Chapter 10

The fifth and last of our Senses is Touch; a sense spread over the whole body, tho" it be most eminently plac"d in the ends of the fingers.

—John Locke, Elements of Natural Philosophy (1720)

Gloved hand met gloved hand. Tentative gaze met tentative gaze.

Beatrice gave him a smile, but it was not the spontaneous one which illuminated her countenance earlier. This one was measured and contained, but still Clayton could not speak right away. It was all he could do to ensure his own face revealed nothing, for the other couple in their quartet was Miss Croy and Mr. Phipps.

"Can't think why we're doing this one again," rumbled Mr. Phipps. "Haddon must be distracted."

Neither Clayton nor Beatrice felt the need to enlighten the man, if they even heard him.

"You have acquitted yourself well, Mr. Clayton," said Beatrice boldly, determined to begin her new program at once. "One would never guess you were new to this."

"I had the best instruction."

Though there was nothing of flirtation in his voice, she still took a moment to recover, gladly parting to step forward and back with Mr. Phipps. Then she managed, "Tyrone and Aggie are good instructors, he in swimming and she in dancing."

"To be sure." They took hands again and turned outward. "Though finally one is only as good as one's partner."

Feeling his light grasp of her fingers to every nerve end, Beatrice's next comment was a little breathless. "In any event, I hope you will have many more occasions to dance in the future, Mr. Clayton, if not at Bognor."

"Why not at Bognor?"

"Tyrone says there is but one assembly per month, and—and we will be gone back home before the next occasion."

"Yes, of course. In that case, I suppose I will be gone as well. That is—we will." He must begin to think of Priscilla and himself as a team. A pair.

So this would never happen again—this dance together, this innocent touching of hands. In the face of this truth, silence fell briefly between them. They continued to step through the figures together and in turn with Mr. Phipps and Miss Croy, but some invisible alchemy was at work. Beatrice was telling herself, If this will all end soon, and I will never see him ever again, must I hold myself under such tight rein? Soon enough I will be back in Winchester, and nothing will happen to me—nothing like this. Not to the end of my days.

And Clayton, holding those delicate fingers of hers, was seized with an irrepressible desire to explain himself. To be understood. She might only feel toward him as a friend, but selfishly he wanted to seize upon the chance—perhaps the only chance he would ever have—to be heard by her. And though the constant movement of the dance would limit him to expressing himself in fits and starts, it would have to serve.

"Miss Ellsworth, however few occasions henceforth I might have to dance or swim or—or talk about books in pleasant company—the best company—I will never forget—my time in Bognor."

She might have replied in a dozen ways. She might have chosen to acknowledge only the most superficial level of his words and spoken of the marvels of the sea or the thrill of sea bathing or the educational value of travel. But she only said quietly, "Nor I."

"You might have surmised, from my history, that I have not often been thrown together in—social situations with people as—as pleasant as you Ellsworths." Clayton flushed at his own inarticulateness.

"Thank you. We too have enjoyed your company. Relished it," she answered, in a burst of honesty. Politeness dictated she add some sop regarding Miss Brand's arrival, something like, "And Miss Brand's acquaintance promises more of the same," but Beatrice felt her throat close on the words. On the lie it would have been.

Nor could Clayton muster the expected compliment to his intended, saying rather, "I understand now why people are so eager for holidays. To this point, any satisfaction I have enjoyed following my dear mentor's death has derived entirely from my labors. Yet—yet—it has only been in ceasing to labor that I discover…everything I have been missing. I had never met anyone like—you Ellsworths."

What was there possibly to say to this?

But no reply was necessary, for he began again. "And I—regret—if, in forming our acquaintance, I did not mention—er—the existence of Miss Brand and my engagement to her until relatively late."

"It was none of our business," Beatrice excused him hastily, her pulse speeding. "And it never came up. Therefore, it would have been…odd, if you introduced the fact without rhyme or reason. It would have seemed as if you suspected us of—as if you thought we might be—might be—"

"Yes—"

"—Might be harboring—designs on you—"

"Yes! Exactly," he agreed, relief at her comprehension flooding him. "Which of course you were not—it sounds ridiculous even to have to say so—"

"Ridiculous," she echoed faintly. "So you did not think it a subject needing introduction. Certainly I understand. Please—say no more about it. It's dreadful that one cannot form friendships without arousing suspicions of this sort. Even if no one were to speak such suspicions aloud, just knowing someone might be thinking such a thing is enough to make one feel defensive."

