Curricle & Chaise (28 page)

Elizabeth was unable to conceal her shock and surprise at Lydia’s news.

‘To marry Sir John?’ she repeated, apparently just checking to ensure that she had not misheard. ‘Oh, Lydia, and you intend to accept him? Are you sure?’

Elizabeth’s reaction reminded Lydia why she had previously decided not to mention the proposal until her response could not be undone. She looked at her aunt a little sheepishly.

‘But why should I not?’ she countered. ‘It is a most advantageous match.’

‘But he is nearing fifty...and he is not, well, exactly a...cultured man. His situation is unexceptionable, I grant you, and he is always most attentive towards you, but it would never have crossed my mind that he wanted to marry you – or you him. Are you absolutely certain that you do? I can hardly believe it.’

This was proving much harder than Lydia had expected. She would like to have been able to lie convincingly to her aunt but she suspected that she could not do it.

‘I know, I know,’ she finally found herself saying. ‘Sir John is not the kind of man whom I would naturally select. But what alternative do I have? I am determined that Susan and I shall not impose upon your kindness any more than is necessary. Sir John, as you say, is kind and attentive and will try to give us both a comfortable home. I am unlikely to come across any more attractive offers. I have got to grasp the opportunity whilst I can.’

This was not at all what she had wanted to say. She had wanted her aunt to accept the advantages of the proposal and allow her to escape any need to justify her decision. Why she had thought for a minute that Elizabeth would do this was beyond her. Elizabeth was as honest and selfless as her husband. There was no way in which she would pretend to like a marriage which she instinctively felt was being entered into with unquestionably the wrong man and for entirely the wrong reason.

‘I understand your concerns,’ went on Lydia, as Elizabeth remained unconvinced. ‘And I must admit that I share them. However, I have thought very hard about the decision, please believe me, and I know that it is my duty to accept. I have to do the best I can for my sister. I cannot think of receiving a better offer – indeed, it is more, much more, than I could reasonably expect. Please do not try to make me change my mind. It will make it all the more difficult for me, and I...’

Lydia found herself on the verge of tears, and stuttered to a halt. Elizabeth gave her a silent hug and sighed with her.

‘All right, my love,’ she conceded, soothingly. ‘I can see that this is difficult for you. But I do not see that Sir John’s absence should be cause enough to decline Mrs Taylor’s kind invitation. If he is as fond of you as you say then he will be only too happy for you to enjoy yourself. Why not compromise? Write a letter for Sir John and I will ensure that he receives it the moment he returns. I am sure he will understand. Why, who knows that you may even be back here before he is finished in London. Business has a habit of dragging on once it is begun. Why not go to Brighton for a fortnight and see Sir John on your return?’

Lydia took her aunt’s hand and squeezed it gratefully. It was all that was needed. She penned the letter (several times), handed it to Elizabeth for safe keeping, and prepared herself for the adventure of her life.

It was shortly after five the next day when the Taylors’ smart travelling carriage, complete with liveried coachman and impressive coat of arms, pulled into Brighton. Comfortable though it was (and – as Lydia noted, smugly – considerably grander than even the most luxurious offering in Mr Abdale’s collection) it was a relief to see the first small cottages of Brighton appear through the carriage window. It had been a long journey, despite numerous stops, and Lydia was feeling extremely hungry. As the carriage rumbled on its way it passed the Valley Gardens and the Regent’s Pavilion, which she glimpsed fleetingly, before the left turn into St James’ Street and then right into Madeira Place.

The coach pulled up outside a tidy-looking, bow-fronted cottage. Lucy jumped out and straightened her skirts.

‘Here at last,’ she announced. ‘We are not too grand in Brighton, as you see, but papa prefers to take a house to an apartment and we were rather late in booking so we didn’t have much choice.’

Mr Taylor handed Lydia down. From what she could see as she stepped into the house there was nothing at all amiss with the accommodation. Certainly the house was not large, and the hallway was maybe a little dingy and smelt faintly of onions, but the saloon into which they were shown (and from which Mrs Taylor emerged, open armed, to welcome her dear ones home) was actually quite handsome and seemed comfortable enough.

