Chapter 20

20

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art.

—John Keats

Over the few days they had been in residence, the Cravens claimed the formal drawing room as their personal domain. They spread their magazines and fashion plates on every surface. They left books and boxes of bonbons on the side tables, and their own lap rugs over the arms of the chairs.

The Summers family primarily used the less formal parlour, so it was not a great imposition—at least without other guests to accommodate at present. And Sarah realized it was probably best to keep some distance between them.

So while Sarah sat with Mamma going over the week’s shopping list and Emily sat writing nearby, she was surprised when Mrs. Harding appeared in the parlour doorway.

“Good day, ladies. Might I join you for a moment? I’d like to have a word.”

The women exchanged uneasy glances and then gestured to a nearby armchair.

Mrs. Harding sat, looking elegant in a fine afternoon gown, posture straight. “May I be frank, Mrs. Summers?”

“If you must, Mrs. Harding.”

“Firstly, I admire you.”

“Do you? Why?”

“It takes great strength of character to do as you have done. I admire anyone who remains steadfast to her convictions, even when personally difficult. You are to be commended.”

Though Caroline Harding was some two decades younger than Mamma, she possessed a regal bearing and sophistication that made her seem older.

Mamma said, “Shall I ask what you are talking about, or do I not want to know?”

“Your eldest daughter, of course.”

Mamma visibly stiffened, and Emily set down her pen.

“As I said,” Mrs. Harding went on, “I am not personally acquainted with her, but I spoke to Lord Bertram not long ago, and he mentioned a recent trip to Scotland. For some reason, he visited that elderly relative of yours. He did not say why. He also saw Miss Summers while he was there.”

Emily and Sarah shared astonished looks. This was news to them. Was it even true?

Mrs. Harding continued, “Apparently there has been a falling out between you. Even so, we naturally assumed she would come here after the old lady’s death.”

“You assumed wrong.”

“Yes, and I must say I was impressed to hear it. The initial reason she went to Scotland may not be widely known—although some people know or at least suspect. But that is not the point. It is the principle that is paramount, as you clearly understand. I realize I am your junior, Mrs. Summers, yet if it is not too impertinent, please allow me to advise you to maintain the break in your relationship—to throw off your unworthy child from your affection forever, as difficult as it must be.”

“I think that is quite enough, Mrs. Harding,” Sarah protested.

But the woman went on as though Sarah had not spoken. “I do condole with you. It is a grievous affliction you suffer under. I sincerely sympathize with you and all respectable members of your family. May it comfort you to know you are doing what is right. In the eyes of society and of God.”

“You speak for God, do you, Mrs. Harding?” Emily asked dryly.

“Of course not. I only remind you all of the standards of Scripture and of polite society.”

“What Scripture is that, exactly?”

“Emily...” Sarah cautioned.

“You may think me unfeeling, but I do understand. As women, we may feel such judgment is harsh, yet we cannot pretend it is not true. It is the way of the world.”

Mamma sighed wearily. “It is as I have often told my daughters. We may not agree with or like that women are held to a higher standard, but we ignore that reality to our peril.”

“Exactly.” Satisfaction glimmered in the woman’s eyes. “How wise you are.” Mrs. Harding rose. “Thank you for hearing me. I shall trespass upon your privacy no longer.”

Mamma nodded, looking shrunken and dejected.

Mrs. Harding departed the room, and Emily followed her out. Fearing what might happen, Sarah followed Emily.

In the hall, Emily confronted Caroline. “Why are you doing this? The last time we met, I thought you must want Lord Bertram for yourself. But we are both married now, so why go to such lengths to prejudice our mother and encourage her to keep shunning Claire?”

Mrs. Harding demurely folded her hands. “I felt compelled to speak. Your sister has come to Sidmouth and is trying to wheedle her way back into your family’s good graces. Probably Lord Bertram’s as well.”

Sarah gasped. “Claire came to Sidmouth to reunite with us, not him. She is finished with him.”

“Are you certain? Or did she beg your great-aunt to invite him to Edinburgh in hopes of rekindling a relationship?”

“She would not do that.” Emily frowned at Caroline, revelation sparking in her brown eyes. “Your sister wants him for herself—is that it? I remember Persephone all but begging Lord Bertram for a dance last summer. You are married now, and she is not getting any younger. Better a man without honor than no man at all?”

