Chapter 30

30

Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.

—Benjamin Franklin

The next day, Claire sat working at the desk in the morning room when Lord Bertram entered, looking perfectly groomed and without a wrinkle on his fresh suit of clothes, carefully packed and pressed by a dutiful valet.

“Good afternoon, Miss Summers.”

“Lord Bertram.”

He looked at her expectantly. She moistened dry lips and faltered, “I ... trust your room is comfortable?”

“Yes. Mr. Hammond took pity on me and gave me a room on the first floor, sufficiently distant from your noisy Mr. ... Jackson, was it? Although my valet testifies to the accuracy of your description of the man’s snoring. Angry badger indeed. Thankfully, I cannot hear it.”

Pity , Claire thought.

He stepped closer. “Have you given any thought to my proposal?”

She’d been up half the night wrestling with it. “Naturally.”

“Any decision? Or questions you wish to ask me?”

The door knocker sounded, and Claire was relieved for an excuse to rise and excuse herself. “Pardon me.”

She went to the door and opened it to Mr. Craven, whom she had met briefly at the concert, along with his sisters.

He beamed at her. “Ah, the lovely Miss Claire Summers. What a delight to see you again.”

“Mr. Craven.”

“Is Bertram available? I hope to convince him to join me at cards in the assembly rooms, unless he is otherwise engaged?”

No doubt recognizing Craven’s voice, Lord Bertram joined them in the hall.

With a glance at him, Claire sweetly replied, “Not at all. Here he is, and quite at his leisure.”

“Excellent. Shall we, Bertram?”

Lord Bertram looked at Claire and whatever he saw in her expression propelled him to say, “Why not. Apparently I am not otherwise engaged.”

Perhaps having heard the door knocker, Mr. Hammond came down and stood beside her as she watched the two men depart.

Then he led her into the morning room and closed the door, which they rarely did. He asked, “Who is that man? To you, I mean.”

Good question. She was not fully sure of the answer herself.

Quietly she replied, “A man I once thought would be my husband.”

He drew in a breath of surprise. “You were engaged?”

“Not officially, although he did ask me to marry him.”

“You refused?”

She shook her head, the sting of rejection still sharp after all this time.

“He changed his mind when he realized I was not the heiress he thought me.”

“And now?”

“His financial expectations have improved. He says he regrets crying off before.”

“And how do you feel?”

How did she feel? Torn. Guilty. Wishful. She wished she could tell Mr. Hammond everything, and hear him say none of it mattered, and she should not marry a man motivated by money.

“I am not sure how I feel,” she replied truthfully. “But I would be foolish to dismiss his offer out of hand. My mother would, I think, approve of the match, which might better our relationship.”

His expression became more somber yet. “How so? Do you ... need to marry?”

Did he assume she shared Mary’s predicament? Heat rushed up her neck and spread to her face at the thought.

“No. I ... no. Nothing like that. Our brief courtship ended two years ago.”

“Ah. That’s a relief.”

A relief for him, or...?

Perhaps seeing her confusion, he added, “In that you don’t need to rush into anything. Or make a rash decision you might later regret.”

Oh, if only he knew how many regrets she already had. Claire’s sour stomach twisted. She had painted herself an innocent in this partial explanation. How differently Mr. Hammond would respond if he knew the whole truth.

Feeling uneasy and restless, Claire told Mr. Hammond she was stepping out again for a short while. She needed fresh air. A change of scene. She needed ... She didn’t know what she needed.

Instead of the beach, this time her feet traveled north up Fore Street as if of their own accord.

Reaching the poor house near the river, Claire paused only briefly before entering the brick building. Inside, she passed an elderly gentleman snoring in a chair in the communal dining room before walking down the corridor to Mrs. Denby’s room.

Claire knocked tentatively, and a voice bid her to enter. When she did, the woman graced her with a smile and warm welcome.

“Ah! Miss Claire. You came. I am so very glad.”

“I forgot to bring tea or anything else.”

“No matter. Your presence is the best treat of all. Besides, Sarah gave me a packet of biscuits just yesterday, and now I am doubly glad I resisted eating them all in one go.” She held the packet toward her.

When Claire hesitated, she said, “Go on, love. Looks you need something sweet more than I do.”

Claire took a bite, and the sweet, chewy pastry soothed her. Sitting down, she said, “I realize we are not well acquainted, but may I ask you a personal question?”

“Yes, my dear. You may ask me anything.”

“Have you ever done anything wrong? Anything you’re ashamed of?”