She was protesting too much, and she knew it. Pressing her lips shut, she cast about for something new to talk about.

"Well, sir, what next for you?"

"After Bognor, you mean?"

"After Bognor, when your holiday ends."

"Why, after this I will return to work and…start the next chapter of my life."

A next chapter which contained his marriage, Beatrice supposed, her shoulders drooping a fraction. He had said days earlier that no date was set, but she wondered if that lack had since been remedied.

With an effort, she rallied. "Tyrone tells us your next project is the Cumberland Arm of the Regent's Canal. I'm afraid I have no clear idea where the Regent Canal's is, other than somewhere in the environs of the capital."

"Have you been to town recently, Miss Ellsworth?"

This drew a laugh, and he felt himself smiling in return. "Mr. Clayton, I don't know about ‘recently,' when I have only ever been there once, and that time my parents and I were merely passing through on our way to Kent. But that was a year or more ago, so perhaps it counts as ‘recent'?"

"It does, thought the city changes so rapidly that even a native might not recognize it from year to year. And the area around the new Regent's Park is a constant scene for construction. Eventually the Canal will connect the Grand Junction to the Thames at Limehouse, but that is many years away. At present they work to build the section from Paddington to Camden Town."

"And your proposed Cumberland Arm…?"

"Will branch from the Canal and run down behind the barracks on the east side of the park, paralleling the Albany Road." They turned in place and took hands again, Clayton adding after a hesitation, "If you Ellsworths ever come to town, I will give you a tour."

"Oh," she breathed, hoping she did not sound too wistful. "Thank you. I will tell Tyrone and Aggie, but I don't imagine it likely any time soon."

He guessed as much but was nevertheless aware of a swoop of disappointment. No, of course not, unfortunately. Though London during the season never suffered from any shortage of young ladies, not a one of them would be Beatrice Ellsworth.

With another effort: "When you leave Bognor, then, you will return to Winchester. Ellsworth to managing your sister's estate, and you to…whatever life holds next." Marriage, he supposed, with an inward wince. She was too lovely a person for it to be otherwise. The real question was how she had remained single this long.

Her eyes lifted to his. "I'm afraid a young lady's life has a great deal of sameness to it. At least, mine does. Not that I don't like it very well. I have—to this point—always liked—loved—my life. Never wished for the least change." (So this is what is meant by, "Be careful what you wish for"! she thought with a grimace.)

"It must be a pleasant life, then," he rejoined. "And if it is always the same, tell me what a young lady like you does in the late autumn and early winter in Winchester. Is it a whirl of assemblies and balls?"

Beatrice thought of her quiet days and gave a slow shake of her head. "If it were left to my dear mother and sisters it would be. They are forever encouraging my attendance on such occasions. Perhaps because they are all so happily married." Her color came and went when she heard the too-candid words escape her. "But truth be told, I prefer dancing at home with my own family. Dancing at home, working beside my mother to keep the house, practicing my music, reading, visiting my siblings and nephews and nieces. When my younger brothers are home from school—I have a half-brother and a stepbrother at Winchester College—Beaumond is lively enough, but otherwise I am sure you, with your active life and important work, would find my life quite dull."

Her chin lifted with a touch of defiance, but she found no mockery in his eyes. If anything, they were rueful. "While it's bad manners to contradict a lady, Miss Ellsworth, I fear I must. You cannot imagine what a heartwarming picture of home and repose you paint, to someone who has never experienced the like. While I have never lacked a roof to shelter me, ‘home' for me has meant lodging houses of varying degrees of cleanliness, apart from the holidays I spent with the Brands. But Mr. Brand was a widower as long as I knew him, and I daresay a house without a mistress cannot compare for comfort and pleasantness. No, no, Miss Ellsworth, I see nothing to scorn in your life and much to envy."

For a bad moment Beatrice thought her eyes would fill, and she quickly looked off to where Tyrone partnered an unknown matron while Aggie danced with the hundred-year-old man. But Mr. Clayton's kindness brought a lump to her throat nonetheless, and her voice was low when she managed to reply, "Thank you, sir. And—I do not forget the fact that it is because of you I still have my beloved life to return to."

While her voice did not tremble, her hand did. Or perhaps that was his own.

Clayton swallowed. Then, with an effort he said, "I thank God I was there."

Suddenly the light joining of their hands became a grasp, lasting no more than a few seconds but unable to be recalled afterward by either of them without a blush. Their fingers threaded and tightened, warmth flooding through two layers of silk gloves, even as it flooded their persons.