Mrs. Harding lifted her nose in the air, nostrils pinched tight. “He may not be perfect, but who is? Either way, Persephone has set her cap at him. She feels she will never be happy until she is his wife. As her sister, I cannot bear to see her miserable. I still believe she probably will be after she marries him, or at least after the honeymoon period has ended. But no more miserable than she is now. I love my sister and would do anything for her.”

Emily stepped closer, standing almost nose to nose with the woman. “I love my sisters too. Every last one of them. And you had better—”

Sarah grabbed Emily’s arm to interrupt before the conversation devolved into threats. She asked, “Have you some reason to think Lord Bertram means to come here? Does he even know Claire is in Sidmouth?”

“I certainly would not tell him. Nor would Persephone. I cannot, however, speak for our brother.”

After a few days, Claire had managed to cut, pin, and sew a simple frock for Mira—bodice and skirt—although she was still struggling with the sleeves. Realizing she had enough of the same fabric remaining, she also started a miniature, matching frock for Mira’s doll.

Someone knocked on the basement door. Claire rose and opened it to find Sarah there, basket in hand. “I was in the market and thought I’d stop by.”

Claire invited her inside. “I am always happy to see you. Though I still hope Mamma will come with you one of these days. Any progress there?”

“Sadly, she seems more resolved than before.” Sarah’s face clouded. She opened her mouth to say more but instead turned her attention to the sewing things spread on the table. “What are you making?”

Claire explained her project, and her troubles with the sleeves. Sarah offered to help, and the two sat down and sewed together, very much like old times.

Later, after everything was finished and Sarah had gone, Claire wrapped the two frocks in tissue and wrapped a second parcel as well, carrying both up to the nursery.

When she presented the first to Mira, the little girl squealed in delight and immediately began to change Dolly’s dress.

Sonali was less pleased. She begrudgingly admitted, “I have learned to embroider but am not skilled in dressmaking.”

“Nor am I. But my sister helped me. Together, we worked it out.”

Sonali nodded. “As I said before, you are braver than I.”

Claire shook her head and said earnestly, “You are the courageous one. You left your home, your country, to travel halfway around the world to a new land, a new culture. You are far braver than I am.”

Sonali searched her face, measuring her sincerity. “You think so?”

“I do.”

Claire handed over the second parcel, which contained Vanita’s yellow sari and skirt, as well as the length of fine silk. “And here are a few things from Vanita’s trunk I thought you might like to have.”

Sonali pulled back the tissue and fingered the fine fabric. “I remember these,” she said, almost reverently.

Claire stepped to the door and turned back. “And if you’d like help making something with that, let me know. I’m sure we could manage it together.”

That night, Claire helped Mary clean up after dinner as usual and then played a game of spillikins with Mira. Mr. Hammond excused himself but paused at Claire’s elbow and asked to have a quick word with her before she retired. She hoped he did not disapprove of her making a dress for his daughter and her doll when she might have been doing something more productive around the house.

When it was Mira’s bedtime, Sonali gently but firmly took her upstairs, despite the girl’s pleas for one more game. After they had gone, Claire put away the sticks and removed a few lingering teacups and dessert plates, planning to take the remaining cake downstairs.

The new-wed couple came into the house looking windblown and a little sunburned, but otherwise happy.

Claire greeted them. “Did you have a good day?”

“We did. Fell asleep on our beach rug or we’d have been back sooner.”

She noticed the young husband’s gaze linger on the cake before shifting away.

Knowing they were getting by on limited funds, Claire smiled and said, “You are just in time. I hope you will help us finish this date-and-walnut cake. And there’s tea as well. No charge. You’ll be doing me a favor—one less thing to put away.”

“If you’re certain. I confess I am rather hungry.”

“Me too,” his wife said. “Must be the sea air.”

“Do sit down and help yourselves.”

When they were seated side by side, Claire went downstairs and brought up a plate of cheese, bread, and cold meat as well, setting it before them without fanfare.

“When you’re finished, just leave everything here, and I will tidy up later.”

“Thank you, missus.”

Claire went upstairs. She first peeked into the parlour, where she saw Monsieur Lemaire and Mr. Filonov bent over a game of cards, quietly speaking together in French.

