Chapter 13

…Speake

Her pardon or her sentence; onely breake

Thy silence.

—Richard Crashaw, Steps to the temple: Sacred poems, with other delights of the muses (1646)

If Mrs. Dodson had hoped to impress Lady Hufton by introducing the handsome John Clayton and unexceptionable Miss Brand to her acquaintance, the fact that Lady Hufton's charge already knew them robbed her of this satisfaction.

"It was but a brief acquaintance," Miss Ellsworth said almost apologetically, after referencing the time in Bognor. Mrs. Dodson's jeweled bosom and social confidence cowed her in her flustered condition, and she thoughtlessly added, "I daresay you and Miss Kempshott know them quite as well as I do already."

To Clayton's anxious ears, this was a scoff, as if she had added, "They have turned out so different from what I was led to believe." She could say this, after what had passed between them at the seaside? Not the rescue—he hardly thought of the rescue—but the laughter and dancing and friendship and talk?

A hundred possible responses occurred to him, none finding utterance, and he was grateful when Miss Croy spoke up (a result of Priscilla poking her and whispering).

"But Miss Ellsworth, how do you come to be in London?" asked the unprepossessing woman. "You never mentioned such a plan in Bognor."

Beatrice colored, in dread that Mr. Clayton should think she had followed him, to force herself once more upon his notice. "I said nothing of it, Miss Croy, because at the time I had no notion of taking another trip."

"As a matter of fact, it was I who begged Beatrice to join us," spoke up Lady Hufton, squinting her eyes and tipping up her chin. "I thought my Marjorie would enjoy the capital so much more with a friend her age. They are stepcousins, you see. My brother is married to Beatrice's stepmother."

"Goodness, I hope you will admit me to your company," said Miss Kempshott cheerfully, "if Miss Brand and Miss Ellsworth are already acquainted, and Miss Hufton and Miss Ellsworth nearly cousins. Miss Brand must vouch for me, Miss Ellsworth. I am harmless. We may all band together, I hope, to carry the day and conquer London."

Mrs. Dodson could not pretend to share her niece's delight and seconded this with a chilly smile. Four young ladies! What was Kitty thinking? The girl had no more awareness of danger than a goldfish. A herd of four young ladies would scare away every eligible young man in sight! And though Miss Brand was already engaged and Miss Hufton looked only a younger, grimmer version of her mother, Miss Ellsworth was a horse of another color—

"We might be too late, however," continued Miss Kempshott in the same blithe manner, "because it seems Lady Sylvia Stanley has already made off with the prize of the season. Let us pray some other worthy appears to practice our wiles upon."

"Kitty, honestly," chided her aunt, even as Miss Hufton's face darkened.

With a sniff the latter declared, "You may have my share of gentlemen, Miss Kempshott, for I have no intention of ever marrying."

Then it was Lady Hufton's turn to cluck, "Oh, Marjorie, my dear! Such vehemence."

"You would be vehement too," muttered her daughter, "had you been kidnapped against your will as I have."

"Ha ha, dear girl!" tittered Lady Hufton. "‘Kidnapped,' indeed! As if a thousand girls would not give their eyes to be in your place."

"There would be no need for them to make such a sacrifice," scowled Miss Hufton, "when rather it is I who would give anything to return to Kent."

An awkward pause succeeded this, into which Clayton eventually dropped, like a pebble in a pond, "It appears then, if eligible London is to be conquered, Miss Kempshott, it must be you and Miss Ellsworth in the vanguard, and I do not doubt you will prove equal to the task."

"Behold—a gauntlet thrown down!" cried Miss Kempshott. "Miss Ellsworth, shall we take it up?"

Beatrice smiled tightly, despite a flare of vexation. What did Mr. Clayton mean, saying she must be in London to catch a husband—as if she were a flirt, a butterfly? As if Lady Hufton had not just explained the reason for her presence? (And keeping Marjorie Hufton company so far had certainly proven more a chore than a pleasure.) Mr. Clayton had no right, no right at all, to assume her presence at this rout bespoke some other hidden motive!

"Mr. Clayton makes it sound as if conquering London was something only attempted by young ladies," she said with dangerous sweetness. "But for every young lady here who dreams of courtship, surely there is also a young man who dreams of climbing."

