Chapter 19

19

Uninvited guests are often most welcome when they leave.

— Aesop’s Fables

After taking tea with her family, Claire returned to Broadbridge’s and went upstairs to Mira’s room to give her Viola’s gift.

She paused in the doorway, surprised by the sight within. Sonali sat on a chair, while Mira sat on the floor, back resting against the woman’s legs. Sonali was massaging Mira’s hair, and from the girl’s drowsy lids and half smile, she seemed to be enjoying the experience.

“That looks pleasant,” Claire said.

Sonali’s head snapped up, and Claire was taken aback to see tears in her eyes. Blinking them away, the woman opened her mouth, then seemed to think the better of whatever retort she’d been about to deliver. She looked back down at the child and simply said, “Mira likes it.”

Mira nodded her agreement, then quickly stilled so the massage would continue. She said, “ Amma used to do this for me.”

Claire raised the package. “This is for you, Mira, a gift from my sister Viola. I shall leave it here on the dressing chest.” Duty completed, Claire lingered, still curious. “Is that oil you are rubbing in?”

“Of course.”

“And do you do this for your own hair as well?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I have noticed how lovely and shiny your hair is. I suppose now I have learned your secret.”

Sonali glanced up at the compliment, then raised one shoulder. “No secret. Many Indian women do this. Mothers pass it down to daughters. It is tradition.”

“Did your mother do that for you?”

The woman glanced up again and her eyes flattened. “No.” She quickly looked away.

Claire feared she had offended her and she’d say no more, but a moment later, Sonali added, “Though some of my earliest memories are of sitting at my grandmother’s feet as she massaged my hair. Sometimes we talked, sometimes we sat in peaceful silence. She added crushed hibiscus flowers to her oil. The smell still reminds me of her.”

“What kind of oil are you using?”

“The last of the apricot oil I brought with me, mixed with oil of castor beans.”

“Castor oil? Ugh.”

“Foul to the taste, perhaps, but good for the hair and scalp.”

“Then do you wash it out?”

“Later. For now, we braid the hair and let the oil absorb. We shall wash it in the morning.”

“Did you do this for Mrs. Hammond as well?”

“Yes, and she for me.” Tears misted her eyes once more, but she wiped them away with an oily hand. “After she married, sometimes her husband performed the service for her—at least while the two were newly wed.”

Claire felt her neck warm and did her best to banish the image of Mr. Hammond massaging his wife’s hair.

Sonali added, “When he grew too busy and began working all hours, I resumed the task for Vanita.”

“I am sure you miss her. What a grievous loss for you all.”

Sonali nodded. “Thank you. You are kind to include me in that sentiment.”

After a moment of companionable silence—rare in this woman’s presence—Sonali asked, “And you, Miss Summers. What traditions did your mamma pass down to you and your ... several sisters, I believe?”

“Oh.” A rush of rejection and shame rose up in her, but she pushed it aside like a moth-eaten curtain and looked further back into her memories, to the time before she had broken her parents’ hearts. “Yes. I have four younger sisters. Two already married, which makes me quite the old maid. Growing up, Mamma taught us how to sew and embroider. How to behave in church, and how to pray. From her example, we learned to be charitable to all, generous with those less fortunate, and gracious hostesses.”

“Ah. Perhaps that is why you are so good with the guests here.”

Claire blinked at the unexpected compliment. “I hope I am. Mamma was all a genteel lady should be. I regret not following her example more faithfully.”

Sonali’s keen gaze sharpened. “You made mistakes?”

Claire was torn between honesty and self-preservation. She wanted to improve her relationship with this woman but did not yet trust her not to use anything she said to disparage her to Mr. Hammond. Claire settled on, “Of course. Have we not all made mistakes?”

Sonali nodded. “At least your mother was a good example.”

“True,” Claire agreed, wishing again she could earn her worthy mother’s forgiveness and reclaim a place in her life.

She tilted her head to study Miss Patel’s expression. “And your mother? Was she not a good example?”

Sonali opened her mouth to reply but then, with a glance at her young charge, said, “I will only say that I loved her, but she was weak and let men take advantage of her. I shall not do the same.”

That evening after dinner, Sarah and Mamma sat in the drawing room together. Georgiana was in the parlour with Mr. Hornbeam, who was attempting to teach her how to play chess. Blind though he was, the man had an excellent memory. His opponents called out their moves as they made them, and Mr. Hornbeam kept track of the positions in his mind, dictating his own moves in response. He usually won.

