Chapter 16

16

The life of spies is to know, not be known.

—George Herbert, Outlandish Proverbs

Sarah sat with her mother and three of her sisters—Emily, Viola, and Georgie—in Sea View’s parlour, chatting over tea and needlework, or in Emily’s case, pen and notebook.

Sixteen-year-old Georgiana sat half-heartedly picking out some threads she had stitched incorrectly, her mind clearly elsewhere.

Mamma still expected her youngest to finish a sampler as a rite of passage for a young lady, a project Georgie had been working on for many months now.

Sarah’s own sampler, along with Viola’s, hung in Mamma’s room. She had not yet hung Emily’s, which would win no awards. And Claire’s was upstairs in Sarah’s trunk, where Sarah had hidden it, bringing it with her during the move. Neither the sampler nor Claire herself were where they should be.

Despite this glum thought, it was good to have Viola back with them after an absence of several weeks. She described with animation their wedding trip: the roads, the delays, the inns good and bad, the scenery, the beauties of Lake Windermere in Cumbria, and the rugged peaks and lochs of Scotland.

A wistful longing seeped into Sarah’s soul as she listened. She tried to tell herself that she was merely missing Claire and wished her eldest sister could be there with them. But she knew, deep down, it was more than that.

As Viola described the clear water of the lochs, Sarah saw Callum Henshall’s sea-green eyes, looking at her with warm admiration. When Viola talked about the beauty of the highlands, she saw his handsome face, with sunlight bronzing his high cheekbones. When she spoke of the lovely music they had heard at Scottish inns along the way, Sarah recalled listening to him play his Scottish guittar . She also recalled his bravery in rescuing stranded townspeople during the flood, and how her breath had hitched when his hand touched hers.

All the memories were not good ones, however. She had not responded well when he suggested she might carry her desire to organize and be useful into a new life as mistress of her own home. And before his departure, when he’d asked to write to her, she’d responded with a hasty, “To what end?” She could still see him flinch. At the time she’d told herself a clean break would be better, easier, for them both.

She had come to regret it. If only Scotland were not so far from Sidmouth....

“Sarah?”

“Hm?” Yanked from her reverie, Sarah looked up to find her mother staring at her over half-moon spectacles.

“Did you hear me? I asked if you had spoken to Fran recently. I had hoped she would join us today.”

“Oh. I hoped so too. She is probably busy at home.” Sarah had guessed they would see Fran far less often after she married and moved to her husband’s home two miles away. How infrequently would a woman see her family if she lived four hundred miles away?

Eager to shift the focus from herself, Sarah turned to Emily. “And where is James off to? I saw him leave the house, but I did not think he was going to Killerton today.”

Sir Thomas had given James the use of a horse and two-wheeled carriage to travel to and from his country estate. James stabled the horse at Westmount with the major’s horses.

“He is not,” Emily replied easily. “Sir Thomas asked him to do something else today. To meet with some local man, apparently.”

“Someone here in Sidmouth?”

“James did not divulge details, and I am learning, slowly, not to pry. Some of his work is confidential. Government secrets and all that. Though I doubt this meeting is anything so important.”

“Interesting. Well, I’m sure he’ll tell us if he can.” Sarah returned to her sewing.

After a time, Georgie grumbled, “I wish Claire could join us. After all, this was her home too.”

Sarah said gently, “Only briefly.”

Emily turned to their mother. “I know you might not want Claire to come here to the house, but perhaps we might all take tea together at the York Hotel. Would that be so terrible?”

“Your father was adamant she not rejoin the family.”

“That’s not fair.”

“He thought it best. He wanted to protect this family from scandal and protect all of your futures.”

Emily said, “I hardly think that matters much anymore, considering our reduced circumstances and the fact we keep a boarding house.”

“Guest house,” Mamma corrected, as she always did.

Undeterred, Emily went on, “Besides, Viola and I are already married. And Sarah could be if she wanted.”

Sarah ignored the comment.

“Perhaps,” Mamma allowed. “Yet there is still Georgiana’s future to consider.”

Georgie’s eyes flashed. “After what happened to Claire? I have no intention of even thinking about men!”

“Please don’t despise all men because of what happened,” Sarah said. “There are still honorable men in the world.”

Emily waggled her eyebrows. “Thinking of any man in particular?”

Sarah dipped her head, neck heating. “Heavens, no.”

“There is also Sea View’s reputation to consider,” Mamma said. “Guests want to stay at reputable establishments kept by people of good character.”

“I don’t think there is much risk of harm to Sea View now. The only risk I can think of is if someone from home heard the rumors and came here to spread them around. That seems unlikely.”

“Remember, Claire is not asking to live here,” Viola said. “She has a place at Broadbridge’s. But she would dearly like to spend time with us. It’s why she came to Sidmouth.”

“I think Claire should be welcome to call on us, at least,” Emily said. “I would love to have her join us here for our weekly gatherings.”

