Chapter 4

People in such Circumstances, where one Thing leads to another, are unavoidably driven far beyond their first Intentions.

—Anonymous, An Inquiry into the Fitness of Attending Parliament (1739)

It would be a lie to say she was not scared.

Once again, Beatrice stood on the shore, this time wrapped in a thick woolen shawl beside Aggie while her brother and Mr. Clayton debated the best place to hold the lesson. While most bathers congregated east of the hotel, Tyrone pressed for a different site.

"If we were to go below the rocks," he suggested, pointing, "we would be assured greater privacy, and the waves there are somewhat dampened. It's a little ways, but surely we can convince one of the dippers to tow his bathing machine over there, that we might have somewhere to change afterward."

"Capital idea," agreed Clayton, and the next instant Tyrone was off to secure one.

Beatrice saw Mr. Clayton's head turn in her direction, and she hastened to smooth her brow. Her sleep had not been very sound the night before—she had even once dreamed herself back in the water, tugging to free her gown, only to wake panting with relief. But when the morning light crept through the gaps in the shutters, she arose determined to conquer her fear. It rather helped knowing that Mr. Clayton would be present, for while Beatrice might give way to tears or reluctance with only family about her, the presence of a stranger would spur her to courage—or at least the appearance of it.

"Capital," she echoed with assumed heartiness. Too hearty, perhaps, for Aggie threw her a skeptical look which Beatrice pretended not to see. Pulling her shawl tighter, she followed the men down the beach, the horse and bathing machine Tyrone had appropriated creaking and bumping after them. Mr. Clayton was not quite so tall as her brother, but his leaner person added to his appearance of height. And though she could not see the lines of his upper body clearly, for he wore a loose shirt over his breeches this morning to bathe, it seemed her imagination had no need for specifics. She remembered all too vividly the firmness of his chest pressing against her own and the strength of his arms, sweeping her to the surface—

"What first?" asked Aggie, when they reached the designated rocks, and the party had stowed their hats, bonnets and other accoutrements out of harm's way. She danced a little in the light breeze to keep warm.

"We'll be methodical about this," Tyrone said, his brow stern. (Beatrice was not the only one who had slept fitfully. Her brother had devoted considerable thought to how the "lessons" he received in the Cherwell at Oxford might be adapted to both ladies and the sea.) Waving them toward the water, he led them to where it lapped icily at their ankles. "The first step this morning will be to overcome any uneasiness about putting our faces in the water. Too many people try to swim whilst keeping their heads dry and entirely above the surface, which, besides making things more difficult, is nearly impossible in the waves. Swimming requires getting wet, so the sooner we accept that, the better off we will be." When his pupils nodded dutifully, he gave a satisfied clap. "Good. So what do you say we go out a little farther and take hands four, as if we were at an assembly? Then we will just dip our faces in for a count of five."

"Is this how you learned at New College?" his wife laughed, snatching up Bea's hand at once.

"No," he conceded, taking Bea's other. "At New College they tossed me in without warning. But there one was more likely to be clubbed with a punt pole or tangled in the reeds than to drown, so I have made some adjustments. With your permission, Clayton…"

The foursome did as instructed, forming a ring, as if in a ballroom intending to turn in circle. Slowly, Tyrone led them out until they were immersed to their hips. Feeling the strength of the surf pushing her about, Beatrice gritted her teeth. Courage.

Even as she exhorted herself, her eyes lifted to Mr. Clayton's across from her, and the reassuring nod and half-smile he gave her warmed her. Yes. Courage.

"All right," commanded Tyrone. "I'll give a squeeze when it's time to come back up, and Bea, you pass it along to Aggie. Are we ready? Yes? Then—stand firm to the scratch—and now!"

Screwing her eyes shut, Beatrice took a breath and thrust her face beneath the waves. Almost before she could do more than register the cold shock, Tyrone was pressing her hand, and she was pressing Aggie's and raising her head again, sputtering at the rivulets streaming down and declaring through coughs, "Why, that wasn't so bad!"

Better still were the second and third and fourth and fifth duckings, each lasting a little longer than the one before.

"What next? What next?" cried Bea after the last assay, when she succeeded in cracking open her eyelids underwater after a few seconds.