There, she thought, seeing him redden. But the next instant she felt ashamed—the man had saved her life, after all, and she begrudged him one little, half-teasing, critical remark? If it could even have been called critical. For there was no denying that many—most—young ladiesdidcome to town to catch husbands. Had Mr. Clayton discovered her in Hounslow Heath holding a pistol, he would be excused for thinking her a highwayman—how was this any different?

Each felt misunderstood. Each longed for an opportunity to explain.

At the top of the stairs, the hostess Lady Aurora Robillard welcomed them, though she blinked in surprise at the unknown Clayton party.

"Who is this with you, my dear Mrs. Dodson and Miss Kempshott?"

"Miss Brand here is a school friend of Miss Kempshott's cousin," Mrs. Dodson explained, a little startled herself to realize the Clayton party had no acquaintance of their own with their august hostess. Had she been currying favor with an umbra—an uninvited guest?

"Which makes her my friend as well," put in Miss Kempshott, smilingly.

"And I too consider Miss Brand and—Mr. Clayton and Miss Croy friends," blurted Beatrice from the step below, scarlet flooding her face even as she spoke. The eyebrows of Lady Aurora rose at these bold interjections, but Lady Hufton scrambled to regain control of the situation. "Yes, indeed, Lady Aurora. Do pardon the informality of my dear step-niece. You know how eagerly the younger people take to each other."

"I do indeed," Lady Aurora returned. There was no doubt this Mr. Clayton was a handsome addition to her gathering, whoever he was, so she let the irregularity pass, giving them a parting nod.

If Beatrice hoped to catch Mr. Clayton's eye at that point, she was disappointed, for Mrs. Dodson swept her niece and the Clayton party away with a breezy, "Would you excuse us, Jenny? I promised Mr. Clayton I would introduce him to as many noteworthy people as I could manage."

Not knowing Miss Ellsworth's feelings on the matter and glad to have escaped a ticklish situation, Lady Hufton raised no objections, instead taking firm hold of her daughter's elbow to steer her behind some palms and tell her a piece of her mind. Beatrice had no choice but to accompany them, though she would have preferred not to hear what followed.

"A word with you, young lady," Lady Hufton hissed.

"Don't you want a word with Miss Ellsworth too?" demanded her daughter. "I can see you mean to criticize my conduct, but it was Miss Ellsworth who just accosted our hostess when nobody was addressing her!"

"Never mind about Beatrice," Lady Hufton said, not to be distracted. "Listen to me: your papa and I have your best interests at heart, and I would have you hold your chin up and remember yourself. What would have become of you, Marjorie, if we allowed you to elope with Hughes? You would have lost your rank! Your place in the world! All to be the wife of a drunken groom, growing poorer and more slatternly by the year!"

Such home truths only caused Marjorie to burst out in sobs, which her mother tried to hush and Beatrice to mask with a coughing fit.

"But I love him, Mama! And he isn't drunken—that is, he doesn't drink too much, and he tells me he will not touch another drop, if only I will marry him! Can't we go home again?"

"We absolutely cannot. If you ever wish to see Kent again, Marjorie, you must prove to your father and me that you can behave sensibly. Here you are surrounded by your kind. You must not complain at where God has seen fit to place you in the world. That dreadful Hughes has probably already given up and begun to chase someone more within reach—"

This drew new wails, and Beatrice was forced to utter, "Madam, we will be overheard!" Ducking behind the potted palms, she put an arm about the girl's shaking shoulders. "Miss Hufton, I am so sorry for your distress. It must be very difficult to be asked to—put aside and-and forget someone you care for." This was by no means the first time Beatrice had tried to express timid sympathy (though from the bits and pieces her unhappy stepcousin shared of the groom Hughes, Beatrice could not begin to understand his appeal). On every earlier occasion, however, Miss Hufton had snappishly told Beatrice to keep her breath to cool her porridge. But now, a fortnight onward, as water wears away the stone, the girl gave way like a rotting wall and slumped against her. Lady Hufton's eyes met those of Beatrice. Here was progress!

Beatrice nodded at her step-aunt, mouthing, Leave her to me a while.

