Elisabeth Fairchild (8 page)

He settled his disconcerting eyes on her a moment, with an understanding that touched her deep within her wounded heart. Then he smiled his irresistibly contagious smile. “There is adventure in untraveled roads,” he said gently.

“Yes,” she agreed, smile fading as sadness rose to meet her again. “And death is perhaps the last and greatest adventure of them all.”

Sea salt hung thick and nose biting along the last leg of their journey, like the smell of tears. Miss Quinby distanced herself from him as the salt smell thickened. The closer they drew to Brighton, the further she pulled away, as if in anticipation of their inevitable separation. Beau knew that their relationship, as it now stood, must soon end, but had to admit he regarded this young woman, met for the first time this morning, as someone he would like to know much better. He wondered if she was inclined to regard him in a similar light. He hoped so.

The fresh team made up for lost time and carried them swiftly from Lewes, west through Falmer, a village of flint, brick and timber, standing at the head of two valleys, the one leading to Brighton, the other back to Lewes. The breeze picked up as the sea was exposed to view, and a feeling of anticipation had the passengers restless in their seats as they drew closer to their destination. The restlessness affected the horses, who knew this road well. Beau had his hands full managing the team, until he pulled to a halt in the coach yard of Brighton’s Castle Inn.

The yard of the inn, built like the houses in Brighton, with its back to the ocean, whirled with a breeze that kicked up dust and tugged at coat tails and hat brims with alarming fervor. That the breeze caused Nell greater discomfort than himself became clear when she and the other woman who rode the roof of the mail faced the ticklish dilemma in climbing down from their perch when navigating the iron rungs that carried one to the ground without losing modesty to billowing skirts or one’s bonnet to the caprices of the wind, proved challenging.

Beau leapt nimbly down. Nell moved rather more deliberately. Resolutely clutching at her bonnet, she turned her back on the dispersing passengers below as her Aunt Ursula, who stood looking up, called, “Fanella, my dear. Your skirts, love. Do be careful with this naughty wind.”

Her remark turned the eyes and attention of every male within hailing distance. The wind was cheekily flirted with Miss Quinby’s skirts. Her blue cloak offered little help in maintaining a demure facade. It allowed her skirts just the freedom required to display yellow clocking on white-ribbed stockings, for the second time that day. Aware of her dilemma, Nell’s right hand, which should have remained tightly fixed to the railing, kepaching down from her bonnet brim to bat at the wayward skirts. Her bonnet turned first this way and then that, as she tried to see both where she went, and what the wind did with her attire.

Lord Beauford ’s attention fixed itself, as did every other man’s, on the provocative display of Nell’s petticoat, that only this morning he had freed from the harness of a carriage horse.

She was going to catch her heel! He leapt forward. As he reached her, arms outstretched, Nell’s heel caught on dangling linen. With a cry of surprise, her high-topped white kid shoe flailed in a mad attempt to find purchase, while one gloved hand slid dangerously down the railing.

Beau threw himself against the wind teased sway of her skirt. His arms wrapped around her most familiarly, reaching for the iron railing, pressing her between the unyielding forward thrust of his chest, and the coach. She loosed an abrupt sigh, breath knocked from her lungs.

The smell of violets, and the thunder of his own agitated heartbeat filled Beau’s head, as sweetly as Nell filled his arms, something lover-like in the brief clasping moment in which he held her fast. She sagged into his body’s curve in relief.

“You a-a-all right, Miss Quinby?” he enquired gently, words thick as porridge. His cheek fit into the sweet curve of her lower back. He closed his eyes savoring the moment.

Grasping her calfskin boot, he unhooked the errant petticoat, and placed her heel firmly on the rung where it belonged. With regret he released her, and stood back.

“All right?”

She stood, body pressed hard against the side of the coach, breathing heavily, knuckles white against the railing. With a deep, shuddering breath, as if to gather herself, she whispered, “Will you be so kind as to assist me, Mr. Ferd? I find myself quite immobilized by fear.”