"This time when we go under, try to expel some air through your nose. Don't breathe in, for obvious reasons. Just try to breathe out."

This was harder. All three of the learners managed to get water up their noses and had to cough and sputter and snort it out, which made them laugh in discomfort, leading to more snorting.

"Out!" insisted Tyrone. "Blow out, don't inhale. Pretend you're blowing your nose into a handkerchief."

At last it was accomplished, more or less, and their laughter changed from embarrassment to enjoyment, so they soon clamored to try more.

"All right, all right," Tyrone said, chuckling himself. "If that is not enough, next you will hold your breath just like that, but you will lift your feet up at the same time and let me support you. Don't do a thing otherwise. Don't kick or thrash. Just hold your breath and you'll find you might float. I'll take you one at a time, of course, lest the whole lot of us go drifting off to Le Havre. You first, Clayton?"

It was the most thrilling morning Beatrice could recall. She thought she might be shy of her bathing gown clinging to her while the others looked on (certainly Mr. Clayton's shirt stuck to him like a transparent second skin), but the triumph of floating conquered even her innate modesty. At first she gripped her brother's arm where it held up her midsection till he gave a mock yelp, but clutching him made it harder to balance, and she gradually loosened her hold as she grew to trust the sensation, until she released him altogether.

"Brava! Brava, Beatrice!" crowed her sister-in-law, when Beatrice stood up again, pushing her dripping hair from her brow. "Isn't this marvelous?"

"Floating is halfway to swimming," Tyrone assured them. But when Aggie begged, "Can't we go the rest of the way, then, and start to swim?" he shook his head. "Tomorrow. And the day after and the day after. Not that you have to join us, if you don't like, Clayton, but the repetition will do the trick."

"I wouldn't miss it," the young man replied, wringing out the hem of his shirt and giving his dark hair a dog-like shake. "I don't know when I've enjoyed myself more and suspect I'll be good for nothing the rest of the day, despite the mountain of correspondence I must deal with."

"Then come with me to the coffee house this afternoon," suggested Tyrone, "if you've made a respectable amount of progress. I'll knock on Number Five when I go."

"I'd like that. Thank you."

When they donned dry clothing again, the group trudged up the beach, laughing and chattering, damp clothing bundled beneath their arms. At the subscription room they parted, Clayton heading back up to Spencer Terrace while the Ellsworths chose to visit the hotel for a cup of chocolate.

"What if we were to go to the warm sea-water baths now?" Beatrice asked, cradling her cup in her hands to warm them. "I might practice putting my face in again."

"Better not," said Aggie. "I suspect they replace the water only once per day in those warm baths."

"Don't want to overdo it," agreed Tyrone.

Beatrice sighed happily. "Tyrone, you were too, too wonderful! I cannot wait for tomorrow. And how very glad I am Mr. Clayton did not approve of the cotton-wool strategy. I confess I was afraid before we began this morning, but now I feel I could climb a mountain!"

"Indeed," Aggie seconded her. "The cotton-wool idea was too cautious of us by half, Tyrone. I only hope we are not being too demanding of Mr. Clayton's time. He seemed to delight in the lesson as much as we did, but perhaps when he returns to his piles of work, he will regret promising to come tomorrow. It is too easy, I suppose, to go from expressing our gratitude to making nuisances of ourselves."

"I will sound him this afternoon," her husband assured her. "If he refuses to come out or shows other signs of reluctance, then we will by all means desist. Or, at least, we will mitigate our zeal somewhat."

Beatrice bit her lip. And it must have been the morning's triumphs which drew the next words from her, for as Tyrone and Aggie discussed later in private, they were not at all in her nature.

"I should be very sorry if we were forced to draw back," she admitted. "Not only because he saved my life but because—he is good company and—and I like him very well."

As Clayton made his slow way up the High Street, a frown marred his features, one which had nothing to do with fatigue or the quickening breeze in his damp hair. It was not that he had not enjoyed himself as much as the Ellsworths supposed. On the contrary, it was precisely because he had enjoyed himself so thoroughly that he was troubled.