Sadness tinged the woman’s eyes, and her cheerful mouth turned downward. “Oh, my dear girl. At my age? Of course I have. Many things. Many regrets. But do you know ... for years, I hid away here. Too ashamed to go out. To go to church. To the shops. To see my old friends. But when I did—thanks to your sister Viola—what did I find? Forgiveness. Friendship. Freedom.”

“Really?”

“Yes, my dear. Whatever it is, don’t keep it hidden. Burdens only grow heavier the longer we bear them alone. And you are not alone. For we all have sinned and fallen short.”

Claire nodded, thinking of the many times Aunt Mercer had reminded her of her sin. “And God is a righteous judge.”

“Yes, yet He is also merciful and loving. Whoever believes in Him shall not be ashamed.” The old woman pressed her hand with knobby fingers. “I shall be praying for you, dear heart.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Denby. I have no trouble understanding why my sisters esteem you so highly.”

“The feeling is entirely mutual.”

As if on cue, someone knocked on the door, and Viola herself stuck her head in.

Mrs. Denby beamed at her. “Ah, just in time, Viola. Come in and see who else has visited me. Am I not most blessed?”

Viola’s mouth parted in surprise. “Claire! I was planning to call on you after this. How are you?”

“Unsettled, truth be told, and found myself in need of a chat with Mrs. Denby.”

“I don’t blame you at all,” Viola said with a fond look at the older woman. “A visit with this dear lady is often just the tonic I need.”

The two stayed to talk awhile longer. Then Viola walked out with Claire.

“I truly did intend to visit you this afternoon. Emily and Sarah stopped by Broadbridge’s last night, but apparently you had gone out. Today they are busy at Sea View, so I promised I’d call and make sure you were all right. Are you? Is Lord Bertram truly staying at Broadbridge’s?”

“He is.”

“And has he ... has he come to...?”

“He’s asked me to marry him, Viola. But it’s not like it sounds. Aunt Mercer offered him an inheritance if he marries me. He says finances are the only thing that prevented him before, so I should be glad, but I ... I am finding it difficult to be enthusiastic.”

“Oh my. What a quandary.”

Claire nodded. “I assume Mamma would wish me to say yes, that it might ... smooth things over to some degree. Yet I am torn.”

“And no wonder!” Viola took her hand. “How can I help?”

“You have helped—by introducing me to your friend and just by listening. Thank you.”

“I am always close-by if you want to talk. Anytime.” Before they parted ways, Viola asked, “Should I keep his proposal a secret?”

“Please don’t tell Mamma,” Claire said. “For if I don’t agree, she shall surely disown me all over again.”

Later that day, Claire again answered the door. This time, Mr. Craven’s sisters were standing on the doorstep.

“Good day,” Claire said half-heartedly.

“Ah, Miss Summers. A pleasure to see you again,” the elder began. “I am Mrs. Harding, if you don’t recall. We met at the concert?”

“Of course. Do come in.”

Claire stepped back, and the ladies entered the house, looking around the narrow hall with its modest furnishings with interest.

“So this is where you work, is it?” Mrs. Harding asked.

“I am a partner in this boarding house, yes. Now, how may I help—”

“Partner?” she interjected. “To whom?”

“Mr. Hammond.”

“Quite understanding of him to take on a woman of your ... background. A married man, I trust?”

Claire bristled. “Widowed. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I would think, considering your history, you would wish to avoid even the appearance of impropriety.”

Sonali stepped from the morning room, leading Mira by the hand. How much had she heard? Sonali glanced at the women before continuing up the stairs.

Miss Craven frowned. “I say, who are they?” she asked, not even bothering to lower her voice. “Apparently you will accommodate anyone here.”

“That is not just anyone. That is Mr. Hammond’s daughter and Miss Patel, a family friend.”

“Good heavens.” Mrs. Harding appeared scandalized, brows drawn low, mouth parted. “Is Mr. Hammond ... black?”

“No, ma’am,” Claire replied, without change of expression. “He is ginger.”

The woman harrumphed. “Well. We have come to visit our dear friend Lord Bertram.”

“Of course. Please follow me.” Claire led them upstairs to the parlour. “If you will wait here, I will see if he is available.”

Leaving the ladies, Claire walked to his room partway down the corridor. She knocked and Lord Bertram answered, his eyes lighting up when he saw her at his door.

“Mrs. Harding and Miss Craven to see you. I’ve put them in the parlour.”

Disappointment darkened his gaze, then he seemed to steel himself. “Then perhaps you might join us?”

“No, thank you. They seem keen to see you. Alone.”

“Ah.” His expression hardened. “I see. I appreciate the warning.”

He stepped into the corridor, shutting his door behind himself. “Are you sure there is no ... news ... I might relay to them?”

“Not from me, no.”

“So be it.” He nodded and walked into the parlour.

