Chapter 8

…Here is your pretty Ward and mine; let us try to make her Time with us easy.

—Samuel Richardson, Pamela (1740)

When the supper hour came, though they mounted the steps of Number Five quiet and uneasy, the Ellsworths found the ice broken at once and most unexpectedly.

"Why, look at this, Aggie," said Beatrice, rising from her curtsey. With her fingertips she indicated the bow porcelain figure of a goldfinch with bulging eyes on the table. "It's the same one we have in Number Four!"

"Heavens," Tyrone laughed, snatching it up to inspect. "You can't tell me they made more than one of these hideous things! If ever the occasion warranted breaking the mold, this would have been it."

"It's not only the ugly goldfinch—look!" Beatrice's gaze swept the drawing room. "It's the paper too, with the scrolls every few feet—though this one is striped with gold and ours with ivory—and then there are the candlesticks and even—" breaking off, she took a few steps nearer the portrait on the wall— "It's him! the gentleman in the tartan waistcoat!"

"Gracious me," said Aggie over her shoulder. "You're right! I suppose it's far less trouble for the owner to furnish everything similarly, though why anyone would request multiple copies of this particular picture confounds me. I wonder if Numbers 2 and 3 share the same household effects."

"If they do, imagine how the poor gentleman in tartan feels," Tyrone chuckled, "to witness the goings-on in every drawing room in Upper Bognor Street."

Beatrice threw their host a look both teasing and shy. "You didn't mention the curious uniformity, Mr. Clayton, when you visited us at Number Four."

He gave a sheepish laugh. "I'm embarrassed to confess it, given how it struck you Ellsworths at once, but I entirely failed to notice."

Inexplicably, he colored as he said this, and Miss Brand hastened to say, "John is just like my father was, in that respect. That is, if something has anything to do with work, then not a jot nor tittle goes unnoticed, but otherwise…" She gave a little shrug and nudged her intended coquettishly, at which his color only deepened. Poor Miss Brand could not guess the true cause of his discomfiture, which was his realization that, when calling at Number Four, he had apparently been too busy observing Miss Ellsworth to spare any attention for porcelain goldfinches or tartan-clad men.

With his sudden confusion, the easy tone of the gathering evaporated as quickly as it had come.

Beatrice felt her own face warm to hear Miss Brand call Mr. Clayton by his Christian name, and she turned to choose a seat. So that was how it was now? Even in the short time since her arrival, Miss Brand and Mr. Clayton had found a more intimate footing for their relationship?

Nothing more than a restless movement of her hands gave her unhappiness away, but even these disobedient limbs were ruthlessly subdued. She folded them in her lap and pinned a pleasant expression on her face.

The motion failed to escape Tyrone and Aggie's notice, however, and those two, in their determination to protect her, began pelting Mr. Clayton and Miss Croy respectively with comments and questions about their day. The bathing, the aftermath, their further activities, what Miss Croy thought of Bognor, and so forth.

Rather than listen or contribute to this, Miss Brand placed herself on the sofa nearest Beatrice, her gaze open and eager. "Miss Ellsworth, how glad I am to find a young unmarried lady near my own age here! It will greatly enliven my stay, I hope. John can be good company, of course, but he is so very busy, isn't he? Cissy and I must occupy ourselves much of the time, I suppose, so as not to try him by being always underfoot. And you will understand that Cissy and I welcome any novelty, having long been together. However much one might like a person, there always comes a point when everything has been said more than once, don't you think?"

"Yes, I suppose that's true," answered Beatrice with a somewhat fixed smile.

Undeterred, Miss Brand leaned forward to add, "Not that I haven't already heard a few surprising things from John himself. For instance, he tells us that your brother Mr. Ellsworth is teaching you all to swim. How envious I am of your bravery!"

"Did you not enjoy bathing this morning?"

"Oh, it was both alarming and delightful, Miss Ellsworth. I felt helpless as a rag doll in the waves, and my dipper was so massive that I was almost as afraid of him as I was of the sea's power."