Sarah recalled with fondness that Callum Henshall had been the first to offer to play chess with the man during his stay at Sea View—to cheer him after a disappointing visit from his selfish son. Just one of Mr. Henshall’s many considerate acts.

Emily and Mr. Thomson came in from the veranda and bid them good-night before retiring for the evening.

“Before you go up,” Mamma said, “tell us more about our guests arriving tomorrow—besides their unfortunate taste in friends, that is, and Mr. Craven’s rudeness.”

“Very well.” Telling James she would follow shortly, Emily sat down with them while he continued upstairs.

“Would I have ever met the Cravens?” Sarah asked. “I don’t recall doing so.”

Emily shook her head. “I met them last summer at a ball in the assembly rooms. You did not go. I went with Mr. Stanley and his sister, remember? Oh! But you may have seen Mr. Craven. He was the batsman who struck Viola with a cricket ball at the visitors-versus-fishermen match.”

“That was an accident, surely.”

“Yes. Although his flippancy afterward was less forgivable.”

“That man is coming here?” Mamma frowned. “Unfortunate, indeed.”

“I can think of a few other words for it.”

“Well, thank God Viola was not seriously injured. Now, go on. Tell us about meeting them.”

“I recognized Lord Bertram from Charles’s house party, and he recognized me. He was quite civil and introduced me to Mr. Craven and his sisters. Mr. Craven asked me to dance and made me rather uncomfortable—lingering hands, leering looks, innuendo. I am not sure if he knows for certain about Claire, but Lord Bertram must have said something about her for Craven told me he’d ‘heard of the beauty of the Summers sisters.’ I did not like learning we had a reputation among strangers, though I did not know why at the time. I even danced with Lord Bertram, who was at least more polite.”

“You danced with him?” Mamma looked pained.

“I would never have done so had I known what happened between him and Claire.”

“Again, we can be grateful he is not coming to Sea View,” Sarah reminded them.

“True,” Emily agreed, “although his friend may be worse. I asked Charles about Mr. Craven when he was here. He called the man a libertine.”

Mamma shook her head in disgust. “And his sisters?”

“One of the Miss Cravens took me aside after I danced with Lord Bertram and whispered a warning in my ear, telling me not to trust him. She said, ‘He flirts with many women he has no intention of marrying.’”

“Was she referring to Claire?” Mamma asked, clearly anxious.

“I don’t know. But considering she said, ‘many women,’ perhaps she spoke in general terms.”

Mamma groaned into her handkerchief.

Sarah asked, “And how did you respond to Miss Craven’s warning?”

“Rudely, I’m afraid. I thought she was insolent or must be jealous of Lord Bertram’s attentions toward me. Now I see her warning was just.”

“Well.” Sarah patted her hand. “Tomorrow you shall have a chance to make amends.”

Claire attended church again that Sunday and sat in the same pew near the back. Once again Mrs. Denby gestured to Major Hutton to place her wheeled chair at the end of Claire’s row. Claire shared a smile with the woman and then with Viola before she and her husband continued on to the front.

After the service, Mrs. Denby reached over and squeezed her hand. “How are you keeping, my dear?”

“Fairly well, I think.”

The older woman leaned near and sank her voice. “I am sorry to see you separated from your family like this, but I hope we might be friends.”

“I would like that. Thank you.”

Viola and the major came to collect Mrs. Denby, but the sweet woman said, “Perhaps Miss Claire might walk me home, if she would not mind?”

“Oh, I ... would be happy to,” Claire replied.

“Good. That way, you can see where I live and then visit me again when you have the time.”

Claire nodded, and noticed Viola send the woman a grateful look.

A few minutes later, Claire pushed the wheeled chair down Church Street and then up narrow Back Street. They passed the post office and several shops. Outside the Nicholls lace shop, a young woman sat on a stool, bent over the plump pillow on her lap, bobbins shifting nimbly in her hands. Claire thought of Mr. Jackson’s admonition to pause and admire the skill of the lace makers. She would have walked past to complete her task, however, had Mrs. Denby not said, “Can we stop a moment?”

“Yes, of course.”

Together, the two watched the young woman work. The speed at which her hands moved the many bobbins was impressive indeed.

Mrs. Denby said, “My mother, sister, and I made sprigs like that. It does my heart good to see her make lace as we used to do.”

Mrs. Denby politely greeted the young woman and introduced Claire, and then the two moved on. When they were out of earshot, Mrs. Denby said, “And please don’t think poorly of her for working on Sunday. Times are hard for lace makers.”

Mrs. Denby then directed her to follow the next street until they reached a neat brick building, much nicer than she would have expected. Inside, rooms opened off a central corridor. As they started down it, Mrs. Denby said, “I am in number three.”

