Chapter 6

That"s a day longer than a wonder lasts.

—Shakespeare, Henry VI, Part III, III.ii.1601 (1591)

She might have gone farther, but Beatrice was so elated after taking her first completely independent strokes that she stood up in the surf exclaiming, "Did you see that? Did you see that?"

But it was Mr. Clayton she surfaced in front of, not Tyrone. "Goodness me," she laughed, when she pushed her streaming hair from her eyes and realized her mistake. "I thought you were my brother. I did not mean to shout at you."

"I don't mind a bit," he replied, running a hand through his own dripping locks. "I saw your last couple strokes. You were doing it, Miss Ellsworth—you were swimming!"

"Yes!" Clapping her hands and hopping with a splash, she sang, "I was swimming! All by myself." Catching sight of Tyrone she added, "Botheration! He had his back to me and didn't see a thing. I might have drowned, for all he knew."

But her annoyance was fleeting because she was too pleased with herself, and when she smiled again, eyes twinkling, Clayton heard himself say, "I would never have let you. Drown, that is."

"Oh." She lowered her eyes to the water, dragging her fingers through the floating foam. "Thank you. I know you wouldn't."

Inwardly he groaned. What was he doing, saying such things, and with such earnestness? After the previous night's vow that he would make a clean breast of it and confess the existence of Priscilla Brand? (Not that he could do so now, though, while he and Miss Ellsworth stood in the Channel wet to the skin.)

To cover their mutual embarrassment, Clayton said, "I still haven't got the timing of the kick right. I sink like a stone between each pull of the arms. Nevertheless, with regrettable masculine overweening, I hereby challenge you to a race, Miss Ellsworth. To the shore. I'll even give you the start of m—"

Before he could complete his offer, she was off with a splash, and he shut up at once to throw himself in after her. Truth be told, they were both such beginners that a skilled child could have beaten either of them, Clayton's timing being as clumsy as he claimed, and Beatrice so eager to win that she flailed in place nearly as much as she propelled herself forward. Fortunately they were so near shore that both could stand when they ran out of breath, to laugh and stumble from the water.

The clouds were beginning to thin and the October sun to filter through, but they hurried to wring what water they could from their bathing attire before taking it in turns to change in the bathing machine's shelter.

Clayton emerged to find Beatrice wound in a shawl and peering out to sea. She raised a hand to wave back at Tyrone and Aggie, who showed no signs yet of wanting to be done.

"That Mrs. Ellsworth puts us both to shame," he observed. "Look at her go. If she and your brother were to race, she might even beat him."

"I'm not the least bit surprised," agreed Beatrice, willing her teeth not to chatter. "For she and my sister Araminta were always such tomboys. They excelled at every sport they tried, growing up. Wait till Minta hears Aggie has learned to swim, or even that I have, after a fashion. She'll be consumed by envy!"

"Perhaps your sister could be lured to Bognor herself."

"I doubt it. She likes to be wherever her husband Mr. Carlisle is, and Nicholas is a doctor and works as hard as ever you do, Mr. Clayton. But patients aren't like projects—there never seems to be a predictable gap when everyone is well or not having babies. I'm afraid Minta will just have to stay envious." There was a moment's pause before she ventured, "And—you? Have you brothers or sisters, Mr. Clayton?"

"Not a one, sadly. Which means therefore that I also lack any sisters' husbands or brothers' wives who might eat their hearts out with envy at my new skills."

"Oh, no! Then must your swimming go altogether unadmired?"

An unengaged man might have made the flirtatious reply, "Only if you will not admire it, Miss Ellsworth." But alas, Clayton was not an unengaged man.

No. And here they were, again, within a heartbeat of his necessary confession.

He could not and should not hide the fact any longer, he determined, his hands gathering in fists. Not when, with each passing minute, he was more tempted to do just that. It was precisely because the temptation grew that he must speak.

Therefore he swallowed, feeling his heart quicken. "But you must not think my myriad virtues have gone unnoticed," he began, striving for a teasing tone, "though I have been alone in the world in regard to family. As I mentioned, at the age of fourteen I was apprenticed to Mr. Donald Brand, the best of men and as willing as any fond father to admire and praise."

"I am so sorry for his death, then," murmured Beatrice, her heart a little wrung to think of so kind and agreeable a person as Mr. Clayton losing his dear mentor and closest companion. What did that make him now, if not alone? "I declare—it makes me glad, then," she continued, "that we might all be friends. You and we Ellsworths, I mean. Not that it wouldn't be the case—that we wouldn't like you, that is—if you had twenty brothers and sisters and as many more brothers' and sisters' spouses." Aware that she was starting to babble, she gave way to her chattering teeth and busied herself with winding her shawl tighter.

Now,thought Clayton. Blast it, man, you must speak now.

But he delayed one more delicious moment, taking up a second shawl and assisting Miss Ellsworth to wrap herself in it. From the corner of his eye he saw Tyrone Ellsworth extend a hand to his wife, that they might make their way in toward the shore.

Now now now. It must be now.