Mr. Jackson sat alone, organizing his bobbins by the looks of it. He glanced up with a friendly grin. “Ah, Miss Summers. Any chance of more tea?”

“Of course, Mr. Jackson. I shall bring it up in a few minutes.”

Finally, after she’d delivered a fresh pot of tea, Claire went in search of Mr. Hammond.

She saw Mary coming down the attic stairs in her dressing gown.

“I thought you’d gone to bed,” Claire said.

“I did but I need to use the water closet again.”

She wondered if Mr. Hammond had retired early or had returned to his study. “You have not seen Mr. Hammond lately, have you?”

“Aye, miss. He’s up on the roof again.”

“The roof?”

She nodded. “With one of them spyglass things. Goes out through one of the empty rooms up there.”

“Does he? Interesting. Thank you, Mary.”

Curious, Claire lit a candle from the landing lamp and went up to the attic, past Sonali’s, Mira’s, and Mary’s bedchambers. Noticing weak light seeping from an open door at the end of the passage, Claire investigated.

Inside, a candle lamp sat burning on a small table near an open sash window. She looked outside and saw Mr. Hammond standing at the far end of a narrow roof walk, bent over a telescope mounted on a three-legged stand. Moonlight outlined his form, cheek creased and one eye squinted to focus with the other.

She set down her candle and climbed through the window to join him on the roof, which was enclosed by a low-railed parapet. She had seen the parapet from below but had thought it an architectural feature for ornamentation, not as protection for someone venturing onto the roof. She wondered how stable it was.

“Here you are,” she called.

He glanced over. “Ah, Miss Summers.”

“Mary told me you were up on the roof again, using a spyglass. And here you told me you were not a spy.” She sent him a teasing grin, even though she was not certain he could see it in the dim light.

“I am still not a spy,” he replied, waving her forward. “But come and have a look.”

She gingerly crossed the roof. “What are we looking at?”

“Polaris, also known as the North Star.”

He stepped aside and gestured toward the eyepiece.

Being shorter, she did not to have to lean down very far to place her eye to the instrument.

“Where?”

“The brightest star in current view. Just left of center?”

“Ah. I see it.”

As she stood there, gazing at the star, she grew increasingly aware of his presence beside her, his stillness. She glanced up and caught him studying her profile.

Pretending not to notice, she asked, “Is it true sailors navigate by the North Star?”

“I believe so. At least in the northern hemisphere. I’ve never been to the southern hemisphere, so no matter where I’ve traveled—Vienna, Constantinople, St. Petersburg—I could always find the North Star in the night sky. Even when everything else around me was different, it remained unchanged. Constant. Rather like God, I suppose.” He gave a self-conscious laugh.

Claire asked, “You believe in God?”

“Does that surprise you? You know I attend church.”

“Not everyone who attends believes.” She thought, then added, “I suppose I’m not questioning whether you believe in God’s existence so much as wondering if you still ... revere Him after your loss?”

“Ah. God may have allowed it, but He did not cause Vanita’s death. The plague did. I don’t blame God. I blame myself. Vanita did not want to go to Constantinople. But as I told you before, I put my ambition ahead of my wife’s wishes, as I did too often.”

For a long moment, he stared up at the starlit sky without aid of the telescope, and she guessed he was seeing more memories than stars.

Then he glanced at her. “And you, Miss Summers? What is your view of God?”

Her stomach fell. Why had she asked? She could not decline to answer when he’d simply reciprocated with the same question.

“I don’t have any trouble believing God exists. Yet when I think of Him, I cannot help picturing my own father and hearing his voice.”

“What does it sound like?”

“Disappointed and disapproving.”

“Your father was not a kind man?”

“He was. When I was young he doted on me, his firstborn. He would have welcomed a son, especially with the estate entailed down the male line, but he never treated me as less important. He praised me for being clever and laughed at my every joke, far more than the quip deserved. I had no doubt he loved me and approved of me. Then.”

“What happened to change that?”

Tread carefully , she warned herself. “I did, I suppose. I grew older and more interested in gowns and balls than spending time with my father. But the first real friction began when he decided I should marry the son of his oldest friend. He was not happy when I refused.”

“Were you well acquainted with the young man?”

“Yes. His family lived fairly close to us, and his father often brought him along when he visited. As a boy Harry was polite to adults but bullied anyone younger or weaker. As we all grew older, he visited less often, although we still saw him at the occasional party or village fête. He became more charming. Even chivalrous. Yet I still could not like him. Let alone marry him.”