At the next change in figures they broke apart with a wrench. The closing notes sounded, Beatrice sinking into her curtsey, heart hammering, as Mr. Phipps lurched forward to claim her.

Then there was an outward rush to mirror her inward tumult, as the master of ceremonies announced the longways dance Childgrove (to the approbation of those not acquainted with Mr. Clayton and his choreographic limitations), and all rearranged themselves. A longways dance! Ah, then she could not even touch him again in passing as they progressed with new partners…

Beatrice ventured one final, longing look at his retreating figure before Mr. Phipps carried her off toward the top of the room.

"What is it, John?" asked Priscilla, appearing at his elbow when her partner returned her. Clayton had been pretending to observe a card game throughout Childgrove, though he saw little enough, being too occupied with upbraiding himself. The sight of his betrothed's eager face, glowing with the exercise and with delight, only made him feel worse.

Hating the mask he must wear, he lifted questioning eyebrows. "To what do you refer? I had to sit out the dance, having already dutifully performed the ones I know."

"Yes, it's too bad! Oh, John—I wish—I wish you might learn more dances," she urged shyly. "Mrs. Ellsworth tells me this will be the only assembly in Bognor until November, but perhaps if—we enlisted the services of a dancing master in the interim…"

"We won't be here in November," he returned, more curtly than he had intended.

Nodding, she turned her head to hide her dismay at the rebuff, but the subject was important enough to her that she persisted. "But it would be so amusing, just the same! And there is plenty of dancing in London, so the lessons would not be wasted."

"You would want to dance in London?"

She steeled herself to meet his gaze. "Yes. I would. Please. I enjoy it very much." Not much encouraged by his grim nod—what did that mean?—she persevered, laying a tentative hand on his sleeve. "Don't you? And here you might practice among friends because we could invite the Ellsworths to join us—"

The sudden stiffening of his arm startled her, though he relaxed it the next instant. (Priscilla might have dismissed it as a start of his own, had she not then observed the working of his jaw muscle.) "Dear me!" she fretted. "What have I said? Of course we needn't, if you don't like—"

"Forgive me—Priscilla," he uttered. The corners of his mouth turned up in the approximation of a reassuring smile. "But I have been on holiday too long."

"I…see. You mean you intend on returning to town soon?" The idea made her heart beat faster, for, if she were finished with school and they were both at last to live in the same place, their wedding day drew that much nearer.

He was staring again at the cards laid upon the green baize surface. The old man nearest him squinted at what had already been played before sighing and tossing down the knave of clubs. Across from him, his whist partner groaned, leaving the offender to sputter, "I had no alternative! No trumps, nor anything which could take the trick."

"For pity's sake, man," hissed his partner. "Say no more, or everyone will know your hand."

It wasn't bad advice, Clayton acknowledged with a twist of his mouth. Not bad at all.

He could not hope to win with the hand heaven had dealt him, but it remained his duty to play it out and to do what he could for his partner. If only— But he stopped the thought before it could streak out. Nothing helpful ever began with the words if only.

Taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, he turned to smile down again at his intended bride, and while the smile may not have reached his eyes, Priscilla was glad it held no darkness this time.

"I intend on returning to town as soon as arrangements can be made," he answered. "But once there, if you like, I will take up lessons with a dancing master."

"Oh, John!" She could not prevent a hop of excitement and a convulsive squeeze to his forearm. "Oh, John, thank you! I won't mind going back even tomorrow, if you truly will take lessons! But I suppose it won't be that soon, will it—because you will have to find lodgings nearer Papa's house in Marlboro Street."

"No—I will return to my rooms in humbler Warren Street—the better to keep an eye on the work progress."

"So far north? Papa never liked me to venture north of Oxford Street, even with Cissy beside me. He said the workers in Marylebone could be troublesome."

"And so they can, which is why I should keep a lookout."

"But we will see plenty of you, I hope?" A childish pout crumpled her features. "You won't simply disappear into your work?"

"You will see me. What use would my dancing lessons be, if they were never to be put to the test?"

The question of setting their wedding date hove into view, but there was only so much he could deal with at one time, and he knew Priscilla would be hesitant to mention it if he didn't. It was cowardly of him to avoid it, he knew, but the pain of giving up Miss Ellsworth was still too fresh. Wait a while. When she was miles and miles away from him, instead of merely across the subscription room, then he could lay the memory of her in tissue paper and put it away for, oh, who knew how long, perhaps never to be taken down, unwrapped and examined again until he was an old, old man.