Chapter 23

23

A really effective cipher is literally worth far more than its weight in gold.

—Francois de Callières, The Practice of Diplomacy

When they arrived back at Broadbridge’s, Sonali took a sleepy Mira straight up to bed. Claire and Mr. Hammond hung up their outer things and stepped into the morning room.

Fran Farrant rose from where she sat sewing near the hearth. “Good dinner?” she asked.

“Yes, very. Thank you for coming over so we could all go.”

“My pleasure. Anytime.” Fran gathered her things and bid them farewell, planning to meet her husband at the nearby London Inn for a ride home.

Mr. Hammond followed her out, no doubt offering some compensation for her trouble.

When he returned, Claire asked, “Shall I make tea?”

“No need. I have had plenty.” He gestured her into the chair drawn up to the fire and sat in another close by.

She asked, “How are you even familiar with the Scottish foods you asked about at dinner?”

“Ah. While in Constantinople, I served under Sir Robert Liston—ambassador and Scotsman. He often mentioned how much he missed food from home.”

“I see.” Claire hesitated, then asked another question. “What did Major Hutton mean about your work—current work, apparently—for the Foreign Office?”

“I was afraid you’d caught that. Hopefully others were not so quick.” He shook his head. “I am admonished by one of your brothers-in-law to remain discreet, while another blurts it out at a dinner party.”

“Sorry about that.” Claire knew it was at least partly her fault. The major had been trying to shift the focus away from her time in Scotland. “I hope you know you can trust me.”

“Well, as both your brothers-in-law and likely their wives already know, I don’t think much harm can come from telling you. But I do need to ask for your discretion.”

“Of course.”

“Mr. Thomson recently came to me on behalf of his employer, Sir Thomas Acland. Sir Thomas had been contacted by the Foreign Office, who, aware I was living near him in Sidmouth, requested he approach me about a special project. They want me to decipher a cache of French dispatches found in a ship captured near the end of the war—the hidden compartment only recently discovered.

“These dispatches are written in a code our Foreign Office had not seen before. Not the Great Paris Cipher that Scovell unlocked during the war. A different code. It makes sense—once the French learned we had their cipher, they would have lost no time creating a new one. This one is a proper diplomatic cipher, but more complex than the one we used under Sir Robert.”

“That’s what you’ve been working on in your study all hours?”

He nodded.

“I thought a diplomat would be involved in, I don’t know, embassy parties, treaties, negotiations....”

“Not all the duties are so lofty. As an attaché, I handled the passport work, composed, corrected, and copied papers, and studied the local language. I like mastering languages, but most of the other tasks were tedious. Later I was asked to learn to encipher and decipher the coded messages used in dispatches to protect government secrets. Others loathed the work, yet I liked it and, if not vain to say, excelled at it. Soon I was ciphering and deciphering codes much more rapidly and accurately than anyone else. I was charged with creating a new cipher to improve security should our dispatches fall into enemy hands. I did so with relish. I was then asked to train others in the new system, first in one mission, then another: Vienna, The Hague, St. Petersburg. I found the work engrossing. Perhaps it sounds odd, but my brain loves a challenging puzzle. It’s almost addictive.”

He ran a hand over his face. “After we had Mira, I often worked late into the night, sometimes sleeping a few hours in the chancery instead of going home to my wife. I felt guilty about it but continued on, finally gaining recognition for my work. Fool that I am, I believed that’s what was important.

“I thought I had given it all up when I came here. I was astonished when Mr. Thomson asked me to complete this project. The foreign secretary thinks it might help us be better prepared in the future, should another threat arise. No guarantee, of course, but I was convinced the work might prove worthwhile—at least, more worthwhile than chatting with guests and answering boarding-house correspondence.”

He looked at her, expression uncertain. “Do you think I was wrong to agree? I don’t want to revert to the man who put work above all else—above family, worst of all.”

“It is not my place to say.”

“I’m asking your opinion.”

Claire considered. “I admire your abilities and your patriotism. And unless it prevents you from being an attentive father to Mira, then...”

“If it does, I hope you will bring any neglect to my attention. Mira must be my priority. Will you help me? Make sure I don’t lose sight of what is truly important?”

Claire wanted to repeat that it was not her place. She was only there to assist in managing the boarding house. But ... she wanted it to be her place, so she stammered, “I ... I shall try.”

Claire felt honored by his trust, even though she knew she did not fully deserve it.

After breakfast the next morning, Mr. Hammond was the first to excuse himself. Claire followed him into the hall.

