Chapter 15

15

Her needlework both plain and ornamental was excellent, and might almost have put a sewing machine to shame.

—J. E. Austen-Leigh, A Memoir of Jane Austen

A few days later, Sarah left Sea View carrying a brown-paper parcel and a fabric bag containing several of Claire’s possessions she had saved. She had not brought Claire’s girlhood sampler that she had rescued from the rubbish heap, because she still hoped Mamma might one day have a change of heart and hang it with the others.

She walked east along the esplanade past Fort Field on the left, boats and beach-goers on the right, the wind off the Channel tugging at her bonnet. Ahead stood Wallis’s Marine Library with its veranda shaded by a striped awning. On one of the benches there she spied charitable Mrs. Fulford and returned the woman’s wave.

Not far past Mr. Hodges’s Medical Baths and Billiard Room, Sarah turned inland toward the boarding house, passing the marketplace on her way.

At Broadbridge’s, Claire greeted her warmly, then self-consciously removed her apron as she invited her inside.

“No need to take that off on my account,” Sarah said. “I wear one daily for my tasks at Sea View.” She added, “I brought a few small things for you.” She handed over the parcel. “Some biscuits and tarts I made.”

“You made them? I am impressed.”

Sarah shrugged. “I’ve learned a great deal this last year. I daresay we all have.”

“Please join me for tea,” Claire said. “Mrs. Ballard already has a kettle on, and it will take just a few minutes to steep.”

“If you can spare the time.”

“I could use a respite. I’ve been up since dawn helping Mary beat carpets and sweep floors before guests awoke. The place had not been thoroughly cleaned since Fran left.”

“And Mary is...?”

“A young maid, formerly in Aunt Mercer’s employ. She came with me from Edinburgh, and thankfully Mr. Hammond agreed to give her a place here.”

Sarah followed her sister down the back stairs and to her room, a generously sized bedchamber, work area, and sitting room in one.

“Make yourself comfortable. I shall return directly.”

In a few minutes Claire reentered, carrying a homely ceramic teapot, cups, and saucers on a tray. When the tea had steeped, she poured milk and tea into their cups. Sarah noticed no sugar on the tray. Claire evidently remembered how she took her tea—the same way she did.

Claire helped herself to one of each pastry and tasted the tart first. Her eyes widened. Covering her mouth with her hand as she finished chewing, she exclaimed, “These are delicious!”

“Thank you. Baking has become a new pastime of mine. I enjoy it. Speaking of pastimes...” Sarah reached into the fabric bag. “I’ve brought one of your old sketchbooks and some drawing pencils.”

Claire accepted them. “Goodness. I have not sketched in far too long. Thank you, Sarah.”

“You are welcome. We were not able to bring everything when we moved, but I did save these in case you should want them one day.” She handed over a leather volume with gilt border. “Your prayer book. And these embroidered gloves and fichu. You were always such a fine needlewoman.” She handed them over as well.

Claire ran a finger over the decorative stitches and then rested her hand on the prayer book, keeping her head bowed.

In a small voice, she said, “It must have been difficult when Papa died—losing him and Finderlay too. Having to move.”

Sarah drew a long breath as she considered her reply. “It was difficult. I can’t pretend otherwise. Nothing was the same after you left. Papa was furious—with the pair of you and with himself too. Nor can I deny the situation ... the distress ... contributed to his attack.” Sarah went on gently, “But we were always going to lose Finderlay at some point. You mustn’t feel guilty for that. And in hindsight, I cannot regret the move. Oddly, I think we are all happier in Sidmouth than we were in May Hill. Well, except perhaps for Mamma. Yet her health has improved since coming here. So as much as she misses Papa, I don’t think she regrets the move either.”

Claire nodded her understanding and lifted the items from her lap. “Thank you again for keeping these for me.”

“Oh! There’s one more thing. Most of the family jewelry was listed in the entail and had to be left behind. But I saved these earrings.”