‘My dear Lucy – how wonderful – and with your ankle so much better, too. Netley has agreed with you, I can see. And what of the journey – did papa buy you a cream cake? And Miss Barrington – so kind of you and your aunt to take Lucy in like that – I’m delighted to be able to welcome you here in return – Lucy could not praise you enough in her letters...’

Somehow they were dressed for dinner. Somehow they were ushered into the dining room. Somehow they ate a course. All was bustle and excitement and it took until the second course before Lydia felt at leisure even to look around. As she awaited her wine, however, she took her time to examine the room. Everything was exactly to her taste – elegant furnishings, tidy decoration. The meal, too, was excellent (although, hungry as she was, even a plain biscuit would have felt like a banquet). Immediately after it Mrs Taylor and the three young ladies proposed taking a short walk about the town. Miss Emma kept close to her mama’s skirts in a sudden fit of shyness but Lucy and Lydia hurried on together, arm in arm, in order to catch their first glimpse of the sea. The roads were fringed with buff stone buildings. The pavements were broad and level. Then the buildings ceased. The East Cliff was upon them and beyond this – beyond this was a swathe of blue so clear, so brilliant, twinkling so invitingly in the orange sunset that Lydia could only gasp in astonishment. So this was what she had so longed to see. She stared at it unblinkingly, transfixed. All that she could see, right across to the distant horizon where the sky met the sea, was the gentle ebb and flow of the blue water, faintly tinged with the orange of the sun, and the frothy whiteness of the waves as they lapped the silver-grey shore. She could hear the mewing of seagulls as they soared effortlessly overhead, and the gentle swoosh of the waves. She could smell the fresh sea air, with its mixture of seaweed and salt. It was a moment of pure joy.

For a moment Lucy stood and watched her, somewhat amused and perhaps a little gratified at her friend’s reaction. ‘Come on, Miss Barrington,’ she urged eventually, tugging at Lydia’s sleeve. ‘There is a lot more to Brighton than just the sea, you know. We can walk back here later, if you want to, but l
et’s go along the Stei
n
e
and have a look at the Pavilion whilst there is still light enough to see.’

Lydia was aware that Lucy was laughing at her but she did not mind.

‘I never imagined that it could be so magical,’ she admitted, sheepishly, giving way to her friend’s entreaties and accompanying her along the road. ‘It’s amazing. I feel I could stand and look at it for ever.’

‘You will soon tire of it,’ advised Lucy, sagely. ‘I wager that you will grow so used to it before the week is over that you’ll hardly notice it.’

Lydia remained unconvinced but she allowed herse
lf to be dragged off to the Stei
n
e
to marvel at some of Brighton’s more fashionable delights before reluctantly retiring for supper.

Lucy was keen to enrol with the circulating library and sign the visitors’ book as soon as she was able, and while Mrs Taylor took Emma for her morning dip the next day the two girls took a short walk down Madeira Place and along the East Cliff to Donaldson’s. Donaldson’s, Lucy was quick to assure her, was the finest circulating library on the South coast. It was certainly imposing. At this early hour there were very few gentlemen in the reading room, but a number of ladies were standing in groups, gossiping, and there was a bewildering array of books. It was amongst the Gothic novel collection that Lucy encountered a young lady of her acquaintance, whom she introduced to Lydia as a Miss James.

‘I have known Miss James for ever,’ she explained confidentially as they stepped back into the sunshine, a selection of the most gruesome novels in hand. They returned along the sea front, which was getting quite crowded. ‘We spent some time at school together. Maria was always getting into some trouble or other – she was quite an atrocious little girl. I remember when her brother, Mr Rodney James, came visiting with his mama and papa once. He smuggled a supply of cakes in and we ate the lot between us in one afternoon. We enjoyed them at the time, I seem to think, although we all felt rather sick afterwards. But there,’ she added, sighing a little, ‘I must admit to a passing tendre for Mr James. Such a handsome young man, Miss Barrington – or so I thought at the time. But it was not to be. He married Miss Troupe in the end. A flighty bit of muslin if ever I saw one but worth a terrific fortune, apparently.’

