Chapter 5

Our young Englishman swam willingly down the stream of pleasure.

—Henry Brooke, The fool of quality (1776)

To the outward eye, Miss Beatrice Ellsworth appeared perfectly serene. She sat in what had become her favorite armchair, a blue brocade with wide arms, near enough to the fireplace that she could prop her feet on the fender as she sewed, and it was needlework which occupied her now. The Ellsworth ladies had spent the afternoon on a walk in the direction of Yapton, pulling little Joan and Margaret in their cart and pleasantly exhausting the entire party. Afterward the nursemaid took the girls away, leaving Beatrice to her work and Aggie to loll at the desk, talking of what she would write to her dear friend and sister-in-law Araminta Carlisle rather than actually writing anything.

"…Wouldn't you say?" chuckled Aggie.

Beatrice blinked, having not been attending. "To be sure," she ventured in reply. But she bowed her head to hide a blush. In truth, she had been thinking again of Mr. Clayton and wondering if he had been free to join Tyrone or if he still sat in the next house, working away.

Aggie ran the feather of her pen through her fingers. She had noted Beatrice's abstraction but had not the least idea if it stemmed from her terrible bathing accident or something altogether more pleasant. Not for the first time did she wish her mother-in-law Mrs. Wolfe were present. Beatrice had never been the sort of young lady who shared confidences freely, but the few times she did, it was invariably with Mrs. Wolfe.

To the mutual relief of the ladies, the door opened to admit Tyrone. Beatrice straightened and resumed her stitching, but Aggie tossed her pen aside.

"Well?" she asked, when he had kissed her cheek in salute, asked after their daughters, and heard her account of the day. "So much for our afternoon. How was yours? Did Mr. Clayton join you?"

"He did. A most agreeable fellow. And though he called himself ‘unlettered,' he had read a number of the offerings at the circulating library and had sensible things to say about them."

"I can't think when he would have managed it," Aggie replied, "if he's always working."

Tyrone shrugged. "One can't work 'round the clock, and I suspect that, when he has not been toiling away, he has been somewhat solitary."

"That makes sense. Who would he know in Worcester, after all, if that was where his most recent project took him?"

Throwing himself on the sofa and peeling off his gloves, Tyrone said with elaborate nonchalance, "I hope you don't mind, but I invited him to come this evening after supper."

Neither he nor Aggie missed Beatrice's head snapping up, though both were careful not to look at her.

"Because," he continued, "I mentioned the assemblies in the Subscription Room, and Clayton said no, thank you, he had no intention of doing any dancing while in Bognor."

"No dancing!" cried Aggie, as if Mr. Clayton had politely declined breathing.

Beatrice had removed her feet from the fender and turned fully to face her brother, though still she said nothing.

"Exactly," resumed Tyrone. "You understand my astonishment. Of course I pressed him on the matter, and he explained it was because he lacked the proper training. Ah ah ah—" He held up a playful hand to forestall his wife's interruption. "So I said that was all nonsense, of course, and we would gladly practice with him until he felt comfortable."

"Well, to be sure we will!"

"Moreover, I added that he would be doing us a favor to accept our tutelage, or you two would be begging for partners. The offer was made purely from self-interest, I told him."

"And has he agreed to come?"

"He has. At eight o'clock."

Daringly, Aggie said, "I like that. I mean, I like a person who isn't ashamed to admit his shortcomings and…seek to remedy them."

Tyrone made no response, thinking his wife in danger of overshooting the mark, so a silence followed, broken eventually by Beatrice herself.

"There will be no one to accompany us," she observed.

"Pooh," said Aggie, "you or I can play the tune once or twice through, and then we will hum it."

Punctual as before, Mr. Clayton was shown in by Pidgeley before the clock sounded its last chime. Beatrice's pulse quickened as she made her curtsey, and she kept two fingers on the back of the blue chair to prevent any obvious trembling. She could hardly account for herself. She had met dozens of gentlemen before—young, old, rich, poor, handsome, plain, intelligent, doltish—why should this particular one be different? And he was different. It must be because of the circumstances under which they met. Though if it had been, say, Pidgeley who pulled her from the Channel, would she have felt this same fluttering in her midsection whenever the footman appeared?

