Chapter 9

9

[He] spent a good part of his later life trying to prove Lord Palmerston was a Russian spy.

—Raymond Jones, The British Diplomatic Service 1815–1914

During dinner that night, Mr. Hammond raised the topic of divine services the next day. “There are a few churches in town, but if you’d like to attend the parish church, you could go with Mira and me. Sonali prefers not to, but you would be most welcome to join us.”

“I shall think about it.”

Near the end of the meal, Mr. Hammond took Mira upstairs himself, as the girl was overtired and pleaded for one of his bedtime stories. When they had gone, Claire and Miss Patel finished their desserts in awkward silence.

As soon as she could, Claire excused herself, saying she would just peek into the dining room and make sure their guests had all they needed. Before she left the room, she retrieved the partially written letter from the desk drawer.

She met Mr. Filonov as he was coming out of the dining room.

“Good evening, sir. I found this letter in the morning room. Not in English. Might it be yours?”

She held it out to him.

He gave it a brief glance. “Not mine. And not Russian,” he said, rolling the r . “But sank you for reminding me. My sister shall expect a letter soon.”

He smiled, bowed, and went upstairs.

She turned back toward the morning room just as Miss Patel was exiting. The woman would probably accuse her of prying again, but Claire decided it was worth the risk to satisfy her curiosity.

Claire held out the letter. “Do you recognize this?”

Sonali glanced at it. “Did you take that from his desk? He won’t like you invading his privacy.”

Not his private desk. “I found it in the morning room. Is it yours?”

“Why would you ask me?”

“I thought perhaps you had started a letter.”

“No.” Sonali gave a dry huff. “Who would I write to?” She brushed past her and stalked away.

Later that night, after Claire felt certain all was in relatively good order and in readiness for the morrow, she retired to her room, planning to read for a time and then go to bed.

A soft tapping at her window startled her. Hand to her throat, she looked out through a crack between the shutters, glad she was still dressed.

Though dim outside, enough light shone from the windows above to illuminate the person standing there. Fran Stirling.

Claire hurried to the tradesmen’s entrance and unlocked the door.

“Stirling! Sorry—Fran.” It was traditional to call a lady’s maid by her surname, and the habit lingered. Claire quickly added, “Or should I say Mrs....?”

“Farrant. But Fran is perfect. Actually, I prefer it. I’m still not fully accustomed to my new name.”

“Do come in.” Claire gestured toward her room, then stopped herself. “You know the way far better than I.”

Fran entered the former housekeeper’s room— her former room, looking around with interest.

“It’s much as I left it, although less cluttered.”

Claire grinned. “Give me time.”

“Do you like it?” Fran asked.

“I do. I like the windows and the cheery yellow walls.”

“I painted those myself.”

“Please be seated. Shall I put the kettle on?”

“No need. I had some tea after our dinner.”

“We did as well.”

Fran nodded. “Thought so. I waited until I was fairly certain you’d be done for the night before I came over.”

“Did you walk? Mr. Hammond mentioned you live a few miles away.”

“Not quite that far. But no. Leslie—Mr. Farrant—brought me. He’s happy to have a pint at the inn while he waits.”

“Sounds a kind man.”

“He is. He works hard and is excessively good to me.”

“How long have you been married?”

“A few months now.”

“I am happy for you.”

“Thank you. And I am ... concerned about you.”

Claire laughed a little bleakly. “That makes two of us.”

Fran looked from Claire to her surroundings. “How strange to see you in this room. Quite different from the bedchamber you and Sarah shared at Finderlay.”

“True. But this room is larger, and the company more pleasant, than I had in Edinburgh.”

One of the woman’s dark brows quirked. “Is it? Do you find Mr. Hammond’s company ... pleasant?”

Heat rushed over Claire’s face. “I did not mean him in particular. Your company, for example, is very pleasant. Oh! And I saw Georgiana today. She was pleased to see me, although surprised.”

“I understand. Mr. Hammond stopped by our house earlier to tell me he’d taken on a partner who could benefit from my advice. When he mentioned your name, I was astonished.”

“I can well believe it. And he was right, I need all the help I can get.” Claire looked down at her clasped hands. “I hope you don’t think it wrong of me to come here. To Sidmouth, I mean. I would not presume to show up at Sea View after ... everything. But I could not stay away forever. I had to try. And after our great-aunt died, well, I had to move somewhere.”

Fran nodded in sympathy, yet her eyes remained troubled.