"I will fetch us some refreshment," announced Lady Hufton loudly. With a last glance at her still-sniffling daughter, she marched away.

Miss Marjorie Hufton might be quieting, but her tears continued to flow in abundance, as Beatrice could attest, feeling the damp spot on her shoulder spread toward her bodice. This must be what the cisterns felt like when the gutters from the eaves emptied rain into them.

"Miss Hufton," she murmured.

"Ermjree," wept the latter, her words unintelligible. "Kermer ermjree."

"Miss Hufton," Beatrice said again. "Again, I am sorry for your heartbreak. If it—if it is any comfort, I know what it is like to—form a doomed attachment."

Miss Hufton's head came up so quickly she nearly knocked Beatrice in the chin. The girl looked considerably the worse for wear, her small eyes now red-ringed and her complexion blotched. "Y-You do?"

Much as she wished to comfort her companion, Beatrice shrank from making a detailed confession, especially with the object of her affections somewhere nearby. She cleared her throat. "I do. There was—someone I met once whom I liked very much."

"But your parents objected?"

"No…my parents never met him. But he—shortly after I met him, he went away, and later I heard he—had been engaged to somebody else all along."

"Wretch!" cried Miss Hufton. "Leading you to believe—when he was engaged the whole time! Then he was not deserving of your affection," she declared, not giving Beatrice a chance to defend Mr. Clayton, even if she had known how. "He was not like—not like—my—my—darling Sam." Another wail began to wind up, like the whistling approach of a cannonball which would blast them to pieces, but Beatrice jammed the girl's face against her again, administering hasty pats and susurrations to cover the urgency of the measure.

"In any event," Beatrice continued, "we must rally, Miss Hufton."

"Ermjree."

"What?"

Miss Hufton's head rose again, and this time she shrieked before Beatrice could do anything about it, as her earring had snagged in the lace trim of Beatrice's dress and jerked her back.

"Shh—shhh—here—let me untangle it," said Beatrice, fumbling to detach the whimpering girl. Their nearness and her slippery silk gloves made it a tricky business, but at last it was done. "There. Heavens, Miss Hufton."

"Marjorie," said the latter with a long sniff. "Thank you. Won't you call me Marjorie?"

"Yes, of course I will, if you will call me Beatrice. But I mean to say, we must rally. We must. For our own sakes and for the sake of those who love us. Leaving aside the question of their worthiness, we must try to—forget those persons we—liked—and carry on."

"Oh, Beatrice. I don't know if I can." Marjorie's face screwed up again alarmingly, but then, just as quickly, it unscrewed, and her mouth fell open. "Dear me! What a mess I have made of you, when you have been so kind. You look like you've been ducked head foremost in a barrel and swished about."

Dismayed, Beatrice looked down to see it was so, the fabric of her sleeve and upper bodice darkened with moisture and her lace now trailing several threads.

"Here," said Marjorie, snapping open her fan and beginning to wave it energetically. "We will dry you. Where is yours? Quickly, before Mama returns."

"There is no way I will dry before Lady Hufton returns," protested Beatrice, but she plied her own fan all the same.

"Good gracious!" came Lady Hufton's voice. The rest of her followed soon after, bearing two glasses of lemonade. "Well, I am relieved to see you have mastered yourself, Marjorie, but what have you done to poor Beatrice? No, no—stop that, girls. All that fanning is only making her hair untidy. Here, Beatrice, take your glass of lemonade and hold it with both hands in front of you. Perhaps no one will notice. But in the next drawing room where I got these, one of Lady Aurora's maids was putting drops of sal volatile in water for old Mrs. Sloane. If you hurry, you can catch her and tell her to bring you one of Lady Aurora's muslin shawls to cover yourself with."

Beatrice obeyed. Shoulders hunched and lemonade held before her like a ceremonial chalice, she threaded her way through the gathering until she reached the passage, where she peeped into the rooms opening to either side.

There was no sign of Lady Aurora's maid, but without any better ideas, Beatrice ventured into the refreshment room nevertheless. Perhaps she might tuck her handkerchief into the top of her dress while she waited? If she ate something at the same time, her action would seem only gauche, rather than bizarre.

