A Week in Brighton

by Moore, Jennifer

Arthur slipped his hand into her hair, cupping her head as his other hand wrapped around her, holding her tightly against him.

  She slid her arms around him, thinking she couldn’t hold tightly enough. Arthur was solid and steadfast, and in his arms, her worries and fears vanished.

  He pulled away, resting his forehead against hers. “Don’t change too much,” he whispered.

  “I can’t do it,” she said, but her tone was far from convincing.

  “Consider carefully,” Arthur said. He stepped back, taking her hands. “I would miss you dreadfully, but I promise, there exists no feeling worse than regret.”

  “I will think about it,” she said.

  “Good.” His smile was sad. “Shall I walk you home? It is beyond late—nearly early.”

  She shook her head. “I should like to stay a bit longer.” Seeing that he was about to protest, she pulled at his hand. “Don’t worry. The fishermen leave early. I shan’t be on the streets alone.” She smirked. “And if it makes you feel better, I will bring my rolling pin.”

  Arthur brushed another kiss over her lips and took his hat from the hook by the door. “I nearly forgot.” He pulled a packet of bills from his pocket. “For the order today—the men were very grateful to you. And my special owner’s price is the same? Double?”

  “Of course not.” She waved her hand.

  “I insist.” He pushed the money into the reticule that hung beside her bonnet. “Good night, Daphne.” He gave a bow, put on his hat, and departed.

  Daphne watched through the window as he walked away, down the street toward his hotel, a warm glow filling her up from the inside. Was it from the kiss? Or the spark of a new purpose?

  She took a lantern into the kitchen and dug beneath the stack of papers and documents until she found the pamphlet for the culinary school. The paper was worn and yellowed, but she could read the words clearly, and though it terrified her, she felt peaceful. Could she really do this? Leave Brighton? She would be gone for months—perhaps longer. If only she were brave enough. She went into the dining room and looked at the family portrait, but as always, her parents and grandmother gave no advice. What am I to do? If she only had some sort of sign.

  Returning to the table, she sat and looked over the pamphlet, her mind spinning with scenarios until her eyes grew heavy.

  ***

  Something was wrong, but Daphne couldn’t quite put her finger on exactly what. It itched at her, seeming familiar. There was something she must do. She tried to ignore the sensation, wanting to continue with her pleasant dream, but the feeling wouldn’t leave. Danger. She blinked herself awake, pushing herself up from the table. She’d fallen asleep in the bakery’s dining area.

  As she grew more aware of her surroundings and considered what had awakened her, she realized smoke filled the room, and she jolted out of her chair. She glanced at each of the lanterns, then rushed back to check the ovens, but the kitchen wasn’t the source of the fire. She coughed, hurrying back into the dining room and through the front door.

  Instead of fresh air, the smell of smoke surrounded Daphne out in the road. She peered through the haze illuminated in the pre-dawn light and realized the thickest smoke was coming from the warehouse. Between the slats of the walls, she saw a menacing glow. “No, no, no.” The entire structure was built of wood. All of Arthur’s work and his plan—his dream. Fire would destroy every bit of it. She rushed to the warehouse door. The lock had been broken. Daphne’s stomach felt ill, and panic made her breath short. Where was the night watchman? “Fire!” she yelled into the night. “Fire! Call up the fire brigade!” Someone else must smell the smoke. Perhaps fishermen on their way to the boats would hear her yell.

  She cast around, deciding on the best course. Should she run for help herself? Or try to put out the fire before it grew? She hurried to the main entrance of the construction site. The door was ajar. Is somebody inside?

  She pulled on the door, opening it enough to slip through. Smoke stung her eyes, but it wasn’t thick here. Coughing, she searched for the source of the fire. “Hello?”

  There was no answer. She prayed it meant the building was empty.

  A glow came from the west side of the warehouse, and as she moved closer, she could see it was located beyond the broken wall, between the old furniture warehouse and the bakery. The light seemed to be contained to that area. Perhaps, if the fire hadn’t fully grown, it could still be extinguished.

