They scoured the machines, but one distant body looked much like another.
“Is bathing pleasant? It looks pleasant. Are children allowed?”
“You can paddle, my dear, later—if that is what you would like. Your aunt can show you. She loves the water. I cannot explain why, but I am no friend of the sea.” Cassy looked with distrust at the clear, still, blue bay: Her mind could only see death and corpses. “I shall stick to dry land. But the day is all yours to do as you please. Now, if I were still a little girl…” Anna looked up at her twenty-eight-year-old aunt with amazement. “I was once, believe it or not. Though never one so grand as to be granted a summer in Sidmouth.” She squeezed the small hand that lay in hers. “In your shoes I should have liked to start some collection or other. There are so many shells we could find.”
“Shells!” The child’s guard dropped at last.
“Yes!” Cassy felt excited herself. Anna was such a bright little creature, full of natural enthusiasms that had not lately enjoyed outlet. “And this is a very particular coastline. It is said you can find stones imprinted with shapes of strange, ancient animals.”
“‘Strange, ancient animals’?”
They stopped then, and stared at the soft, blue clay cliffs rearing up at the end of the beach—each finding it hard to believe in the legend.
“So ’tis said.” Cassy shrugged, and they resumed their progress. “We shall have to investigate that for ourselves. But first, here we are.” They had passed the tearoom now, and arrived at the cottages, where nets hung on poles drying in the sunshine and boats were pulled up onto the beach. The catch of the day was laid out in baskets, and half of society was gathered around them.
“You see”—she bent down and whispered in Anna’s ear—“even the mundane matter of buying one’s dinner becomes sport at the seaside. Hold tight, do not lose me. Let us go in.”
Cassy was so intent on her selection of mackerel that she was quite unaware of being an object of interest. But as the fisherman busied himself with paper and wrapping, she felt the prickle of unease that comes when someone is staring. She swung round, held Anna closer, and caught sight of a gentleman, out on the fringes, who was now walking swiftly away.
The heat was building as they made their way back down the shingle. Cassy lifted her pale-yellow muslin—here she, at last, had surrendered to popular pressure and given up all that hot, heavy black—to keep the hem dry. With deep concentration, and the odd outburst of joy, they hunted for shells and cleaned off the finest. Together they made an affecting tableau: this tall, slim, handsome woman and sweet little girl, locked into their innocent pursuit. There were those on the Mall—and one in particular—who looked on it with pleasure, though they were themselves too busy to notice.
“This one is my favorite.” Anna stroked a small scallop inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
“It is a beauty,” Cassy agreed. “But this is only your first morning. If we are to be serious about this, then there will be lots more to come. I have quite lost track of time. We ought to get back to your grandmother. But first”—oh, she did love a project!—“let us go to the library on our way back, and buy a small notebook. Then you can keep a diary of your findings, and perhaps add sketches of the best ones? I can help with you that.”
This excellent plan was pleasing to both, though perhaps Cassy was the more pleased of the two. Chatting excitedly, they left the beach, crossed the Mall, and made for the shop that stood next to the Reading Room. Its door was closed. Cassy’s hand reached for the handle, her face turned away while she explained something to Anna. The bell gave its tinkle, her hand chanced to touch that of another … She flinched at the shock of it, turned, and looked up. She felt the world change.
How long did they stand there? It could be a lifetime but was more likely a moment. Cassy dropped her eyes, caught sight of a book beneath his arm, focused on its spine, the words—Elements of Conchology—written thereon, and felt a fleeting disappointment it was not a good novel.
Then: “Do excuse me.” He was bowing and tipping his hat. “Good day to you, madam.”
She somehow effected a curtsy.
He smiled down at the girl—“Miss”—and gestured to her hand. “Forgive my impertinence, but I must say that is the most excellent shell.”
And with that, he was off into the morning, swallowed up by the fashionable crowd.
* * *
“HOW MAGNIFICENT!” JANE BLEW in, untying her bonnet to reveal untidy hair and a glowing complexion. “The water is at its finest this morning. Oh, but I do like it here. So much better than insufferable Bath. Now, what have my darlings been up to? Well, you certainly look better, Cass—radiant, even. I hate to have to tell you that, despite your very best efforts, you seem to be recovering your bloom.” She took Anna’s shoulders and peered into her face. “And you, my child? Has the sea worked its magic yet? I think not! Now confess all, Anna. Where have you spent these past months—down a cave, up a chimney? Come now, spill out your wicked secrets.”
Anna giggled for the first time since her arrival. “In Steventon, Aunt Jane, I promise!”
“Then there is no accounting for your pallor.” She laid down her hat. “When your aunt Cass and I lived in the rectory, we were careful to bloom every day. Quite rigorous we were with our blooming. Back then, it was thought quite rude not to. No doubt you young people have other ideas.”
Cassy laughed with them, quite distracted now from the unsettling events of her morning. Instead she felt her heart twisting with pity for the poor child. There had been many regrets on leaving Hampshire, but the deepest was their withdrawal of daily contact with Anna. They had removed the one refuge from her troubles with Mary, which had always been difficult and, since the arrival of the blessed boy child, were now possibly intolerable. It had been a triumph to get her here for the summer. They would restore her: Cassy was sure of it. While the rest of the family besported themselves, she would bring this dear girl back to life.
“I will just go up and check on our mother,” Cassy announced, “and then we can make plans for the rest of the day.”
“Is Grandmama very poorly?” asked Anna anxiously.
“No, my dear.” Jane gathered her up. “There is no cause for concern. Your grandmother likes to take to her bed whenever we arrive somewhere new. It is her way of feeling at home. She can then test the mattress, meet the best doctors, sample the wares of the local apothecary, and know just what to expect should real illness afflict her. Which it never does, incidentally. But perhaps that is her wisdom: prevention by good preparation. Like all the best invalids, she will outlive us all.”
“Jane, that is not quite fair. Our mother has suffered from biliousness since the journey. Travel affects her—”
“Or it does not”—Jane shrugged, smiling—“and my thesis is true.”
By the time Cassy returned, her sister and niece were deep in a game—one was a pirate, the other a poor castaway damsel; both were in fits of hilarity. The new notebook lay abandoned on the hearthrug. She retrieved it, picked up her embroidery, and waited until they were done.