Chapter 8

8

Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love.

—Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

The next day, Claire awoke before dawn to the clanking of pots and pans from the kitchen down the passage. Mrs. Ballard and her scullery maid certainly got an early start on the day.

With a little groan, Claire rose, washed, and laid out the grey day dress Aunt Mercer had made over for her.

Mary knocked softly and entered, coming down as promised to help with her stays and fastenings. What would Claire have done without her? She supposed she would have had to swallow her pride and ask the cook or scullery maid for help, at least until she could acquire a pair of wraparound stays like Mary wore.

After Mary had finished and gone to the kitchen, Claire climbed the servants’ stairs to the main floor and went through the door into the public area.

As she walked through the hall striped with morning sunlight from tall windows, something metallic glinted at her from the deep red Turkish carpet. With a sigh, she bent and picked it up, glad again she had brought Mary along. Hopefully, between them, they could keep the house in good order.

She eyed the object as she straightened. A coin, yet unlike any coin she had seen before: shiny silver and engraved with strange symbols.

Had a guest dropped it? Perhaps Mr. Filonov? She did not know what Russian coins looked like. Then again, the tiny palm tree among the other symbols did not seem Russian.

She carried it into the morning room. The coin might be valuable, so Claire hesitated to leave it on the desk in plain sight. On impulse, she opened one of the drawers, intending to place it inside. Instead what she saw there made her hesitate, hand outstretched.

A piece of paper with handwriting on it stuck out from under a stack of stationery. It looked like a partially written letter, although not in a language she recognized.

Setting the coin in the drawer, she tugged the page free and studied it. Were these words or symbols?

She saw varying swirls and what appeared to be u ’s with dots in the middle, as well as curvy j ’s like upside-down interrogation marks.

What in the world? She recalled Mr. Hammond sitting at this desk the day before. She also thought of his refusal to tell her about his previous profession. What was he involved in?

In the next moment, she heard Sarah’s practical voice in her mind, calmly advising her not to jump to conclusions. This could mean anything or nothing.

It might not even be his handwriting. She thought again of Mr. Filonov. English was clearly not his native language. He might have come into the morning room to find paper and ink to begin a letter, and then laid it aside, unfinished. She remembered hearing somewhere that Russian was written in a different alphabet, so it was possible.

Another idea occurred to her. She had no idea what the various Indian languages might look like in written form, but perhaps this was something Sonali had written.

Other possible explanations came to her as well, and none of them were frightening.

Then why did she feel uneasy?

Footsteps sounded in the hall, and alarm shot through her. She shoved the paper inside and slammed the drawer shut.

Sonali Patel stepped over the threshold and paused, staring across the room at her, suspicion gleaming in her kohl-lined eyes.

“What are you doing, Miss Summers? Poking about? Mr. Hammond guards his privacy, you know.”

“Just tidying up a few things.”

“If you say so.”

Mira and her father entered behind her, hand in hand. Claire stilled in anticipation. Would Sonali accuse her?

Instead the woman’s glower vanished as she turned to smile at the man. “Good morning, Mr. Hammond. Does not our Mira look charmingly today?”

The little girl was dressed in a green-and-gold sari much like Sonali’s.

He grinned down at his daughter. “Indeed she does.”

Then he raised his gaze to Claire, still standing frozen behind the desk.

“Miss Summers. Everything all right?”

“Y-yes.”

Sonali said, “She was searching your desk, to ‘tidy it,’ she says, but I wonder.”

“I simply found a coin and placed it in the drawer.”

He waved dismissively. “My private desk is upstairs. Either of you are welcome to use this one—or tidy it.” One corner of his lips quirked. Then he said, “But first, let us have breakfast.”

He glanced toward the table, smirk fading. “Although it has not yet arrived.”

“Is that not one of her duties?” Sonali pointed at Claire with round-eyed innocence.

“Yes,” Claire blurted. “I shall go down and offer my help.” She turned and hurried out, eager to be useful—and for a respite from Miss Patel.

After breakfast, Claire helped Mary clear the tables in both morning room and dining room. Then Mr. Hammond set Claire to work at the morning-room desk with ledger, tradesmen’s bills, laundry lists, a few lodging inquiries from potential guests, and the registration book.

