Summer Is for Lovers (25 page)

He opened his mouth, a look of swift surprise flaring across his face. He shifted his weight from one foot to another. Guiltily, to her mind. “No,” he finally said. “I can honestly say that nothing I said that night was an untruth.”

But he had not believed it at the time. That much was clear. Her understanding of the situation settled from a vicious churning to a dull ache. She felt a bone-deep sense of who she was, a social plague that would not be cured, no matter the skill of her modiste, no matter her potential choice of husband. “What you are saying,” she said slowly, “is that I was not good enough for them as I was.”

David’s gaze jerked down to meet hers. “That is not what I am saying at all.”

“You had to convince them of my worth, and even that was a facade strung out of sympathy.”

David shook his head. “You are twisting my words. I wanted . . . I
want
. . . to protect you.”

“But you do not want to marry me.” Caroline caught the sob in her throat, forbade it to escape. “So much so that you invented a story, just so others might remove the burden of my admiration from your hands.”

David spread those very hands to which she referred, reaching for an answer he apparently could not give. Even now, even with all that had passed between them, his expression skirted an emotion that looked suspiciously like sympathy. “I am not the right man for you, Caroline.”

A welcome rage settled in her gut. “So you keep saying, but given that I have already accepted the man you are, what you
mean
is that I am not the right woman for you.”

She waited for him to protest. To assure her she had the wrong of it.

He did none of those things. Instead, he nodded.

“What you mean,” she continued, her certainty a terrible thing, “is that I am good enough to almost tup in the waves, but not good enough to pledge a troth. Well, let me tell you something, David Cameron. We are through with these lessons. I don’t need your pity, and I don’t need your proposal. It turns out I have plenty to sort through on my own.”

Chapter 30

S
UNDAY CHURCH SERVICE
was a painful affair.

Caroline sat stiff-backed in her family’s pew, dressed in her gown with the lavender flowers, her mind on anything but the sermon. She felt hollow inside, David’s words running through her mind again and again. Her attention was snagged only once, when a blessing was offered for those who would compete in tomorrow’s race. And then it was noon, the church crowd was gossiping about the latest news in the
Gazette
, and Caroline was stepping out into bright sunshine, Penelope walking several yards ahead.

Dermott intercepted her as she made her way down the church steps. He looked devilishly handsome, as always, and she could see at least two girls making moon eyes at him across the street. She knew she was lucky to have such a charming smile directed toward her, but as she summoned a smile in return, it occurred to her she had more than that.

She had an offer of marriage from this perfect specimen of a man. And even if Mr. Dermott’s proposal was more calculated than romantic, even if his interest was based solely on some image conjured by too much whisky and David Cameron’s exuberant description of a make-believe woman, the choice was now in
her
hands.

And a choice was something David had never permitted her.

“Good morning, Caroline,” Mr. Dermott said, bowing at the waist. “I was waiting for you, hoping for a word about my proposal.”

She eyed him, her stomach jumping like oil in a heated skillet. His nearness did not spark the same violent feelings in her that standing close to David did, but if her recent experience with David had taught her anything, it was that it was far more tenable to be the partner who was adored than the one doing the adoring.

David Cameron didn’t want her. This man did.

Why was she even hesitating?

“I have been thinking hard on your offer,” she told Mr. Dermott, her teeth trembling on the answer she knew she must give. “You make a favorable argument for my acceptance.”

He looked pleased. “Favorable enough that you will have me?”

Caroline nodded. “I think,” she said, willing herself to keep breathing, “that my answer is yes. I will marry you.”

White teeth flashed at her. “Well, that’s brilliant.” His eye fell eagerly on a crowd emerging from the depths of the church. “Oh, there’s Duffington and his mother now. And Branson behind them. Should I tell them our happy news?”

Caroline shook her head, alarmed at the thought of involving Mr. Dermott in such a delicate matter, given the way his chest was already puffing up. “I’d rather do it myself, if you don’t mind. I shall tell them now. I do not want to string them along.”

Dermott’s smile slipped, ever so slightly. “Shall I call on you tomorrow then?”

“Aren’t you competing in the race tomorrow?” she asked, inexplicably hesitant to plan tomorrow, much less the rest of her life, with this man she had had just accepted.

“The race is at eleven. But maybe after? We can tell your family, and also celebrate my win together.”

Caroline raised a brow at his bravado, but she wrangled her instinctive retort into submission. “That sounds lovely,” she said. “Come for tea. That seems as good a time as any to share the announcement with my family.”