Despite her best intentions to move away immediately, Claire lingered outside the parlour door long enough to hear a few moments of their conversation.

“Lord Bertram! What a pleasure to see you. I was so sorry to miss you when you called at Sea View.”

“The regret is all mine,” he said politely.

“And how kind of you to join us in Sidmouth, as you did last year. We have been looking forward to your company.”

“You honor me.”

“Not at all. But ... as a friend. A close friend. May I say something in confidence?”

“I suppose so.”

“My lord, you must see. This place, these people, are far beneath you. You don’t belong here with them.”

Claire turned and walked away, not sure she disagreed.

Sarah and Mamma were on their way into the parlour when Mrs. Harding and her sister returned to Sea View, tossing their coats and hats at poor Mr. Gwilt with barely a glance.

“Ah, Mrs. Summers. We saw your daughter at the boarding house. Quite an ... interesting establishment. And rather shocking to find her living with a widower. How sad that she continues to disregard the dictates of good society. You are wise indeed to keep your distance.”

It was all Sarah could do to hold her tongue. She wanted to defend Claire, to ask the woman if she herself was perfect and had never made a mistake. She wanted to tell her to pack her bags and leave.

Instead she looked at her mother, who appeared more downcast than before.

When the women had gone up to their rooms, Sarah led her mother into the parlour and closed the door.

“Mamma, please don’t let that mean-spirited woman influence you. She will be gone soon, and quickly forgotten, but none of us shall ever forget Claire.”

Mamma took a deep breath. “You are right, of course. I don’t like the woman, but she does represent how many in society would look down on Claire—on all of us—if her past were generally known.”

“Do we still care so much about ‘society’? We have already lost touch with most of our former friends and neighbors. And those who would shun us because of rumors about Claire or our reduced circumstances have already done so. I don’t think they can cut us a second time. And we have made new friends here, who, I believe, would not be so quick to shun us even were Claire’s history revealed. You and Lady Kennaway have become friends. Would she cut your acquaintance if she learned of Claire’s past?”

“I hope not. The truth is, I can put up with the sly jabs of a Mrs. Harding or even bear Lady Kennaway snubbing me, should it come to that. What troubles me most is the thought of your father being disappointed in me. As a wife, I always tried my best to honor and obey.”

“I know you did. But remember he was angry at the time he made those decrees. He was also seriously ill, and not thinking clearly.”

Mamma vaguely nodded.

Sarah thought, then said, “Where is he now, Mamma?”

“What? In heaven.”

“I agree with you. He was not perfect, for who is? Yet, with the exception of his last difficult months on earth, he was a God-honoring man. A Christian in word and deed. And now, he is with God.” At least Sarah hoped he had died on good terms with his Maker.

Mamma nodded again.

Sarah asked, “Do you really think Papa would still want you to ostracize Claire, now that he’s gone on to his eternal reward? A reward he is only enjoying thanks to God’s mercy and forgiveness?”

“I don’t know.”

“Remember, there is no more sorrow in heaven, Mamma. His pain has passed, and his anger too, I imagine.”

Mamma clutched Sarah’s hand. “Oh, Sarah, I dearly hope you are right.”

Sarah returned to the library-office. A short while later, Mr. Gwilt handed her a thin rectangular parcel, barely thicker than a letter. Noticing the postmark, she sat at the desk and eagerly opened it.

In a matter of moments, she held the necklace in her hand, just as Claire had described it: a cross pendant with scrollwork and small ruby on a thin gold chain.

She turned her attention to Mr. Henshall’s letter that accompanied it.

Dear Miss Summers,

I am pleased to report that I found the shop as you described and was able to redeem your sister’s necklace. The proprietor, Mr. Duncanson, was reluctant to hand it over without the original ticket. But as I was armed with your letter and the correct payment in full—not to mention discovering I had been at school with his parson—he became convinced. Please be assured that it was my sincere pleasure to help. No repayment is necessary, but in return I would be grateful for word of your sister and any news of you or your family.

For my part, I can relate that I am once again in Effie’s black books. After a recent wedding, the bride’s family hosted a céilidh (a party with spirited dancing, pronounced in English “kay-lee”). Effie and I attended, and she was utterly mortified to witness my attempt to dance a Scottish reel. Might I have whooped too loudly, like a “howling wolf or barbarian”? Stomped and clapped and snapped my fingers in a “most unbecoming manner”? According to Effie, I am guilty of all these unforgivable trespasses and should be banned from céilidhs forever....

Sarah smiled at his self-deprecating humor and carefully refolded the letter to read again later. Filled with gratitude and eagerness, she set off for Broadbridge’s.