Chapter 7

7

The idea of seeing the sea—of being near it in calm, perhaps in storm—fills and satisfies my mind. I shall be discontented at nothing.

—Charlotte Bront?, letter

After Claire had spread fresh linens on her bed and put away her few belongings, she went up to the attic to make sure Mary had all she needed. Mr. Hammond had given them the rest of the day to get settled, and Claire thought she might feel more settled after she saw Sea View again. So while Mary opted to rest, Claire decided to go for a walk.

Claire had briefly resided at Sea View with her family three years ago, shortly after her parents purchased the seaside property as a second home. Papa had hoped the sea air would improve his wife’s health. Instead, after only one stay there he had died.

And it was her fault.

Pushing the guilty thought aside, Claire tied on a bonnet and left by the tradesmen’s entrance near her room, taking the outside stairs up to the street level. She walked through the marketplace and turned south toward the sea.

Reaching the esplanade, she walked west, past the indoor baths and lodging houses. Past the library, an open field, and a pretty thatched cottage. With each step that brought her closer, her pulse quickened.

When she reached the promenade’s end, she glanced diagonally up Glen Lane, and there it was, on a rise. Sea View. A fine, big house built at an angle to better face the sea, fronted by a long, covered veranda. She was relieved to see the chairs on the veranda were empty. She was not quite ready to be recognized or to make her presence known.

With no one about, she felt free to tarry there and let her eyes rest on the place. What an idyllic haven it seemed to her. A place without bad memories, unlike the family home in May Hill.

She and her sisters had come here with such anticipation that first time, eager to see their new seasonal retreat in the increasingly fashionable resort town of Sidmouth.

It had taken two vehicles to transport them all. They had used their own traveling coach and hired a post chaise as well.

Emily had barely paused for breath during the entire journey, pointing out landmarks they passed, reading aloud excerpts from a Sidmouth guidebook she had purchased, musing about how soon they might be able to attend a ball at the assembly rooms and how many handsome beaux they might meet. Finally Papa had gently asked her to be quiet for a time, out of consideration for Mamma’s nerves ... and no doubt his as well.

Soon after arriving at the house, Papa and the servants had helped Mamma settle comfortably in a room on the ground floor. Then Papa offered Claire, as eldest, the first choice of the bedchambers upstairs. He had probably thought she’d take one of the larger rooms with an ocean view, but instead she had chosen a modest room next to the one Sarah preferred. The two had shared a bedchamber at Finderlay and wanted to remain nearby for late-night talks and for morning help with each other’s fastenings. Sarah was only a year younger, and she and Claire had been close. Her chest tightened. How she missed Sarah, missed them all.

They’d enjoyed every minute of that happy first stay at Sea View. Strolling on the beach, wading in the waves, exploring the surrounding hills and moors. Sitting on that very veranda to enjoy the fresh air or playing games on the lawn.

As Claire stood gazing up at the house, lost in memory, she became aware of a tapping sound approaching from behind. Turning, she saw a man of sixty or so, walking with the probing assistance of a cane—that and his dark glasses suggested he was blind. Then again, she had been briefly fooled by the woman on the coach.

“Here, allow me to get out of your way,” she said, to alert him to her presence as she stepped to one side.

“I thank you, ma’am.” He paused and sent a friendly smile in her direction. “Standing here as you are, I suppose you are admiring the view?”

“Yes, although not of the sea. Of the house across the lane.”

“Ah. Sea View. Are you to stay there as well?”

Her mouth fell ajar at the question. Had he somehow divined her heart’s desire?

“W-why do you ask?”

“I have resided there these many months. Lovely place. Lovely people. I recommend it to you. Best guest house in Sidmouth, although I may be biased.”

Guest house? Claire’s mind reeled. She could hardly credit it. Aunt Mercer had predicted her mother and sisters must be living in reduced circumstances after Papa’s death, but she would not have guessed this.

“And the people who own it. Are they...?”

“Mrs. Summers and her daughters. Excellent family, kind and hospitable. I would be happy to introduce you, if you’d like.”

“Oh, no need. I am ... at Broadbridge’s.”

“Ah. Pleasant too, from what I hear. The former landlady is a friend of the Summers family, though I don’t know anything about the new owner. I suppose you have met him, staying there as you are?”

“I have, yes.”

“And what do you think of him? A good fellow?”

“I hope so. It is a bit too soon to know for sure.”

He nodded his understanding, then cocked his head to one side. “Do you know, your voice sounds vaguely familiar to me. Have we met?”