Claire pushed her to the door marked 3 . The woman lifted the latch with gnarled fingers, and Claire guided the chair inside a tidy, sparsely furnished room.

When she was settled, Mrs. Denby reached out and took Claire’s hand. “I lost my mother and sister years ago and still miss them. I can only imagine how you must be feeling. Yet never forget, where there is life, there is hope, and I shall be praying for all of you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Denby.”

On Sunday afternoon, the Summerses’ unwelcome guests arrived somewhat earlier than expected. A carriage halted on the drive, and a liveried footman hopped down to help the occupants alight before Mr. Gwilt could hurry out to meet the coach.

Mamma and Georgie were still out on one of their long walks. Perhaps, Sarah thought, that was for the best. She asked Emily if she would prefer to be absent as well, but Emily squared her shoulders and said, “I shall not hide in my own home.”

As the new guests approached, Mr. Gwilt opened the door for them. First to enter were two women, past the first blush of youth but still pretty and elegantly attired in carriage dresses and smart hats.

After them came a slender man dressed in all the accoutrements of a dandy: cravat pin, quizzing glass, and gold-tipped walking stick that set off his well-tailored suit to ornate perfection. He looked vaguely familiar, but Sarah doubted she would have recognized him from the cricket match had Emily not told her.

Behind him trudged a grim-faced woman burdened with a load of bandboxes and other cases. The lady’s maid, Sarah guessed. Mr. Gwilt was quick to offer his assistance to her as well as to the footman now lugging in the trio’s baggage.

Sarah managed a smile. “Welcome to Sea View.”

Emily said, “How astonished we were to receive your letter asking to stay here.” Her words were perfectly polite, her tone less so.

If Mr. Craven noticed, he gave no sign. Instead his eyes lit with interest. “Ah, a pleasure to see you again, Miss Summers.” He swept off his top hat and bowed.

“That is no longer my name. I recently married. I am Mrs. Thomson now.”

The light in his eyes dimmed. “Pity.”

“Not at all, I assure you.”

“For me, I mean.”

With a glance at her pretty sister, Sarah supposed they had their answer as to why such fashionable people would choose to stay at Sea View rather than the York Hotel or London Inn.

One of the ladies gave a discreet cough, and Mr. Craven turned and gestured toward them. “You may remember my sisters, Caroline and Persephone.”

“I too have recently married,” the older of the two, Caroline, said. “To Welford Harding, the shipping magnate. Perhaps you have heard of him?”

“I am afraid not,” Emily said. “But congratulations.”

“Well, do come in and we shall get everything settled,” Sarah said, gesturing toward the door of the office.

Once inside, Sarah selected keys to rooms across the front of the house, with views of the sea.

Mrs. Harding said, “I should have the best room, as I am the only one among us married, and first in precedence. And do put Herriot, my lady’s maid, close to me.”

“Very well. I shall put you in Scots Pine. It has a smaller, adjoining room that should suit your maid well.” Sarah did not enjoy putting unpleasant people in the room named for Mr. Henshall, but she refused to let her heart rule over matters of business.

“And Miss Craven, I will give you the Oak room. It also has an excellent view. And Mr. Craven, you shall be on the other side of Mrs. Harding.”

Sidney Craven gave a teasing pout. “I had hoped for a room next to Miss Emily’s, but alas, my hopes are for naught now.”

Emily’s eyes flashed. “My husband would object most vehemently should you trespass anywhere near our room, I assure you.”

He smirked. “I do so like a challenge.”

Indignant on Emily’s behalf, Sarah was tempted to slap the smug look from his face and barely managed to keep her countenance.

Mrs. Harding rolled her eyes. “Don’t mind him. He’s a rake. Most men are, sadly.”

Even so, Sarah felt compelled to say, “Emily’s husband is an expert swordsman, and his blade is never far from his side.”

Mr. Craven raised both hands. “Consider me duly warned.”

Yet he did not appear at all chastised. In fact, a mischievous gleam shone in his eyes.

Sarah wondered, for the first time, if she should insist Georgiana begin locking her door at night. Perhaps she would as well.

They did not customarily serve dinner on Sundays, but they had decided to make an exception for these guests. That evening, they were a table of eight, with Mrs. Harding, Miss Craven, and Mr. Craven along with Mr. Hornbeam, Emily and James, Mamma, and Georgiana. Sarah took her turn helping Jessie and Mr. Gwilt serve the meal.