Dermott left whistling a bright, airy tune that seemed at odds with the task Caroline had before her. The business of putting off Duffington and Branson was the work of but a moment, but it left her drained and shaking. It had less to do with disappointing them than the realization she was cutting her safety net, as if by declining their offers, she was making her acceptance of Mr. Dermott’s proposal seem more real.

It was almost one o’clock by the time she arrived home. If yesterday had gone differently, she would have been meeting David at the cove right about now. But she couldn’t see herself facing him now, even if that made her a coward. The words they had exchanged, and the fact that he had failed to even consider offering for her, sat like yesterday’s breakfast high in her stomach. Whatever promises they had made each other were through. She had told him their lessons were finished, and that had released him from all obligation.

It released her from obligation too, including the promise she had made him not to swim alone. David no longer required her instruction. He was ready for tomorrow’s race. And she was ready for a hard, fast swim, without the distraction David Cameron had become.

The two o’clock hour came and went before she felt comfortable setting off, presuming David would finally be finished with his own practice. She could tell from the way the ocean lapped at the edge of the footpath that it was approaching high tide, and indeed, she felt the pounding of the waves reverberating beneath her feet, even before she rounded the last turn. It occurred to her, belatedly, that she might have come too late to swim today. At the point of highest tide, when the water surged up along the southernmost edge of the cliffs and obscured the rocks beneath the surface, her refuge was transformed from something enjoyable to something potentially deadly.

But as the little beach she knew so well came into view, she stopped, horrified, at the sight spread out in front of her.

The ocean, while high, was not the only thing contributing to the roaring in her ears. The narrow shoreline was crawling with two dozen or more Brightonians. Women in gauzy white dresses. Children with kites and sailboats. Men in shirtsleeves. A couple had spread a blanket on top of the rock—
her
rock—and were laying out a picnic feast from the depths of a wicker basket. Behind them, two adolescent boys climbed the chalk cliffs, dislodging clumps of sea grass and knocking the sparrow nests down with pointed sticks.

A shudder racked her as she thought of the baby birds she had watched this summer, not yet fully feathered, tumbling down into the teeming water below.

The danger of this inlet, and its lethal, hidden currents, sent Caroline’s feet running toward the crowd. She grabbed the nearest person she could find and shook the man’s shoulder with a rough palm. Mr. Hamilton turned around, his red hair sticking out beneath the brim of his cap. The surprise of seeing him here paled in comparison to the fear crawling up her spine.

“What is happening?” she demanded. “Why are all these people here?”

“Didn’t you see the article in the
Gazette
this morning?”

“No.” Caroline shook her head. She had eschewed breakfast this morning, preferring to mope in her room.

“It mentioned this swimming beach. Called it a hidden gem, where the summer residents could escape the clamor of the London day visitors.” Hamilton tossed a dubious eye toward the boys climbing the white cliff walls. “Not that we seem any better behaved.”

“But why would you write such a thing?” Caroline demanded. Hamilton had been one of the men who had stumbled across the cove Tuesday night, and her mind flew to the only logical conclusion. “This is far too dangerous of a beach for the public. These people are in great danger!”

“I didn’t write it,” he protested. “It was in the
Gazette
’s social section.”

“But . . .
you
write the social section.” An echo of confusion clamored in her head. “Don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.” He looked a little put out. “I am a serious reporter, Miss Caroline.”

Caroline eyed the young man uncertainly. “You didn’t write about my proposal from Mr. Duffington yesterday?”

He shook his head. “No. I write about sporting events. The Brighthelmston horse races, the swimming competition, that sort of thing.”

“Well, who writes the social section?” she demanded.

“I can’t reveal the paper’s sources, Miss Caroline. You know that. It was one of your father’s rules, after all.” Hamilton spread one hand out, panning the crowd, and then held up a heavy black box in the other. “Now that the secret is out, I feel obligated to photograph it. I am thinking of making a book, you know.
Photographic Treasures of Brighton
. Perhaps they’ll even sell it in London.”

Caroline felt as if the whole of the beach was sliding sideways beneath her feet. This was the cove that provided a cherished connection to the father she had lost, a place that served as a refuge from Brighton’s brighter, noisier scene. Swimming here was one of her few pleasures in life.

Her
only
pleasure, now that her lessons with David Cameron were over.

And Mr. Hamilton was going to take a picture of it and share it far and wide.

“You can’t do something so irresponsible,” she protested. “If Londoners learn of this beach, then the people who come down for the day will come here instead of Brighton.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “And they’ll destroy everything that is beautiful about it.”