“No, sir.”

She’d been told she and Sarah had similar voices. Had he noticed? Thankfully he could not see her, or he would likely also notice a resemblance to Emily. She did not want a veritable stranger to walk into Sea View and announce that the black sheep of the family was back in town.

When she remained silent, he said, “Well then, I shall bid you good day. And if you change your mind about Sea View, tell them Simon Hornbeam sent you.” He tipped his hat and walked on, and Claire hurried back the way she’d come.

When Claire returned to Broadbridge’s, Mr. Hammond invited her to join him, his daughter, and Miss Patel for dinner in the morning room, while Mary would eat belowstairs with the scullery maid after helping to serve their guests. Claire thought it a bit odd that Miss Patel would join the family for meals. Was not a nursery-governess more servant than family? Then again, wasn’t she?

Instead of the sportsman’s attire he’d worn earlier, Mr. Hammond was now dressed in a dark green frock coat over light waistcoat and pantaloons, stockings, and polished black leather shoes. He looked very handsome and every inch the English gentleman.

The food was already on the table, so there was no time to change, and she had sadly few dresses to change into anyway. With a self-conscious smile Claire hung her bonnet on a peg and entered the morning room. He pulled out a chair for her at the oval table near the fireplace, and she sat down.

As he took his own seat, he said, “I know in many households a child Mira’s age would take meals in the nursery or schoolroom, but I enjoy her company.”

Miss Patel ate in stony silence throughout the meal, while Mira chatted cheerfully with her father, recounting a story Sonali had read to her, asking when they might go to the beach, and telling him about a seagull that had perched on her window ledge....

“All right, little kaddu ,” he gently interrupted. “Now, how about you use that eloquent mouth of yours to eat some dinner, hm? You want to grow big and strong, do you not?”

She shrugged. “My shoes are already too small.”

“Are they? Then we shall have to buy new ones.”

When the little girl stopped talking long enough to eat something, Claire attempted to fill the silence by asking, “Have you been in Sidmouth long?”

He shook his head. “A few months.”

“Where did you live before?”

“Several places.”

“And have you owned such a property before, or had you a different profession?”

He set down his fork with a clank. “Different. But I prefer not to talk about my past, professionally or otherwise, if you don’t mind.”

Miss Patel smirked at her from across the table.

“Oh.” Claire blinked, feeling chastised. “Very well. I was only making conversation.”

“No need. Relax and enjoy your meal.” He gave her a small smile that did not reach his eyes.

After they had eaten, Mr. Hammond led Claire into the dining room to introduce her to their two guests, who sat lingering over coffee.

“Mr. Filonov. Mr. Jackson. I’d like you to meet Miss Summers. She will be helping to manage things here.”

The first man instantly stood and bowed his fair, silvery head.

The second man, with a balding pate and waistcoat buttons strained over a paunch, reluctantly rose with a groan. “Sorry. It’s the dew-beaters.” He lifted one large, thick-soled shoe in evidence. “Aching today, they are.”

Mr. Hammond explained, “Mr. Jackson is a salesman. Stays here several times a year.”

“That’s right. I travel all over this area.”

“And what is it you sell?” Claire asked, more out of politeness than genuine interest.

“Bobbins, miss. For lacemaking. I’ll show them to you one evening, if you’d like.”

Claire was immediately on her guard. Show me his bobbins indeed. “I ... Well, thank you, but I shall be rather busy, I’m afraid.”

Mr. Hammond turned to the first man. “And Mr. Filonov is an artist. Many artists come here to paint the scenery, you know. He came all the way from Russia.”

“Goodness.”

“Is true. Dere is real beauty here,” Mr. Filonov said with a noticeable accent, his r ’s lightly trilled and his th more like a d .

“Well, a pleasure to meet you both,” Claire said. “Do let me know if there’s anything I can do to make your stay more enjoyable.”

Mr. Jackson gave her a greasy grin. “I shall keep that in mind.”

Did a lewd suggestion lurk beneath the man’s words? Claire hoped not. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and smiled from one man to the other. “Though you might need to wait a few days until I am more familiar with my responsibilities. Good night, gentlemen.”

Together she and Mr. Hammond walked out. She glanced over and noticed his brow furrow.

In a low voice, he said, “Mr. Filonov is unfailingly polite. I don’t know Mr. Jackson as well. If he gives you any trouble whatsoever, please let me know immediately.”

Claire’s heart warmed at his concern. “I shall.”