Page 29 of The Seaside Homecoming
“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 perhapsfour 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 anapron, 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.”
