rise to the bait of his reference to Aphrodite’s birth. ‘Dot was a dipper. They need to be strong women to deal with nervous customers who have never been in the sea before. Some of them fall over and have to be dragged out of the surf and others become agitated when it comes to being dipped and so have to be held tight and ducked under even more firmly. She hurt her back and could no longer do such heavy work, so she came to help me. She was grateful for the opportunity and, quite unnecessarily, has set herself to guard me against...importunity.’
That should suppress any inclination Mr Dunton might have to flirtation. Sara, who was not above enjoying the escort of a large, elegant gentleman—or the stimulating sensation of a well-muscled arm under her hand—allowed the silence to persist for the five minutes it took to reach the Royal Promenade Hotel at a gentle stroll.
The hotel was a straggling edifice consisting of a number of adjoining buildings tacked together with linking doors and added passageways. All had been unified by a coat of cream colour wash over the entire façade, set off by royal blue trim and the hotel’s name in large gilt letters.
Mr Dunton removed the basket from Tim’s grasp and stopped in front of the reception desk where the proprietor was speaking to the clerk. ‘Mr Winstanley, would you show Mrs Harcourt to our private sitting room while I fetch my sister to her?’
Nicely done, sir, Sara thought as she, and her basket, were ushered upstairs and through to a pleasant room with a bay window overlooking the promenade. All very much above-board and using Mr Winstanley to establish his credentials as a respectable man who does, indeed, have a sister in residence. But there is still something not quite right about you, Mr Dunton.
But whatever it was it did not affect the essential attractive masculinity of the man, even if something was making her antennae twitch with curiosity. He was very aware of her as a woman and she was equally as aware of him—the trick was going to be not showing that.
She settled herself at the table, took the sketchbook and a pencil from the basket and began to draw the scene from the window, concentrating on a rapid and amusing vignette of two ladies who had stopped to chat by the flagpole. One was large, the other thin, and both had ridiculously small lapdogs on ribbon leashes. When the door opened Sara stood up and dropped the book quite casually, face-up, on the table.
The young woman who came into the room with Mr Dunton at her back was obviously his sister, with the same brown hair and hazel eyes, but a straighter nose and less firmness to her chin. She was also very obviously young, had been unwell and was in a state of the sulks.
‘Marg—Mrs Harcourt, might I present my sister, Marguerite.’ Mr Dunton frowned at his own stumble and the girl sent him a sharp glance. ‘Marguerite, this is Mrs Harcourt whose shop I passed today. She has kindly brought down some things that might interest you.’
Miss Dunton bobbed the sketchiest of curtsies and sat on the other side of the small round table set in the window bay.
How very interesting. Dunton had begun to present her to his sister, which was correct if the girl was of higher rank. Then he had caught himself and presented the girl to her, the older, married woman. Which meant two things. Firstly he was treating her like a lady, not a shopkeeper, and secondly he and his sister actually ranked above a respectable married lady, even though he did not know to whom she had been married.
If you are not in possession of a title, my fine gentleman, I will eat my expensive new bonnet, feathers and all.
So what was he doing in Sandbay and what was wrong with his sister?
Sara summoned up her professional smile and a brisk but friendly tone of voice. ‘Good morning, Miss Dunton. My shop provides everything in the way of rational entertainment for ladies.’ That was met with a blank look so she tried for something more direct. ‘I stock everything from hammers to hit fossils out of rocks to nets to explore rock pools with.’
Finally she had managed to produce a blink of reaction from the young woman. ‘Hammers?’
‘And art materials and plain wooden boxes and mirror frames and so forth to decorate with paint or shells or scrollwork. Fabrics and embroidery floss, knitting wool, water trays for making seaweed pictures, patterns...books, journals.’ She nodded towards the basket. ‘Perhaps you would like to take a look. Would you excuse me while I just finish my sketch of those two ladies outside, they make such an amusing picture.’
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.