Sarah had suggested Emily and James might like to have dinner in their room to avoid Mr. Craven, but Emily had lifted a pert chin. “No, thank you. I want to show off the handsome and far-superior man I married.”

When they were all seated, Caroline Harding looked around the table and said archly, “Are we to dine with your entire family? What a privilege.”

Her brother muttered, “Now, Caro...”

Emily feigned a smile. “If you would prefer a tray in your room, we would be happy to provide one.”

“ Is this your entire family?” Miss Craven asked.

Ignoring her, Mamma began ladling soup from the large tureen at her elbow while Emily began the introductions.

“This is our mother, Mrs. Summers. Sarah, you have met. Our sister Georgiana. And this is my husband, James Thomson.”

“And this is Mr. Hornbeam,” Mamma added. “Our friend and longtime guest.”

Emily gestured to the sideboard, where Mr. Gwilt and Jessie were preparing to lay the next course. “And Mr. Gwilt helps us in many ways, as does Jessie.”

“Ah, we are to be introduced to the servants as well. How unexpectedly charming are these boarding houses one reads about.”

“Guest house,” Mamma corrected as she served the final bowl of soup to herself.

“But these are not all your sisters,” Mrs. Harding said.

“No. Viola is married now, and she and Major Hutton live nearby.” Emily looked pointedly at Mr. Craven. “The one you struck with a cricket ball last summer, as you may recall.”

“And the other?” Mrs. Harding persisted.

Emily and Sarah exchanged uneasy glances across the table. Mamma, Sarah noticed, set down her spoon, soup untouched.

“Do you mean our oldest sister, Claire?” Georgie asked. “Are you acquainted with her?”

Mr. Craven replied, “Only by reputation.”

A commotion sounded from under the table, and Mr. Craven winced and muttered, “Oof.”

“Are you all right?” Georgie asked.

“Em ... yes. Just kicked ... the chair leg.”

“She does not live here with you?” Mrs. Harding asked.

“Here in Sea View? No.”

“How surprising, when you all seem so close.”

Miss Craven asked, “Has she married, like the other sister you mentioned?”

“No.” Sarah’s pleasant expression felt stiff on her face.

“And may we ask where she lives?”

“Why?” Emily asked a touch sharply. “Why are you so interested?”

“We are not. Only attempting to make polite dinner conversation.”

Georgiana looked from her sisters to her mother and back again, the pause noticeable. “Is it such a secret?”

When no one answered, she took a rather large bite of crusty bread, perhaps to keep herself from saying more.

When the silence grew heavy, Emily explained, “Claire only recently came here from Scotland. She lives at Broadbridge’s now, in the eastern town. A partner in a boarding house.”

“Really? How ... interesting. Lodging must run in the blood.”

“Pray, what took her to Scotland?”

No one answered immediately. Instead Sarah, Emily, and Mamma stared at one another, gape-mouthed. Mr. Thomson laid his hand atop Emily’s. Mr. Hornbeam sat there, shielded behind his dark glasses, alert, silent, listening. Georgiana busily chewed her bread. Glancing around at her stupefied family, she rolled her eyes, and chewed all the faster.

Sarah answered before she could. “She lived with our great-aunt, who was quite elderly and frail. Served as her companion through her final days.”

Finished at last, Georgie added, “Very good of her. Though we all missed her terribly.”

Mr. Gwilt and Jessie removed the soup bowls and began the next course.

“Again, I wonder why you ask,” Emily said, a sheen of defiance in her eyes. “Have you ever even met her?”

Mrs. Harding picked at her food and said, “No, but one of our friends is acquainted with her. Lord Bertram?”

Mamma dropped her fork with a clatter.

Emily said, “I am acquainted with him as well, as you may recall. A friend of our former neighbor’s.”

“I do not claim any acquaintance with that man,” Mamma said, a decided bite to her tone. “Nor do I wish one.”

“But why?” Persephone Craven asked, limpid eyes wide. “He is most charming. Not to mention a viscount.”

Mrs. Harding said, “Now, Persephone, having a title does not make the man a saint.”

“I don’t know why you are set against him.”

“Not at all, my dear.”

Emily tipped her head to one side. “No? Yet I distinctly remember you warning me about Lord Bertram at a ball last summer. You advised me not to trust him.”

“Did you, Caro?” her brother asked.

“Yes, did you?” echoed her sister, looking ready to cry.

The woman waved a dismissive hand. “I simply mentioned that he flirts with many women without serious intentions.”

Mr. Craven shrugged. “Nothing unusual there.”

And Sarah knew that Claire had been one of those women.

At Broadbridge’s that evening, they hosted a very welcome dinner guest.

