Page 98 of The Seaside Homecoming
At the appointed time, the Huttons’ carriage drew up in front of Broadbridge’s, Taggart once again on the coachman’s bench.
Together they walked out to meet the carriage, and Mr. Hammond assisted one lady in after another. His gaze lingered on Claire, and he gave her hand a warm squeeze before releasing her.
She noticed Sonali watching them as she entered, but the woman looked away without a word—or the scowl Claire expected.
When they arrived at Westmount, Armaan stepped outside to greet them and help them alight. The Huttons stood at the door, wearing smiles of warm welcome.
For a moment, Claire could not tear her gaze away from Viola’s bright, lovely face. She had never seen her sister look so happy, never imagined such a transformation possible for her formerly snappish, self-conscious, and reclusive sister. Had love done that?
Soon they were all ushered inside. Viola slipped an arm through hers and squeezed. “I am so glad you are here.”
And Claire guessed she’d meant not only for dinner, but there in Sidmouth as well.
“Now, I hope you’ve all come to enjoy the company and not fine cuisine,” Viola said, “for our Mr. Chown is no French chef but rather a former military mess cook. He has learned a great deal and improves daily. Even so, you might be wise to moderate your expectations.”
When they were all seated, the man in his stained white apron brought out a covered soup tureen. He set itnotat the head of the table but in front of Armaan. With an air of ceremony, he lifted the cover, watching Armaan’s face expectantly.
“Take a whiff of that, gov, and tell me what you smell.”
Armaan leaned closer and sniffed as directed, then sniffed again. “Lemon and ... ginger? And something else...?”
“That’s too-mare-ic. The grocer suggested it.”
Viola asked, “And, em, what sort of soup is it, Chown?”
“Curry of rabbits, ma’am. Found a recipe. Thought it would make a nice change, considering Mr. Sagar and his guests.”
“Our guests,” Major Hutton corrected mildly, perhaps noticing his friend’s unease.
“Thank you, Chown,” Armaan said. “A kind gesture.”
William Hammond smiled. “I love a good curry. And this smells delicious.”
Armaan ladled out bowls of the fragrant stew, and then passed the bread basket.
When they had all been served, they cautiously sampled small spoonfuls, except for Mr. Hammond, who took a hearty bite.
“Well? What say you?” Chown asked.
“It’s quite good,” Armaan replied.
“I like it,” Mira said.
Her father nodded. “So do I.”
Chown looked at Miss Patel, and Claire held her breath. Across the table, Armaan seemed to do the same.
She set down her spoon. “It lacks cumin and coriander and would benefit from more cayenne pepper—”
At Armaan’s sharp look, she quickly amended, “But not everyone likes spicy food, so for a gathering such as this, it is ... practically perfect.”
Chown beamed.
Armaan relaxed, and Claire exhaled in relief. The meal continued, and thankfully the cook had not attempted an entire menu of unfamiliar dishes. Even so, the veal had not been roasted long enough and the vegetables rather too long.
As Viola had said, however, the company was excellent, and the conversation pleasant. That is, until Armaan raised the uncomfortable topic of her time in Edinburgh.
“Were you introduced to any unusual dishes in Scotland, Miss Summers?”