  Pulling up her apron to cover her nose and mouth, Daphne stepped through the warehouse, careful to avoid tripping over debris in the partial light. Could she smother the fire? She saw a drop cloth in a corner and grabbed an edge, dragging it toward the glow. When she reached the broken wall, she stepped through. The stove was open. Glowing embers were clumped with smaller bits of wood beneath the pile of boards, and burning rags were pressed between the slats of the wall. Even as she watched, flames grew and spread throughout the room. The drop cloth would be useless, and she let it fall. A wave of heat pushed toward her. She stumbled back, coughing and blinking her tear-filled eyes. If the supports fell, she’d be crushed.

  Daphne ran back through the main room, hearing something crash behind her. The fire was growing, and within moments, the entire building would burn. Sunlight from the high windows and the firelight behind illuminated the room through the smoky haze. She remembered seeing plans and documents on a table by the door and hurried that way. At least she could save those.

  She coughed again, choking, and crouched down to where the smoke was thinner. Her eyes stung, but she could still see her way well enough. The table was just where she remembered.

  Yells came from outside, and a bit of the heaviness in her chest eased. Help had arrived. At last.

  She rolled up a stack of plans and snatched up the papers around it, not caring that she crumpled them in her haste.

  The doors pulled open, and through the haze, she could make out figures coming in. “Is anyone inside?” A voice yelled. “Miss Dayley?”

  “I’m here,” she called, coughing at the breath she’d drawn to yell. She knew the voice. Rodney Thomas was the captain of the local fire brigade.

  He found her almost immediately. “Daphne, what are you . . . ?”

  “The papers . . .” She clutched the rolls and wadded sheets in her arms, reaching toward those remaining on the table.

  “Leave them.” Rodney seized her around the waist and pulled her to the door.

  More men charged inside, some leading a wheeled fire pump.

  Where was Arthur? Had he come as well? Daphne blinked but found it difficult to make out details through the smoke and her bleary eyes.

  Outside, a crowd had gathered. Men ran back and forth in an organized chaos. A bucket line stretched from the sea to the warehouse.

  Rodney handed Daphne off to Mrs. Forbush and turned back immediately to the fire, calling out orders as he went.

  Daphne closed her eyes against the burning and let Mrs. Forbush lead her away from the smoke and heat. With the older woman’s help, she sat on a crate away from the commotion. Still holding the papers, she rubbed her eyes onto her sleeve.

  She muttered a thanks as someone put a blanket around her shoulders and pressed a cup into her hand.

  The water felt cool on her throat. She watched the townspeople fight the warehouse fire, and her heart hurt, imagining Arthur’s devastation at the sight of his project going up in flames.

  A banging came from Arthur’s hotel-room door, shaking him from his sleep. He pulled on trousers and crossed the room. Upon opening the door, he found a man he recognized as one of Mr. Simper’s workers.

  “Fire, sir!” the man said in a panicked voice. “At the warehouse.”

  A boulder dropped in Arthur’s stomach. He crammed his feet into his boots, grabbing his coat and hat as he bolted out the door. “What damage is there? Was anyone hurt? How did it start?” He fired questions at the man as they ran from the hotel and down the street to the waterfront.

  �
�I don’t know, sir.” The man panted as he spoke. “Mr. Simper sent me to fetch you as soon as I arrived. I only saw smoke before I raced away.”

  As if speaking about it made him aware, the smell of smoke reached Arthur, and dread turned his thoughts frantic. If they lost the warehouse, the hotel would need to be built completely from scratch, which would cost months of extra labor, not to mention the supplies. “What about the fire brigade?” Surely Brighton had a volunteer fire company at least.

  “Sorry, I don’t know, sir. But Rodney Thomas, the brigade captain, lives close to the waterfront. I imagine if they’ve not come already, they’ll be there soon enough.”

  When they arrived at the construction site, smoke surrounded Arthur, impairing his vision and choking his throat. He squinted, scanning the scene, assessing the severity of the situation. Men operated the cranks on a fire pump, shooting water into the warehouse. A chain of people stretched over the beach, passing buckets along the line. It seemed the crowd’s heaviest concentration was at the west side of the warehouse, near the bakery.

  A new question occurred to Arthur, sending a jolt through his chest. Had Daphne been in the bakery when the fire started?