Armaan Sagar and Major Hutton had paid a call that afternoon, having been passing Broadbridge’s on some errand. Mr. Hammond invited the men to stay for dinner. Major Hutton politely declined, saying his wife was expecting him, but Armaan accepted.

So while Claire helped Mary serve the boarding-house guests in the dining room, Armaan waited with Mr. Hammond in the next room, the two men chatting over small glasses of arrack.

Miss Patel came down with Mira, and Claire followed them into the morning room, a basket of bread rolls in hand.

Mr. Sagar rose and bowed. “Miss Patel. Miss Summers. A pleasure to see you both again.”

The little girl hurried to him. “And me?”

He picked her up. “Far more than a pleasure. A blessing.”

He spun her around until she giggled.

“Please stop,” Sonali said. “You will upset her digestion.”

“Very well.” He set Mira in a chair and took a seat beside her at the oval table.

Since Claire had not known in advance they were to host a special guest, the dinner was rather ordinary—soup, fish, vegetables—but the company and conversation were excellent.

As they spooned their soup, Mira’s gaze remained fixed on her uncle.

“Do not stare, Mira,” Miss Patel said gently. “It is not polite.”

“I don’t mind,” Armaan assured her.

“I like to look at him,” Mira said. “He reminds me of Amma .”

“And you remind me of her,” he said.

“What do you remember about her?” Mr. Hammond asked.

“Many things. Seeing your daughter—her bright eyes and inquisitive face—ah, how the memories return to me! Vani asked so many questions. So interested in everything. She begged to know what I was learning in school. Read all the books she could find. Such a clever girl! But Vani did not like monsoons. She would come running and beg for stories until the worst of the wind and rain had passed....”

The conversation continued, with questions about the British school he attended, what his mother was like, his reaction to being presented with a new half sister. But they carefully skirted the topics of his departure from home and his military experiences to keep the conversation light.

After dinner, Mira begged him to play a game of spillikins, and he agreed. The girl eagerly retrieved the narrow case of fine wooden sticks.

The game was a simple one: Players attempted to pick up a single stick from a tangled pile without moving any of the others. If successful, that player had another turn, and the one with the most sticks at the end won.

While they played, Mr. Hammond was called away by Monsieur Lemaire, and Claire excused herself to help Mary put the dining room to rights for the following morning. After carrying a few things down to the kitchen, Claire came back upstairs to replace the cloth on the dining room table. As she spread the fabric, she overheard some of the conversation from the next room.

Miss Patel said, “I was amazed you stayed for dinner when your British officer did not. I thought the poor sepoy would follow on his heels like a loyal hound.”

“You assume I am poor?”

“Are you not? I suppose you earned the king’s shilling as a soldier, but I expect that money is long gone.”

“Not that it is any of your concern, but I, in fact, am not poor. My father left an inheritance for me as well as providing for my mother.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, she married Mr. Aston for love, not financial need. And, as Mr. Hammond has recently made me aware, Vanita’s father also left a small legacy for me.”

“Really?” Claire heard surprise and perhaps chagrin in the woman’s voice.

A moment’s silence followed while Claire smoothed the final wrinkles from the cloth. Then Armaan appeared in the adjoining doorway.

“Ah. There you are, Miss Summers. Please do join us again, when you are able.”

Claire did not mistake the look of appeal in his dark eyes. “Very well. If you are sure.”

“Definitely.”

When Claire sat down with them again, Miss Patel sent her a brittle smile. “Mr. Sagar was just telling me about his inheritance.” She turned back to him. “And what will you do with it?”

“I once thought of buying a property like this one. But I have little experience in domestic matters. I can understand why Mr. Hammond took on a female partner.”

Armaan gazed warmly in Claire’s direction, while Sonali kept her focus on him.

“You would actually leave Major Hutton?”

“We are not inseparable. I volunteered to travel with him from India to ensure he received the best care during the voyage and here in England. But he has recovered now and has a home and wife of his own. He does not need me as he once did. Of course, he says I am always welcome and he could not do without me. I know better. Besides, I want that too—a home and wife of my own.”

Sonali’s mouth softened, and when she spoke again, her voice sounded small and young. “Do you?”

He nodded. “To that end, I have been pondering my future. What I might take up. Where I might live. In London, I dined at the Hindoostane Coffee House and stayed at a lodging house owned by a couple from Madras. Most inspiring.”

Regret shimmered in Sonali’s eyes. “So you ... might move away?”

He shrugged. “I have yet to decide. For now I will enjoy this time with my newfound niece, an undeserved gift from God.”