Beneath a Brighton Sun

LONDON, 1833

Archer Vale was eight years old when he made the acquaintance of Miss Eloise Corbyn. For the year before that, he’d waited at the parlor window of Heloise Manor for her father’s weekly visits. Mr. Harry Corbyn, who’d taken an interest in the education of all the children—even the girls—arrived every Tuesday morning at ten sharp.

Archer knew the time was correct because he’d taken apart Mrs. Bittlesby’smantel clock and given the inner works a thorough cleaning, and every night, he was diligent about winding the mechanism.

On this particular Tuesday, just as the chime began to mark the hour, a black coach rumbled into view at the end of the street. It drew up on the pavement beyond the window, and Archer held himself still. It would only be a moment before the coachman opened the door and Mr. Corbyn, who was sure to be dressed in a plain beaver hat, blue frock coat, and grey trousers, would step down.

The previous week, the man had left him with a special geometry challenge, one that went beyond the simple sums Mr. Harrison assigned to the other students. Archer had worked out the solution before the sound of Corbyn’s departing carriage had faded, but he’d been obliged to wait another week for the man’s return. A week during which he’d guarded his slate with martial fervor lest some mischief from one of the other boys—or an eager bout of cleaning from Mrs. Bittlesby—saw it wiped clean.

Over the last week, Archer had imagined Mr. Corbyn’s approval. The idea had occurred to him that the man might find himself so pleased with Archer’s work that he declared on the spot, “This boy must come and join my household. He truly knows his geometry.”

And Archer, after some consideration, would agree—if only for a short time until his own father returned for him.

Outside, the coachman stepped down from his high seat. Before he could do his duty by his passenger, though, the door of the coach swung open. It wasn’t Mr. Corbyn’s figure that emerged but that of… a girl.

Archer sucked in a breath, his chest tightening as the female leapt from the coach without waiting for the steps. The coachman caught her, and only when she was deposited on the pavement did he turn back to hold the door for Mr. Corbyn. Archer didn’t watch the man alight, so stunned was he by this new arrival. Mr. Corbyn had only ever come alone.

Archer gave her a thorough scrutiny, judging her to be younger than his own age, six or seven perhaps, with dark ringlets beneath a straw bonnet and a bright yellow sash on her frock. She bounced on her toes and carried a flower in her clasped hands.

Archer snorted, but his disdain turned to dismay when Mr. Corbyn took the girl’s hand. Together, the pair approached the entrance to Heloise Manor.

He heard the outer doors open, and Mrs. Bittlesby’s soft tones fluttered in the hall as she greeted the guests. Archer turned from the window and checked his attire one more time. He’d begun to outgrow his coat, and he tugged at the sleeves in a futile effort to lengthen them. He succeeded only in putting wrinkles in the cuffs, which he hastily smoothed as footsteps neared the parlor.

Mr. Corbyn soon appeared in the doorway and gave his hat into Mrs. Bittlesby’s waiting hands along with the girl’s bonnet.

“Archer,” he said warmly as he entered.

Archer straightened, his chest swelling at the man’s use of his name. It was one he’d chosen from the stars at Mr. Corbyn’s suggestion—a half-seen constellation at the horizon’s edge. “We’ve only a glimpse of Sagittarius here in London,” Mr. Corbyn had said, “but to those farther south, the archer is magnificent.”

Archer liked that: the notion that there was more to him than the forgotten lad people saw.

“Mr. Corbyn,” he said with a neat bow. His eyes darted to the girl before he could stop them.

“I’ve brought someone for you to meet. My daughter, Miss Eloise Corbyn, has expressed a desire to join me on my visits. Eloise, this is Master Archer Vale.”

Eloise Corbyn stepped forward and gave him a very pretty curtsy. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Realizing something was expected of him, Archer returned her greeting with another bow. Mr. Corbyn’s attention was taken then by one of the manor’s administrators. Archer watched with dismay as he turned to converse with the man while Archer’s slate waited on the settee.

Miss Corbyn interrupted his thoughts. “I like your name. Do you like archery, perhaps? That would be amusing if you were an archer named Archer.”

Archer said nothing to this speech, which she took as an invitation to go on.

“Do you like living here? I think it must be lovely to have the company of so many children.” She paused long enough to frown before adding, “Although, just last week, my brother Edmund left a frog in my slipper. But I had my revenge by dipping his favorite pen in honey. Do you get into mischief often?”

Archer considered her monologue and said only, “No. Never.”

She beamed at him. “I like you. Oh!” she said with a glance at her flower. “I brought this for you—it is a rose from my grandmother’s garden.” She extended the pink bud toward him. Someone had removed the thorns, and he could see now that her flower was wilted, the head hanging limply from the stem.

“I don’t need a flower,” he said stupidly.

“It’s for your buttonhole, like the one my father wears.”

Archer’s eyes went to Mr. Corbyn again, and he was surprised to see his mentor, who’d only ever come sensibly dressed before, did indeed wear a rosebud in his buttonhole. It wilted like the one in Miss Corbyn’s hand.

“May I?” she said, motioning with the stem toward his coat.

Mr. Corbyn glanced over at them at that moment, so Archer could hardly show his displeasure. He said instead, “If you must.”

She stepped closer and lifted the edge of his coat. She spent an inordinate amount of time tucking the stem into his buttonhole, and Archer was struck by how… flowery… she smelled.

The girls at Heloise Manor, though clean, did not smell of anything, really. Flour, perhaps, from helping Mrs. Bittlesby in the kitchen, but not flowers. But Miss Eloise Corbyn smelled of roses and sunshine. The scent rose like a cloud from her dark hair, warm and sweet and tickling his nose until he thought he might sneeze.

When she finished adorning him, she stepped back and gave a self-satisfied nod for her work. “What do you think?”

Archer looked down. He wasn’t particularly fond of pink—or flowers. And this pink flower appeared rather sad for her ministrations. But he knew lying was wrong. He also thought Mr. Corbyn would expect him to spare a lady’s feelings, so he ignored her question and said only, “You have a brother.”

“Yes—Edmund. My parents were blessed with four of us, and the Lord said I should be the last.” She smiled, hands folded primly before her, and Archer thought her a bit smug.

He frowned. “The Lord said no such thing.”

She pulled her head back, clearly not expecting him to question her veracity. “How do you know? You weren’t there.”

“Were you?”

“No, but I don’t think my mama would make up such a thing.”

That night, Archer sat on the edge of his cot and stared at his slate. There had been no time to discuss his geometry solution with Mr. Corbyn—not with his daughter swirling through the manor and greeting all the children with her sunny smile and flowery hair.

When she finally stood at the door to go, she’d given him another smile—she handed them out like the Methodists on the corner with their leaflets.

“I look forward to seeing you again, Archie.”

“I won’t be here,” he replied. At her confusion, he added, “I don’t mean to stay.”

He didn’t know why he said it, for he’d been at Heloise Manor for nearly a year now, and he would remain until his father came for him. Heaven knew he liked warm food in his belly and clean sheets. And he liked Harry Corbyn and all the feelings of family the man gave him, no matter that Archer was as far from family as the mice in the cellar.

He pulled Eloise’s rosebud from his buttonhole. It had lost some of its petals during the day. He squeezed the remains in his fist before dropping them out of the window. The rose scent lingered on his hand, no matter how he tried to wipe it away on his blanket.