“I’ve had an idea,” she began. “Probably a strange one, but an artist might be able to paint a new portrait of Vanita, a composition based on the miniature as well as on Mira’s face and Armaan’s.”

“An artist like you?”

“Heavens, no. I am not that skilled. But perhaps Mr. Filonov?”

“Hmm. Interesting. I suppose it would not hurt to ask what he thinks.”

They found him in the dining room, lingering over a cup of tea and a copy of the Sankt-Petersburgskie newspaper. Claire explained the idea to him.

The man considered, then said, “I never attempted it before, so cannot promise good result. Yet I should like to try. Intriguing notion.”

They began that very afternoon.

Mr. Filonov sat with sketch pad and pencil in the morn ing room, where he judged the light to be best. On the table beside him sat the miniature portrait. On stools before him sat Mira and Armaan.

He looked at the little girl and explained, “I shall begin by sketching, and try to draw your amma as you remember. Miss Mira, when you think of her, how is she dressed?”

“Like Miss Summers. In English clothes.”

“Good. And her hair?”

Mira screwed up her face. “I dunno. Papa?”

“Um. At home, she wore it in a plait over her shoulder, like Miss Patel often does. And she pinned it atop her head when going out.”

The artist turned to Sonali. “Miss Patel, if you will oblige us?”

“But my hair is darker than hers was.”

“I shall make allowances.”

Mr. Hammond brought another chair forward, and Sonali self-consciously sat with the other “models,” arranging her long, thick braid over one shoulder.

“Da. Perfect.” The man sketched for a time, then looked up with a smile. “You are all part of dis project now, you see?” He continued sketching.

After a few minutes, he consulted the miniature and asked, “Miss Mira. When you look at your uncle, what reminds you of Amma ?”

Mira gazed carefully and admiringly at Armaan. She placed a hand on his cheek, much as she had at Westmount. “His eyes.”

“Anything else?”

“His lashes are long and dark like Amma ’s.”

“Well done. And his nose?”

Mira shook her head, giggling. “It’s too big! His whole face is big. But I like it.”

“Excellent. And his coloring?”

“His what?”

“His skin and hair—are they like Amma ’s?”

When Mira shrugged, Sonali answered in her stead, “He is darker.”

Mr. Filonov sketched for some time in silence, now and again consulting the miniature or pausing to study the faces before him.

Finally, he held out his sketch to Mira. “Is only a beginning, but tell me... does it look at all like your amma ?”

“Yes!” Mira replied. “Except her eyes, her eyes were more...”

“More what...?” he prompted.

“Happy.” She turned to her father. “Were they not, Papa?”

“I suppose they were. After all, when you saw her eyes, she was looking at you. And who could not be happy then?”

Mr. Filonov made a few adjustments. “Very good. All for now. Next comes easel, brush, and paint.”

There were fewer people around Sea View’s dining table that night—intentionally so.

Meals with Mr. Craven and his sisters were unpleasant affairs that strained Mamma’s nerves and Emily’s self-control. When they had initially discussed the idea of serving dinner to these guests every night, Mamma had told Sarah the decision was hers. Sarah, who had always been the most determined to make the guest house a success, now questioned that decision.

She waited at the sideboard, prepared to help Mr. Gwilt serve, while Jessie stood ready to clear away.

At the table sat Mrs. Harding, Mr. Craven, Miss Craven, and Simon Hornbeam.

When they began serving the first course, Mrs. Harding glanced up at Sarah in question.

“Are we not to have the pleasure of your family’s company tonight?”

Mr. Craven smirked. “Something we said?”

“My mother is not feeling”— equal to another meal with you —“very well. She is having dinner in her room with Georgiana.”

“And the beautiful Emily?” he asked.

“She and her husband are dining at Westmount tonight.”

“Afraid you must make do with my company,” Mr. Hornbeam said with an easy grin. “And of course Miss Sarah’s, Jessie’s, and Mr. Gwilt’s. At least it’s roast beef and Yorkshire puddings tonight. You are in for a treat.”

Miss Craven managed a polite smile, perhaps realizing too late the man could not see the gesture.

Her brother, meanwhile, poured liquid from a pocket flask into his water glass and downed it in a single swallow.

Mrs. Harding sipped her soup, then eyed Mr. Hornbeam with interest, her scrutiny rather bold, free of concern of being thought rude.

“Mr. Hornbeam, is it?”

He turned toward her voice. “That’s right.”