For an instant Beatrice remembered her gown pinned by the bathing machine wheel and the water closing over her head. With a shudder, she felt her first twinge of sympathy for the girl. "I was afraid of my dipper the first few days too, but you're better off with a strong one, I daresay." But it was not any recollection of the burly dipper's arms which caused her blush the next moment. Against her will, her gaze flicked to Mr. Clayton, who was replying to Tyrone, but she had the sense that his own had just been withdrawn. Could he have mentioned her bathing accident to Miss Brand?

Surely not.

Not because it was a secret or because Beatrice would have asked him not to, but because it painted him in the light of a hero. He could not mention her being held beneath the waves, in danger of drowning, without also confessing to having saved her.

When Barnstable the footman entered to announce the supper, the party rose, Mr. Clayton offering his arm to Aggie and Tyrone to Miss Brand, leaving Beatrice and Miss Croy to follow behind. The similarities of the dining room to Number Four's must also be catalogued and remarked upon, but when this was accomplished, Miss Brand took her place at the foot of the table and invited Beatrice to sit at her right.

"John has promised we will attend tomorrow's assembly," she began again when the soup was served. She pitched her voice low for Beatrice's ears, though Tyrone had valiantly thrown himself into a speech about some person he had seen at the coffee room that day, who in appearance was not unlike so-and-so, whose new poetry book was such-and-such.

"Yes," said Beatrice, angling herself to face her hostess and speaking as quietly. "We too." Across from her, Miss Croy gave a meaningless smile and continued to sip her soup.

"I cannot tell you how delighted I was to hear him say so," Miss Brand all but whispered. "You will scarcely credit it, but I have never once danced with him, though we have been engaged these two years!"

In response to this, Beatrice only widened her eyes. But when Miss Brand mirrored her, with the addition of an emphatic slow nod, as if to say, Indeed, it is so—doubt it if you dare! Beatrice was forced to murmur, "Yes, that does surprise me."

"I knew it would. And I have a further confession for you, Miss Ellsworth." Again she stopped expectantly, and again Beatrice was obliged to make some response to jog her into continuing. Miss Brand toyed with her spoon a moment before hunching lower to share her confidence. "To tell the truth, I am a little afraid of my John, because he is older and because he worked with Papa, so I've never dared to ask him what he thinks of dancing or if he even can dance! I do hope he can and will. For dancing lessons were my very favorite at school. I am not much for book learning or arithmetic, sadly, and I always mix up my Italian and my French. I suppose you speak beautiful French and Italian, Miss Ellsworth?" Before Beatrice could demur, Miss Brand fluttered her fingers and went on. "But I comforted myself that there would seldom be an occasion when such things were necessary, for heaven knows John never speaks anything but plain English, and for him to have a wife who gave herself airs would be silly, don't you think? He wouldn't like it, I imagine, because he is always matter of fact." She sighed. "Still, John does meet with important people from time to time—not that I would be present. But then again, I might! Suppose he were called to a ribbon cutting, to open a canal? Or called to stand beside another person who cut the ribbon—mightn't I be there as well?"

"At any rate, I daresay neither Mr. Clayton nor any other person at a ribbon cutting would ask you to speak French or Italian, much less work sums," pointed out Beatrice, but Miss Brand barely paused to acknowledge this.

"I would just have to tell John to warn me far in advance, so I might prepare," said the young lady, smiling. "Can you see me standing beside the mayor of London or the prime minister or some such and having to perform, as if I were on a stage?" She tapped her temple with a stubby finger. "Let us pray all that learning is in there somewhere. Papa paid handsomely for my education, after all, as if I were going to marry a duke or something!" When her listener only smiled, she added, "Isn't that amusing?"

Left with no alternative, Beatrice forced the desired chuckle, but she was beginning to feel mildly resentful of having particular responses coerced from her. What would happen if she were to ignore Miss Brand's cues? Would the young lady rattle on as if nothing was amiss?

But perhaps she was being too hard on her, for the next moment Miss Brand leaned still closer toward her, conspiratorially. "I am talking too much of myself, aren't I? Mrs. Archer—the headmistress at my former school—would say I was. I can see her raising her lorgnette and saying, ‘Miss Brand, must I remind you of the existence of those around you? A well-bred young lady listens twice as much as she speaks.' Therefore, in honor of Mrs. Archer…" Miss Brand motioned that she was sealing her lips. "You must talk of yourself now, Miss Ellsworth."

