Chapter Thirty-Three

Sandcombe, Lincolnshire, September 1815

"There it is, Mrs. Riley. Shore Cottage."

Eleanor continued to stare at the sea as the carriage rolled to a halt. It seemed to stretch to the end of the world, glistening in the afternoon light, the blue color intensifying toward the horizon. No wonder some people believed the world ended where the sea met the sky. Such a vast expanse must have seemed unsurmountable in the years before ships circumnavigated the earth.

To think—Papa had often crossed the horizon in one of his ships, traveling to another world, returning home with the silks and spices that had made his fortune. It was only befitting that she begin this next phase of her life on the threshold of the path to other worlds.

She brushed a stray tendril of hair from her eyes, then leaned out of the carriage, inhaling a lungful of sea air, with its salty, almost metallic aroma. The cries of gulls filled the air, and she lifted her gaze to see their slim shapes silhouetted against the sky.

"Mrs. Riley!"

A hand rapped on the window opposite, and she turned to see the coachman staring at her.

"Mrs. Riley, begging your pardon, we've arrived."

Harriet's face appeared next to the coachman's. "We're here, ma'am."

Ma'am…

Her new name would take some getting used to. But the widowed Mrs. Riley, recently out of mourning, would attract considerably less attention than the ruined Miss Howard. Widows were respected by virtue of having performed their marital duty, and were ignored by virtue of the assumption that, having already survived marriage, they no longer posed a threat to the husband-hunting single girls of the world.

How often had she heard a woman described as a respectable widow, yet no woman had ever been referred to as a respectable spinster.

Respected and ignored. What could be more blissful in a world filled with people and noise?

The carriage door opened, and she climbed out, taking the coachman's hand. She was only too glad to leave the coach. The ride from the inn—a rambling, red-bricked building with a thatched roof, and a sign depicting a red-faced man in a sailor's uniform dancing a jig—might have been less than a mile, but the wheels, and the road, were in need of repair. It was a wonder the coach hadn't disintegrated when the wheels hit that last rut.

"Careful, ma'am," the coachman said. "The steps are slippery, on account of the rain."

"Rain? But it's a beautiful day."

"It was right dreadful first thing. Sandcombe's like that, ma'am—a downpour worthy of the Great Flood one moment, then clear blue sky the next. I daresay ye'll get used to it. Have ye traveled here before?"

"When I was a child, but I recall very little apart from the sandy beaches."

"Aye, ye're right there. Sandcombe has the finest beaches in England. And ye're in luck—the path from Shore cottage leads straight to the beach."

He turned to his companions, two lads with identical dark brown eyes and mops of dirty blond hair peeking out from beneath their caps.

"Johnny, Tom—get to it. Those trunks won't move themselves."

"Aye, Mr. Legge." The boys lifted the first of Eleanor's trunks from the carriage and carried it across the road. Eleanor followed them with her gaze until she caught sight of their destination—a two-story cottage with a red-tiled roof. The front door and window frames had been painted a pale green, and a rambling rosebush grew around the front door with the last blooms of a fading summer—red blooms against glossy red leaves. The cottage was enclosed by a fence and fronted by a neatly clipped lawn, bordered with shrubs dotted with white and purple flowers.

"It's beautiful!" she cried.

"My Molly's da's been tending to the garden while it's lain empty."

"Would he like to continue?" Eleanor asked. "I'm afraid I know little about tending to gardens, and am likely to do more harm than good."

"He'd be glad of the work, thank ye. And Tom and Johnny here would be able to help with any odd jobs ye have going, won't ye, lads?"

The boys, on their return journey to fetch the second trunk, tipped their caps in unison.

"Are they your sons, Mr. Legge?" Eleanor asked.

"Bless ye, no, ma'am! They be Mr. Ham's boys—the innkeeper at the Merry Sailor. Mrs. Ham does a fine fish pie at the Sailor, if ye're wanting supper tonight. The main rooms can get a little rowdy, but she keeps a parlor for lady guests. I can bring the carriage for ye, if ye like?"

"Thank you, no," Eleanor said. Her body would never forgive her if she set foot in that carriage again. "I prefer to walk—perhaps I could dine there tomorrow?"

"Mrs. Ham would like that. We're always interested in newcomers to Sandcombe. Are ye intending to stay here long—if ye don't mind me asking?"

"I hope to settle here," Eleanor replied.

"Did ye always want to live here?"

"Forgive me, ma'am," Harriet interrupted. "We should get you settled inside. Would you excuse us, Mr. Legge? My mistress has had a long journey, and she's very tired."

"Oh, begging yer pardon, ma'am!" The coachman tipped his cap. "My Molly's always telling me how I rattle on. She says I'm worse than any woman. I'll tell Mrs. Ham to set aside a slice of her fish pie for ye tomorrow. She'll see ye right."

"Thank you, Mr. Legge," Eleanor said.

The coachman climbed back onto the carriage and barked an order at the young boys, who scrambled onto the back. With a flick of the reins and several cries of "steady there!" the carriage turned, lurched sideways as the wheel hit another rut, then, swaying from side to side, rattled along the road until it turned a corner and disappeared.

"Well, Harriet," Eleanor said, "shall we explore our new home?"

Eleanor's maid offered her hand, then, arm in arm, they followed the gravel path to the front door and entered the cottage.

The furnishings lacked the ostentation of Papa's townhouse, but the uncluttered simplicity was a balm to Eleanor's soul—the clean lines and pale yellow walls of the main parlor lacked any adornment, save the candle sconces. A smaller parlor at the back overlooked the sea, and the walls had been painted blue, as if to bring a little of the sea indoors. It would do very well for a studio. The kitchen was functional and tidy, with a solid wooden table, a polished iron range, and a dresser filled with white pottery plates and bowls decorated with a pattern of dark blue flowers. Upstairs the bedrooms had been furnished with the same light touch, with delicate floral furnishings and windows that filled the rooms with a natural light.

"What do you think, Harriet?" Eleanor asked. "Shall we make do here?"

"We'll make do very well, miss," the maid said. "You deserve to be happy. Perhaps, now, you can."

Eleanor looked into Harriet's eyes—her maid, companion, and friend. Then she glanced around her new home—a haven where she could, at last, be truly herself, without judgment.

Then the walls she'd erected around herself disintegrated, and she collapsed into her maid's arms and burst into tears.