Claire hung her head. “I know Mamma won’t approve. In fact, I saw her today too. From a distance.”

“She knows, then? I wondered.”

Claire gestured toward the windows. “She stared down at me from the top of the stairs and then turned away without a word.”

“That must have been painful.” Fran took her hand. “But remember, this is difficult for her too. She told me your father made his wishes quite clear.”

“I know.” Claire blinked back tears and forced a smile. “Now, enough talk of woe. What is your advice for me?”

Fran pressed her hand and released it. “Next time. It’s late, and you’ve already had a full day. I had to come and see you when I heard the news, but I shall return when you are well rested and so am I. There is a lot to learn. Tomorrow is Sunday. Would Monday suit?”

“Definitely. I shall look forward to it.”

On Sunday morning, Claire washed and began dressing, doing as much as she could on her own, donning a clean shift, petticoat, and stays.

Leaving her stays unlaced, she slipped her black dress over it, all the while waiting for Mary to assist her.

No Mary.

She put on her stockings and shoes. Pinned up her hair.

Still no sign of the girl.

A look at the mantel clock told her she was running out of time.

She pulled on a spencer to cover her undone fastenings and hurried up the stairs, all the way to the attic. She was breathing a little hard by the time she reached Mary’s room, although not as much as she might have been, thanks to her years living in Aunt Mercer’s tall, terraced house.

Claire knocked softly, and upon hearing a grumbled “Aye?” she entered. Mary was still abed.

“I’m sorry, Mary. I thought you would be dressing for church.” And coming down to help me as usual , she added to herself.

“What time is it?” Mary murmured.

Claire told her.

“I’m not goin’ to kirk. Mrs. Ballard said I could sleep an extra hour on Sundays.”

“I did not realize. Sorry to wake you. Em ... could you lace me up while I’m here?”

Mary sat up sleepily. “’Course, miss.”

Claire turned, and in a matter of a few minutes, she was fully dressed.

“Thank you.” She slipped her spencer on again and began doing up its buttons, turning toward Mary as she did so. “Now, go back to sleep.”

But Mary already had.

On her way downstairs, Claire walked through the first floor, planning to make sure the bath-room had enough towels.

As she did, she passed Mr. Filonov’s room and, hearing someone speaking, paused outside the door, wondering who he might be talking to so early.

The voice was low, and Claire could not make out the words. She leaned closer and realized their guest was speaking in a foreign language—his mother tongue, no doubt. But to whom?

Perhaps he was talking to himself, an artist’s eccentricity. Or perhaps he was dreaming and didn’t realize he spoke aloud.

She was about to walk on when a second man spoke in the same language—at least the intonations seemed similar. This second voice sounded younger and quite familiar, despite the unfamiliar words.

Footsteps approached the door from within, the voices drawing nearer. Claire quickly hurried to the bath-room, looking over her shoulder just as the door opened.

Mr. Hammond emerged, said something to the older man that sounded like “Spah-see-bah,” and stepped into the corridor. The artist responded with another foreign phrase and shut the door behind him.

Seeing Claire in the nearby doorway, Mr. Hammond paused and looked at her as though waiting for her to speak.

Should she say something? Or pretend she had not heard?

She made do with, “Mr. Filonov is Russian—is that what you told me?”

“From St. Petersburg, yes.”

She slowly nodded, watching his face as he watched hers. He offered no further explanation, so she decided not to press him.

Claire had no idea why a boarding-house keeper in the south of England would speak Russian. She thought again of the coin and letter she had found. And perhaps other languages as well.

He consulted his pocket watch. “Almost time to set off for church. Have you seen Mira?”

“Here I am, Papa!” Mira came down the stairs, Miss Patel holding her hand. Today Mira was once again dressed as a traditional English miss: printed cotton gown, short spencer, and a bonnet tied under her chin. In gloved hands, she held a small prayer book.

Once she’d delivered the girl to her father, Sonali retreated back up to the attic.

Father and daughter started down the stairs to the front hall. He glanced back. “Will you be joining us, Miss Summers?”

“You two go ahead. I will ... catch up.”

She did not want to walk with them. To draw attention. To potentially cause rumors that might further injure her family. And if she went alone, she could always turn around if her courage failed her, which it very well might.

Claire followed at a distance, and upon reaching St. Giles and St. Nicholas, tarried until the Hammonds had disappeared through its doors. She had no intention of sitting with them. No intention of sitting with anyone she knew.