Claire accepted them. “I remember these! A gift for my eighteenth birthday.” The dainty gold earrings each held a tiny red garnet. “I am happy to have them back. Do you know ... they remind me of a necklace Aunt Mercer left to me.”

“I am surprised she left you anything. I had always gathered she was something of a dragon.”

“She was—at least at first. But she softened toward the end.”

Sarah studied Claire’s profile, then asked, “How did you spend your time there?”

“In penance, I suppose you might say. Serving Aunt Mercer, attending services at the kirk, reading Fordyce’s sermons and anything else she or her minister assigned.”

“Sounds awful.”

“Not awful. Merely dull. Bleak. Boring. Yet I had a roof over my head, food, and warm clothes. I was not deprived, except for affection. And as Aunt Mercer often reminded me, my life there was a better fate than I deserved.”

“I am not so sure about that,” Sarah said, then glanced at Claire’s neck. “You don’t wear the necklace?”

“I’m ashamed to say I had to surrender it to a pawn dealer to pay for Mary’s and my coach fare.”

Sarah felt her brows rise. “I have never ventured into such an establishment. How did you even know where to find one?”

“I asked for directions. Thankfully it was not far from Aunt Mercer’s house.”

“What was the necklace like?”

“A scrollwork cross with a small ruby at the center on a thin gold chain.”

Sarah asked a few more questions about the novel experience: if she had received a fair price for the necklace and if the proprietor had given her a receipt or claim ticket, et cetera.

Claire answered her, then said, “I only had the necklace for a few days, but I’d seen it around Aunt Mercer’s neck nearly every Sunday for two years. I was sorry to leave it behind. Coming here, however, was more important.”

Sarah nodded and squeezed her hand. “And we are very glad you did.”

When Sarah returned to Sea View a short while later, she went into the library-office and sat at the desk, pulling forth paper, quill, and ink. For a moment, she hesitated. Then, reminding herself of what he’d said in his previous letter, she began to write:

Dear Mr. Henshall,

In your last letter, you said that if there was anything else you could do for us, to not hesitate to let you know. I hope you will not regret that offer after receiving this second letter from me.

I fear I am becoming greatly in your debt, but I wonder if I might request another favor....

After her duties were finished for the evening, Claire lit a lamp in her room and sat down with the sketchbook Sarah had returned to her. The book contained mostly empty pages, but at the front were several sketches she had done years before. How strange to see them again, these moments of the past captured like flies in yellow amber, like butterflies pinned in place.

And, oh, the memories that accompanied the simple images.

A favorite teacup.

A small vase of flowers Georgie had picked for her ... from their neighbor’s garden.

An attempt to sketch from memory the face of Sarah’s betrothed after he was gone. Not terribly successful.

Viola’s hands. At the time, her hands were all her reclusive sister had allowed Claire to draw. Yet hands had proven rather difficult.

A watercolor of an orange tabby that kept coming to the garden door. Despite Mamma’s refusals to let the cat inside, Emily and Georgie had conspired to sneak out bowls of cream to the charming creature.

A still life of Papa’s pipe atop a favorite book.

Claire smiled even as tears stung her eyes. She lightly ran a finger over the lines, then closed the sketchbook and set it aside.

The door creaked open, startling Claire. Hand to her chest, she searched the darkness until Mira’s small form appeared.

“Miss Claire? I had a bad dream.”

“I am sorry to hear that.” She spread her arms, and the girl hurried into them. Claire held her close and patted her back. When she had calmed, Claire said gently, “You really should not wander around alone in the dark, though. Don’t forget Sonali is in the room next to yours.”

“She got cross the last time I woke her.”

“I am sure she does not mind. Not if you are scared. Come. I will take you back.”

Mira nodded. Claire picked up her candle lamp and led the girl upstairs.

Sonali stood outside her bedchamber door with a candle of her own. “There you are, Mira! I worried when I came to look in and you were not there.”

Claire said, “She had a bad dream.”

