Curricle & Chaise

by Church, Lizzie

  Lydia found herself on the verge of tears, and stuttered to a halt. Elizabeth gave her a silent hug and sighed with her.

  ‘All right, my love,’ she conceded, soothingly. ‘I can see that this is difficult for you. But I do not see that Sir John’s absence should be cause enough to decline Mrs Taylor’s kind invitation. If he is as fond of you as you say then he will be only too happy for you to enjoy yourself. Why not compromise? Write a letter for Sir John and I will ensure that he receives it the moment he returns. I am sure he will understand. Why, who knows that you may even be back here before he is finished in London. Business has a habit of dragging on once it is begun. Why not go to Brighton for a fortnight and see Sir John on your return?’

  Lydia took her aunt’s hand and squeezed it gratefully. It was all that was needed. She penned the letter (several times), handed it to Elizabeth for safe keeping, and prepared herself for the adventure of her life.

  Chapter 14It was shortly after five the next day when the Taylors’ smart travelling carriage, complete with liveried coachman and impressive coat of arms, pulled into Brighton. Comfortable though it was (and – as Lydia noted, smugly – considerably grander than even the most luxurious offering in Mr Abdale’s collection) it was a relief to see the first small cottages of Brighton appear through the carriage window. It had been a long journey, despite numerous stops, and Lydia was feeling extremely hungry. As the carriage rumbled on its way it passed the Valley Gardens and the Regent’s Pavilion, which she glimpsed fleetingly, before the left turn into St James’ Street and then right into Madeira Place.

  The coach pulled up outside a tidy-looking, bow-fronted cottage. Lucy jumped out and straightened her skirts.

  ‘Here at last,’ she announced. ‘We are not too grand in Brighton, as you see, but papa prefers to take a house to an apartment and we were rather late in booking so we didn’t have much choice.’

  Mr Taylor handed Lydia down. From what she could see as she stepped into the house there was nothing at all amiss with the accommodation. Certainly the house was not large, and the hallway was maybe a little dingy and smelt faintly of onions, but the saloon into which they were shown (and from which Mrs Taylor emerged, open armed, to welcome her dear ones home) was actually quite handsome and seemed comfortable enough.

  ‘My dear Lucy – how wonderful – and with your ankle so much better, too. Netley has agreed with you, I can see. And what of the journey – did papa buy you a cream cake? And Miss Barrington – so kind of you and your aunt to take Lucy in like that – I’m delighted to be able to welcome you here in return – Lucy could not praise you enough in her letters...’

  Somehow they were dressed for dinner. Somehow they were ushered into the dining room. Somehow they ate a course. All was bustle and excitement and it took until the second course before Lydia felt at leisure even to look around. As she awaited her wine, however, she took her time to examine the room. Everything was exactly to her taste – elegant furnishings, tidy decoration. The meal, too, was excellent (although, hungry as she was, even a plain biscuit would have felt like a banquet). Immediately after it Mrs Taylor and the three young ladies proposed taking a short walk about the town. Miss Emma kept close to her mama’s skirts in a sudden fit of shyness but Lucy and Lydia hurried on together, arm in arm, in order to catch their first glimpse of the sea. The roads were fringed with buff stone buildings. The pavements were broad and level. Then the buildings ceased. The East Cliff was upon them and beyond this – beyond this was a swathe of blue so clear, so brilliant, twinkling so invitingly in the orange sunset that Lydia could only gasp in astonishment. So this was what she had so longed to see. She stared at it unblinkingly, transfixed. All that she could see, right across to the distant horizon where the sky met the sea, was the gentle ebb and flow of the blue water, faintly tinged with the orange of the sun, and the frothy whiteness of the waves as they lapped the silver-grey shore. She could hear the mewing of seagulls as they soared effortlessly overhead, and the gentle swoosh of the waves. She could smell the fresh sea air, with its mixture of seaweed and salt. It was a moment of pure joy.

  For a moment Lucy stood and watched her, somewhat amused and perhaps a little gratified at her friend’s reaction. ‘Come on, Miss Barrington,’ she urged eventually, tugging at Lydia’s sleeve. ‘There is a lot more to Brighton than just the sea, you know. We can walk back here later, if you want to, but let’s go along the Steine and have a look at the Pavilion whilst there is still light enough to see.’