Hamilton shrugged. “I’d say it’s a little late for that. Might as well record it now, while it is still of a piece. This crowd here will destroy it, soon enough.” He offered her a searching glance. “About the swimming race tomorrow . . . I am slated to cover it for the paper. If you haven’t accepted Duffington yet, would you like to come with me?”

Caroline blinked at him in surprise. “I . . . that is, no, thank you. I actually accepted Mr. Dermott’s proposal this morning, so it turns out I am not free to accompany you.”

“Dermott?” Hamilton sounded surprised. “I hadn’t heard he had asked you.”

“Yes, well, it all happened suddenly.”

Too
suddenly, truth be told. Even now, the thought sent her blood slowing in her veins. Caroline panned the crowd, wondering if Dermott was here too. She found him almost instantly, holding court among the summer set along the eastern edge of the cove. It occurred to her, as she watched him manipulate the rapt attention of his followers, that he was at home among that crowd in a way she would never be. Her gaze snagged on a familiar head who hovered near the edge of the group, her blond hair bent over a leather-bound journal.

“You might ask Penelope to accompany you to the race,” she murmured, distracted by the way Pen seemed to have attached herself to that group. Did she want to be accepted by the summer set so much then? Didn’t her sister feel the slightest twinge of nostalgia, of anger, at the loss of this private place? After all, Papa had brought her to this beach too.

Hamilton followed Caroline’s gaze. “I tried. Believe me, I did. But your sister wants little to do with me that way, I’m afraid. She was the one who encouraged me to ask you.” He shouldered the camera, holding it steady with one hand. “Well, best of luck to you, I suppose. Dermott’s a fortunate man.”

Caroline stared after him as he slogged off across the shingle beach, carrying his load. Penelope had turned Mr. Hamilton down? The pieces of this puzzle lay scattered around her, and she was sick of trying to force them into holes that did not fit. Only one thing was clear.

She was not going to get the swim she came for. Not today, and likely not ever again.

As Caroline contemplated whether to stalk Penelope and demand some answers, or spend a moment hauling the gleefully destructive boys off her beloved cliff walls, her thoughts became tangled in the sound of a child’s scream. Shading her hands to scan the surf, she searched for the origin of such a terrified sound.
There.
A dozen yards off shore. Some well-meaning family had brought their children, no doubt lured by the article in the newspaper.

And one of those children was caught in the current.

She could already see a man who appeared to be the father wading out, his own anxious shouts mixing with the pounding of the waves. She could see the danger the man faced from the water, though he appeared oblivious to the risk.

Then again, she
knew
these waters. Knew their spinning force, and their potential to drag an unsuspecting body in the exact opposite direction of where you intended.

“Stop him!” she shouted to the clustering crowd. She picked up her skirts and ran as fast as she could, but she was too far away, and he was too frantic, and within seconds the man was as doomed as his son. A woman’s screams joined the mix then, and they built in scale and volume until Caroline was quite sure her eardrums had perforated twice over.

“Stop
her
, then!” Caroline commanded as she skidded to a stop at the point where water met land. A desperate certainty grabbed hold of her as she took in the two struggling swimmers.

One of them was going to drown. She couldn’t save them both. Not at high tide, with only one pair of arms, and her skirts dragging her under. She was risking her own life just to contemplate the saving of one.

She panned the crowd with desperation, and her eye fell on Dermott in the crowd of gawkers. He had won last year’s race, marking him as the obvious choice. But he stood inert, making no move to help either her or the drowning family. No doubt he was reconsidering the sanity of being tied in marriage to someone who would.

Well,
she
was not going to stand by and let a small child drown, not if she had even the slightest chance of saving the boy.

Caroline lifted her skirts, preparing to dive in.

And then her knees nearly buckled with relief as David Cameron materialized beside her. His hair was damp around the edges, telling her he had swum these waters earlier today.

“Take off your boots,” he ordered, the command issued in a precise, military fashion despite his apparent exhaustion. “Your stockings, crinolines, anything that might weigh you down.”

She scrambled to follow his instructions, though the lessening of her load was still not nearly enough. “This will be too much for you if you’ve already practiced today,” she objected as he began to strip off his own jacket and shirt. She knew he could swim. Hadn’t she taught him herself?

But he had not been tested against the inlet’s high tide, with exhaustion from an earlier swim weighing him down. “I tackle these waters at high tide with some regularity, David, and it is hard enough when a body is fresh.”

Truly, even
she
would have thought twice about going in today.