Chapter 32
It was well into the evening, and guests had begun to arrive for Lord and Lady Garsington's soiree musicale. The family was in disarray, not only because Sophia had sobbed constantly since she arrived, but because Sigismund had disappeared. He had gone out earlier without saying where he was going, and had yet to return. His parents and sisters could only console themselves that he had not taken a carriage or saddle horse, and was therefore still in Brighton. There was hope yet that at the appointed hour the Garsington ensemble would be complete.
The arriving guests were agog to see how Sybil went on today after treating them to such a pantomime the night before. Brighton opinion had now generally settled into apportioning equal blame between Sybil and Oliver, deeming them to richly deserve each other. The trouble was that Sybil was simply not the sort of young woman with whom one could sympathize, for she seemed to go out of her way to make an exhibition of herself. She hadn't seemed in the least concerned by what had happened at the ball and, after her loud remarks about succumbing to complete temptation, had escaped her family's clutches to gleefully gallop her way through a boisterous country-dance. Then she had drunk several glasses of champagne in quick succession before her exasperated father and brother seized her. It was a sad but true fact that Ralph Strickland's eastern tincture was only the partial cause of all this embarrassing behavior, because Sybil Garsington was quite simply an awful young woman, and tonight she was still unabashed. She took Oliver's submission for granted, and spoke of him as if he would arrive at any moment.
Sophia was just as awful, and wore a puce taffeta gown that clashed most horribly with Sybil's vermilion satin. The sisters looked very alike, sounded alike, and shared a propensity for indiscretion. Sophia frequently sank into a chair or sofa, flapping her fan for a glass of lemonade, and sighing tearfully that Ralph was the very tragedy of her life, which meant that her marital difficulties were soon common knowledge.
The omnipresent Mr. Mellish-as ever first with the best tidbits of gossip-swore he had seen Ralph Strickland in Brighton that very day, driving toward Lewes with Oliver March. And, of course, with a little help from that same Mr. Mellish, everyone was soon hazarding an educated guess as to why those two gentlemen were en route for that particular destination!
It was as well that neither Sophia nor Sybil heard these gleeful whispers. Sybil stayed close to her sister, and from time to time could be heard above the babble of conversation. "Cooee, Mama! Papa! Thofia ith in a decline again!" At which Lord Garsington's suppressed winces and Lady Garsington's fixed smiles were absolute models of silent fortitude. Not that they were due any sympathy either, because at the same time that whispers concerning their daughters were circulating in one direction, Garsington mere et pere were being exceedingly busy in the other direction with scurrilous comments about the denizens of Radcliffe House and the Holcrofts. And they pressed on throughout with their dreadful evening, keeping their fingers crossed that their daughters would not disgrace themselves too much, and their son would remember his duty and come home to his hautbois!
While all this was going on, Greville left Radcliffe House to make his way to Mahomed's Baths for his denouement with Oliver and Ralph. Neither Chloe nor his aunt had been able to dissuade him, for when he saw Megan lying so pale and still in the bed, his anger and thirst for revenge was too much to contain. His boots crunched through the ice-crusted snow, and his breath was white as he walked briskly down the Steine. He thought himself alone in his purpose, having strictly forbidden Rupert and Sir Jocelyn to come with him, but unbeknown to him they were following at a discreet distance. They had also defied Chloe and Evangeline, for they determined not to let Greville tackle the tricky likes of Oliver March and Ralph Strickland single-handed. Sir Jocelyn carried a bundle of things tied in a blanket, the exact nature of which he refused to divulge to Rupert.
The plain three-story baths building stood directly on the beach in sight of the old battery. Its pedimented main entrance was at street level, and at the windows there were green roller blinds that were always half lowered for the sake of propriety, although steam and condensation usually made peering in impossible anyway. A line of fly-by-nights was drawn up nearby, their crews stamping their feet and holding their hands out to a lighted brazier.
At the side of the building, below a painted name board that could be seen all along the shore, there was a two-story wrought-iron balcony that projected above the beach, from where it was possible to lean over and touch the masts and rigging of fishing boats that had been hauled close in by the capstans on the cliff. In the darkness the sea was audible if not visible, and as Greville crossed the road from the corner by the Star and Garter, the only people around were the fly-by-night men. He was briefly illuminated by the lighted lamp above the baths entrance, and then he went into the candlelit black-and-white tiled vestibule, where the walls were painted a deep masculine green and the herb-scented air was warm and humid.
A dark staircase led up to the next floor, and the only items of furniture were two Windsor chairs, a table upon which lay the open booking ledger and an array of colognes, and some fine shelves piled high with beautifully laundered white towels. The murmur of male voices drifted from upstairs, together with the splash of water and hiss of steam. Sheikh Deen Mohamed himself happened to be coming down the staircase, and recognized Greville immediately.
He paused at the bottom to put his hands together and bow, and the jeweled brooch in his turban glittered as he straightened in concern "Why, Sir Greville sahib, I trust your call does not signify a deterioration in Miss Mortimer?" His accent was a peculiar mixture of his native Patna, and the Donegal of his Irish wife.
"No, there has not been any change," Greville reassured him quickly.
"Nor should there be, sahib, for the laudanum should be most sedative. You should not fear for her, Sir Greville sahib, because she will soon recover."
"I have faith in your judgment, sir," Greville replied, removing his top hat and gloves.
"Then, may I ask why you are here? I hope you have not made a booking that has been overlooked?"
"I'm not expected, nor on this occasion do I wish to partake of your excellent facilities."
The sheikh was puzzled. "No? Then, how may I be of assistance?"
"I believe Mr. March and Mr. Strickland are here?"
"Oh, yes, indeed."
Greville glanced up the staircase. "What point have they reached in their treatment?"
"They have had vapor baths and now await in their tents for their shampooing. I am just about to take some fresh towels up to them."
"Are you indeed? What perfect timing. And which tents might they be in? The ones at the far end, I hope?"
"That happens to be so, Sir Greville sahib, for they particularly requested the rough flannels."
"This gets better by the moment," Greville declared, and began to unbutton his greatcoat. "I must insist that you allow me to shampoo them both."
"You, sahib?" The sheikh was a little taken aback, and clearly wondered if the reason for Sir Greville Seton's unmarried state lay in his sexual preferences!
Greville smiled. "Oh, it's nothing like that, I assure you, for no beings on this earth could be less to my liking than those two."
The sheikh's expression changed again, this time to apprehension. "I trust you do not mean to cause trouble, Sir Greville sahib?"
"Not anything that will reflect upon your establishment."
"Do I have your word, sahib?"