"Oh! I—er—haven't any idea where to begin."

"Haven't you? Let me help you, then. I will tell you what my friends and I like to talk of, world without end: beaux and beaux yeux, if you understand me." (This with a self-conscious giggle.) "Have you a beau, Miss Ellsworth?"

"I'm afraid not." Beatrice glanced across at the stolid Miss Croy in search of rescue, but that good woman merely signaled Barnstable for more soup.

Miss Brand frowned at her, and Beatrice suspected she found her deficient in the art of pleasing. It was probably true in the main. Beatrice's friend Mrs. Coningsby, née Emmy Wright, had often sighed over Beatrice's indifference to "beaux and beaux yeux." Fidgeting in her chair and wishing the tête-à-tête might end, Beatrice peeked next up the table, envying the laugh Tyrone and Aggie were sharing with Mr. Clayton.

"What about an old beau?" Miss Brand prodded. "Someone you already considered and rejected."

"I'm sorry," Bea apologized again. "There's no one at all to speak of."

"Well then, what about a beau ideal?" prompted her new friend impatiently. "Surely we girls ought to be able to conjure up an ideal! Why, if I were not already engaged, I would tell you mine was a lord with golden hair and sapphire eyes and a brooding manner."

Now it was Beatrice's turn to scowl. Imagine Miss Brand dreaming of such a creature, with such a paragon as Mr. Clayton already in her pocket!

"I can't say I prefer blond hair to brown or black, or blue eyes to green or brown," she rejoined with spirit, "but what use would a brooding manner be?"

Miss Brand's eyes widened at such ignorance. "A brooding manner like Sir Ralph De Wilton, brooding ‘on dark revenge and deeds of blood,' of course! Did you never read the poem? It was the rage at Mrs. Archer's when I was younger."

While Beatrice had herself not pored over Marmion, Tyrone had read it to the family. And though at the time she had liked the hero of that poem as heartily as any girl in England, something contrary in her made her reply, "Pooh. De Wilton aside, nine times out of ten, a brooding manner simply means a gentleman has a peevish disposition."

"Well, aren't you something!" declared Miss Brand, her voice rising. "Next you will tell me that, if a dashing, poetical duke asked you to marry him, you would refuse!"

"I would not be the least tempted to accept," answered Beatrice roundly. "Such a person sounds alarming. Besides, I've only ever seen one duke in my life, and not only was he neither dashing nor poetical (much less golden-haired or sapphire-eyed), but he was in fact quite old and bald and regarded every young lady most improperly through his quizzing glass. No, indeed! Myself, I would far rather have a modest, respectable, gentlemanly husband who spoke plain English and gave himself no airs." As soon as she heard herself unintentionally echo Miss Brand's earlier description, embarrassment seized her. She gulped, coloring, and hurriedly returned to her soup. But this haste bore terrible consequences, for she ended in half inhaling it. Beatrice had but one fraction of a second to perceive her mistake before a fit of explosive coughs reduced her to burying her face in her napkin.

"Mercy!" cried her brother, turning toward her at last. "Did you swallow a fish bone?"

Of course Beatrice could not answer and only coughed the harder, feeling her face on fire, while Tyrone pounded her between the shoulder blades. To her increased mortification, all conversation ceased, though Bea waved a hand to indicate she would be perfectly well in a moment and that Tyrone need not beat her to death, but she had no breath to urge them all to carry on and leave her to asphyxiate in peace.

Nevertheless, Aggie understood. "I daresay we are all tempted to drink our soup too quickly," she blurted. "And what a delicious one this is! We never enjoy a fish soup in Winchester, do we, Tyrone? Though I imagine our cook Wilcomb could make a tasty one, if given the chance."

"So she could," he agreed, catching her hint and leaving off pummeling his younger sister. "A boast which you must put to the test, Clayton, by calling at Hollowgate the next time you are in Winchester." Belatedly he bent his head toward Miss Croy and Miss Brand, adding, "And you as well, of course, ladies. With the impending nuptials, I consider you all one party."