He, meanwhile, retreated upstairs to his private study.

Claire sorted the bills and listed the amounts owed in the ledger, a few of which were overdue. Not, she gathered, from lack of funds, but from lack of an organized system.

Then she opened the registration book and flipped through backward with interest, past the recent, fairly empty pages, to pages upon pages filled with information for guests coming and going. What might they—she—do to attract more guests once again?

A short while later, Mr. Hammond paused at the open door, dressed much as he had been when she’d first arrived, stick in hand. “Off for a jaunt.”

She held up her forefinger. “Before you go, may I ask ...Do you know why the previous owner sold the boarding house? Was it not profitable?”

“On the contrary. It was quite profitable.”

“And that’s why you bought it?”

“No. Well, partly. After she married, she simply decided she could not manage both this place and her husband’s home.”

“You mentioned she would be willing to advise me. When might I speak with her?”

“I will ask.”

“And what is her name?”

“Fran Farrant. Although her maiden name, Stirling, was on the original deed.”

Claire looked up. “Fran Stirling?”

“Yes, do you know her?”

No wonder the name Broadbridge’s had struck a chord in her memory. This had been Stirling’s boarding house—the place she had bought after she left service as Mamma’s lady’s maid.

But Claire was not ready to explain that connection to him. How might Stirling receive her? Would she be willing to help? Doubts assailed her.

“I once knew a Fran Stirling,” Claire said. “Could be a different woman.”

“Where did you know her?”

“In Gloucestershire.”

“Hm. Well, this woman has lived in the area for several years, I believe. Her husband, Mr. Farrant, remodeled the old coachman’s quarters for me. His home and workshop are only a few miles from here. I shall walk out that way and see if she is available.” He nodded to her and turned away, whistling.

When he’d gone, Claire looked back down at the pile of paperwork, spirits sinking. He had got a good bargain. Her fifty pounds, her labor, and more leisure time for himself.

Reminding herself of all she hoped to gain by being there, she resolutely returned to her tasks.

A short while later Mr. Jackson stopped by on his way out, cases in hand. “May I show you my bobbins now?”

“Oh, em...” Claire hesitated. He could not intend anything untoward right there in the office, could he? “Yes, if you’d like.”

He eagerly came forward, laid one case on the desk, and opened it, revealing dozens of smooth, slender sticks perhaps four inches long with necks for thread, the ends tapering to either a sharp or rounded point. Most of the bobbins were plain, but a few were decorated with rings or patterns: hearts, diamonds, flowers, even words.

He held up one with a mottled brown-and-tan finish. “This one is stained with aqua fortis to look like tortoiseshell. Most of these are of turned wood. But these here are of bone. See the intricate carvings?”

He held up another that bore a saying: When I am gone and far at sea, forget not love to think of me. “I sell lots of this kind to fishermen and sailors for their sweethearts.”

“Very nice. Do you make them?”

“Not so skilled, I’m afraid. I sell them for the craftsmen, oldsters mostly, unable to make the rounds. Yet I am glad to be a small cog—or a small bobbin, as it were—in such a noble art.”

His pride and enthusiasm shone on his face and in his voice. Claire realized she’d been wrong to assume the worst—he really had wanted to show her his bobbins!

He opened his second case. “I also carry pins, small bobbin winders, and now and again I have the good fortune to sell one of these fine bobbin boxes made by a coffin maker in Branscombe.”

“Goodness. Quite a complete selection.”

His full cheeks rose and lips pursed in a poorly concealed smile. “You are too kind.”

An hour or so after the salesman left, Claire went belowstairs to ask Mrs. Ballard about a bill from the greengrocer she could not reconcile. Finding the scullery maid mopping the floor all the way from the kitchen to the meat safe and back stairs, Claire decided not to trespass upon the clean, damp tiles. She turned the other way and went into her room for an apron, planning to help Mary give one of the neglected guest rooms a thorough cleaning.

She glanced through her windows, and movement on the outside stairway caught her eye. There came Mr. Hammond with stick, muddy shoes and gaiters, and an equally muddy dog trailing behind. The dog was snapping at the stick as though it were a rat or a juicy bone. Mr. Hammond descended the stairs, the scraggly dog yipping at his heels all the way.