“I would like it as well,” Sarah said. “But that is up to Mamma.”

They all looked toward their mother.

“I shall need to think about it. For the present, I will honor your father’s wishes in this manner.”

“Mamma!” Georgie dropped her sewing. “What is there to think abou—”

“Of course you do.” Sarah gently spoke over the outburst. “Take all the time you need. I know it was a shock, Claire showing up like this.”

“Indeed it was.”

Removing her spectacles, Mamma rose a bit shakily and retreated to her bedchamber, her footsteps accompanied by the terse whispers of her three younger daughters.

Sarah, however, followed their mother into her room and shut the door behind her.

“Mamma, I want you to know that whatever you decide I will stand with you. I cannot speak for the others, but—”

“Ha. Your sisters have made it plain they would welcome her back here with open arms, and I truly can’t fault them.” She looked into Sarah’s face, her own features pained. “And you, my dear, dutiful daughter, must search your own conscience and do what you think is right.” Her voice grew hoarse. “Do not blindly stand with me, a conflicted widow torn between duty to my husband and a heart longing to take my firstborn into my arms....”

“Oh, Mamma.” Sarah embraced her, hoping to comfort her, at least a little.

After luncheon, Claire helped Mary carry down the serving dishes. Then she gathered clean towels and started up the servants’ stairs toward the water closet and bath-room. As she reached the first floor, she saw Mr. Hammond leading another man into the passage that led to his apartment.

“My study is through here. We shall not be disturbed or overheard there.”

She only glimpsed his visitor’s profile, yet the tall, dark-haired man seemed familiar. Was that not Emily’s new husband? What could Mr. Hammond want with him? And why were they meeting where they would not be overheard?

Claire had thought Mr. Hammond’s secret keeping was over.

Apparently not.

Secretive or not, surely the two men were not up to anything nefarious, were they? When they’d met, Emily’s husband had mentioned he worked for a local member of Parliament. Mr. Hammond had reacted to that news by abruptly taking his leave. Why now was he meeting with him? And in private yet?

Had Mr. Hammond told her the truth about his diplomatic career—one he had supposedly put behind him? She hoped whatever they were meeting about would not endanger Emily’s husband or his career. Did she owe it to her sister to make sure?

Curiosity and concern gnawing at her, Claire turned and went back downstairs. Leaving the towels in her room, she slipped out the tradesmen’s entrance, up the outside stairs to street level, and then walked through the narrow alley beside the house toward the unused stables.

Glad to find the sliding door unchained, she gingerly pushed on the door, which barely budged, iron fittings heavy and perhaps rusty with disuse. She shoved again, harder, and this time the door begrudgingly slid open with a groan of complaint. She paused, straining to listen over her pounding heart. Had they heard?

When no alarm was raised, she slipped inside, the musty smells of old hay and manure assaulting her. Instantly struck with the need to sneeze, she pressed a finger beneath her nostrils and breathed through her mouth.

Thankfully, the urge passed. Claire waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light and then crept across the hay-strewn floor toward a flight of narrow wooden stairs along one wall. Looking up, she saw a line of light seeping from under a door at the top. Male voices seeped through as well. She could not, however, make out the words.

Gripping the rickety railing, she slowly ascended. Nearing the door, she stopped to listen. Closer now, the voices were clearer.

“This must remain confidential—a secret project.”

“I don’t do that sort of thing anymore,” Mr. Hammond replied.

“But you could.”

“Perhaps. Where did they come from?”

“Hidden in a captured French ship and only recently discovered.”

Claire listened in consternation. What were they talking about? Was he a spy after all? No. He had denied it, and quite vehemently. She believed him, did she not?

“The war is over,” Mr. Hammond said.

“We have thought so before. Castlereagh thinks it best to learn all we can, to be better prepared the next time or even avert another war. Are you willing?”

“I might be,” Mr. Hammond replied. “How soon?”

“I could have them delivered under guard as early as next week.”

“Not sure I like the idea of armed guards traipsing past our guests. Perhaps they might come through the old stable below us and use the back door there. More discreet.”

Claire held her breath, imagining both men turning toward the very door that concealed her. Hopefully Mr. Hammond wouldn’t show his guest out that way now.

“As you think best. May I tell Castlereagh to proceed?”

“Will it be dangerous? I have a daughter to consider.”

“Unlikely, although I suppose that depends on what you discover, and if anyone wants to keep us from learning what’s in there. I doubt anyone would bother with something so complicated for a mere laundry list.”

“Oh, you might be surprised,” Mr. Hammond said, and Claire heard that familiar wry humor in his tone. After a moment he added, “Let me think on it.”

“I am away most days, but I will be in church on Sunday.”

“Very well. I shall give you my decision then.”

Mr. Hammond had told her he had been a diplomat in Austria, Russia, and the Ottoman Empire. What would that have to do with something found in a French ship now? And how could a boarding-house proprietor help avert a future war?

