puzzled look.
So perhaps he was a little older? Oh, that’s right—he was at sea. She offered a wry smile. Mrs. McPherson’s brother was not the only one at sea, it seemed. Perhaps Father was right, and she really needed to pay more attention to what other people said. “The beauty of a circulating library is that one can always return a book unread if necessary. So borrow it, if you like.”
“Do you like, Tessa?”
The redhead murmured in the affirmative.
“Then it is settled.” Mrs. McPherson’s smile broadened. She turned to the man at the circulation desk. Clara blinked. How had they arrived at the circulation desk? Did this extraordinary woman sweep all before her path?
Her business concluded, she turned back to Clara. “I do hope, Miss DeLancey, that you’ll risk the other.”
“What other?”
“And permit us to be friends.”
Perhaps it was the frank gaze, or the sisters’ open smiles. Perhaps it was because she felt she could not deny this indomitable force. Perhaps it was the yearning ache she’d felt before, or the tug she felt now. Whatever the reason, she could only give one answer.
“Yes.”
Ben limped back to the vicarage. The letter he’d posted yesterday to Dr. Townsend couldn’t be replied to soon enough. The throbbing in his knee had worsened this morning, a foolish wish to walk along the beach exacerbating the strain. Why didn’t God heal him? Like all members of his family, save his older brother, he dared believe the promises of the Bible held true today as they had centuries before. Perhaps he’d used up all God’s favor back on African shores.
He pushed through the French doors to the drawing room, catching his sisters’ commentary to David in the next room. Mattie sounded excited. Even Tessa seemed more animated. Bracing himself for interrogation, he forced himself to walk normally, smile, and ease into the nearest chair.
“Benjie!”
“Hello, Matilda. How was your morning?”
“I was just telling David. Tessa and I visited the library today. Look what we got.” She proffered a copy of Waverley.
“A good read, as I recall.”
“And we met someone.”
Ben raised a brow at his brother-in-law. “Should we be worried?”
Mattie laughed, stroking her husband’s hand. “I think David would not be concerned, save for the salvation of her soul.” Her attention returned to Ben. “You, however …”
He frowned at her. He did not need his sister’s interference in his nonexistent private life.
“She was so funny. Staring at me like she would a stuffed creature at Bullock’s Museum.”
“Sounds sensible. I suppose you hadn’t been properly introduced?”
She sniffed. “This isn’t London. Nobody cares for such things here.”
“You might be surprised. Not everyone appreciates such informality.”
“Like George?”
George. Their brother. Whose recent ascendancy to a distant cousin’s baronetcy had led to a sudden interest in being correctly addressed, much to the amusement of his siblings.
“She was very nice,” Tessa offered softly.
“Who? Oh, this lady you met. Does she have a name?”
“Miss DeLancey.”
He frowned. Why did that name elicit a twinge of memory?
“Ben? Why do you look like that? Do you know her?”
“I vaguely recall the name,” he admitted. It was possible that he had met her, once upon a time, when he was a different man in a very different world.
“Well, perhaps you’ll get the chance to see if you do. I’ve invited her to call on us on Friday.”
“This Friday?”
“Yes.” Her brow puckered. “Don’t tell you won’t be here.”
He leaned back in his chair, his smile growing genuine. “Very well. I won’t.”
“Oh, but Benjie! She seems quite sweet and has a lovely smile.”
“Be that as it may, I have no desire to meet her.”
Mattie pouted. “How can you be so rude?”
“Surely you did not suggest I would be here.”
“Of course not!”
“Then I don’t see the problem. You’d do better to turn your matchmaking attentions to George. Heaven knows our brother will need help to find someone prepared to overlook his pride.”
She laughed as if reluctant. “Very well. But you can’t fault me for trying.”
“I can’t fault you for caring, that is true.”
Blue eyes looked up at him
. “You do need to marry one day, Benjie.”
“One day, Mattie. Remember, I don’t like to have my hand forced.”
She grabbed his arm, squeezed gently. “I want you to be happy.”
“I am happy.”
Her brows lifted.