Surely I would, she told herself, not altogether convincingly.

Very well, then, she conceded. It was not the rescue alone which made Mr. Clayton interesting. But the rescue must be a part of it! It had not even been two days since the incident, after all. The further passage of time would undoubtedly conquer any lingering effects. And then Mr. Clayton will be no different to me than any other young, handsome, intelligent, agreeable man.

For the present he embodied all those qualities, however, and she could only hope no one guessed her inward tumult.

Clapping her hands, Aggie took charge. "Mr. Clayton, I must apologize for the way we seem to be claiming your every minute of rest and recreation. You are kind to indulge us, even to the point of taking up activities you have dispensed with in the past."

He bowed. "No, Mrs. Ellsworth, it is not all altruism on my part. As your husband observed, dancing is a skill I ought not to neglect, however few opportunities I have had before now to participate. I pray you will be patient with me, for it has been quite some time since I made the attempt."

"And we pray you won't mind that we have no accompanist," returned Aggie, seating herself at the instrument and running her fingers lightly over the keys. "I gave this some thought, sir, when Tyrone told us you were coming, for I learned to dance at school, where there were at least a score of us on hand at any time, and Beatrice and Tyrone first learned at home, where there were also plenty of family members to form sets. Therefore I have settled on Rufty Tufty, for it works perfectly well with only two couples, and it includes many of the steps found in other dances. This is what it sounds like, for I'm afraid after this you will simply have to listen to us try to sing it."

While Aggie played, the rest of them moved the furniture and rolled up the carpet, Tyrone already beginning to hum the tune, and then the foursome took their places.

"Will you do me the honor, Mr. Clayton?" Aggie laughed. "Though you will dance almost as much with Beatrice as with me in this one, you do the steps first with your partner, and that will make it easier to order you about."

She was right about the pairs dancing as much with the other couple as together. Indeed, while Aggie stood to Mr. Clayton's right, it was Beatrice opposite him, and when he took Aggie's hand to accompany her forward two steps, it was to Beatrice he made his bow. The same was true for nearly every step and pattern. After siding right with Aggie, he then immediately sided left with Beatrice. For each chorus, he first took Aggie by the hand to lead her outward before turning in place and doing the same with Beatrice.

The difference lay in each lady's response to their shared partner. While Aggie could call the steps and hum and smile and encourage as she danced, Beatrice was not quite mistress of herself. To her mortification she stepped in the wrong direction once, nearly colliding with Mr. Clayton, after which she made matters worse in the next sequence by thrusting her arm forward too vigorously to catch his. As a result, they jostled each other, and Mr. Clayton was obliged to do the polite thing and beg her pardon.

"No, no," she mumbled. "That was my mistake."

Nor had she ever given thought to what a difference wearing gloves made. Of course when the Ellsworths danced at home she wore none, which meant this evening she was barehanded, as was he. But with each light grasp of his, though he neither clutched nor pressed her fingers, she too soon realized that—that she would not mind if he did. Clutch or press her fingers, that was. Each quiet touch only reminded her how firmly he had held her in contrast, when he wrenched her to the surface of the water, her person pressed full length to his.

Heavens. Let me not change color. Let me not change color. Let me not change color. (Sadly, chanting this in her mind had no effect, apart from causing her to change color.)

"You're a perfect genius at it, Clayton," Tyrone declared before long. "You absolutely must attend Thursday's assembly with us, or all this talent will be wasted."

"If we were the only four people there and nothing played but Rufty Tufty over and over, world without end, I would do so without hesitation," he answered mildly.

The foursome paused here in their exertions when Fussell rattled in with the tea tray. Seizing upon this excuse, Beatrice sat down to busy herself with preparations. Let Mr. Clayton think—nay, let everyone think—she flushed because of the exercise and the warmth of the hot water.