Replacing the glass of lemonade on the table, Beatrice snatched up a biscuit and retreated to a chair behind more potted palms in the farthest corner of the room, where she might wait for the reappearance of the maid. Whether from economy or the wish to provide private corners of retreat, the candles in the nearest sconces were not lit, lending a welcome dimness.

Thus hidden from view, Beatrice did not bother with getting out her handkerchief and absently began to eat her biscuit, seizing upon the moment of peace to return to thoughts of Mr. Clayton. If she could find him again, she would apologize for her unpleasant insinuation. To call him a climber! Why, he might have a dozen reasons to be at this rout. Miss Brand had said he met often with important people, after all. Perhaps one of those important people had asked to speak with him here, especially since his latest project was found right here in the capital, rather than the more northerly hinterlands. Yes, that must be it—Mr. Clayton hoped to meet someone for business, but had not yet found him and was thus placed in the awkward position of attending the rout without prior acquaintance of the hostess. Hardly an approach he would have chosen, if his primary goal was to ingratiate himself with the fashionable world! Oh—it was all too, too plausible, and she had accused him of making up to people for ambition's sake!

"Please," she prayed under her breath, "please may I have a chance to beg his pardon?" She could not even revive her earlier resentment toward him, when he had joked about her conquering London. Indeed, now it struck her as a blessing. For wasn't it better for him to think she was in town to catch a husband, than for him to suspect she came in hopes of seeing him?

Providence soon smiled upon Beatrice's prayer, with the appearance of the very man she sought in the doorway, accompanied by Lord Stanley, but like all answered prayers it proved a mixed blessing, for her pulse accelerated so violently in response she thought she might swoon. Gracious! Would they come near? And if they did not, should she approach Mr. Clayton? But how could she, when he had the earl beside him and the two of them were conversing so intently, and her dress was in such disarray?

The two gentlemen seemed more in want of privacy than refreshment for, to Beatrice's consternation, they strolled slowly in her direction.

"…You saw one of the chief reasons for my hesitation beside me, I daresay," Lord Stanley was saying. "My daughter Lady Sylvia was still in school when Parliament approved the Cumberland Arm and Brand approached me to invest. But now over two years have passed. Brand has died, God rest him, and my Sylvia must take her place in the fashionable world. And when she marries there will be the matter of her settlement. I would not have you believe I am a poor man, Clayton, but of course my money does not sit around in bags upon my desk, waiting until I have need of it. What I had ready at hand two years ago has since been allocated elsewhere. That is the long and short of it."

They had stopped some feet away, on the other side of the potted palms, and Beatrice hunched accordingly deeper into the shadows, hardly daring to breathe.

"Sir." Mr. Clayton's voice was heavy. "What you say makes perfect sense, I assure you. But I hope it will make sense to you as well when I observe that the loss at this stage of our chief investor, no matter how plausible the reasons for his withdrawal, will come as a crippling setback to the project as a whole."

Stanley grunted, unwilling to concede the point, and after another pause, Clayton continued. "I wonder if you could not…speak to your man of business and perhaps…find some portion of the original pledge? Not five hundred shares, to be sure, but possibly four hundred or three hundred. It would be far easier for me to persuade other investors to take up the necessary shares if I could still speak of you as the driving force behind the project, not to mention, filling the gap of one or perhaps two hundred shares is more easily done than the alternative."

"Hmm."

In the gloom Beatrice could not be positive, but she thought the earl frowned and twitched with annoyance.

"Hmm," Stanley grunted again after a minute, giving a wave of his gloved hand idly mid-air, as if chasing away a cloud of gnats. "Let me think on it and let you know my decision at another time."

With sinking spirits, Beatrice thought Mr. Clayton would be lucky if Lord Stanley handed over so much as three or four shillings at this rate. But though she expected Mr. Clayton to admit defeat and let the earl flee, he surprised her, drawing a deep breath and straightening. "Thank you, sir. If you would allow me one last observation…?"

A grimace from the earl met this persistence, which Mr. Clayton wisely or foolishly pretended not to see.