"Miss Ellsworth," he blurted, "I have been glad to meet with—your family as well. One can never have too many friends. But—er—while it is true that I have no family members beyond a distant cousin or two, and while it is also true that it has been some years since I lost Mr. Brand, he—Mr. Brand, I mean—er—left me with a still closer tie."

She tilted her head, waiting to hear more and clearly with no idea what he was hinting at. Clayton clenched his jaw, fighting teeth-chattering of his own, or some combination of teeth-chattering and dread. But he could hear the other Ellsworths joking with each other now as they drew nearer, and if he didn't hurry, he would have to begin all over again or wait for another opening.

"He left me his daughter."

Her brow puckered. "You—are responsible for a child? You are a guardian?"

"I—yes, she is legally my ward—"

"Why, that's splendid!" She turned to her brother and sister-in-law as they clambered up. "Isn't it cold? Here, let me help you into dry clothing, Aggie."

As he feared, the subject was lost again in the hubbub of everyone going in and out of the bathing machine and wrapping themselves for warmth, and Tyrone paying off the dipper, and all the Ellsworths questioning and congratulating each other on the morning's triumphs, but when the party at last regained the gravel paths, he was both relieved and filled with trepidation to hear Miss Ellsworth say, "Before you and Aggie joined us, Tyrone, Mr. Clayton was just telling me that he is the guardian of a child! The daughter of the man who apprenticed him."

"A child!"

"Brand's daughter, you say? Why, that's capital, Clayton!" said Tyrone. "How old is your charge?"

"That's just what I've been trying to say," he replied, giving a short, wry laugh in spite of everything. "It happens that my—ward—Miss Brand—is no longer a child. She was eighteen in April. And—she is not only my ward, she is—that is—I mean to say—Miss Brand and I are engaged to be married."

He avoided looking at Miss Ellsworth as he announced this, whether from a desire to protect her feelings or to spare himself, he could not say. In fact, he didn't look directly at any of them, instead fiddling with the corners of the blanket enfolding him. But he could not help noticing that his companions' progress halted abruptly alongside him (though they just as quickly stumbled forward again). Nor could he stop his ears from hearing the chorus of gasps, both sharp and soft. Ellsworth was obliged to feign a cough, a loud one requiring the self-administration of several violent thumps to his chest.

"Goodness," said Aggie, her voice higher than usual but steady. "We had better get you some hot tea for that cough, Tyrone, the moment we reach home. But—engaged you say, Mr. Clayton? How—how—what very good news, to be sure. We wish you and Miss Brand every happiness."

"Every happiness," echoed Miss Ellsworth, fainter.

Despite each of them wondering desperately how it might be conquered, an uncomfortable silence fell as they came in sight of the Chapel House, and it lasted until the elegant building with its many-arched fa?ade and spacious grounds receded behind them.

"We congratulate you," put in Tyrone then, too loudly. He clapped a hearty hand on Clayton's back. "Yes. We congratulate you. How—fortunate for you both. You and—and Miss Brand. When is the happy day, if I might ask?"

"We have not yet fixed one," answered Clayton, conscious of a cloud of misery settling upon him. "Miss Brand has just completed her education, and I have been in Worcester until recently, as you know. Then, when she and her cousin Miss Croy were considering a removal to London to take up residence, I had this touch of ill health and was ordered by the doctor to Bognor. Or, rather, one doctor recommended Bath, while the other was for Bognor." He heard himself launch into the little story with more enthusiasm than it deserved. "They got in quite the tussle about it. Mr. Yount saying what I needed was to take the waters. ‘Minerals, my good man! You are short of minerals!' While Mr. Hodgkiss said nonsense—all I needed was a few weeks' reprieve from standing at all hours in the rain beside ditches, and for that purpose any place might do, from Blackpool to Bognor."

"And so you chose Bognor." Miss Ellsworth seemed to speak more to herself than to him as they turned before the Dome House. It was not a remark requiring a response, and no one made one, though her muted voice made him want to writhe.

How gladly he would have excused himself so the Ellsworths could discuss (or curse) him in peace, but being next-door neighbors, escape was impossible. They trudged onward, Spencer Terrace never seeming farther away, each revolving in his mind what to say next. Aggie's hand on her husband's arm squeezed it significantly, and they had been married long enough for Tyrone to have no difficulty understanding her. Would Mr. Clayton still want to swim and dance with them? And, if he did, ought they still to encourage the friendship? It was clear enough that poor Bea was disappointed by the morning's revelations, and had her brother and sister not worsened the matter by throwing the two together?

He laid his own hand across hers, returning the pressure. Yes, yes, he felt the same. What a disaster. The very first person Beatrice should ever show any interest in—to be already engaged! Had there been any way to prevent such a calamity? Should Mr. Clayton have said something sooner? Should they have asked?

Both Tyrone and Aggie peeped at her, but Beatrice determinedly looked straight ahead, her bonnet brim wide enough to shield her from study. Mr. Clayton himself the Ellsworths dared not look at, for fear their chagrin would be too plain on their faces.

