Page 25 of The Seaside Homecoming
She stepped inside to better view it. The room had windows that looked into an outdoor stairwell at the front of the house, gracing the space with natural light. It was a larger room than she’d had at Aunt Mercer’s, with built-in cabinets, small table and chairs, dressing chest, washstand, bed, and side table. It reminded Claire of the housekeeper’s room in her childhood home, which had served as bedchamber, parlour, and storeroom for expensive items like sugar and tea.
From the doorway, he said, “Rather humble, I realize, considering your genteel past. Still, I hope you will be comfortable.”
“I am sure I shall be. Thank you.” She wondered how quickly his concern for her comfort would evaporate if he knew the whole of her past.
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 Brontë, 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, takingthe 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 shehad 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.”
