Page 71 of The Seaside Homecoming
—Aesop
The next day dawned grey and rainy, so Mr. Gwilt lit a fire in the library and Emily and Mamma sat in armchairs near the hearth, Emily writing and Mamma sewing.
Sarah sat at the desk, reviewing the reservations for the upcoming weeks in the registration book. As she did, she made notes of which rooms to assign and calculated the number of people they would serve at meals so she could provide that information to their cook, Mrs. Besley.
She looked over at the others and said, “We are expecting four new guests ten days from now: A Miss Craven and a Mr. Craven, as well as a Mrs. Harding and her maid.”
“Mr. Craven?” Emily looked up, a deep frown marring her pretty face. “Not Sidney Craven.”
Sarah consulted the original letter. “Why, yes.”
“I did not confirm rooms for those people!” Emily insisted. “I would not have accepted their request. Who did?”
“I believe I wrote that letter myself,” Mamma calmly replied.“You have been rather busy of late, what with your novel and new husband.”
Emily blushed, pretty looks restored. “I suppose I have been distracted. In the best possible ways.”
“Now, what is wrong with the Cravens?” Mamma asked.
“They are friends of Lord Bertram.”
Mamma flinched. “I have asked you all not to say that name.”
“It cannot be helped in this instance,” Emily replied. “I don’t know who Mrs. Harding is, but Mr. Craven and his sisters came here last summer with ... that man. The sisters were tolerable, I suppose. But Mr. Craven was quite rude.”
“Well, we’ve survived rude guests before and we shall again,” Mamma said. “It’s too late to turn them away now.”
“At least there are no Bertrams mentioned in the request,” Sarah said.
“True,” Emily agreed. “We definitely do not want that man here.”
Sarah rose. “Let’s make sure our best rooms are especially clean. Perhaps fresh flowers for the ladies?”
“Good idea.”
“I shall confer with Mrs. Besley about meals.”
Mamma rose as well. “Actually, Sarah, let me do that. I think we might be wise to serve a somewhat finer menu to these particular guests.”
“You are kinder than I am, Mamma,” Emily said. “I’d serve that man fish heads and tripe, were it up to me.”
“It is not kindness, Emily. It is strategy. The happier they are with their stay, the less likely they will circulate a bad report among people we know.”
Claire entered the morning room a few days later and sat at the desk, girding herself to face the unpleasant task ofbalancing the accounts. But instead of the account book, a collection of new art supplies lay atop the desk: a fresh sketch pad, several pencil-shaped sticks of colored chalk, and a set of watercolor paints and brushes.
She glanced up and found Mr. Hammond watching her expectantly.
“I cannot accept these. You’ve given me too much already. Or are these for Mira?”
“Of course you can accept them. It’s just a few art supplies the stationer had on hand. I hope they prove useful.”
“I’m sure they would, but I—”
“And Mira will enjoy sharing them with you. We can call it a gift for you both, if you prefer.”
“I do. Thank you.” Claire was mortified to feel tears fill her eyes and threaten to spill over.
For most of the last two years, she had been starved of affection and deprived of caring gestures. Now, in the span of a few days, Emily, Sarah, and now Mr. Hammond had brought her unexpected, undeserved gifts.