  Lydia was aware that Lucy was laughing at her but she did not mind.

  ‘I never imagined that it could be so magical,’ she admitted, sheepishly, giving way to her friend’s entreaties and accompanying her along the road. ‘It’s amazing. I feel I could stand and look at it for ever.’

  ‘You will soon tire of it,’ advised Lucy, sagely. ‘I wager that you will grow so used to it before the week is over that you’ll hardly notice it.’

  Lydia remained unconvinced but she allowed herself to be dragged off to the Steine to marvel at some of Brighton’s more fashionable delights before reluctantly retiring for supper.

  Lucy was keen to enrol with the circulating library and sign the visitors’ book as soon as she was able, and while Mrs Taylor took Emma for her morning dip the next day the two girls took a short walk down Madeira Place and along the East Cliff to Donaldson’s. Donaldson’s, Lucy was quick to assure her, was the finest circulating library on the South coast. It was certainly imposing. At this early hour there were very few gentlemen in the reading room, but a number of ladies were standing in groups, gossiping, and there was a bewildering array of books. It was amongst the Gothic novel collection that Lucy encountered a young lady of her acquaintance, whom she introduced to Lydia as a Miss James.

  ‘I have known Miss James for ever,’ she explained confidentially as they stepped back into the sunshine, a selection of the most gruesome novels in hand. They returned along the sea front, which was getting quite crowded. ‘We spent some time at school together. Maria was always getting into some trouble or other – she was quite an atrocious little girl. I remember when her brother, Mr Rodney James, came visiting with his mama and papa once. He smuggled a supply of cakes in and we ate the lot between us in one afternoon. We enjoyed them at the time, I seem to think, although we all felt rather sick afterwards. But there,’ she added, sighing a little, ‘I must admit to a passing tendre for Mr James. Such a handsome young man, Miss Barrington – or so I thought at the time. But it was not to be. He married Miss Troupe in the end. A flighty bit of muslin if ever I saw one but worth a terrific fortune, apparently.’

  Lydia was diverted, although she pretended to be shocked.

  ‘But you are surely not suggesting that he married only for the money?’

  ‘Well possibly,’ said Lucy, pensively. ‘I expect it happens all the time. I cannot conceive of it myself, of course, but it is not everyone who marries for love. I suppose some people prefer the thought of comfort to romance. I must say that I would rather marry for love than money, be I ever so poor – but I suppose I shall never be put to the test. It’s difficult to imagine how other people must feel when their situations are so unlike one’s own – do you not think?’

  Lydia blushed a little. Would people say that she was marrying for money? And would it not be true – or, if not, would it not be true that she was using Sir John for her own convenience, which in many ways was just as bad. She felt a little guilty and resolved to make him a good wife.

  ‘It does sound rather shocking,’ she said, defensively, following Lucy into the house. ‘Perhaps people have their reasons for marrying where there is no love, even if it is not for money. It does seem a shame that some people may not marry where they like.’

  ‘And what about you, Miss Barrington? Do you speak from the heart? Were you able to pick the gentleman of your choice – what would he be like?’

  Try as she might, Lydia was quite unable to bring a picture of Sir John to mind. Unaccounta
bly, and totally uninvited, the image of Henry Churchman imposed itself upon her and stubbornly refused to go away.

  ‘Oh, I know not,’ she said carelessly, picking up a fashion book and studying it industriously. ‘Someone who is kind and considerate – a landowner, maybe; one who cares for his family – well respected in the neighbourhood – studious - that sort of gentleman, I suppose.’

  ‘And do I detect a gentleman of that description already?’ teased Lucy, gleefully.

  ‘Maybe’ (hesitatingly).

  ‘And may I enquire his name?’

  Lydia replaced the book on its table and stared uncomfortably at it. She could not find one word in reply. Then the parlour door swung open. The footman announced a visitor.

  ‘Mr Churchman,’ he said, and the gentleman himself strode in.

