Curricle & Chaise

by Church, Lizzie

  ‘Oh shush, Lucy, please – you are making five out of adding two and two. Mr Churchman hasn’t given me any reason to believe that he thinks me anything out of the ordinary. I really don’t know him all that well – we only met a few times in Middlesex and we seemed to misunderstand each other as often as not...’

  Lucy grinned knowingly.

  ‘Well, as for that, I have never known him to talk to any young lady in quite the way he talks to you and we have never seen so much of him as we have these past few days. I will expect an invitation to Grantham, you know, when you are married. I have never seen it and I am dying to know what it is like.’

  Throughout the rest of the journey home and at intervals as she lay awake during the night Lydia relived every detail of her conversation, over and over again. She felt Henry’s closeness to her as they sat together at the window. She heard his words and saw the look that had gone with them. Time had stood still. She could never forget the moment. And then a cold sweat came over her. What if Lucy were correct? What if he really did hold her in regard? What if he were to ask her to marry him – and she, betrothed to Sir John? Was she not, even now, in precisely the position he had thought her in before? And was she not now, even more than before, deceiving both herself and him about the true nature of her situation? A deep despair descended on her. How she wished her letter to Sir John unwritten. He may have received it that very day. But no. It could not be. She now knew that, what ever happened, she could never marry Sir John. It was quite impossible. She would rather stay unmarried all her life, she would rather live from hand to mouth if necessary than try to pretend that she loved him. She must write to Elizabeth that instant and ask if she still held the letter, and ask her to keep it back. Never mind if it were too late and the letter delivered. She would just have to explain as gently as she could that she had changed her mind, and she could not marry him after all. She could only hope that he would understand. But what a mess she had got herself into. She was wretched indeed. It was with a great deal of trouble that she managed to worry herself to sleep at last.

  Chapter 16The letter was a difficult one to write. On the one hand she did not want to frighten her aunt if she had already handed over her acceptance to Sir John. On the other hand, she felt so full of Mr Churchman that it was difficult for her to prevent herself from enthusing about her day at Foxwell to the detriment of everything else.

  It was done at last, however, and Lydia slipped out to the post office in North Street while Lucy received a visit from Maria James, who was full of curiosity about their day at the castle. She also called in at Mrs Hemmingway’s on the way back and enquired about the progress of her gown. To her great joy the work was sufficiently advanced to warrant a fitting, and the fitting went so well that she was advised to return that very afternoon in order to collect the finished article.

  Before they had departed Foxwell Mr Churchman had intimated his intention of attending the assembly at the ‘Old Ship’ hotel that night. The Taylors had already determined on attending. Lydia’s excitement at the prospect was such that although she joined Maria and Lucy in the saloon when she returned she could scarcely concentrate on a word they were saying. She steadfastly ignored Lucy’s skittish smiles. Of course, her enthusiasm was merely the result of her new spangled gown, which she had determined on wearing that night for the very first time. It was certainly not dependent on Mr Churchman’s appearance there, whatever poor Lucy might surmise. No, certainly not. She should have felt no less happy had Mr Churchman never graced Brighton by his presence at all.

  She did not care to analyse her feelings too deeply as she returned to Mrs Hemmingway’s later that afternoon. Yes, the gown was finished. Yes, it should be tried, for sure. The material felt exquisite as she allowed herself to be eased into the slender garment. She wriggled it into shape before turning to examine its effect in the full length mirror in the back of the shop. She had to take a second look at the elegant figure she saw before her. She could scarcely believe it to be herself. The style suited her slim figure exactly and the gown fitted to perfection. Even Mrs Hemmingway seemed impressed and secretly decided that this piece of handiwork had just guaranteed the future success of her business. Lydia was ecstatic as she returned once more to Madeira Place, the precious garment clasped firmly but carefully under her arm.

