Effie was startled out of his epistolary reverie by Simon’s question. He shoved the letters into his satchel. “Nothing.”
Simon narrowed his eyes. Fair enough: his skepticism was entirely justified.
“I am reading a letter,” Effie amended.
“From whom?”
“I have . . . a few correspondents.”
“Such as?”
“Olive Morgan.” It was true. Since they’d struck up a friendship on last year’s Earls Trip, Effie and Olive had written each other long, heartfelt letters, and in fact, he had her latest with him as he intended to answer it from Brighton. Olive was the only person alive who knew about Effie’s feelings for Julianna. That was because Olive was also a “Miss Heartsick.” She and Effie had commiserated on the matter of having given one’s heart to someone impossible.
“That looked like more than one letter,” Simon said. “Are they all from Miss Morgan? And who is Miss Turner? You never answered that.”
Goodness, Simon was inquisitorial today. “Does anyone know if the king is in Brighton?” Effie asked by way of distraction.
“I sincerely hope not,” Archie, whom Effie had thought wasn’t paying attention to the conversation, said. “The possibility of such is the potential fatal flaw in our plan this year.”
His Majesty had long been devoted to the seaside town of Brighton, and, in fact, his ever-growing palace—which was the raison d’être of this year’s trip—was Brighton’s crowning jewel. But the same royal favor that had made Brighton a destination also made it . . . a destination.
“I’m sure we’ve never been anywhere so fashionable on an Earls Trip,” Effie said. “By all accounts, the king’s dinners last for hours. It sounds as if quite a society has been established. Did you know there are balls at both the Castle Inn and the Old Ship? Apparently the proprietors have agreed to alternate nights.”
Simon made a strangled noise.
“Indeed,” Archie said wryly.
“Well, what if the kingisin residence?” Effie said. “It isn’t as if we must make ourselves known.” Of course, Mother would have an apoplexy if she learned Effie had been in Brighton the same time as the king and had not gotten himself an invitation to court. “We can skulk around and see the sights incognito, evading all inducements to join society. I suspect the balls are more summertime amusements, anyway.”
Once again, Effie could hardly believe he was hearing himself plot toavoida ball. Fond as he was of fashion, art, and dancing, he was generally not one to miss a party.
Was he?
Perhaps the problem was that Effie did not know who he was anymore.
“We could devise disguises,” he added, trying to interest himself as much as the others. “That would be diverting, would it not?” Goodness knew, he could use a diversion. Existential crises did grow tiresome.
“I share an aversion to crossing paths with any of the Upper Ten Thousand, much less the king,” Simon said. “If it hadn’t been for my fervent desire to see the Pavilion, I’d’ve picked somewhere far less populated.”
The friends took turns planning their holidays, and this year’s had been Simon’s.
“Well, I for one am heartily in favor of the indulgence of fervent desires,” Effie said. Simon in particular had so few of them. Or perhaps it was only that heexpressedso few of them.
Simon pulled a folded bit of newsprint out of the book he was reading. “The spherical dome is built on a cast-iron framework weighing sixty tons. Isn’t it remarkable? How can something so heavy appear to soar toward the sky?”
Leave it to Simon to have fervent desires related to engineering.
As Effie made noises of appreciation, his attention snagged on Simon’s book. “What are you reading?”
Simon snatched up the book, but it was too late.
“Anovel? And one of Miss Austen’s at that!”
“It was lent to me by Miss Brown,” Simon said defensively.
“My Miss Brown?” Archie asked.
“She’s hardlyyourMiss Brown, but yes.”