"This arm off the Regent's Canal is too valuable an enterprise to be left undone," he resumed, "and it will be completed, by hook or by crook, as the saying goes. You see how the Grand Junction Canal has already proven its value—and rewarded its initial investors—a hundred times over, but how much more valuable will a branch be, which joins the Grand Junction to the capital itself? For at present everything conveyed on that mighty canal can only be brought the final miles to the markets and warehouses and barracks of London with great inconvenience and expense. Imagine, then, the golden day when those same things float easily and cheaply from the farther reaches of the kingdom or the ends of the earth all the way to the heart of the capital, stopping only to pay a few tolls. Tolls which will line the pockets of those who first made such a miracle possible."

Beatrice had a sudden vision of barge after barge heaped with goods, floating along a glimmering waterway—a vision which admittedly drew more inspiration from Enobarbus' speech in Antony and Cleopatra than reality—but something similar must have struck Lord Stanley because this time his grunt was more of an "ah-ha."

For the first time since entering the room, the earl looked directly at his petitioner. "Ah-ha," he repeated. "Hmm. I understand. Yes, Clayton, your point is a persuasive one. Let me talk to my man. Perhaps some portion may be recovered."

"Then—I may continue to name you as one of the investors?" pressed Mr. Clayton.

"…You may," conceded Lord Stanley at last. "Not the principal investor, but you may name me. And, in the meantime you must give such a speech to as many as you can. Here you stand, my good man, in the financial and social capital of all the world. Surely you can turn that to your advantage."

With that he swept away, leaving Mr. Clayton to regard him thoughtfully. Beatrice thought he would follow, but he must have wanted to afford the earl some space, for he lingered, wandering after another moment toward the table of refreshments.

Now, Beatrice!she urged herself. Go to him. Let her damp and straggling condition be, for she might not find another opportunity, and even this occasion could not last. She was surprised, in fact, that Lady Hufton had not already come in search of her.

"Mr. Clayton."

He startled at her voice. "Miss Ellsworth!" In a glance he took in her appearance, and the corners of his mouth twitched. "Did I miss another swim lesson?"

She made a hasty, dismissive gesture. "Never mind my appearance. Mr. Clayton, I may only have a second to tell you, but I wanted to—to beg your pardon for my—my—my discourteous and—unjustified remark earlier this evening. When I called you a ‘climber,' I mean. Or—I did not call you that, exactly, but I might have implied—did imply. It discomfited you, I'm afraid, and it was wholly undeserved. You have shown me nothing but kindness, you know. And I don't believe it of you at all! Not a bit. I cannot think what possessed me—therefore I have been so embarrassed this evening. So regretful—"

He was already holding up his hands to stem her outpouring. "Miss Ellsworth—please. I assure you, if there was anything to pardon, I have long done so. It was natural you would be astonished to find me here—I'm rather astonished myself. Though not as much as I was to find you here as well, until your—‘step-aunt,' would she be called?—explained the circumstances."

Beaming, Beatrice clasped her hands to her soggy bosom. "Yes—what an unexpected occurrence. When I learned I was coming here, I—thought the odds very small that we would meet…"

"And I thought when I left Bognor I would never see you again," he said quietly.

A weighty pause followed, where neither knew quite what to say.

You have apologized, Beatrice reminded herself. You may go now. But she didn't move.

With a wrench, Clayton tried to turn the conversation in an easier direction. "Yes—that is—in Bognor I gave you no indication that I intended to live the life of a swell in town—"

"Nor do you intend to live such a life," Beatrice broke in, glad of another opportunity to assure him of her good opinion. "For I must also confess I overheard your discussion with Lord Stanley just now. I could not help it. I was seated behind the palms in the corner, trying to repair my state." She held out her arms, as if he had not seen the dampness of her dress. "You can understand why I hesitated to spring from my hiding place. I suppose you must have come tonight in hopes of speaking with him."

"I did."

"I am sorry, Mr. Clayton—it sounded like trouble with your canal project."

He regarded her a long moment, his lips pressing in a line, as if to hold back words. But then he nodded. "I'm afraid so."

"Oh, my." Beatrice extended a hand toward his sleeve but stopped short. "If I understood correctly, you will require additional investors to…make up for Lord Stanley withdrawing."

"You have hit the nail right on the head, I'm afraid." His eyes fell to her outstretched hand and then swiftly looked away.