To the momentary relief of all, however, a distraction soon claimed their attention: there was a cart drawn up before Spencer Terrace, from which luggage was being unloaded.

"Mr. Clayton!"

Before Clayton could register what was what, a young lady was flying toward him, one hand clutching her bonnet to her head and the other outstretched—dear God—as if she were a catchpoll and he the unfortunate debtor. And like a debtor, he had the same urge to flee.

"Oh, Mr. Clayton!" she cried, scrambling to a halt before him—before all of them. "Isn't this a surprise? I hope you won't be angry, but Cissy and I could wait no longer. We had to see with our own eyes that you were improved. And I see you are. Isn't he, Cissy?" This last was thrown over her shoulder at the older woman hastening after her.

"Miss Brand," croaked Clayton, bowing like a beam under too heavy a weight. "And Miss Croy. What an—unexpected pleasure."

"It need not have been," Miss Brand answered, now hesitant. "If you were a more regular correspondent, I would have written to you for your permission, knowing I would receive an answer with the return post. But alas. Will you not introduce me to your friends?"

Those friends were still recovering from these successive blows. First to learn of Miss Brand's existence and—worse—Clayton's obligation to her, and now, within the same hour, to come face to face with the young lady herself! But despite her unhappiness, a small part of Beatrice's mind nevertheless noted the curious piece of information: "if he were a more regular correspondent"? What an accusation to level, when Mr. Clayton did nothing from dawn to dusk but correspond.

"Of course," Clayton replied. If it was an effort to master himself, he hid it well. "Miss Brand, I have the honor of introducing to you my neighbors here in Bognor: Mr. and Mrs. Tyrone Ellsworth and Miss Ellsworth. Ellsworths, may I present my—betrothed, Miss Priscilla Brand, and her cousin Miss Croy."

Proper acknowledgements followed, but it would be hard to say who was more curious to meet the other. In Miss Brand the Ellsworths saw a small, trim person with curling red-blonde hair and round blue eyes. Kittenish and sweet, without being precisely pretty, though these qualities combined with the freshness of youth served much the same purpose, especially in comparison to her companion Miss Croy, an older woman devoid of rosiness or pleasing plumpness, as if there had only been enough of these items for one person, and Miss Brand had taken it all.

It was Aggie who rose to the occasion. Seeing the shock Beatrice had received and desiring to hide it, she wound an arm through that of her sister-in-law and said, "Miss Brand, Miss Croy, for Mr. Clayton's sake, how delighted we are that you have come. We have been his next-door neighbors this past fortnight and think him too good a person to hide away from the world, always working working working. Now that you are here, he will have close friends to keep him company. And we hope we will—see much of you—if you intend on staying for any length of time."

"Thank you, Mrs. Ellsworth," responded Miss Brand eagerly. She favored her betrothed with a glance both hopeful and uncertain. "I hope Miss Croy and I will stay in Bognor as long as Mr. Clayton does."

"We will leave you, then," said Aggie. "You must be weary from your journey and will have much to discuss, I'm certain. Good day to you all." Then, with as unobtrusive a pressure as she could manage, she succeeded in nudging Beatrice into motion, and the Ellsworths made their measured retreat to Number Four.

Clayton watched them go, his mind awhirl with thoughts and feelings which would take an hour's peace to disentangle, but there was no time for that now. He looked down at his intended bride, who stood biting her plump lower lip and regarding him with doubt.

"You aren't angry, are you, Mr. Clayton?" she asked timidly. "Cissy was of half a mind that we should wait until you gave us leave to come, though we were so anxious to see for ourselves that you were restored to health."

"Yes," spoke up Miss Croy. "I said, despite the two of you being engaged, we had better not simply turn up on your doorstep, you being such an exceedingly busy man..."

"Of course I'm not angry," Clayton answered. Which was true—anger did not seem to be part of the moil. There was dismay and embarrassment—but not anger. He had made his confession to the Ellsworths, after all (in the nick of time), with who knew what effect. Miss Brand's arrival merely brought to an abrupt close a strange, stimulating, delightful interlude unlike any he had known before.

That was all.

"I promise we won't bother you a bit!" cried Miss Brand, extending a beseeching hand toward him. "We will be quiet as mice while you work, and you need not entertain us." Though at this her head turned in the direction of the Ellsworths' door.

"We were returning from a morning bathe," Clayton heard himself explain. "I have been doing that much. It would hardly do to come to Bognor without bathing."

"Of course it wouldn't," Miss Brand agreed at once. "I'm so glad you have. It has done wonders. I think you are in the pink of health. Perhaps—you wouldn't mind if Miss Croy and I joined you when you went next?"

"By all means, by all means." But even as he said it he felt his heart sink further. Would this mean no more swimming with the Ellsworths—with Miss Ellsworth?

Fool.

That is exactly what it means.

"Come," he said, more heartily. He gestured at the steps to Number Five. "What unpardonable rudeness, to keep you out here in the chill. Shall we go inside?"