  If Lydia could have sunk into the ground and disappeared for ever she would gladly have done so. A dull red blush spread over her face as she saw the familiar figure framed in the doorway. Her heart pounded. She felt quite unable to move. Luckily Lucy gave a little cry and ran forward the instant he was announced, and his attention was immediately taken up by her. He was looking supremely elegant, as always, in his blue morning coat with stiff, standfall collar and plated buttons, with biscuit-coloured breeches and highly polished top boots. By the time he had turned his attention away from Miss Taylor Lydia had recovered her composure sufficiently to rise to greet him, and meet him with a curtsey and an outstretched hand.

  If Mr Churchman was surprised to see her he did not show it. Instead he took her hand for a moment, looked into her eyes as he bowed, and asked her how she did. Lucy, in the middle of introducing them, suddenly realised that they were not strangers to each other and stopped in mid sentence. She eyed them both narrowly for a second, gave a little smile to herself, and immediately demanded to know where they had met before.

  Mr Churchman took the offered seat.

  ‘Miss Barrington and I are old friends,’ he admitted, accepting a glass of port. ‘Grantham is almost next door to Abdale House, where Miss Barrington stayed for a short while last winter. We spent many a happy hour together, did we not? Why, I even taught her how to ride.’

  Lydia blushed again. She was feeling very uncomfortable.

  ‘Well,’ said Lucy. ‘What a coincidence. I must admit I had not made the connection.’

  ‘You disappoint me. I would have hoped that you might have mentioned my name between you.’

  ‘Well there you are wrong, Mr Churchman. You misjudge us entirely if you think we ladies have nothing better to talk about than all the young gentlemen of our acquaintance. We have not mentioned you at all.’

  Lucy had the grace to blush a little as she said this, but it was not technically a lie after all and Mr Churchman luckily appeared not to notice.

  ‘How is your mama, Mr Churchman?’ asked Lydia, desperately trying to turn the conversation onto a more comfortable topic. ‘I have heard nothing from Abdale these past few months – I have been staying with my aunt and uncle in Surrey since New Year - and have wondered about her on several occasions.’

  ‘She has been quite unwell, I’m afraid, although she appears to be a little better now. I returned to Grantham a week ago from Ireland – I had returned there with Mrs Blackman immediately after Christmas as she needed some assistance with a business transaction – to find that she had been confined to her bed for much of the winter. I was very annoyed with her, as you can imagine, as I knew nothing of it. I regret we are not the best correspondents and Edward had not thought to send a message. She was apparently in some danger for a short while but she is over the worst and when I left her a few days ago she was able to get downstairs unaided. There was some talk of Edward escorting her to Bath, I believe. I am sure the waters will do her some good. I will take her there myself if needs be.’

  ‘Well I hope you will not abandon us as soon as you have arrived here,’ put in Lucy. ‘I have never know anyone for jauntering about the countryside as you do.’

  Mr Churchman laughed.

  ‘I have yet to make up my mind,’ he replied, with a sideways glance at Lydia. ‘My great-aunt would have me stay all year, if I would. I must see what there is to tempt me to remain.’

  ‘Your great-aunt must suffer a good deal. She can never know from one week to the next whether you are coming to stay.’

  ‘As for that, Miss Taylor, you must ask her yourself. I daresay you would discount my opinion even were I to give it to you. But I don’t think you have any right to talk of jauntering about the country, anyway. Why, when I saw your papa last autumn there was no talk of you coming to Brighton this year – yet here you are, in one of the best houses in town, looking as though you are well established here for the whole of the summer.’

  ‘Well we have Emma to blame for that. Mama thought that she would benefit from a bit of sea-bathing so we have ended up here after all. I must confess I was none too pleased about it – I had far rather go to Bedfordshire – but at least I have had the good fortune to meet up with Miss Barrington, whom I hope to persuade to stay the month at least, so perhaps this year our stay will be more tolerable.’

  Mr Churchman flickered another glance at Lydia, who was just then concentrating hard on a particularly complicated section of embroidery.

  ‘Young Emma is a scamp, Miss Taylor. She is as healthy as the next man and only comes to Brighton for a jaunt. I am surprised that your papa has not spotted the deception. She must feign her ailments more convincingly in order to deceive me.’