He glanced across at Tessa, whose expression matched Mattie’s look of doubt, igniting a pang of conscience. Well, perhaps he’d never be as happy as before that fateful last voyage. But he was content. Mostly. And wasn’t contentment close enough to happiness?
Matilda sighed. “Well, it doesn’t matter how much you protest. I’m not convinced.”
“That is your prerogative.”
“But I am convinced of something.” She tossed her blond head. “I feel certain you will meet Miss DeLancey one day soon.”
And she stood and exited the room, leaving him wondering about her determined interest, and uneasy that her gift for being correct would be in evidence once again.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE NEXT DAY a note arrived, addressed to Clara, with an invitation to tea at the vicarage the upcoming Friday. The vicarage? Was Mrs. McPherson the wife of a church minister? Never would she have imagined such a thing! Weren’t all ministers and their wives supposed to be incredibly staid and old-fashioned? Who could have imagined a vicar’s wife to be so forward and friendly, let alone so frivolously daring as to be interested in novels?
When Mother learned of the invitation, she frowned. “I suppose one must attend if it is the vicar’s wife who has invited you. But I cannot like it. How on earth did you meet?”
“At Donaldson’s, Mother.”
“Hmph. Perhaps you should not go to such places if you’re to be accosted by all and sundry. Where was Meg?”
“Completing errands, I believe.”
“Well”—Mother tapped the invitation—“I cannot attend. I have already accepted Lady Osterley’s invitation to luncheon. Are you sure you’d rather not come with me? Reginald should be there.”
Reason enough not to accompany her mother. The only person capable of duller conversation than Lady Osterley was her son. “Thank you, Mother, but I really feel I should accept Mrs. McPherson’s invitation.”
Mother sighed. “Then I suppose you should go. But only this once, mind. One visit should be sufficient to discharge any obligations.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
“Although I cannot but wonder, who is her family?” Her mother’s forehead creased. “McPherson? I do not know any McPhersons, do you?”
Clara did now. She kept that thought behind her teeth and murmured, “I believe her maiden name is Kemsley.”
Father looked up from his newspaper, a frown in his eyes. “Kemsley? Why do I remember that name?”
Another question she could not answer.
His frown grew more pronounced. “I do not want you spending time with someone unworthy. These are our sorts of people, are they not? You are a viscount’s daughter after all. We need not associate with everyone who claims acquaintanceship.”
How to explain the indefinable tugging in her heart to go? “They are everything that is respectable.” Perhaps that was overstating things. “Mrs. McPherson was friendly, and Miss Kemsley seemed quite shy and sweet.”
“But who introduced you?” Mother said, brow still puckered. “I do not understand.”
“As you said, Mother, if she is the vicar’s wife, it would be impolitic not to attend.” She pushed to her feet, pushed out a smile. “I shall write and accept for Friday.”
And before another word could be said, she escaped.
Friday
“MISS DELANCEY, I cannot tell you what a pleasure it is to have your company today.”
Clara smiled, murmuring something of her reciprocal feelings to Mrs. McPherson. The day had already proved surprising. The aged vicarage, though modestly proportioned and decorated, was positioned to capture views of both the sea and the chalky cliffs. Indeed, she could almost see where her home was, centering the Royal Crescent on Brighton’s opposite boundary. She had met Mr. McPherson, the assistant to the rector of St. Nicholas’s Church, whose mildness contrasted sharply with his vivacious wife, before he then had made his apologies and murmured something about visiting the infirm. Miss Kemsley, though somewhat diffident, had proved friendly when Clara asked for her opinion on the borrowed novel, saying it had not proved as terrifying as her brother initially suggested.
Clara had nodded. “It can be hard to trust another person’s opinion on such matters, can it not? If someone gives fulsome praise one is bound to be disappointed, while another’s negative review seems certain to ensure the novel will be enjoyed very much. One needs to be akin in mind and spirit to truly trust another’s judgment.”
“Oh, but I do trust Benjie,” said Miss Kemsley. “Even if he is so much braver than I.”
Such sisterly devotion to a younger brother was rather touching. Clara’s smile faded. A pity she could no longer hold her own brother in such esteem.