  It was time to retire to her chamber to prepare for the ball. She and Lucy kept their doors open so that they could run in and out of each other’s rooms to check on progress and constantly interfere with the long suffering maid’s attempts to dress them both. Lydia refused to acknowledge any particular reason for this childish behaviour. She was excited about her new gown, that was all. Certainly she had every right to be. It was not every day that she was empowered to indulge herself with new things. And she had never felt as grand as this.

  Lucy’s maid was a mistress of her art. She washed Lydia’s hair in borax to soften it and then rubbed in some scented pomade. Then she set about the delicate task of arranging it. In keeping with the simplicity of the gown she deftly teased and turned the dark curls into a simple knot a la greque and adorned them with some fresh flowers of gold. Only after everything else was ready did she allow her excited client to be eased gently into her gown.

  Lydia’s happiness was complete when, towards the end of her preparations, Mrs Taylor’s own maid appeared at her door with the gift of a swansdown tippet. It came with a very nice note of grateful thanks for her care of Lucy in Netley, and expressing the wish that she would accept the gift as a reminder of her stay with them in Brighton. What with the excitement, her new clothes and the anticipation, Lydia looked radiant as she entered the saloon just before it was time to leave. She looked so fine that even Mr Taylor (a man of few words, as might be imagined in a house full of women) said how becoming she looked whilst Lucy, when she finally appeared, was in positive raptures over her.

  ‘My dear Lydia,’ she enthused, getting her to parade up and down like a schoolgirl in her first grown-up dress. ‘You look just like a princess – just the thing. You will leave him breathless, and no mistake. How well that gown suits you. I thought it would, as soon as I saw the material. And your hair - and that lovely tippet – it matches the gown precisely.’

  Lydia wisely chose to ignore Lucy’s sly insinuations.

  ‘I have your mama to thank for that. It certainly is beautiful.’

  ‘It is no more than you deserve, my dear,’ said Mrs Taylor, firmly. ‘I really don’t know what we could have done if you had not taken Lucy in like that. And here she is, right as rain, and disliking Brighton so much yet not one grumble or word of complaint since you both arrived. I am quite amazed at the difference in her, really I am.’

  It was only a short ride to the ‘Old Ship’. Mr Taylor made straight for the card room where he found a group of his acquaintance setting up a rubber, but the three ladies remained in the ballroom while a dance came to a close. Lucy’s hand was immediately claimed by a young gentleman of her acquaintance and Lydia was soon introduced to, and led onto the floor by, a companion of his. Lydia had not expected to find Mr Churchman at the ball much before supper but to her surprise she detected him amongst a large party entering the room well before her first dance was over. Suddenly her partner became tedious. It was impossible for her to concentrate on what he was saying. It felt as though the dance would never end.

  End it did, however, and Lydia was pleased to make her excuses and return to where Mrs Taylor was gossiping with a friend. She refused the offer of a second dance, allowing herself to feel somewhat heated from the exertions of the first, and permitted herself a quick peep around the room to see if Mr Churchman was in view. Unfortunately a large group of people decided to choose just that moment to stake a claim to the portion of floor immediately in front of her. Lydia could see nothing, and no-one could see her. By the time she had managed to manoeuvre into a better vantage point she had the mortification of spotting Mr Churchman leading Miss Taylor onto the dance floor and,
almost as bad, resigning herself to the position of wallflower instead.

  At the end of the dance Lucy returned and sat next to Lydia by the wall.

  ‘I am quite worn out,’ she declared, breathing heavily and fanning herself. ‘I shall be very glad to sit out the next dance – shall you?’

  ‘I have had that doubtful pleasure already,’ Lydia replied. ‘I confess that I have little taste for the position of wallflower, however tired I might feel.’

  Miss Taylor acknowledged the truth in this.

  ‘But you have not lacked for partners,’ continued Lydia, with a smile. ‘I see that Mr Churchman was most anxious to take your hand. You were talking for ever, too, from what I could see. It is only a wonder that you had breath enough to dance at all.’