“I see,” Sonali replied a little stiffly. “Well, come, let’s go back to bed.” With a curt nod to Claire, the woman put a gentle arm around the little girl’s shoulders and shepherded her into her room.

The next morning Claire rose early, washed, and dressed. Mary popped in to lace her stays and fasten the back of her dress as usual. Together they helped with breakfast, carrying up the serving dishes for the sideboard and family table: fresh bread rolls and butter, cold ham, and boiled eggs. Mrs. Ballard said she would send up the hot coffee and tea in a few minutes.

Finding everything ready ahead of schedule, Claire took the sketchbook and drawing pencils into the morning room, where the light was better.

The pencil quickly and naturally slipped into position, as though only a few days had passed since she’d drawn something instead of two years.

For lack of a more inspired subject, she began sketching the items on the desk: brass wax jack, ceramic ink well, bone-handled seal, and powder jar.

A short while later, Mira bounced in, doll in arms. “What are you doing?”

“Just drawing while I wait for everyone.”

“Can you draw me?”

“I’m afraid I am not very good at drawing people.”

“What about Dolly?” Mira held up her doll with its painted porcelain face atop a soft body.

“I suppose I might be able to draw your doll.” Claire began sketching.

Mira lifted the doll’s miniature dress hem with a pout. “It’s still torn. And Sonali says she is too busy.”

“I am sorry, Mira. I would be happy to mend it, but I’m afraid I don’t have my own sewing things. Perhaps I could borrow some.”

“What’s this?” Mr. Hammond came in at the tail end of this conversation.

“Miss Summers promised to repair Dolly’s dress, but she has no sewing things.”

“Really?”

Claire’s face heated. A lady without her own sewing supplies? Unheard of. She had not actually promised the girl yet felt embarrassed even so.

Thinking of her sisters, Claire said, “I am sure I can borrow something until I have a chance to buy my own.” And the money to do so , she added to herself.

But Mira had already moved on to the next topic, like a bee swiftly flying from one flower to the next.

“Miss Summers is drawing. See?” She pointed to Claire’s sketch pad. “May I learn to draw too?”

“I don’t see why not. That is, if Miss Summers does not mind.”

“Not at all. I have an extra drawing pencil and can give her one of these pages. Perhaps after breakfast?”

After they had eaten, Claire sat beside Mira and provided her with paper and pencil. The little girl set to work, little tongue protruding.

Mr. Hammond came to stand over his daughter. “And what are you drawing, kaddu ?”

“Us. You, me, Dolly, and Miss Summers.”

The stick figures were indistinguishable, except that the tallest wore a hat. Self-conscious, Claire said, “You mean Miss Patel, surely.”

The girl shrugged. “I can draw her too.”

Later that day, after luncheon and several hours spent on various projects around the house, Claire returned to the morning room to work through the latest tradesmen’s bills.

Mr. Hammond came in while her head was bent in concentrated effort to decipher a hard-to-read invoice. “Mira mentioned you don’t have your own sewing things. Is that right?”

She kept her head down and hoped he would not notice her flush of embarrassment. “Not presently, no. I neglected to pack a workbag when I left home—I mean, Scotland.”

“Will this do?”

She looked up and saw he held a satinwood sewing box with domed lid and swing handle, painted with a country landscape. He set it on the desk before her.

“This is lovely,” Claire said. “Almost too lovely to use.”

She opened the lid and found the pink silk–lined interior filled with small scissors, pins, needles, threads in various shades, and much more.

“This will do very well indeed.”

“It was my wife’s. No use letting it sit idle. I also have several yards of fabric she meant to one day turn into garments, if you have any use for those.”

“That is uncommonly generous. Thank you.”

Miss Patel walked in. She stopped and glared at the box before Claire. “That is Vanita’s.”

“I know. Miss Summers has need of it.”

“It should go to me. Or perhaps to Mira when she is older. Not to a gori like her.”

