Behind her chair she gestured with her hand towards the doorway, hoping Mr Dunton would take the hint. After a moment, when she picked up the pad and pencil again, she heard the door open and close and bent her head over the sketch. To have the man out of the room was like releasing a pent-up breath and letting air into her lungs. He seemed to inhabit all the space, even when she could not see him.
Sara steadied her breathing and her pencil. She was not here for Mr Dunton’s sake.
From the corner of her eye Sara saw Marguerite hesitate, then begin to explore the basket. ‘Why would you want to hit rocks?’ She uncorked a bottle of little shells and let them run out into her palm. ‘And what is a fossil?’
Sara sketched and explained about fossils, then mentioned, very casually, how liberating it was to scramble about at the foot of the cliffs, hitting things hard. ‘I really do not think that young ladies have the opportunity to hit things enough, do you?’
‘I often want to.’ Marguerite picked up the hammer and weighed it in her hand as though visualising a target. Despite her apparent fragility she managed it with little effort. ‘Aren’t rock pools full of slimy things?’
‘They are full of beautiful things, some of which are a trifle slimy. But the pleasure of taking off your shoes and stockings and paddling far outweighs the occasional slithery sensation.’
‘No stockings? In public?’ Finally, some animation.
‘On the beach only, of course. There, what do you think?’ She tipped the sketch up for Marguerite to see.
‘Oh, that is so amusing! The large lady with the little dog and the thin lady with the fat pug. How clever you are. I could never do anything like that.’
‘It really isn’t very good technically—I only sketch for my own amusement and rarely show anyone.’
‘I don’t know what I want to do.’ The girl’s shoulders slumped again, the moment of animation gone. It wasn’t boredom or petulance, more as though she was gazing at blankness, Sara thought. This went deeper than a lowness of spirits after the influenza or a fit of the sullens at being dragged off to the seaside by her brother. ‘I can’t draw as well as you. I do not like embroidery...’
‘Neither do I. Did your governess insist on you sewing tiresome samplers?’ Marguerite nodded, so, encouraged, Sara pressed on. ‘I hold afternoon teas at my shop where ladies bring their craft work or their writing and chat and plan new projects and eat wickedly rich cake. There is no need to socialise if you don’t want to—some ladies just read or browse.’
‘I suppose they gossip about their beaux.’ The pretty mouth set into a thin line.
‘Not at all.’ Interesting. Has she been disappointed in love, perhaps? ‘We do not meet to talk about men, but about what amuses us. And men, so often, are not at all amusing, are they?’
‘No. Not at all.’ Marguerite glanced towards the door, then stooped to rummage in the basket again and came up with a pamphlet. ‘What is this?’
‘How to make seaweed pictures. It is rather fun, only very messy and wet. I am holding a tea this afternoon at three, if you would like to come. It is six pence for refreshments and there is no obligation to buy anything.’
‘What did Lucian tell you about me?’ Marguerite asked suddenly.
There are going to be tears in a moment, poor child. Whatever is wrong? Don’t lie to her—she will know. She isn’t stupid.
‘That you hadn’t been well, that you were here for your health, but were very bored, and he hoped I might have something that would entertain you. Do you wish you were back in London? If that is where you live?’
‘No... Yes, that is where our town house is, where my brother lives. I wish I were in France.’ The hazel eyes with their lids that seemed swollen from crying gazed out southwards over the sea. ‘I wish I was dead,’ Marguerite whispered so softly that Sara realised she could pretend she hadn’t heard that heart-rending murmur. What on earth could she reply that wasn’t simply a string of ill-informed platitudes?
‘I have never been to France. I was brought up in India.’
‘Is that why your skin is so golden? Oh, I do beg your pardon, it was rude of me to make a personal observation like that. Only you are so very striking.’
‘Not at all. I am one-quarter Indian on my mother’s side. Her mother was a Rajput princess.’
That sent the threat of tears into full retreat. ‘A princess? And you own a shop?’
‘Because it amuses me. When my husband died I wanted to do something practical for a while, to get right away from everything that had been my life before. I found it helped.’ A little. It even keeps the nightmares at bay for most of the time.
That would probably all get back to Mr Dunton, or whatever his name was, but her real identity was no secret in Sandbay. It would certainly serve to confuse the man, what with his assumptions about widows. Would he still flirt with a part-Indian descendant of royalty?
She glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. ‘I must go now. Shall I look for you this afternoon?’ Sara kept the question indifferent, as though she did not much mind one way or another. This girl was being pushed to do things for her own good and her natural reaction was to push back, because that gave her some feeling of control. Sara reflected that she was all too familiar with that response herself. She began to gather up the scattered contents of the basket, pouring the seashells back into their jar.
‘Yes, I will, thank you. Must my brother come, too?’
‘Oh, no. We do not allow the gentlemen to join in. He may deliver you and collect you, of course.’
And, finally, she had earned a smile. Small and fleeting, but a smile. What on earth was wrong with the child? And with her relationship with her brother, for that matter.
They said their goodbyes, Sara deep in thought. The moment she closed the door behind her the basket was taken out of her hands.
‘What response did you get?’
‘Mr Dunton, I suggest you speak to your sister. I am not some sort of go-between for you and I am certainly not going to spy on her.’ Then she saw the rigid set of his jaw and the anxiety in his eyes and relented. ‘Miss Dunton would like to come to our tea this afternoon. Three o’clock, for ladies only.’
‘These are all respectable ladies—’ he began.
‘Either you trust me, Mr Dunton, or you do not. Good day to you. I hope to see your sister later.’ She did not stop to see if he reacted to the emphasis she put on his name. ‘Tim! Take the basket, if you please.’
Respectable ladies, indeed. What does he take me for?
* * *
A fierce little beauty. Lucian was in half a mind to wrest the basket back from her tame urchin and walk Mrs Harcourt back up the hill. Then he recalled why he was here, which was not to flirt with shopkeepers, however well spoken. However beautiful. Mrs Harcourt was slender, except for a lush bosom, and she was blonde, grey-eyed and golden-skinned. She might have Italian blood, perhaps, although that imperious little nose did not look Italian. Very beautiful, very self-possessed and dressed in perfect, expensive, simplicity. This was not what he had expected to find when he had set out that morning to interview a shopkeeper.
He nodded to the porter who opened the front door for him and strolled across the road to lean back against the rail that protected the drop to the beach. From there he could watch Mrs Harcourt stroll up the hill without appearing to stare. Even in motion she had a poise that argued a much more rigorous upbringing