"Come here, Tyrone," beckoned his wife. "Look at this music and see if there are others which we could try with only four of us." The two were soon engrossed, turning pages while they considered and debated, sometimes picturing the figures in their heads and other times stepping through them together.

After a minute of watching this with nothing to contribute, Clayton took the chair opposite Beatrice.

"How—how do you like your tea?" she asked, determined to stop being a ninny about him. Treat him as you would any other gentleman of your acquaintance. "With milk or sugar?"

"Both, please. A generous amount." He took the cup offered to him, nodding at her and taking a sip. "Perfect, Miss Ellsworth. What a treat. Molly, the maid at Number Five, for all her many excellencies, makes a rather disappointing cup of tea."

"Too strong? Too weak? Not enough sugar or milk?"

"Too weak. ‘Insipid' might best describe it."

Beatrice smiled. "I will defend your poor maid and say the fault may not lie entirely with her."

"How so?"

"In the first place, you strike me as…someone who does nothing by halves. Strong tea, plenty of milk, plenty of sugar. Perhaps many things you meet with—not just your tea—disappoint you as insipid." She wondered if he classified her thus. Miss Ellsworth, the pleasant but weak creature who nearly drowned.

To her surprise, his own color rose. "I suppose I gave you that impression because I was rather high-handed."

"High-handed? When?" she asked, puzzled.

"When I peremptorily recommended you learn to swim," he answered. "Without knowing you at all."

"Mr. Clayton, really! I beg you will not believe that I, knowing you equally as little, would seize this early occasion to criticize your character! I meant my remark as a compliment, rather. You are decisive. In your work, in your leisure, and in your tea."

This drew a genuine smile from him, softening his attractive features, and Beatrice lowered her gaze quickly, adding in a quiet voice, "Besides—I am glad you encouraged me to learn. I can hardly wait for tomorrow's lesson."

"Nor can I. Though I am enjoying this as well."

"See?" she replied. "I would expect as much. You would either love or hate dancing." Rising, she brought Tyrone and Aggie their cups, leaving them on the spinet because Tyrone was now beside his wife on the little bench while she played.

"Did you have another reason you thought I found Molly's tea insipid?" he asked when Beatrice resumed her seat. "You said, ‘in the first place…'"

"I did. I thought, if you did not come to Bognor with your own tea, the tea supplied by the owner of Spencer Terrace might not be the very finest."

"Why, you have hit upon it, Miss Ellsworth," he marveled, pointing to the cup in his hand. "This, I assume, is not Spencer Terrace Select then, but rather an Ellsworth import?"

"You think we travel with our tea caddy?" she laughed. "No. But we no sooner tried the ‘Spencer Terrace Select,' as you call it, than we resorted at once to the tea merchant in the High Street. We will send you home with some, sir."

"But then I will only need more tomorrow," he pointed out. "In which case I will have to return, whether you Ellsworths like it or not. Perhaps it would be better if I paid my own visit to the tea merchant in the High Street after our lesson."

His teasing won a dimpled smile from her. "You must please yourself, but I think it's obvious enough that you might come tomorrow and any day thereafter to resupply."

So much for treating him like any other gentleman of her acquaintance! No sooner were the words spoken than Beatrice heard how flirtatious, how eager they sounded, and she shrank back, hiding herself in a long sip of tea. Longer than the little tea remaining in her cup warranted, so that she was doing no more than pretending to drink, the last few seconds.

Fortunately Tyrone and Aggie rescued her by rejoining the pair and bustling about the tea things. (Tyrone had been in no hurry to do so, but Aggie glanced over and saw Beatrice's embarrassment.)

"We have agreed at last, Mr. Clayton," Aggie announced. "Tyrone was all for teaching you one of the longways dances, with him and Beatrice rushing around us, pretending to be a fresh couple each time through the pattern, but I think that might wait. In the meantime we might do Hit and Miss, which is more complicated than Rufty Tufty and would give us practice with changes. What do you say?"

Clayton's gaze flicked to Beatrice. "By all means, let us try Hit and Miss. With two arrows in my quiver, if we can bribe the musicians to play them, I might partner youfor the one, Mrs. Ellsworth, and Miss Ellsworth for the other, and retire with full honors, having done my duty."