  ‘For shame, Mr Churchman,’ scolded Lucy, with a giggle. ‘You are quite the monster, you know, talking about my poor sister like that. If you had seen her last winter, coughing for hours together and shivering because she couldn’t get warm – if you had seen her then you would not be so unfeeling as to call her a fake. Why, if I did not know you better I should think you perfectly callous. Whatever must Miss Barrington think of you? I’ll warrant you never spoke to her like that.’

  Lydia was not inclined to confirm or deny Miss Taylor’s conjecture and focused on her embroidery instead.

  Mr Churchman was chastened.

  ‘I can only apologise, Miss Taylor, and beg your forgiveness immediately. Your sister is the most charming young person in the world – there is not an ounce of guile in her. I pity her. She obviously finds it a torture to come to Brighton and would not tolerate it but for the sake of her health. In fact, I pity you all. After all, it is a sad state of affairs to be dragged kicking and screaming to the sea-side and forced to enjoy yourselves – what greater misery could you face?’ Mr Churchman nimbly avoided a blow to the arm before apologising profusely for his levity. ‘All right, all right,’ he protested, laughing, as Lucy aimed another blow. ‘I cannot abide violence. Allow me to apologise unreservedly. After all, I cannot have you and Miss Barrington thinking ill of me and I suppose you will not wish to acknowledge an insensitive monster as your friend.’

  Miss Taylor was not convinced and told him so. She was not so annoyed with him, however, that she omitted to invite him to dinner that evening. He raised his hands in despair.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I am already engaged. Perhaps another time?’

  ‘There – I knew I should never pin you down so soon. I never knew anyone the like for dashing about the place. If you manage to stay in Brighton the week I shall be surprised. But I cannot make any commitments for later – mama has been busily devising engagements all week and I’m not quite sure what she has planned.’

  ‘Well, we are bound to meet up again. And who knows – I might just surprise you. You have often told me how unpredictable I am, so now I have a reputation to keep up.’

  ‘I wish to know nothing of your reputation, sir,’ chided Lucy. ‘You must promise to visit us again, though. Papa, I know, will be pleased to have your company. He tends to suffer a little with only females in the house.’

  ‘You do yourselves an injustice – though I understand your meaning. I fear my mother has
the same problem with only males in the house.’

  Mr Churchman rose to leave. Lydia at last allowed herself another look at him and their eyes met for a moment before he left the room. She was acutely aware of him. She was shocked that his influence over her was greater than ever.

  Lucy noticed none of her anguish as she settled down to her books.

  ‘Fancy you knowing the Churchmans,’ she said. ‘We have known them this age. Henry and Edward are both friends of papa, they are always meeting up in Town. I think Henry was glad to take papa’s advice when his father died. Even so, we are quite honoured to receive a visit so soon after arriving – he is always so much in demand that we rarely get a look in. I wonder how he knew that we were here. I think it unlikely that he has seen our names in the visitors’ book already.’

  Lydia muttered some reply, which appeared to satisfy her companion. Then she left the room and hurried to her chamber to be left in peace with her thoughts for a while. She knew that she should not feel anything like as pleased to see him as she did. She felt sorry that he had been unable to come to dinner. She would like to have had the opportunity to apologise to him for their last disastrous meeting and find out what he knew (if anything) of her sudden flight to Netley. But then again, perhaps it would be better were she not to see too much of him. Her thoughts were troubling her. She felt excited and pleased and uncomfortable and guilty all at the same time and she wasn’t sure whether she liked it or not.

  They saw nothing more of him over the next couple of days, as Lucy and Lydia busily engaged themselves in a round of sightseeing, dinners and social events. On one evening they attended the play at the Theatre Royal. The next evening they attended a musical event at the Castle Assembly Rooms (although, much to Lucy’s disgust, the billed attraction had been forced to withdraw at the last moment due to a putrid sore throat and they had to make do with a rather inferior substitute instead). What Lydia most enjoyed, however, were their walks about Brighton, exploring the lanes and byways in the older part of town. They examined the fig tree in the Ship Street gardens and listened to the band in Pavilion Parade. Somehow Lucy always managed to contrive a walk by (and into) Cowley’s bun shop and Lydia always managed to steer her towards the sparkling grey sea. It was at moments like this that Netley seemed a world and a half away.