As she stood there on the churchyard path, Claire’s heart pounded hard. Could she do this? Should she? There was little doubt her family would be there—especially as it appeared Mamma was no longer too weak to leave her bed. Claire half wished and half feared to see her again.

She had no desire to make a spectacle of herself or to upset anyone. Yet she needed this—needed God’s presence and the comfort of corporate worship, even as she felt unworthy to join the faithful.

The door opened again as another straggler entered, and from inside, she heard the chords of an organ prelude. Palms perspiring in her gloves, Claire timidly entered behind two elderly women and slipped into a pew on the left, near the back.

Looking down the row, Claire realized she had most likely seated herself among the poor widows and spinsters. Yet who was she, after all?

She thought of the Scripture about the Canaanite woman to whom Jesus said, Let the children first be filled.... And the woman answered, Yes, Lord; yet the dogs under the table eat of the children’s crumbs.

That’s how she felt. Unworthy to sit at the Lord’s table, but still longing for its crumbs.

Several older women in the same pew sent her curious, even disgruntled, glances. She had probably taken someone’s usual place. Claire kept her eyes averted, trying to ignore their stares.

The parish clerk announced the psalm they were to sing, and the congregation soon raised their voices in worship.

As the people around her sang, Claire braved a look forward and to the right. As she did, her gaze fixed on a familiar profile. Her heart lurched. Sarah. She would recognize her close-in-age sister anywhere. The serious expression, upturned nose, and prominent, pursed lips.

And beside her? Mamma. Her shoulders and back straight, her head high. Mamma was obviously in better health than when Claire had left home, thank God.

Yet her gratitude was tempered by the realization that Mamma would not be pleased to see her at church. To see her anywhere.

Aunt Mercer’s caustic words winnowed through her like an icy wind. “Your father declared you were dead to him. He forbade your mother to even speak your name. You will never be welcomed back there. Never...”

Claire’s heart seemed to shrink to a cherry stone inside her. Her own father, considering her dead. Her own mother, unwilling to allow her back into their lives. Yet could she blame them, really?

No.

Claire became aware of someone watching her. Not the old tabbies sharing her pew, but Mr. Hammond, seated across the aisle and a couple rows ahead. His eyes met hers, then followed her gaze to the women near the front.

What did she see in his expression? Had he guessed?

She had not told him her family lived in Sidmouth, although he had witnessed her reunion with Georgiana. And she had not told him they offered competing lodging—a fact she had only recently discovered. Would he be angry when he learned of it?

She decided to ignore his scrutiny. Pretend to, at any rate. After all, he kept his past hidden as well.

The vicar rose to lead them in prayer, and Claire was relieved when Mr. Hammond shifted his focus to him.

Despite her best efforts, Claire’s eyes drifted again to the front of the church during the service. She recognized Georgiana on Mamma’s other side, and next to her another woman. When the young woman turned to her neighbor, Claire recognized Emily’s pretty profile in a pert, upturned bonnet, leaning near the gentleman beside her in some whispered confidence. She recalled the brief letter Campbell had given her after her aunt’s death—the few cheerful lines from Emily inviting Claire to her wedding.

This dark-haired man with a handsome profile must be her new husband. She wondered how Sarah felt about one of their younger sisters marrying before her. Claire was not quite certain how she felt about it herself. Then again, everyone had long assumed beautiful Emily would marry young, and most likely to Charles Parker. That last prediction, it seemed, had proved wrong.

She saw no sign of Viola, no woman with her face hidden behind a veil. She supposed Viola still avoided public outings.

Claire looked toward the vicar as he began the sermon and did her best to concentrate.

Later, as the benediction ended, Emily’s husband whispered something in her ear. Emily giggled in reply, and Georgiana turned to see what was so funny. When Georgiana looked over her shoulder, her gaze landed on Claire across the nave, and her eyes grew large and bright with excitement. She grinned and waved.

In the next instant, Sarah pulled her hand down and leaned near Georgie, apparently whispering urgent warnings. Then Sarah turned their youngest sister almost forcibly toward the front. Georgiana frowned at Sarah, then with a glance at Mamma, seemed to reluctantly acquiesce.

Claire rose abruptly. Murmuring apologies to the women whose knees she pushed past, she exited the pew.

Others turned to look. Claire stared straight ahead, feigning nonchalance as she walked toward the porch. But as soon as she slipped out the church doors, she ran, fleeing through the churchyard.

What had she been thinking to attend?