Thinking of the freshly mopped floors, Claire hurried to the tradesmen’s entrance to forestall him.

He pushed open the door a few inches before she blocked his way, pressing against the door with determined hands. “You’re muddy!”

“I know. That’s why I thought I’d come in down here instead of soiling the carpet upstairs.”

“The passageway is being mopped as we speak. Please take off your shoes just inside the door. And leave your muddy dog outside.”

“Not my dog. Followed me home.”

“Then, for heaven’s sake, don’t let it in here.”

“I can try but the little beast seems determined to shadow my every move.”

“It’s your stick he wants. Leave it out there and he won’t follow.”

“This is not a mere stick, Miss Summers,” he said, as though deeply offended. “It is an alpenstock. ”

From somewhere above, a female voice called, “Chips? Chips!”

The dog paused, ears pricked, and looked over his shaggy shoulder.

“Quick,” Claire urged, opening the door to let Mr. Hammond in, sliding out past him to take his place, and shutting the door at her back.

The oddly familiar voice called again, and stained skirt hems and worn half boots appeared at the top of the stairs.

“He doesn’t mean any harm. Probably thought the man was offering to play fetch. Chips is a stray. I know he looks a fright, but he’s terribly friendly.”

That voice.

Claire eased out from the doorway to get a better look.

A young woman stood up there, hand on the railing, bent at the waist to see into the shadowy space below. She was slightly plump, with pleasing curves, windblown hair, and a fair face. A face she knew. Claire’s heart squeezed. Could this young woman be her little sister, who had been a tomboyish adolescent when last she’d seen her? The last two years had certainly changed her. She’d lost most of her childish looks and was well on her way to womanhood.

Claire stepped to the foot of the stairs. “Georgie?”

The girl’s mouth fell open, and she slapped a hand over it, eyes widening above rough fingernails.

A moment later, the hand fell away, and Georgiana cried, “Claire! Oh, Claire! I knew you’d come. I knew it!”

She flew down the stairs, and Claire set one foot back, bracing herself for impact, afraid the girl would knock her over.

She held out her arms, and Georgiana launched herself into them. Claire had to widen her stance to stay upright. Meanwhile the dog, startled by Georgie’s exclamations, bounded up the stairs to escape.

“Why are you here and not at Sea View?” her sister asked.

“I’ve gone into partnership with the owner.”

“Really? We’ve been so worried since we learned Aunt Mercer died and you had left.”

They had worried about her? The thought was oddly touching until she realized she had caused more strife.

“I am sorry to have worried you.”

Georgie gripped her hand. “At least you’re here in Sidmouth now. And in Fran Stirling’s old place, yet. When did you arrive?”

“Only yesterday. I am still settling in.”

Her sister embraced her again. “Everyone will be so happy!”

Over Georgie’s shoulder, Claire glimpsed movement on the walkway above and looked up. A woman on the street paused at the railing, gaping down at them, one hand holding a parcel, the other to her chest.

Claire’s breath caught. Mamma. She almost didn’t recognize her, out walking alone, clearly no longer an invalid.

Mamma’s hand reached out, then drew back again, only to grip her parcel with both hands, as though a shield. She stood there, staring down at them. One moment. Two. Three. Then she turned and walked away without a word.

Claire’s heart sank. Not everyone would be happy she’d come.

“I want to tell you something,” Georgiana said, pulling back with a sniff.

Claire refocused her attention on her sister.

“I had a dream the night you went away. It seemed so real. I dreamt you tiptoed into my room and kissed me before you left.” Georgiana reached up and touched her own forehead at the memory.

Claire smiled, even as tears heated her eyes. “That was not a dream, my dear. I did.” She looked up and kissed her baby sister’s forehead again. She used to have to lean down. “Georgie, do you know why I left Finderlay?”

The younger girl nodded. “To help Aunt Mercer.”

“Well ... yes. I did do that.” So they had not told Georgiana, Claire realized. Was it her place to do so? To disillusion her innocent youngest sister? She was not sure.