Lydia was diverted, although she pretended to be shocked.

‘But you are surely not suggesting that he married only for the money?’

‘Well possibly,’ said Lucy, pensively. ‘I expect it happens all the time. I cannot conceive of it myself, of course, but it is not everyone who marries for love. I suppose some people prefer the thought of comfort to romance. I must say that I would rather marry for love than money, be I ever so poor – but I suppose I shall never be put to the test. It’s difficult to imagine how other people must feel when their situations are so unlike one’s own – do you not think?’

Lydia blushed a little. Would people say that she was marrying for money? And would it not be true – or, if not, would it not be true that she was using Sir John for her own convenience, which in many ways was just as bad. She felt a little guilty and resolved to make him a good wife.

‘It does sound rather shocking,’ she said, defensively, following Lucy into the house. ‘Perhaps people have their reasons for marrying where there is no love, even if it is not for money. It does seem a shame that some people may not marry where they like.’

‘And what about you, Miss Barrington? Do you speak from the heart? Were you able to pick the gentleman of your choice – what would he be like?’

Try as she might, Lydia was quite unable to bring a picture of Sir John to mind. Unaccountably, and totally uninvited, the image of Henry Churchman imposed itself upon her and stubbornly refused to go away.

‘Oh, I know not,’ she said carelessly, picking up a fashion book and studying it industriously. ‘Someone who is kind and considerate – a landowner, maybe; one who cares for his family – well respected in the neighbourhood – studious - that sort of gentleman, I suppose.’

‘And do I detect a gentleman of that description already?’ teased Lucy, gleefully.

‘Maybe’ (hesitatingly).

‘And may I enquire his name?’

Lydia replaced the book on its table and stared uncomfortably at it. She could not find one word in reply. Then the parlour door swung open. The footman announced a visitor.

‘Mr Churchman,’ he said, and the gentleman himself strode in.

If Lydia could have sunk into the ground and disappeared for ever she would gladly have done so. A dull red blush spread over her face as she saw the familiar figure framed in the doorway. Her heart pounded. She felt quite unable to move. Luckily Lucy gave a little cry and ran forward the instant he was announced, and his attention was immediately taken up by her. He was looking supremely elegant, as always, in his blue morning coat with stiff, standfall collar and plated buttons, with biscuit-coloured breeches and highly polished top boots. By the time he had turned his attention away from Miss Taylor Lydia had recovered her composure sufficiently to rise to greet him, and meet him with a curtsey and an outstretched hand.

If Mr Churchman was surprised to see her he did not show it. Instead he took her hand for a moment, looked into her eyes as he bowed, and asked her how she did. Lucy, in the middle of introducing them, suddenly realised that they were not strangers to each other and stopped in mid sentence. She eyed them both narrowly for a second, gave a little smile to herself, and immediately demanded to know where they had met before.

Mr Churchman took the offered seat.

‘Miss Barrington and I are old friends,’ he admitted, accepting a glass of port. ‘Grantham is almost next door to Abdale House, where Miss Barrington stayed for a short while last winter. We spent many a happy hour together, did we not? Why, I even taught her how to ride.’

Lydia blushed again. She was feeling very uncomfortable.

‘Well,’ said Lucy. ‘What a coincidence. I must admit I had not made the connection.’

‘You disappoint me. I would have hoped that you might have mentioned my name between you.’

‘Well there you are wrong, Mr Churchman. You misjudge us entirely if you think we ladies have nothing better to talk about than all the young gentlemen of our acquaintance. We have not mentioned you at all.’

Lucy had the grace to blush a little as she said this, but it was not technically a lie after all and Mr Churchman luckily appeared not to notice.

‘How is your mama, Mr Churchman?’ asked Lydia, desperately trying to turn the conversation onto a more comfortable topic. ‘I have heard nothing from Abdale these past few months – I have been staying
with my aunt and uncle
in Surrey since New Year - and have wondered about her on several occasions.’