MONDAY, 13 JULY 1812
Training with Quinn proved to be a dour affair. The usually stolid Islander was furious at his master’s decision to go to London without him, and channelled all of his anger into teaching Helen how to punch and kick with deadly effect. His sessions were long and hard, and his fighting mantra — A still body is an easy target — kept Helen constantly moving, so that by Monday evening, when Andrew was to arrive in Brighton, she felt both bone-tired and certain she had mastered the basics of canne chausson.
They had not received any letter of progress from Lord Carlston or Mr Hammond; nor had Helen had a message from Martha Gunn regarding Lowry. It was perhaps too early to be so concerned — only three days had passed since she had spoken to the dipper — yet Helen could not shake a sense that disaster was snapping at their heels.
It was a feeling that dogged her as she strolled along the Steine’s gravel path arm in arm with Delia and scanned the throng for the Duke of Selburn and Andrew. The gentle walk was lifting her exhaustion, but beneath it lay a nervous energy at the prospect of meeting her brother.
The day had been warm, but the evening was proving less conducive for the evening promenade, the sun slowly descending into a bank of thick cloud and the cooling night breeze prone to gathering itself into capricious salty gusts. Many of the ladies had refused to bow to the weather’s dictates and wore extravagant bonnets and thin silk spencers, the wind catching at straw brims and wrapping muslin skirts around white-stockinged legs. The gentlemen in their heavier evening jackets were faring better, and Helen had a moment of regret that she was once again in her impractical female clothing, even if that included a pretty purple short coat over an olive silk gown, topped by a matching olive beret. Still, the gentlemen were not escaping completely unscathed. A few beaver hats had already left their pomaded moorings and landed on the path, to the hilarity of those around.
Helen could not yet see two tall, fair men amongst the crowd. She had a strong notion that Andrew was going to insist she accompany him back to London the next day, with the sweetener that they could set up house together as she had once proposed. That all felt so long ago now: another life and another Helen. She could not help thinking that Andrew was not going to like this new unbiddable sister and her adamant refusal to accompany him back to that old life.
‘I read in the Advertiser that the Prince Regent is going to keep his birthday in London, but may honour Brighton with a visit later in the Season,’ Delia said. ‘Apparently he is most aggrieved that the troubles with America will keep him from most of his summer sojourn.’
‘It does not seem to have stopped anyone else coming here,’ Helen replied, rising for a moment onto her toes to see over the sea of heads. Still no sign of Andrew or the Duke.
‘Oh, no, it is that Dunwick woman,’ Lady Margaret said from behind them.
Indeed, progressing somewhat gingerly towards them along the centre path were Lady Dunwick, her scandalmonger friend Mrs Albridge and Pug. All three ladies were heavy-eyed, pale and somewhat peevish in expression. It would seem that Brighton’s relentless schedule of delights was already wearing upon them.
Lady Margaret leaned in between Helen and Delia. ‘Have they seen us? Can we cross the road and —’
‘Lady Helen!’ Pug called, her usual volume somewhat subdued.
‘Too late,’ Delia said behind her gloved hand.
The ladies, on meeting, all curtseyed.
‘Foul wind, is it not,’ Pug said. ‘I swear it has something particular against my bonnet.’
If it did, Helen thought, she would not be surprised. The bonnet was a dreadful concoction of pink pearl silk and vibrant blue feathers.
‘Will you walk with me for a while, Lady Helen?’ Pug asked. ‘I have something particular to discuss.’
‘Of course.’ Helen cast an apologetic glance at Delia, who gracefully ceded her position and dropped back to walk with Pug’s mother, Mrs Albridge and Lady Margaret.
Pug linked her arm through Helen’s and pulled her into a brisk walk. ‘I’ve got a head full of wool,’ she declared. She looked up at the wheeling, diving seagulls, their raucous cries piercing the chatter around them and the grinding rumble of carriages along South Parade. ‘I do wish those devilish birds would stop that racket. Mother and I attended the Billings rout last night and ’pon my soul their punch was as rough as Vauxhall’s.’ She pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Guess where I have been invited? I shall give you a clue. Dominoes.’
Helen shook her head, only half attending, her attention caught by a fracas ahead. A large brown poodle had issued a challenge to a spotted spaniel, and both dogs, along with their owners, were loudly voicing their opinions.
‘Dominoes and masks,’ Pug urged. A gust of wind bent back the brim of her bonnet. She clapped her hand on it and grabbed at the streaming ribbons.
‘A masquerade?’ Helen ventured.
‘Yes!’ Pug exclaimed. ‘Lady Oliver is holding a costumed masquerade ball Tuesday next, the twenty-first. I know you are not well-acquainted with the family, but I wrote to Lady Oliver — she is my cousin, you know — and asked if she would allow me to include you and your friends in the invitation. She has written back and said that she would be delighted to further her acquaintance with you. Mother is grumbling, of course, for she says the Olivers’ estate is halfway back to London and it will not be quite a full moon for the journey, but it will be such fun and I thought we could all go together in one carriage.’
Helen smiled, even though the last thing she needed was a masquerade ball. ‘That is kind of you, but I do not think Lady Ridgewell would agree, particularly since she is not acquainted with the family.’
‘Let Mama talk to her,’ Pug said. ‘She is very persuasive, and besides … oh!’ She wrenched Helen’s arm. ‘Look who is ahead.’
Walking towards them was the elegant figure of the Duke of Selburn, dressed in shades of buff and tobacco and, it seemed, very much alone. Where was Andrew?
Helen scanned the oncoming crowd: a bun-woman offering sweet wares from a basket, a black gentleman in clerical garb with a wide-brimmed hat that flapped in the wind, a sweet little family in a tight cluster, and the rotund owner of the poodle fussing over his outraged dog, but no sign of her brother. Had something happened?
The Duke had not yet seen her, but the long lines of his face held no tension, no bad news. Perhaps Andrew had stopped further back to speak to an acquaintance.
‘What do you want to do?’ Pug whispered. ‘Shall we turn around?’