Instead, she gently told her, “You don’t know how happy it makes me to see you again. It’s why I came to Sidmouth. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to come to Sea View. I will be busy learning my new responsibilities and managing the boarding house. But you ... any of you ... are welcome to come and see me here.”

“What about Sundays?” Georgie asked. “Will we see you at church at least? You must have some time to yourself?”

“Perhaps later ... once I know what I’m doing.”

Georgie sighed. “It does not seem right—your not coming to Sea View.”

Claire pressed her hands. “But we are together now and can be whenever you’d like to call. Although if I’m busy, I can’t guarantee I won’t put you to work.” She winked.

“Now you sound like Sarah,” Georgie said. “Oh! I must dash home and tell them you’re here! Good-bye for now!”

“Good-bye.” Claire watched her jog up the stairs and disappear from view. Now that Georgie—and their mother—had discovered she was in Sidmouth, it would not be long until all her sisters knew. She wondered how the news would be received.

Claire turned and glimpsed a face behind the small window in the tradesmen’s door. Mr. Hammond, witnessing the reunion. Before she reached the door, he had turned and walked away.

Sarah sat in the parlour with Emily and James that afternoon, relaxing and chatting. Saturdays were one of the nights they did not serve dinner to their guests, so the pace around the guest house was more leisurely. During the conversation, Emily often mentioned Viola, clearly missing her twin while she was away.

They had received one more letter from Viola, describing their travels and the beauties of Scotland. Soon she and Major Hutton would return, and the four sisters would be back together again. The only one missing—Claire.

They were all more or less accustomed to her absence by now, although Sarah still missed her keenly. It had been somewhat easier when she’d known where Claire resided and that she was, at least, safe and had a roof over her head. She wondered where Claire was at this very moment. Had she found a new place to live? Was she in any danger?

Oh, why oh why did she have to run off like that? The old lament returned, and with it a thread of resentment pulled at her, but Sarah did her best to ignore it. Surely Claire had come to regret that night even more than she did.

Almighty God , she silently prayed, wherever she is, please keep her safe.

Mamma and Georgiana were also gone at present. Mamma had all but dragged Georgiana shopping to have her measured for better-fitting dresses and half boots with soles not worn away from traipsing all over Sid Vale. Sarah expected them back soon.

Mamma returned first. Alone. She fell heavily into a chair beside Sarah’s as though her legs would no longer support her. Sarah hoped her mother’s health was not deteriorating after doing so well these last several months.

“Mamma?”

Her mother stared ahead, eyes vaguely focused. Emily and her husband looked at each other in concern.

Unnerved, Sarah touched her arm and asked, “Where’s Georgie?”

“Hm?”

“You left with her, determined to make her stand still long enough for a fitting?”

“That’s right. And I managed to do so. Barely.”

“Then where is she?”

“She saw that stray dog she likes chasing some man and went after them. You know Georgiana.”

“I do,” Sarah replied, her gaze remaining on her mother’s troubled face. Had something happened?

At that moment, Georgiana burst into the house and into the parlour, still wearing her cape and gloves.

“You’ll never guess. She’s here! Claire. In Sidmouth.”

“What?” Sarah asked, stunned.

“Is she?” Emily asked eagerly. “Where?”

Mamma, Sarah noticed, remained silent and did not look surprised by Georgiana’s announcement.

“At Broadbridge’s. She’s a partner in the boarding house with the new owner. She said she’ll be too busy to call here but we are welcome to visit her there. He must make her work round the clock. At all events, she’s here in Sidmouth. After all this time. Is that not exciting?”

Instead of answering, Sarah looked at her mother, whose expression had not changed.

“Mamma,” Sarah asked gently, “did you know?”

She nodded. “I saw her with Georgiana.”

“Did you?” Georgiana asked, brows high. “Why did you not say anything? Or come down and greet Claire yourself?”

Sarah exchanged a worried look with Emily, then said, “I am sure Mamma was stunned, as we all are. Give her time to grow accustomed to the idea.”

“But it’s good news, is it not?”

“Mamma?” Emily asked. “Shall we tell her?”

“Tell me what?” Georgie asked, blue eyes wide with innocence.

Mamma rose abruptly. “I have a sick headache and am going to bed. Let me think on it. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”