Self-consciously, she drew it back and wound it in her skirts. "I found your description of what the Cumberland Arm can be—will be—so powerful," she went on. "So persuasive. Why, I decided two things on the spot from hearing it."

That drew a smile. "Did you? Pray enlighten me. What two things did you decide so impulsively, my dear eavesdropper?"

Feeling her face warm to be called dear, even in jest, she hurried on. "For one thing, I would write to my family of it. You remember Tyrone showed interest? As for myself, I have only my pin money ready to hand, unless I speak to my brother-in-law Mr. Fairchild, but perhaps he would agree to advancing me a portion of my inheritance—"

"Miss Ellsworth," he interrupted, his expression alarmed. "I beg you not to speak to your Mr. Fairchild."

"But why not? You believe it a worthy investment, so what would I lose by it?"

"Please. It is indeed a worthy investment, but all the same, it would not be proper to ask a young lady to draw on her own funds." He gave an expressive shudder. "To be honest, I wish you would not mention it to your brother, either. It would seem as if I had…preyed upon your goodwill at Bognor."

"How, ‘preyed upon'?" she demanded, indignant on his behalf. "Why should you praise the enterprise, when speaking to Lord Stanley, and then act as if it were some—some swindle if I propose to participate?"

"Because it would be a swindle of sorts, Miss Ellsworth," he replied, his rueful smile returning. "It would be taking advantage of—of your family's kindness and friendship, when the idea to invest would never have occurred to any of you, had you not met me. But come—do not look so downcast. Tell me the second thing you ‘decided on the spot,' and let us hope it is not similarly objectionable."

His tone had become teasing with this last, and Beatrice at first could only blush and stammer a little in response. How she longed to come to his aid, if only he would allow it!

"Well, whether you find my second idea objectionable, I daresay you can do nothing to prevent me acting on it," she began, with a touch of defensiveness.

"Dear heavens, what can it be? A sign? An advertisement published in the newspapers? A shop card you will hand out in Bond Street?"

Her hazel eyes flashed at him. "It is neither kind nor friendly of you to mock me, sir, when I mean to do you a good turn."

"You're right," he said solemnly. "Forgive me, Miss Ellsworth, and let me hear you in good earnest."

"I simply thought that, if I am to be in London for the time being, meeting all sorts of people, perhaps I might have occasion to talk about your project and—how beneficial it would be." In shyness she spoke to the top button of his waistcoat. "I have heard your speech and think I could manage to reproduce a version of it when called upon. Only—if I do find any of my new acquaintance showing interest, to whom should I direct them?" Raising wary eyes and clearly expecting him to find fault with this plan as well, she was glad to see him wrestling with the notion.

And Clayton was indeed wrestling. He could not help but remember how, only a few hours earlier, he had effectively asked Priscilla to let him do the talking to their new acquaintances that evening. Leery of her youth and na?veté, he had feared she might blunder and jeopardize his own efforts. Having thus bid his intended bride to guard her tongue, how then could he give Miss Ellsworth permission to speak on his behalf, to whomever she thought fit?

Miss Ellsworth is cleverer than Priscilla, may heaven pardon me for saying so.

He tried to rationalize it to himself. Miss Ellsworth was a few years older, and when one was so young, each year of additional maturity made a difference. But, no, that was not all of it. Miss Ellsworth was by nature more reserved, more contained in company than Priscilla. He trusted her discretion. She would never fidget or prance or baldly yearn for attention as Priscilla did, poor girl. Twice-poor Priscilla Brand, whose soon-to-be husband could tally up her weaknesses so coolly! Indeed, though Clayton would have been a far happier man to overlook such things, it was impossible for him, as impossible as overlooking engineering flaws in a work project.

Finally, slowly, he said, "I have no authority over you, Miss Ellsworth…"

"Not a shred of it," rejoined Beatrice promptly, with more confidence than she felt. Inwardly her spirits danced. He was going to let her help him! He trusted her not to bungle things! (Oh, please, dear Lord, may I not bungle things—)

"And I suppose I have already pushed my luck in asking you not to invest personally in the Cumberland Arm." He shook his head, but he was smiling. "Therefore, if you find any fish nibbling at your line, you had better direct them to Alan Braham, Cursitor Street."