While the Ellsworths' gratitude justified their initial invitation to supper, and while his own suggestion that Miss Ellsworth learn to swim might have obligated them to include him in the lesson, anything and everything beyond that could only stem from their sincere desire to foster a friendship. A desire he found he shared, heaven help him. Indeed, he could think of nothing he would like better than to spend more time with the agreeable family.

Come, man, be honest.

He paused to let a carriage rattle by before crossing Upper Bognor Street.

Be honest.

Very well—the question he asked himself was, would he have any lingering misgivings about the budding connection, if Miss Ellsworth were not involved? He had thought they would disdain his work—they did not. And if the Ellsworths had no qualms about his profession, he had no further objections to raise, except—except that the existence of Miss Ellsworth complicated matters.

The existence of Miss Ellsworth—ay, there was the rub.

Confident as John Clayton was in his work, that assurance was confined to work sites and board rooms, machinery and parliamentary machinations. There had never been any call to judge himself as a man in relation to young ladies. He had been constantly occupied from the age of fourteen, and then before he had the leisure to turn his thoughts to the fair sex, the whole matter of attraction, love, and marriage was arranged for him. He gave his word to Donald Brand and within the week had plighted his troth to Brand's daughter Priscilla. That done, he returned to his work with a sigh, just as Priscilla returned to school and the care of Miss Croy. Over two years passed in which, if he thought of his intended, he did so as if she were a task to be completed, the time set for its accomplishment drawing ever nearer. To be sure, he had seen her briefly at holidays, but the recent completion of the Worcester and Birmingham Canal had kept him far away. Indeed, when he returned to London to begin work on the Cumberland Arm, it would be the first time in their engagement that he and Miss Brand lived near enough to each other for regular visits, she and Miss Croy having removed to town after Miss Brand finished school.

What sort of time was this, then, for doubts?

If he thought to himself that Miss Ellsworth was a charming young lady whom he would like to know better, what difference could that possibly make? And how much of that opinion could be attributed to the extraordinary circumstances which threw them together?

He was overthinking this.

Clearly his own personal desire could never come to anything, so did it therefore require him to drop the Ellsworths' acquaintance altogether? Could he not instead secretly, quietly, indulge himself, just this once? Explore what it meant, to find a young lady winsome and her company stimulating? Who knew but that, once these interests were awakened in him, he might meet Miss Brand again and see her with new eyes?

Clayton did not suppose Miss Ellsworth's heart would be in any danger. She, who had borne the attentions of however many far more eligible and appropriate Winchester men, would not be threatened by a mere engineer of no family or fortune, encountered at a seaside resort.

Having thus convinced himself and temporarily quashed his uneasiness, he climbed the steps of Number Five with a lighter heart, his mind already turning to the correspondence he would deal with once he was clean, dry, and dressed.

Precisely at three o'clock a knock was heard, and Tyrone Ellsworth was admitted by Molly. Before she could lead him up the stairs, however, Clayton was already descending.

"This is a good sign," declared Tyrone with a bow, "unless you were hoping to make your escape before I saw you."

"Nothing of the kind. I have answered the most pressing letters, and the rest can wait a few hours. I am at your disposal, Ellsworth. Let us see this library you boast of."

Amicably they set off down Upper Bognor Street, falling into easy conversation.

"I rejoice to see the morning's lessons did not weary you overmuch, Clayton."

"Then you should have seen me clinging to my desk to stay upright," he joked. "For that was more exertion than I have experienced in a fortnight."

"Gracious," returned Tyrone. "Then let us pray this little jaunt does not finish you. From your talk at supper I would have classified you as the active sort."

"So I am, ordinarily. But I am here in Bognor as a respite for my health, and it has answered well."

"Your health!" Tyrone glanced at his companion's lithe but sturdy frame. "What ailed you? Were you buried under a barrow-load of earth, or did some scaffolding collapse on you?"

"Neither, though a half-hour would fix the former and a half-year might not mend the latter," Clayton answered. Having reached the Crescent, they paused to admire the view before turning down the High Street. "It was a lingering cough from my work up in Worcester. The doctor months ago counseled rest and sea-bathing, but there simply wasn't time for it until the project was complete. And then it turns out rest alone was enough, for I found myself fully recovered in body, mind and spirit before I even set foot in the sea. I am recovered and ready to throw myself into the next thing."