Claire tiptoed quietly down the stairs and out the stable door, pulling hard to slide it closed. Secret project. Confidential. Dangerous? Armed guards? What were they involved in? And what sort of trouble would she be in if she were caught eavesdropping?

Claire had made it to the front of the house and down the basement stairs when she heard the front door open and footsteps on the pavement above. She looked up in time to see Mr. Hammond’s visitor emerge and walk away. Definitely Emily’s husband.

Claire returned to her tasks even as her mind continued to mull over what she’d heard.

She wished now she had not sneaked up there. If anyone was guilty of spying, it was her.

A few hours later, weary from her labors and worries, Claire went back down to her room to tidy herself for dinner. She halted in the passage, surprised to see Mr. Hammond standing there. Her stomach knotted. Had he somehow learned of her eavesdropping?

A moment later, she noticed something else. On the floor near her door sat a leather-covered traveling trunk with brass studs and clasp. A pile of folded fabric lay on top.

“I hope you don’t think me terribly rude,” Mr. Hammond said, “but I notice you wear the same few dresses in rotation. Don’t misunderstand me; you always look neat and pret ... uh, perfectly presentable. This is not a criticism. Dash it, I’m making a muddle of this.” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, then gestured toward the trunk. “There on top are the yards of fabric I mentioned, should you want to make something for yourself. Vanita wore primarily English clothes, so hopefully something is appropriate, though there may be silk for a sari as well.”

“Thank you.”

“I also realize you are busy—up early, up late—and have little time for sewing. So I asked Mary to help me carry down the trunk as well. It contains Vanita’s clothing. I have not looked inside since she...” He cleared his throat. “If there is anything that would suit you, please feel free to wear it or make it over for yourself as you like.”

Sonali’s disapproving face appeared in her mind’s eye as Claire said, “But surely Mira will want these for herself one day?”

“She won’t grow into them for at least ten years. You have sisters. Tell me, when Mira is a young lady of fourteen or fifteen, will she be interested in wearing her mother’s gowns, a decade out of fashion?”

Claire chuckled. “Probably not.”

“I would have carried it all the way in for you, but I promised not to enter your room, if you remember. A silly promise now, I think.”

She looked up at him sharply.

“I did not mean... That is...” He grimaced and started again. “I only meant that the promise I extracted from you when you first arrived, ‘I shan’t enter your room and I ask that you not enter mine,’ was boorish of me, I realize now. As if you would.”

She had entered his private study, although not his bedroom, if that’s what he’d meant. Her cheeks warmed at the thought, and she made no reply.

“Well.” He straightened. “Shall I drag it inside before I go? Or will you take it from here?”

“I am sure I can push it the last few feet. Or Mary will help me. Again, I thank you. Very considerate.”

She was tempted to ask him about Mr. Thomson’s visit, but courage failed her, especially in the face of his kindness. She would ask him, though ... soon.

When he had gone and Claire was sure she was alone, she adopted an unladylike crouch and shoved the trunk over the threshold and into her room. The way was harder going when the trunk came into contact with the carpet, but she managed to wrestle it against one wall.

She was not sure she would feel comfortable wearing one of his wife’s dresses—and Miss Patel would certainly not approve—but perhaps she could make something from the lovely fabrics on top. She picked up a length of light blue lawn and another of spotted cambric. She would not attempt a complicated dress with layers and flounces and fancy trimming. In the past, her mother had hired modistes to make those sorts of gowns for them. Nevertheless, Claire thought she might be able to make a simple day dress with a gathered waist and lacing or a few buttons at the front for ease of dressing. And with the white cotton lawn, perhaps a second nightdress.

She studied a smaller piece of sturdy cotton twill. Maybe she could make short wraparound stays with it. Mary was sometimes late coming down to help her dress. Stays Claire could put on herself would help a great deal. Making a pair really ought to be her first priority ... if only she knew how.

Next, Claire spread out several yards of figured sarcenet silk in a vibrant yellow-green. Not a color she would normally choose, but still a lovely material.

In her eagerness, Claire had left the door open, and Mary appeared on the threshold, eyes alight as she took in the rich and varied fabrics on Claire’s bed.

“How lovely,” she breathed. “Are ye gonna make somethin’?”

“I hope to.”

“Wish I knew how to sew.”

“You never learned?”

Mary shook her head. “Mam died when I was a bairn.”

“I am sorry to hear it. Then your clothes...?”

“Secondhand dealer.”

Claire thought, then said, “I noticed your wraparound stays when we shared a room on the journey here. I’d like to make myself a pair. Might you lend me your spare to use as a pattern?”

“’Course, miss. Happily.”

“I appreciate that. And I’m no dressmaker, but if you’d like to learn to sew, I would be happy to teach you, when our work allows.”

“Truly? How kind ye are. Like the sister I always wanted.”

The words both pricked and comforted. Claire squeezed the girl’s hand. “That is the nicest thing you could say to me, Mary. Thank you.”