  ‘As for that,’ grumbled Lucy, good naturedly, ‘you had as lief have been dancing with him as I. Why, Mr Churchman could talk of nothing but you – it was all ‘how you had enjoyed yourself at Foxwell, how well Miss Bateman had liked you’ (nothing about liking me, note!), ‘how genuinely you had appeared to admire the country, how ‘absolutely charming’ you are looking tonight’. I knew he would! I had half a mind to excuse myself and allow him to ask you to dance instead. He was totally oblivious to anything I had to say.’

  Lydia was mollified, but her composure was to receive a further battering when the gentleman in question came into view from the other end of the room. He had been to get Lucy a lemonade and caught Lydia’s eye as he gave it to her. Lydia caught her breath. Now he was next to her, smiling, regarding her with that particularly intense look that she found totally irresistible.

  ‘I have come to claim the dances you refused me at Christmas,’ he said, in a tone which brooked no denial. He need not have worried. Lydia was in no fit state to deny him anything at all. ‘Unless you have further objections to make I should be delighted if you would do me the honour of completing the next two with me.’

  ‘I thank you, Mr Churchman. I like to pay my debts. I should be delighted to fulfil my obligations tonight.’

  Lydia took his proffered arm and took care not to catch Lucy’s eye as that young lady mischievously breathed the words ‘I told you so’ as they passed her by. She felt radiant in her new dress. He took her hand in a way that made her shiver.

  It was unfortunate that the nature of the first dance was such that Lydia and Henry had very little chance of any coherent conversation at all. Indeed, what little they had was so much interrupted by to-ings and fro-ings that it consisted mainly of short, insubstantial questions and answers which focused primarily on Lydia’s enjoyment of dancing, and Mr Churchman’s own intentions of remaining at Foxwell for the summer.

  Luckily this dance was an unusually short one. The second started straight away. Much to Lydia’s satisfaction this one turned out to be much more conducive to a proper conversation. Mr Churchman asked her about her uncle and aunt in Netley and how she had spent her time since leaving Abdale House.

  ‘I understand that your uncle and aunt live in more modest circumstances than you are used to,’ he said. ‘Although, given the nature of your escape from Abdale it sounds like you are a lot better off in Netley, even if your accommodation is a little more constrained.’

  ‘I certainly am. I shall always be grateful to my uncle and aunt Bridger for taking me in so kindly. They have always done their best for my sister and myself despite the discomfort of a very small house. My uncle works extremely hard for very little material reward. It is only sad that he cannot command a larger income, though my aunt manages extremely well on what little she has.’

  ‘And they have no family?’

  ‘Not as yet, though a child is expected.’ She allowed herself a peep into his eyes. ‘My aunt will make an excellent mama, I am convinced of it – she is so very loving, and so full of fun. I only worry that we shall not have the room to put us all...’

  Their conversation continued into supper. Mr Churchman remained with the Taylors and helped the ladies with their plates. The supper tables were laden with dishes of every conceivable kind – lobster pates, baked eggs, jellies, strawberry pies. The room was crowded and hot and it took some time for everyone to be served. Lydia somehow managed to extricate herself from the crush and selected a table close to the door. She felt hungry. She scanned the crowd for the rest of her party, hoping that they would not be too long. As she did so her eyes fell on a familiar figure in a corner of the room and her appetite was snatched away completely.

  Unluckily the gentleman spotted her at exactly the same moment and after a sudden start of surprise pushed his way through the milling throng, a beaming smile on his arrogant, handsome face.

  ‘So, Cousin, I find you in Brighton,’ drawled Charles Abdale, seating himself, unbidden, on the stool at her side. ‘What an unexpected surprise. I didn’t know that you were here at all.’

  ‘How are you, Charles?’ asked Lydia, coldly. She wished that Mr Churchman would return but there was still no sign of him amongst everyone else at the supper table.