Beauford returned with alacrity to her side. “The torn petticoat tripped you up, Miss Quinby. Shall I hold it out of the way?”

“Please do.” Her voice sounded so small that Beau wished to take her in his arms and comfort her like a frightened child. He had been convinced she was strong, independent and unshakeable. Her vulnerability rattled him. He took up the edge of her skirt and damaged petticoat in his left hand, while the right steadied her waist’s warmth.

“I’ve got you.”

She moved stiffly, carefully. He kept the torn petticoat out of her way, until she set foot on the ground. She startled him then, by clutching at the lapels of his coat, saying in a voice that knew not whether to laugh or cry, “I have mashed your posy yet again, sir.”

She then fell into the arms of her Aunt Ursula, who waited with pent breath for her niece. As she was led away, he heard her say, in a voice that tugged at his heart, “I have never been so terrified of falling, Auntie. It has quite taken my breath away.”

“There, there, dear.” Ursula soothed, assuming the roll that Beau would have loved to have taken, in clasping the young woman to her matronly bosom, and patting the sweet curve of her back.

Nell sat unsteadily on a bench outside the door to the Inn, her mind a rattled mixture of relief and arousal as her body reminded her in a multitude of ways that Mr. Ferd had saved her from breaks, sprains and bruises, that it was on Mr. Ferd’s broad chest she had sat, when he threw himself against her to stop her fall. One instant she had been assailed by the frightening sensation of tumbling to the ground, and in the next she had met with the equally dizzying sensation of being clasped tightly in the stout arms of a young man she had spent the greatepart of the day admiring.

There rose within her, a strange panic. She had, in one mad moment, thought to fight the very arms that saved her, to push them away, for the warm intimacy of their clasp was almost as big a threat to her equilibrium as the interrupted tumble. She had not been so foolish of course. Even as she had stiffened against the intimacy of his hold, she had to admit that of all the men who might have stopped her fall, she was heartily glad it was Mr. Ferd.

She shut her eyes and tried to slow her breathing, but there was no hope of success, for no sooner had she done so than a deep voice said, “I have taken the liberty of bespeaking a-a-a cup of tea for you, Miss Quinby. Is there a-a-any other way in which I might be of a-a-assistance?”

Something soft brushed against Nell’s leg. Her eyes popped open. Bandit offered comfort as well.

“You dear,” Ursula gushed, fumbling about in her reticule. “You have been the epitome of kindness, and here I have gone off without so much as tipping you.”

Nell looked up from Bandit’s scarred face with the feeling she was being watched. Mr. Ferd stared at her, pale eyes brimming with concern. He smiled. For a moment, as her aunt counted out a crown and sixpence in tip, Nell allowed her gaze to remain locked on his. As the moments ticked past without her withdrawal from such visual contact, a warm vibrancy fired in the depths of Mr. Ferd’s gaze. The blossoming of that look, forced Nell to drop her eyes.

She could not, however, refrain from glancing up again, throughout her aunt’s vociferously worded awarding of the generous tip, and the delivery of the cup of tea that had been requested by Mr. Ferd for her enjoyment, to see if he still watched her. Each time the blue eyes locked on hers, with a glow warming their depths, her heart thrummed an unruly tempo.

“You must, I insist, Mr. Ferd. . .” her aunt said, somewhere in the background of her mind, which seemed capable of focusing on only one thing at the moment, that thing being a pair of blue eyes, “. . . you must come to my husband if ever you are in need of work, for I should very much like to return the favor of assistance, should you find yourself in need.”

In response to this remark the pale blue gaze at last withdrew from Nell’s.

“I a-a-am touched by your generosity, madam,” he said with a bow. “I shall keep your kind offer in mind.” He turned once again to Nell, and it was with a sad sort of dismay that she realized he took leave of her.

“Miss Quinby. Enjoy your stay in Brighton.”