“Her skin color has no bearing here,” he said. “Besides, you have your own.”

“Of course I have. But this one is special.”

Claire lifted the box, unsure whether to hand it to the woman or the man. “Here. I can do without. I shall ask my sisters for needle and thread.”

Mr. Hammond’s gaze remained on Miss Patel. “It is mine to give, and I give it to Miss Summers.”

Glancing uncomfortably from one raised chin to the other, Claire said, “Suppose I just borrow it? It will be Mira’s one day, but for now I shall repair her doll’s dress with these supplies.”

The woman’s eyes glittered with resentment. Then she said, “Very well.”

Mr. Hammond took a deep breath and forced a light tone Claire doubted he felt.

“I had better go down to the kitchen,” he said, probably hoping to extricate himself from the tension in the room. “Mira is helping Mrs. Ballard make sugar biscuits, and I promised to rescue her in half an hour.” He grinned. “Rescue Mrs. Ballard, that is.”

When both women looked flatly back at him, his grin faded, and he turned and exited in silence.

After Mr. Hammond left, Claire expected Miss Patel to stomp out after him, or to sullenly return to Mira. Claire was tempted to suggest the latter so she might enjoy a little peace. Instead, Miss Patel lingered.

“Perhaps you think I overstep. But I am more than a servant to this family. I don’t like Mr. Hammond to forget it. Or for you to treat me as beneath you.”

“I hope I don’t. It was never my intention.”

“I was with Vanita’s household for many years. After her mother’s death, I became her maid and confidant. We were not of the same caste, yet we became friends. When she and her father made plans to leave India, she asked me to travel with them as her companion and lady’s maid, to stay with her always. I agreed.”

That’s loyalty , Claire thought, wondering if she had misjudged the woman. Or had Sonali been like Mary, desperate to leave a difficult situation?

Claire said, “That was quite a sacrifice on your part.”

Sonali shook her head. “My own family was not ... Our home was not a happy one. My father was cruel to my mother. My brothers cruel to me, the mere girl they saw as their slave. So while I was sorry to leave my amma , I was relieved to go.”

She reached out and ran a finger over the sewing box. “I was with Vanita when she met Mr. Hammond. Stood with her as bridesmaid when she married him. Held her hand when her father died. Assisted the midwife when Mira was born. I was there in Turkey when the plague struck. Cared for Mira in another part of the embassy to keep her safe. So I was not at Vanita’s bedside when she and her baby died. That I regret. I should have been there for my friend who was like a sister. My didi.

“Mr. Hammond asked me to stay with them even after Vanita died. To help with Mira. I did so. For I love Mira and ... admire him. And when he decided at long last to honor his promise to bring the family to England, I thought I would become a member of that family too.”

Claire stared at her dumbly, the pronouncement striking her like a blow to the stomach.

Sonali shook her head. “But no. Even now more than a year has passed, Mr. Hammond keeps me at arm’s length, becomes, if anything, more distant.

“I see how he looks at you.” She pressed a trembling hand to her chest. “I have already lost Vanita. Now I shall lose him and Mira as well—be cast aside and treated as a mere servant once again.”

At the woman’s confession, vinegary unease pooled in Claire’s mouth. She choked it down. “I am sorry. That must be quite disappointing.”

Did Mr. Hammond look at her with admiration? Claire decided it would be wiser to focus on the other things the woman had said. “If it helps, I think he does esteem you as a ... family friend. I know he appreciates all you do for Mira. When I first arrived, he made it clear I need not concern myself with his daughter, for she was already well cared for.”

“That is something, I suppose. Though not enough.” At that, Miss Patel turned and swept from the room.

Claire sat back and expelled a long breath of relief.

After luncheon the next day, Claire sat across the desk from Mr. Hammond as the two went over a list of needed repairs and other maintenance items for the house.

Mira drew at the cleared table while Sonali sat nearby, embroidering a headscarf.