"Which is…?"

"Which is the Cumberland Arm of the Regent's Canal. We aim to break ground as soon as I return to town." John held up crossed fingers as he said so. "Though I should know by now never to count my chickens."

"Optimism, my good man!" urged Tyrone, clapping him by the shoulder. "Though now that you are indeed hale and hearty, must we lose your company so soon?"

"I have set no fixed date as yet for my return, and now…"

"And now, how can you?" supplied his companion, grinning. "For today you will subscribe to the circulating library, if I have anything to say about it. Nor could you depart before you have learned to swim. And thirdly, I freely confess my wife has hopes you will stay for an assembly or two, so that she and Beatrice will not be reduced to fighting over me as their sole partner."

A carriage emerged from the square behind the East-row houses, and Clayton glanced past it to the obelisk beyond, apprehension pricking him again. "I daresay if I left Bognor, somebody could be prevailed upon to dance with Mrs. and Miss Ellsworth besides you."

"I should have been more specific," said Tyrone. "I mean to say I might be their sole partner below the age of fifty. For, I do not know how you selected Bognor as your medicinal bathing place of choice—we are here because Aggie's mother praised it relentlessly—but in this season it could hardly be called over-peopled with the young and fashionable. Consider the hotel," he continued, gesturing at the commodious building they approached. "In season this place is crowded to bursting, but it's sedate enough now."

He no sooner spoke than a pair of bent and balding gentlemen emerged, one leaning upon the other's arm, to shuffle across the gravel path.

"You see?" murmured Tyrone, lips twitching.

But Clayton did not respond to the jest. He frowned, and he felt again that awkwardness, that awareness that he did not hail from the same world as the Ellsworths, despite their friendly overtures. Stopping abruptly, he forced Tyrone to halt in turn and retrace his steps.

"What?"

"Look here, Ellsworth," he said, his throat tightening. "I had better say this now: I have no intention of attending any assemblies."

Tyrone blinked at him, aware of his own secret dismay. Had he been too pushing? Heavens, he had. Now Clayton thought they were trying to ensnare him on Bea's behalf, which, if not true was not altogether untrue. But how could they be blamed for making the attempt, when Beatrice never showed the slightest interest in anyone marriageable? One thing was certain, however—Aggie would be disgusted with him for botching the work before it had well begun.

"All right, then," Tyrone replied, striving for nonchalance. "You're a busy man. Of course we don't mean to claim all of your time."

"It's not that." Clayton scowled past his shoulder at the glittering surf. "It's that…well…I don't really know much about it. Dancing, that is. I'm no proficient, I mean to say. I've had a lesson here or there, but I've never had a dancing master or any such thing."

"Oh! Is that all?"

Tyrone's relief was obvious, and his companion's mouth twisted grimly. "Yes. I suppose it doesn't sound like much to you, but I fear I would be uncomfortable and not any better service to the young ladies than those codgers who just shuffled past. I'd be worse, in fact, for at least they would know where to stand and in which direction to go, even if they couldn't get there in time."

"But—but—Clayton, hear me out." Tyrone looped an arm through his and dragged him in the direction of the hotel garden, which was still green at this time of year if no longer flowering. "It's a pretty dangerous admission to make, you know, to say you can't dance. Because we Ellsworths live to dance. And if Aggie and Bea heard you chose to deprive yourself of such a pleasure, they would grieve for your loss." He hesitated, debating whether he should "push" again.

"Oh, Lord," groaned Clayton, almost chuckling in spite of himself. "You're about to offer to teach me, aren't you?"

"It crossed my mind," confessed Tyrone, and then he did laugh. "We've already seen each other dripping and draggled—why not neat and tripping across the floor of Number Four, Spencer Terrace? If I don't ask you, my wife will demand to know why I didn't. And look—you will thank us, one day. If you're having to associate with lords and MPs, as well as lowly diggers and puddlers, you had better learn how to comport yourself in a ballroom. Come tonight. After supper, say, to kill an hour before bedtime. It's nothing, man! We haven't been able to dance since we arrived, there being only three of us. It would be such a treat for us all because otherwise my dear family will have to listen to another chapter of whichever book I have to hand, and last night I could already see I was losing their attention."