“Mr. Ferd!” Her hand flew out to stay him.

Amusement flickered in the penetrating blue eyes. “Miss Quinby?” His eyebrows rose.

Her hand sank. “I must thank you. You would seem to have rescued me twice today.”

The light in his eyes, the earnest admiration she could not quite believe herself worthy of, kindled again. “My pleasure,” he said. “Would that I might do so a-a-again.”

She forced herself to smile. “I shall never again hear Beethoven without remembering you, sir.”

The slow, sweet, enchanting smile warmed his lips. “Then, I must wish your days music filled, Miss Quinby.”

Nell knew there was no staying him a second time, but as he and Bandit left, she could not stop herself from smiling. He whistled Beethoven’s
Entrada
as he walked away.

Chapter

“We must see if we cannot find you a husband while you are here,” Ursula announced to Nell the next morning over breakfast, with the self-confident bravado of a woman who is content with her lot, and would see all the young women of her extended family in a similarly bliss-filled state.

Nell plucked up the secondhand bonnet she had been given by a kind young coachman whom she could not banish from her thoughts, and said with a roguish grin, “Perhaps we shall find one on the beach today, Auntie.”

“Never there!” Ursula exclaimed, taking her niece’s jest quite literally to heart.

Nell tied the pink ribbon beneath her chin, and found herself yearning, not for the first time since her arrival in Brighton, for the company of her siblings, either one of whom would have appreciated the humor of her remark. Why, even the coachman who had endowed her with this hat, and he a perfect stranger to her, had immediately caught onto her witticisms. He would most assuredly have blessed her with one of his very contagious smiles had he been listening. Not Aunt Ursula. Nell’s aunt was not prone to jestful or satirical speech, and all such expression in her company, no matter how witty, was as wasted as a whisper in a deaf woman’s ear.

“There are no eligible gentlemen to be found on the beach, my dear,” Ursula went on. “At this time of year, before the Prince and his court have made their appearance, the seaside can boast few gentlemen worthy of interest. It is only decrepit old men who have come to take the salt waters cure, that hang about. I do hope you shall not be too bored. There are, of course, some ill-mannered young smarts who sit along the Steine with spyglasses, for the purpose of ogling the bathers. They can certainly not be considered eligible companionship.”

Nell smiled, and hoping to avoid either of Aunt Ursula’s favorite topics; the salt water cure and the finding of a husband for Nell, said, “I enjoy this opportunity to spend time with you, Auntie, in the warmth and peace of the seaside. Should we not find me a husband, I am confident we shall encounter some wealthy old woman in need of a companion.”

Ursula sighed as she pulled on her gloves. “Are you on about the idea of working for a living again, my dear? I will not hear it you know! Tonight we shall go in search of young people at the assembly held weekly at the Old Ship. There is sure to be one or two young men attending that might interest you.”

“I am sure there will be dozens,” Nell offered agreeably.

Her aunt gasped. “Dozens, Fanella, really! You must learn to be more discriminating.”

Nell laughed and took up her aunt’s arm with a reassuring squeeze. “Do not fret. Men whom I find interesting, and men whom I might wish to marry, are not at all one and the same.” 

Charley Tyrrwhit took the spyglass nestled beneath his arm, and stretching it full length, tested its powers as he and Beau set out across the Steine, toward the beach. Beau knew that of all the things to see and do in Brighton, it was beach gazing that Charley enjoyed the most.

They were not alone in the pursuit. Spyglasses, opera glasses and monocles reflected the bright light of the sun all along the highest ridge of the beach, like brilliants in a necklet. If asked, the numerous gentlemen, and not so numerous ladies, who participated in the gazing, would have professed keen interest in the ships to be seen crossing the Channel, but it was in actuality the bathers who drew so much focused attention.

“Well, Beau,” Charley sounded distracted as he selected a large rock to sit upon. “Is masquerading as someone one is not, as stimulating as one might imagine?”