“You did not believe he’d truly changed?”

Claire shook her head. “No. I saw glimpses of the same boy beneath the new polish. At all events, when I refused to marry him, Papa changed toward me. First, he expressed his disappointment, and when I continued to refuse, he grew angry.”

“Simply for refusing to marry a man you did not like?”

She nodded. “Though that was not the worst of my offenses.” Careful, Claire. What was it about the starlit darkness ... and this man ... that made her want to bare her soul?

He tipped his head to one side, clearly waiting for her to continue. When she remained silent, he said, “If you want to tell me more, you will find I am a good listener.”

Again she chastised herself for saying as much as she had. A part of her longed to confess. The other part feared the consequences. She was, after all, supposed to be a respectable woman.

“Forgive me,” she said instead. “I have been prattling on. What about your father? Did you get on together?”

“Yes, thankfully. He was gentle, honest, and caring. A clergyman.”

“Have you brothers or sisters?”

He shook his head. “Only child. At least, the only one to survive infancy, sadly. So my father doted on me as well.”

“Did he want you to follow him into the church?”

“Not necessarily. He spent most of his career as a perpetual curate until he finally secured a modest living of his own. He did not want me to struggle financially as he did. Despite his rather humble profession, he had high enough connections to see me educated and later appointed to the Foreign Office at a relatively young age, thanks to the patronage of an acquaintance.

“I’m sure it was difficult for him and Mamma when I moved far away. Nevertheless they were thoroughly supportive. We corresponded, although they wrote far more often than I did. I justified that I was busy with important work and they would understand. I regret that now.”

“Are your parents yet living?”

“Unfortunately, no. They’ve been gone several years. I did manage to visit them shortly before my father died. Or more accurately, my patron insisted I visit them between appointments when word of my father’s declining health reached him. I am glad I heeded him. My parents were delighted to see me. So proud—making sure every delivery boy and visiting apothecary knew I was their son, and insisting our ancient cook prepare all my favorite dishes. Made me utterly ashamed of my neglect. I told them stories of my travels, of the dignitaries I had met. Brought them coins and trinkets from foreign lands. You would have thought I’d brought them priceless treasure.”

“You did. You brought them their son.”

He grimaced. Not the reaction she’d anticipated.

“My father was quite frail by then, though he did rally a bit while I was there. I asked if there was anything I could do for them. Mamma patted my cheek and assured me all was well.

“Thankfully our cook, Mrs. Petrova, had no such qualms and told me about the unpaid bills to physician, greengrocer, coal merchant, and more. I settled the accounts and gave Mrs. Petrova a letter of permission to draw from my bank as needed. Gave the same instructions to the banker.”

“That was considerate of you.”

He shrugged. “Too little, too late, in my view. I would have stayed longer, but I received word that my superior had abruptly resigned due to health problems of his own. I was asked to step in ad interim until his replacement could be appointed. I hoped the permanent appointment would come to me, but it did not.

“My father died not long after I left. My mother soon followed. Mrs. Petrova wrote to me with the news. She said maybe it was a blessing my mother did not linger long after her husband of more than forty years. I don’t know. I have heard that often happens, that one spouse seems to lose their will to live after the death of their husband or wife.”

“Yes, although not in my mother’s case,” Claire said. “She used to be an invalid. You’d never know it now.” She raised a hand. “Don’t mistake me—I’m not saying Papa’s death improved her health. She credits the sea air, long walks, and sea-bathing.”

He nodded. “I think I agree with her. Speaking of long walks, I plan to hike up Salcombe Hill tomorrow morning. Care to join me?”

She hesitated. “I would like to, but someone must stay and oversee things here.”

“Come, Miss Summers. We managed without you before you arrived. Not well, but we managed. The place won’t fall to ruin in a few hours. Besides, Mr. Filonov plans to go along, so no need to worry about propriety.”

“Very well, then. I would enjoy that.” She turned to go, then remembered something. “By the way, you asked to see me before I retired?”

He nodded. “I simply wanted to thank you for taking the time to make Mira a dress, and one for her beloved Dolly as well. I did not want to praise you too highly with Sonali there, yet I did want to thank you.”

Her heart warmed. “It was my pleasure.”