The conversation flowed surprisingly easily, considering Clara had felt sure the matter of church attendance would arise. But no mention of spiritual matters had been made—their discussion of novels, fashions, and the attractions of London versus those of Brighton as innocuous as any other conversation she might have held.
“You possess a wonderfully fine view,” she said, gazing through the large windows.
“Benjie recently gave me a spyglass,” said Miss Kemsley. “Would you like to see it?”
“Oh! I thought your brother away at sea.”
“Not anymore, poor thing.” The redhead rose, murmuring something about retrieving the gift.
“Your brother lives with you?” Clara said.
Mrs. McPherson nodded. “For the moment, until he is more settled. Our eldest brother is not always the most easy of persons with whom to reside.”
Clara must have inadvertently looked a question, for the vicar’s wife continued.
“Our father died not so long ago, then George inherited a title. I believe he feels he must live up to being head of the family now, which means he’s far less enjoyable company. I think Benjie prefers life near the sea to being stuck with George at Chatham Hall.”
Clara offered a wry smile. How well she knew about being less-than-enjoyable company.
“Tell me, Miss DeLancey, do you like the sea? I have not tried sea-bathing yet—my husband has scruples about such things—but it does look most invigorating.”
“I’m afraid my parents share Mr. McPherson’s scruples.”
“A pity.”
Miss Kemsley returned, holding the cylindrical object. “If you look through the small end, you can see the most marvelous distance away.”
She showed Clara how to hold the spyglass, how to adjust certain knobs to gain sharper focus.
“How wonderful!” Clara exclaimed. She could see the sea-bathers, the small huts lining the shore, the bathing machines in the water, complete with sea-dippers, and—“Oh!” Cheeks heating, she lowered the spyglass. “I did not realize one would see quite so much.”
“Benjie is always warning us not to look too closely. Some sights are better left unseen,” Mrs. McPherson said, a twinkle in her eye. “I hope you were not grossly offended.”
“I did not think such a portly fellow would be able to stay afloat, let alone feel the need to be invigorated all over.” Clara shuddered, the image of the naked man refusing to go.
“Seawater is very buoyant, or so Benjie tells us. He says to swim in the ocean is a most marvelous experience.”
“I would love to go sea-bathing,” Miss Kemsley said almost wistfully. “Would you ever wish to try it, Miss DeLancey?”
“I—”
“Now, dearest, we must not bore Miss DeLancey. Why don’t you tell our guest about your telescope?”
“Oh. Well, the spyglass can prove quite useful.” Miss Kemsley leaned forward. “In fact, it was used just the other day to help someone in trouble.”
“Really
?”
The redhead nodded. “That night of the terrible winds. I would never wish to be outside on such a night, would you?”
Clara froze. No, surely not. The rescue must have involved a boat; that must be it.
Mrs. McPherson smiled. “There’s no need to look alarmed, dear Miss DeLancey. All proved well in the end. Apparently the poor old dear didn’t really mean to harm herself.”
“Poor old dear?” Relief oozed through her chest. They referred to another incident, after all. Though how many people requiring rescue would be out on one of England’s most stormy nights …
“Yes. Atop the cliffs. Poor dear. It seems to have been a near thing.”
Oh, dear God! It was her incident they referred to! But who? What connection did her rescuer have with the McPhersons? Would that she could ask—but surely that would only raise suspicions. She glanced around the room. Spied the small lantern she’d inadvertently left behind. Nausea slid through her stomach. She needed to leave before her rescuer returned. He might have thought he’d rescued an old lady—indignation heated her chest, surely she hadn’t seemed so old!—but what if he recognized her?
“Miss DeLancey? Are you well? I’m sorry if discussion of such matters is distressing. Truth be told there are many who struggle, especially now, with so many men killed in war. It is little wonder some feel they have no resort but to harm themselves. It is why we established the Sailors and Soldiers’ Hostel here in Brighton.” Mrs. McPherson looked at her sister. “Tessa, take the glass away. I’m sure it must be time for more tea.”
The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey Page 3