“And you have been a guest here for some time?”

“Since last summer. My grown son was due to meet me here but went to Brighton instead. I find Sidmouth suits me. Sea View and the Summers family suit me as well.”

“Have you no one waiting for you at home, wherever that might be?”

“I am a widower, so no. My son has visited yet prefers the company of his fashionable friends, which I know is only to be expected. And I have retired from my career, so I am at leisure to stay as long as I like. Or as long as Miss Summers will put up with me.”

“You, dear sir, are always welcome,” Sarah assured him.

He smiled in Sarah’s direction before adding, “Although, if God and a certain woman favor me, I may one day marry again.”

Sarah knew he referred to his friend Miss Reed. Having known each other in their early years, the two had become reacquainted right there in Sea View after last year’s flood.

Mr. Hornbeam turned back to his dinner companion. “And would it be rude to inquire about Mr. Harding?”

“Not at all! Dear Welford is busy with his shipping interests. Travels a great deal between London and Bristol. If you are interested in investing in one of his ships, I would be happy to give you his card.”

“Thank you, madam, but no need. My money is right where I want it. What’s left of it, that is, after my son’s last visit.” He chuckled, and she politely joined in.

“And your son, sir? How old is he?”

“One and thirty.”

“Ah. Just the right age for Persephone here.”

“Caroline, please.”

Sadness flickered over his features. “As much as it wounds my father’s heart to say it, I could not recommend my son as a good match for any young lady. At least, not at present. I hope in time he will mature into a man of sense and responsibility, though I have seen little evidence of either so far.”

“Do men ever really mature?” Mrs. Harding asked with a pointed look at her brother.

“Some of us do, yes,” Mr. Hornbeam replied, then directed his next words to her younger sister. “Don’t lose heart, my dear. There are still many good men in the world. One who would make you a good husband, I don’t doubt.”

Persephone spoke up. “Do not worry about me, sir. I already have just such a man in mind, as my sister knows full well. A viscount.”

“Ah, I see. And is he kind and honorable? Does he treat you with gentlemanly respect?”

The young lady blinked, expression uncertain. “Well. I ... I am sure he would, given the chance. Once he’d truly committed to a woman.”

Mr. Craven snorted.

Caroline Harding shot him a scowl before returning her attention to Mr. Hornbeam. “And during your stay here, have you become acquainted with all the Summers sisters, including the elusive Miss Claire?”

“No. I have not had that pleasure.” Puzzlement furrowed his brow, and he added almost to himself, “That I know of.”

Persephone said, “I don’t know why you are so worried about her, Caro. He had his chance and did not take it.”

Sarah dropped a serving dish lid with a clatter and bit her tongue to keep from saying something she’d regret.

After a sharp glance in Sarah’s direction, Persephone turned back to her sister. “You spoke to him recently. Did he say something that led you to believe he had revised his opinion of her?”

“No. Not specifically.”

“I thought he decided not to join us in Sidmouth this year. Did he not send his regrets?”

“He was uncertain of his plans when I spoke to him.”

Slouched in his chair, her brother said, “That reminds me. Received a letter from the old boy.”

“Did you?” Mrs. Harding asked. “Why did you not tell us?”

Her brother raised his glass in mock salute. “Just did.”

“Well, what does he say?”

Mr. Craven opened his mouth to reply, then with a glance at Sarah, shut it again. “Let’s discuss it after dinner, shall we? We don’t want our roast beef and Yorkshire puddings to grow cold. After all, Mr. Hornbeam here says they go down a treat.”

Persephone pouted. “But I want to know if he’s coming.”

So did Sarah.

“Patience, sister.”

Miss Craven no doubt hoped the man had changed his mind about coming to Sidmouth. Sarah sincerely hoped he had not.

Now resolved, Sarah faced Mrs. Harding and announced, “It is not our custom to serve dinner to guests on Saturday and Sunday evenings. We made an exception in your case because of our mutual acquaintance with Charles Parker. However, after tonight, we shall resume our usual schedule. Thank you for understanding.” She forced a smile despite Mrs. Harding’s frown.

Sarah turned back to the sideboard feeling satisfied. She had not made the decision out of spite but had put her family’s comfort ahead of pleasing these particular guests, who, she guessed, would not be pleased in any case.

“Perfectly understandable,” Mr. Hornbeam replied. “Family and rest are important, and the hotels in town serve excellent food as well.”

Sarah thanked him and made sure he received the best cut of roast beef.