Chapter 17

17

Uninvited guests seldom meet a welcome.

—Aesop

The next day dawned grey and rainy, so Mr. Gwilt lit a fire in the library and Emily and Mamma sat in armchairs near the hearth, Emily writing and Mamma sewing.

Sarah sat at the desk, reviewing the reservations for the upcoming weeks in the registration book. As she did, she made notes of which rooms to assign and calculated the number of people they would serve at meals so she could provide that information to their cook, Mrs. Besley.

She looked over at the others and said, “We are expecting four new guests ten days from now: A Miss Craven and a Mr. Craven, as well as a Mrs. Harding and her maid.”

“Mr. Craven?” Emily looked up, a deep frown marring her pretty face. “Not Sidney Craven.”

Sarah consulted the original letter. “Why, yes.”

“I did not confirm rooms for those people!” Emily insisted. “I would not have accepted their request. Who did?”

“I believe I wrote that letter myself,” Mamma calmly re plied. “You have been rather busy of late, what with your novel and new husband.”

Emily blushed, pretty looks restored. “I suppose I have been distracted. In the best possible ways.”

“Now, what is wrong with the Cravens?” Mamma asked.

“They are friends of Lord Bertram.”

Mamma flinched. “I have asked you all not to say that name.”

“It cannot be helped in this instance,” Emily replied. “I don’t know who Mrs. Harding is, but Mr. Craven and his sisters came here last summer with ... that man. The sisters were tolerable, I suppose. But Mr. Craven was quite rude.”

“Well, we’ve survived rude guests before and we shall again,” Mamma said. “It’s too late to turn them away now.”

“At least there are no Bertrams mentioned in the request,” Sarah said.

“True,” Emily agreed. “We definitely do not want that man here.”

Sarah rose. “Let’s make sure our best rooms are especially clean. Perhaps fresh flowers for the ladies?”

“Good idea.”

“I shall confer with Mrs. Besley about meals.”

Mamma rose as well. “Actually, Sarah, let me do that. I think we might be wise to serve a somewhat finer menu to these particular guests.”

“You are kinder than I am, Mamma,” Emily said. “I’d serve that man fish heads and tripe, were it up to me.”

“It is not kindness, Emily. It is strategy. The happier they are with their stay, the less likely they will circulate a bad report among people we know.”

Claire entered the morning room a few days later and sat at the desk, girding herself to face the unpleasant task of balancing the accounts. But instead of the account book, a collection of new art supplies lay atop the desk: a fresh sketch pad, several pencil-shaped sticks of colored chalk, and a set of watercolor paints and brushes.

She glanced up and found Mr. Hammond watching her expectantly.

“I cannot accept these. You’ve given me too much already. Or are these for Mira?”

“Of course you can accept them. It’s just a few art supplies the stationer had on hand. I hope they prove useful.”

“I’m sure they would, but I—”

“And Mira will enjoy sharing them with you. We can call it a gift for you both, if you prefer.”

“I do. Thank you.” Claire was mortified to feel tears fill her eyes and threaten to spill over.

For most of the last two years, she had been starved of affection and deprived of caring gestures. Now, in the span of a few days, Emily, Sarah, and now Mr. Hammond had brought her unexpected, undeserved gifts.

Regarding her with mounting concern, he said, “I did not mean to upset you. If I’ve done wrong, or these are the wrong things, I can take them back....”

“No, they are perfect. Truly.”

“Good.” He crossed his arms. “You know, I’ve had a thought. Mr. Filonov is an artist. Perhaps he might give you a lesson or two. I’m not saying you need it. But as he’s here, you might gain some benefit, or at least enjoy seeing his work.”

“I have no pretensions of becoming a bona fide artist,” Claire replied. “I began drawing and painting the occasional watercolor for the simple pleasure of it. Even so, I would enjoy seeing his work.”

“I will mention it to him. I am sure he would be pleased to show you.”

That evening after dinner, he asked Mr. Filonov to bring his coffee into the morning room and join them there.

“Why don’t you tell us something of your background, how you came to be an artist.”

Their guest nodded and sat down, and Claire refilled his cup.

“Sank you.” He sipped, then began, “I was student at Imperial Academy of Arts in Sankt Petersburg, and earn scholarship to study in Europe: Rome, Napoli , Capri....” He kissed his fingertips and said something that sounded like “Ochen harasho.”