  ‘All the better for seeing you.’ His eyes ranged over her insolently, examining her in every detail. He smelt of drink and already seemed a trifle above par. ‘You seem to be doing well for yourself, Miss Lydia, if I may make so bold. Your gown is obviously an expensive one and that tippet cost more than a penny I’ll be bound. Now where would you get the wherewithal for items like that, eh? No wedding ring, I suppose’ (taking her gloved hand roughly in his and feeling for a ring). ‘No. As I thought. So to whom do you owe your thanks, I wonder, my penniless cousin – or is that too delicate a question to ask?’

  Lydia coloured at his insinuation but before she could reply Mr Churchman appeared before them. He seemed none too pleased to find an occupant in his seat. Charles looked round and acknowledged him with a grin.

  ‘Oh, it’s Churchman is it? I might have known,’ he said, a little more loudly than necessary. ‘I always knew there was something going on between you and them – only made the mistake of picking the wrong one. Natural mistake to make – the other one is far more affable and handsome - though I should have known that you’d have gone for the moneyed one...’

  ‘I would have you remove yourself from my seat, Mr Abdale,’ recommended Mr Churchman, in an ominously level voice.

  ‘So you can take my place you mean? Well, you seem to have taken it already, if you get my meaning. I congratulate you, Churchman – I only ever got on top of her bed. You have obviously got much further than that...’

  Henry’s face was a picture of controlled fury. Lydia thought that he would strike Charles there and then and was concerned, firstly, that Henry should not show himself up at the ball and, secondly, that no-one should get hurt.

  ‘Pray, Mr Churchman, ignore my cousin’s remarks. He is somewhat bosky, I think, and does not know what he is saying. They are certainly not worth growing angry about.’

  Unfortunately, Charles appeared totally incapable of knowing when to give up.

  ‘Ha, Miss Lydia – afraid for your lover’s skin, are you? – or at least for his mighty fine clothes ... you must make a splendid whore, my dear, to stand up for your...’

  He trailed off, a surprised look on his face, as he felt himself being raised bodily from the stool by the scruff of the neck and dragged ignominiously across the floor. A hush fell over the room, only disturbed by the dreadful scraping of Charles Abdale’s boots as they dragged, scuffling, across the timbers, and his somewhat stifled shouts as they disappeared through the entrance to the hotel.

  ‘You will pay for those remarks, Abdale,’ swore Mr Churchman through tightly gritted teeth. ‘You will pay for those and for all your other evil doings – not only towards Miss Barrington but my cousin as well, and all the other young ladies you have so thoughtlessly tried to ruin. I should have done this last year – I should have made you pay for your depravity then, but concern for our families made me hesitate too long. I should have listened to my instincts and taught you a lesson you would never forget. But
now I have the very great pleasure of doing it to you here instead...get up, you animal, and remove your coat, that I might straightway knock you down.’

  Charles remained slumped on the pavement, looking for all the world like a nervous lapdog awaiting his punishment for misbehaving in the street.

  ‘I’ll not get up while you’re around,’ he drawled. ‘Kick me while I’m down if you will. I shall stay right here otherwise – aye, all night, if I must.’

  Mr Churchman would have none of this. He grabbed Charles by the stuff of his waistcoat, ripping the seams as he did so, and dragged him onto his feet. Charles hit out, somewhat wildly, his fist somehow coming home on his adversary’s cheek. He was immediately rewarded with a storter to the nose which would have sent a lesser man sprawling to the ground. He reeled for a moment, the blood slowly trickling down his face. Then, with one mighty swing to his jaw, Abdale was down again and showing no sign of wishing to continue the match.

  With a look of utter contempt, and accompanied by a great cheer from the crowd which had assembled to watch the mill, Mr Churchman picked up and smoothed down his coat, brushed a speck of dust off his immaculate waistcoat and strode off along the darkened street in search of his curricle, and home.

  Lydia and Lucy, the peace of the evening shattered, quickly agreed that they should return to Madeira Place with all haste and escape the curious crowds as soon as possible. In a way it was fortunately done. Awaiting Lydia on the mahogany pier table was a letter from Netley, in her uncle’s writing. Lydia tore it open in trepidation. What more could happen to make the evening worse?