Someone knocked, and Mr. Hammond rose to answer before Claire could do so. A moment later, he returned with Armaan Sagar, come again to visit his niece. Mira rose to greet him.

He brought her a small parcel of lemon drops like those she had lost on the street upon their first meeting.

“Thank you, Mamu .”

He looked to the papers, pencils, and few pieces of colored chalk at her place at the table.

“Did you draw these?” he asked, walking closer to peruse the childish pictures.

Mira followed. “Yes! This is me and Dolly. And this is me and Amma . I tried to draw her face, but it’s too hard for me. And this one is all of us: you, me, Papa, Miss Summers, and Sonali.”

“Well done. And this one is me?”

He pointed to a tall black stick figure.

“Yes. You wear dark clothes like Papa. But I had to use color for Sonali. She is like a rainbow.”

Armaan glanced at Miss Patel and quickly away again. “I agree.”

Mira slid the paper toward him. “Now you draw something.”

“What shall I draw?”

“Something from India. I have never been.”

“In that case, I wonder if you’ve ever seen an elephant?”

The girl shook her head, eyes wide. Claire listened with interest as well.

“Of all the animals in the East, the elephant is the largest. More than twelve feet high.” Armaan took up the drawing pencil and began sketching as he talked. “The legs are short and stout, and the tail is curly like a hog’s. It has large ears and a long trunk, which is strong but also nimble, able to retrieve the smallest nut from the ground. Elephants also have two long tusks, which protrude like so. One they keep sharp as a weapon, the other they blunt to gather food. They are remarkably intelligent. The hotteewallies train them to serve the nabobs and rajas, but I preferred to see them in the wild, coming down from the mountains to drink and swim in the river. They are excellent swimmers.”

“I would like to see an elephant,” Mira breathed in wonder.

“Perhaps someday you will. When I was in London, I learned they keep one in a menagerie there.” He shook his head. “Though seeing a magnificent beast in captivity would not be the same.”

Claire went and fetched refreshments for their visitor, bringing enough cups for all of them. The men enjoyed a pleasant conversation over hot tea and sugar biscuits while Sonali listened, Mira made another drawing, and Claire finished her list.

When the clock struck the hour, Mr. Hammond looked from Armaan to Sonali and rose. “I shall take Mira up for her nap today. I promised to read her another story anyway. You stay and finish your tea.”

After the two left, Claire rose as well, having some tasks to complete before dinner. “And I should get back to work. A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Sagar.”

She’d intended to go outside and water the flowers, but noticing someone’s coat had fallen from the pegs in the hall, she walked over and picked it up.

Through the morning room’s open door, she heard Sonali say, “You are not fooling anyone, you know. Wearing English clothes and speaking in an educated accent.”

“It is not my intention to fool anyone.”

“Then why do it?”

“I have not worn traditional clothing in more than twenty years. When I left home, I wore a uniform, first as a soldier and later as translator in the office of the governor. That’s where I became acquainted with my friend, Major Hutton.”

“Pff,” she scoffed. “Do you really think he is your friend. Truly?”

“I do, absolutely. He risked his life for me, and I would do the same for him. And if I speak as an educated Englishman, it is because I attended a British school for several years. Vanita’s father saw to my education. Mr. Aston was a generous man, you must admit.”

“True.”

He added, “And your English is excellent as well, I noticed.”

“Out of necessity. I grew up speaking a different language than your family—Tamil. I learned to speak English in Mr. Aston’s household. He preferred it.”

“I see,” Armaan replied. “And as far as my clothing, it was difficult enough to find someone willing to make an English suit of clothes for me here. Do you think the local tailor would agree to make a dhoti or kurta ?”

“I suppose not. Yet I still wear saree and choli .”

“And you look lovely in them.”

“Th-thank you.” She gave a nervous little laugh. “Can you imagine me in English dress?”

After a brief hesitation, he replied, “I could, but there is no need. You look well as you are.”

As silently as possible, Claire slipped from the house.