“When scholarship ends, I return to Russia. Stay for many years. Now I come to England. Paint seascapes and landscapes. Sell some too.” He grinned at her. “So don’t worry—I pay my bill.”

Claire assured him she was not worried and went on to ask several questions about his travels and favored mediums.

Then, taking advantage of the opportunity, she asked, “And how did you meet Mr. Hammond?”

“Ah. We met at...”

He looked to William, who supplied, “A party for the British ambassador.”

“Da.” The man nodded. “I was honored to be invited but also ... intimidated—is right word? I am not good at parties. Many people. My English, not so good.”

“I think it’s excellent,” Claire said sincerely.

“I improve since then. Mr. Hammond showed me great kindness. He spoke French and a little Russian, and I was grateful. Less like, what is saying, fish outside de water.”

She nodded, and with a glance at Mr. Hammond, noticed him shift uncomfortably.

“He came to Russia for special project. Training new attachés—is correct?”

Mr. Hammond winced. “Something like that. Enough about me. I believe Miss Summers would rather see some of your work, if you are willing.”

“Of course, of course!” He rose. “Most welcome.”

She and Mr. Hammond followed him up the stairs to his room.

Inside, they lit lamps and Claire looked through Mr. Filonov’s sketches in pencil, pen, and chalk. Then he showed her several oil paintings propped against the walls: moody, muted seascapes and landscapes of the surrounding area. One was a view of Sidmouth from a height east of town.

“Where did you paint this?” she asked.

Mr. Hammond peered over her shoulder. “That is from Salcombe Hill.”

The artist nodded. “Mr. Hammond take me there.”

“Lovely,” Claire murmured.

Mr. Hammond’s gaze shifted to her. “Indeed.”

Claire thought back. “I vaguely recall walking there with one of my sisters. Though that’s years ago now.”

“Then you shall have to see it again sometime.”

She glanced away, unable to meet his direct gaze. “Perhaps I shall.”

On Sunday, Claire donned her usual black dress and followed behind Mr. Hammond and Mira on the way to church. Again she quietly yet firmly refused Mr. Hammond’s request that she sit with them. And when Georgiana sidled up to her and whispered, “Come and sit with us,” Claire shook her head and sat in the same pew she’d occupied before.

Mamma and Sarah walked by without a word, although Sarah squeezed her hand in passing. Mr. Thomson and Emily followed. Emily hesitated upon noticing her and seemed about to stop and talk, but her husband gently took her arm and ushered her forward to their pew with a quiet word in her ear, perhaps to avoid drawing attention to themselves.

Viola appeared next. She paused at the end of the pew and glanced along its length, evidently to gauge if she and the major could squeeze in, but the pew was full. Claire gave her an apologetic look.

She heard a whispered exchange behind them, and a moment later Major Hutton positioned a wheeled invalid chair next to the end panel beside Claire.

The chair’s elderly occupant patted the major’s hand in thanks and waved him on his way. Then she turned a beaming smile on Claire. At first Claire tensed, expecting disgruntled looks or mutterings from her pew-mates, but none of them objected. In fact, a few actually smiled at the old woman who’d joined their row.

Regardless, Claire was relieved when the service began and everyone looked toward the raised pulpit at front. She did her best to concentrate, even as she wondered who the woman was. She also tried not to stare at the Hammonds or her family.

When the service concluded, the elderly woman in the chair reached over and took her hand. “You are Miss Claire Summers, I know. Viola has told me much about you.”

She wished she could say the same. “Thank you, Mrs....?”

“Denby. Jane Denby.”

“I’m afraid I am new to town,” Claire said, “and am not yet acquainted with my sisters’ friends.”

“We shall have to remedy that. I hope you will come and take tea with me at the poor house one day soon. I can’t promise the tea won’t be weak and the biscuit tin empty, but I can promise a warm welcome.”

“Sounds lovely. I will even bring some tea and biscuits, if you’d like.”

“Just the tea, I think. Your sister Sarah often brings us baked goods. Such a dear.”

Sarah came down the aisle at that moment, and the sisters held gazes. Claire said, “I have always thought so.”

Then others began greeting Mrs. Denby, clearly a popular person. Claire excused herself and slipped from the pew.

As she left the church, she glanced over and noticed Mr. Thomson and Mr. Hammond in a quiet conversation that ended with a shaking of hands.