  He pushed his way into the smoke and crowd and through the bakery door, choking as he swept his gaze through the shop. Water dripped from every surface, and broken glass crunched beneath his feet. Billows of smoke poured from the west wall, where the fire had been mostly extinguished. Embers glowed in the charred remains.

  A fire brigade volunteer chopped at the wall with an axe, and another tossed a bucketful of water onto the hole, making a cloud of steam and smoke. The furniture had been thrown to one side and the glass display cases shattered either by the fire or those fighting it.

  Daphne’s bonnet, shawl, and reticule hung on the hooks just inside the door. At the sight, cold terror shot through his veins. “Daphne!” he yelled. She must be in the kitchen. Had she been hurt? Was she hiding? He started toward the back of the shop.

  One of the firefighters, a stocky man with a ruddy complexion and ash in his hair, hurried toward him. “Not safe in here, sir.”

  Arthur pushed past him. “Daphne Dayley. I must find—”

  The man caught Arthur’s arm in a tight grip. “She’s not here. Found her in the warehouse earlier trying to salvage some papers.” He gave Arthur a shove, turning him toward the doorway. “Dangerous business, that. A lady has no place near a fire.”

  Arthur pulled away his arm. “She’s safe, then? Unharmed?”

  The man handed out the empty bucket through the door and grabbed onto the handle of a full one. He motioned out the door with his chin, a bit more gently this time. “Inhaled a bit of smoke, but she’s not hurt.”

  “Thank you.” Arthur breathed out a sigh. He grabbed Daphne’s things from the hooks, but instead of exiting, he turned back.

  The man had taken the fresh bucket and tossed the contents onto the fire, then brought it back to the doorway.

  “Sir, what is your name?” Arthur asked.

  “Rodney Thomas.”

  “You are the captain of the fire brigade,” Arthur said, remembering the man’s name. He held out his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Thomas for your service to me.”

  Rodney Thomas shook his hand and gave a shrug. “’s my duty, sir.” He reached through the doorway, exchanging the bucket.

  “But I thank you all the same,” Arthur said.

  “You’re welcome,” Mr. Thomas grumbled, and he gave him another push. “Now, go find Miss Dayley and leave the brigade to our work.”

  Arthur left the bakery. He glanced at the warehouse, but his worry for the building project had shifted down his list of priorities. Where is she?

  After a short search, he found Daphne seated on a crate at the other side of the road. A blanket lay over her shoulders. She clutched parchment rolls and loose sheets of paper to her chest, watching the fire with a dazed expression. Seeing her unharmed, Arthur’s tension released, leaving his knees feeling soft. He crouched before her, placing a hand onto her arm. “Daphne.”

  She turned her gaze to him. Her face was dirty and her hair a mess. She shook her head as if coming out of a stupor. “Arthur, I’m so sorry. Your hotel.” She blinked swollen eyes and gave him the stacks she held. “I couldn’t get them all. I didn’t know there was a fire until I smelled smoke in the bakery, and by then, it was too advanced for me to put it out.”

  Arthur took the piles of papers from her hands. “You smelled smoke and went into the warehouse?”

  “I wanted to help. But I could do nothing but grab these.” She motioned to the papers he held.

  Arthur needed a moment to calm himself and gather his thoughts. Daphne could have easily been killed. What had she been thinking, running into a burning building? What if . . . He breathed deeply and put the papers into a stack on the ground, setting a rock on top to hold them in place. He found a crate further along the street and brought it alongside hers, sitting on it.

  “Daphne, no document is worth . . .” He took her hand in both of his, turning his knees toward her. “My dear, you should have run away from the danger, not toward it.” He kept his voice gentle, not wanting his fear to be interpreted as chastisement.

  “I couldn’t just sit by and allow it to burn.” She squeezed his hand. “Not when it means so much to you.”

  The tension returned, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Daphne, it’s just a building—bricks, boards, and nails. Compared to you, it matters not at all.” He put an arm around her shoulder, pulling her against him. “What if I’d lost you?” he whispered. He was surprised she’d not mentioned the damage to the bakery once.