"Ah ha!" said Tyrone. "Then you will come to the assembly on Thursday? Never fear, I will see to it that these our favorites are performed, and all Bognor will stand agog in admiration of your prowess."

Clayton shook his head, half amused and half rueful. "Egad. So be it. I will come."

The second lesson proceeded much as the first: Aggie played the music through several times; Aggie placed them and walked them through the figures; Clayton found himself dancing nearly as much with Miss Ellsworth as with Mrs. Ellsworth. While he grasped the patterns and steps even more quickly this time, he was conscious of enjoying himself less. It was not that the Ellsworths or the activity ceased to charm. It was that his mind kept returning to Miss Ellsworth's blush and sudden shyness. Nor did she speak another word that evening, if she could prevent it.

Had he been mistaken in thinking Miss Ellsworth required no protection from him, the humble John Clayton? Only hours before he had told himself such was the case. He had told himself he might dally in the enjoyment of a young lady's company with no danger to her or to others, casting it in the light of an indulgence of his own secret whim. But now—

But now here he stood, thinking he might have been altogether mistaken.

Incredible as it would have seemed even a day ago, John began to believe he was wronging her. Wronging Miss Ellsworth and wronging her family by not declaring himself openly as an engaged man. Because somehow his impetuous rescue of her had been the starting link in a chain of unlikelihoods. Gratitude led to warmth, and warmth led to the Ellsworths' decision to enfold him, to include him in everything, to like him as a person and a friend. And that last step—the fatal one—was inconceivably leading Miss Ellsworth in turn to consider him—as a possible suitor. There was no other word for it. Though he had so little experience with young ladies, and though he could not claim to know Miss Ellsworth well, nevertheless it was hard for him to imagine her smiling and speaking playfully to him out of sheer coquetry. For if coquetry alone moved her, why would she then turn pink and hunch in discomfiture, as if she had done something reprehensible?

One thing was plain. He must either withdraw hereafter from their company—avoid them, even—on some excuse, or he must make his situation known before things went too far. Before Miss Ellsworth's innocent ideas metamorphosed into expectations.

Neither path appealed to him. Now that he had met them and been so welcomed, he hated to think of retreating to the solitude of Number Five, Spencer Terrace, to his piles of correspondence and the cold comfort of work. To meals on a tray and days spent within doors with nobody to talk to but the servants. Not to mention, any withdrawal would require a plausible reason, and here he had already agreed to both the swim lessons and the assembly!

Therefore he must speak. He must make known Priscilla's existence.

But how to go about it? He could hardly say, "See here, you Ellsworths, it's clear I've charmed the lot of you, to the point that the beautiful, wealthy, educated, well-connected Miss Ellsworth has set her cap for me. Therefore, I'd better just nip all that in the bud by informing you of my pre-existing engagement." Heavens!

It got worse.

Even if gentler, subtler words could be found, Clayton realized he did not want to speak them. He wanted to go on as they were, it seemed. Most reprehensible. If Miss Ellsworth had continued indifferent to him, that would have been another matter. Then they could all have gone on and on, but now—now he could not excuse himself from trying to set things right.

He would tell Tyrone, he decided, even as he took hands with each of the foursome to step through the changes. The next time he and Ellsworth were alone and conversing. At the coffee house or the library. Then let Ellsworth tell his wife and sister. They would be surprised and, perhaps, disappointed, but it would all be got over and hidden away before they saw him next.

Failing that, he would have to seize upon another opportunity to talk about his work or the role Donald Brand played in his life, saying with as much ease as he could manage, "Yes, yes, he was the most important figure to me, and my connection to him continues, you understand, for I am engaged to marry his daughter." Picturing the ladies' reactions made him twitch uneasily just as he was taking Beatrice's hand to pass in change. At the movement, her clear hazel eyes met his, and a charge of another kind flew from fingertip to fingertip.

Tomorrow,John vowed. I will say all tomorrow.

Because heaven help me if I don't.