Miss Brand clapped her hands together. "I should love to see Winchester! I have been so few places. Of course, it is up to you, John," she added belatedly, with a duck of her head. It surprised Beatrice that there was no coyness in the action, considering how intently Miss Brand had managed their own intercourse.

Mr. Clayton only nodded in a way hard to interpret, raising his glass in acknowledgement of Tyrone's invitation. "I have never been in Winchester myself."

"Tell us about your home," urged Miss Brand.

When Tyrone and Aggie combined to offer a description of the town's history and notable features (Beatrice still trying to clear her throat quietly), Miss Brand heard them politely for a minute before giving a little hop in her seat. "Yes, yes, how interesting. King Arthur and such. But I meant, won't you tell us about your home? Do you live in the town or without?"

Such a question led to a discussion of Hollowgate, naturally, and the complicated circumstances which resulted in the Tyrone Ellsworths living there but not owning it, and the Robert Fairchilds owning it and only beginning to live there.

"How curious!" exclaimed Miss Brand. "Mr. Ellsworth, you mean to say that your elder sister Mrs. Fairchild inherited Hollowgate over a son? I understand she had a different mother, but however did she manage it?"

"My brother-in-law Robert Fairchild could explain it best because he is the family lawyer," replied Tyrone, "but it all has to do with the mother of my two older sisters being a Baldric. The Baldric name in Winchester was once great, but it has sadly died out. Nevertheless, the last male Baldric, Flossie and Lily's grandfather, was wily enough to ensure that Hollowgate would remain in his daughter's line, unless she had no issue whatsoever. Only then could my formerly penniless father William Ellsworth inherit. Fairchild describes the Baldric-Ellsworth marriage settlement as ‘remarkable,' and I suppose he would know."

"So no Hollowgate for younger half-brother Tyrone," laughed Aggie, "unless he had chosen to murder his two older sisters before they had children themselves."

"Don't think I didn't consider it," he returned with mock solemnity, "but sadly we all get along too well. Flossie goes so far as to allow me and mine to live on at Hollowgate, as long as I manage it for her. Therefore, landless and not sufficiently bloodthirsty, I resorted to marrying an heiress of my own." This last he said with a wink at his wife.

"Not that I brought you an estate either," said Aggie archly. To Miss Brand and Mr. Clayton she added, "I am the youngest of three daughters, so The Acres—my father's estate—will go to my eldest sister—or to her husband, I should say, since, unlike the old Mr. Baldric, Papa had no objections to Phronsie's Philip and made no unusual stipulations in the marriage settlement."

"Flossie—that is, Mrs. Fairchild—is generous, to be sure," put in Mr. Clayton, "sheltering not only your little family, Ellsworth, but also her youngest sister Miss Ellsworth."

"Oh, I don't live with Tyrone and Aggie," spoke up Beatrice, finally having regained control of her voice. "I live with my stepparents nearby at Beaumond." In spite of her recent embarrassment and Mr. Clayton's regard, she almost laughed. "Not that that clarifies matters, for Beaumond belongs to Aggie's father Mr. Weeks."

"Who got it from Aggie's former suitor's family," grinned Tyrone. "On second thought, Clayton, perhaps you had better stay away from Winchester. It's a veritable thicket of reciprocal relations and obligations."

"So it is," Clayton agreed. He favored his intended with a rueful smile. "And we would be babes in the woods, wouldn't we, Miss Br—Priscilla, rather—having so few remaining family members ourselves."

"We would!" she seconded, brightening visibly to be addressed.

She is not yet confident of his affections, Beatrice thought. The realization hardly cheered her, however, for Miss Brand would have the rest of her life to grow more confident and to win those parts of Mr. Clayton's heart thus far unconquered.

If he addresses me, I must remember to hide my delight. It would not do at all if her own countenance lit up as Miss Brand's had, were Mr. Clayton to speak to her. Everyone would guess—everyone would know, that I have begun to care for him.

Beatrice need not have feared.

Mr. Clayton did not address her during the whole course of the meal, nor when they removed to the drawing room, leaving at last only her disappointment to be hidden.