  Daphne leaned her head on his shoulder, resting against him as they watched the brigade extinguish the last of the fire.

  The morning sun rose higher, brightening the beach as the smoke dispersed. Men who’d moved quickly in panic stood around in groups or worked slower now, cleaning up their equipment and departing.

  Mr. Fawcett approached at a quick pace. “Mr. Grande, there you are.” He rubbed his forehead, and his eyes darted around, taking in the scene. “Bad business, this,” he said. “That red-faced fire captain won’t allow anyone inside—not even Mr. Simper—until he’s certain the building’s sound.” He paced with short steps. “And where is the night watchman? Is all lost?”

  “Not all.” Arthur stood and picked up the stack of papers, handing it to the solicitor with the plans.

  “Gracious. How did you ever . . . ?” Mr. Fawcett shuffled through the pages, muttering as he reordered them.

  “Miss Dayley saved them,” Arthur said. He helped Daphne to stand.

  Mr. Fawcett looked up. “Oh, Miss Dayley, what quick thinking.” He put the rolls of plans beneath his arm and lifted his hat, bowing. “We’re in your debt, miss.”

  Daphne inclined her head and gave a small smile.

  She looked exhausted, and Arthur realized she must not have slept at all. “If you please, Mr. Fawcett, would you send for a cab? I’m going to see Miss Dayley home.” He pointed toward the warehouse with a lift of his chin. “There’s nothing more to be done now. I’ll send for you if you’re needed.”

  Mr. Fawcett gave a brisk nod. “Very good, sir.”

  Daphne was silent during the carriage ride, and Arthur didn’t disturb her. His mouth tasted sour as he thought of the blackened walls of the warehouse. How much damage had been done? And how had the fire started? Discouragement made his limbs heavy, and he imagined Daphne felt the same.

  A quarter of an hour later, Arthur helped her from the hackney. He paid the driver and accompanied her to the door.

  She turned a key in the lock.

  “Will you be all right?” He cupped a hand beneath her elbow, thinking she looked so exhausted she might just fall over. “Can I assist you? Or shall I send for someone?”

  “I just need to rest.” Her smile was tired, and her brows were drawn together in a pensive manner. He wondered what she was considering so deeply.


  “Might I call on you tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you, Arthur.” She focused her gaze on him, looking as though she was pushing away the other thoughts. “And again, I am so sorry.”

  He lifted her hand, brushing a kiss on it. “Sleep, Daphne. Things will seem better when you wake.”

  She nodded, drawing her brows close again. “Yes, I will. Thank you.”

  As he walked back to the site, Arthur wondered what she was pondering so intently. Or was it simply weariness that occupied her mind?

  ***

  The next morning, Arthur, Mr. Simper, Rodney Thomas, Constable Humphries, and Mr. Jenkins, the head engineer, walked through the building site. The engineer pointed at the ceiling, talking about joists and beams, but Arthur found it difficult to concentrate on his words. His heart thudded dully as he stepped through the soup of water, ash, and charred wood and let his gaze travel through the space. Sunlight gleamed through holes in the walls, caused by both the fire and the fighting of it. Black stained the wood in uneven patterns that reminded Arthur of lashes, and one section of ceiling had nearly completely caved in, leaving a pile of soggy debris beneath. Aside from the engineer’s voice, the warehouse was silent. Workers awaited approval of the building’s safety before they could enter. He kicked aside a hunk of blackened wood.

  “Well, that is good news, isn’t it, Mr. Grande?” Mr. Fawcett jotted something in his notebook.

  “I beg your pardon,” Arthur said. “What is good news?”

  Mr. Fawcett squinted, a concerned expression moving over his face. He glanced at the other men. “Mr. Jenkins says the framework is sound. We may resume construction immediately.” He spoke slowly, looking closely at Arthur as if to assess his mental state.

  Arthur cleared his throat and straightened his back, remembering that he was the leader of this project. Enough feeling despondent; he had a hotel to build.

  “You are absolutely certain the building is sound?” He spoke directly to Mr. Jenkins, inflecting his voice with authority. “If the integrity of the structure is at all compromised, I’d rather tear it down than risk any lives.”