#lyminster

Sam had settled herself on a discreet chair in the small drawing room of Lyminster House hands folded neatly and demurely on her lap, and for want of anything better to do, observed the new occupier of the moment.

'A gentleman', her father had disclosed before he brought her in company, 'well travelled, but who had been very ill, and who had rented the house for it's good air and quiet location to aid his recuperation.' He looked unwell still, the bones standing out on his face and hands, a sallow pale colour on his skin, in spite of the fire and the blanket tucked around his shoulders by the Sikh servant-man.

Sick at heart or soul too, it appeared, the haunted echo in his eyes. She listened as Catholic-esque, he softly unburdened his troubles onto her fathers listening ears. "- my old school friend, he gave me the money, more than he should have," he gave a rueful cough of black laughter "and I ruined him, with those diamonds. Ruined and killed the best kindest man I ever knew, they should have locked me up for it."

"Were a man locked up for every little mistake, condemned for every sin, there would be only innocent babes left in the world." Her father soothes "And you did not kill your friend..."

"The shock brought on the illness which killed him, which is much the same thing." The man looks away from her father, face twisting, in pain or bitterness. "And after all that, the mines come good, more than I could ever have dreamed for. But what good is it?"

Her father opens his mouth, but the man cuts him off with a wave of his hand, "Don't talk of charity, I'd give my half of the fortune just to find Crewe's daughter. Looked all over Europe, all the way to Russia in schools, but I can't find her." His eyes are bleaker still, "Poor little Sarah."

He says the last more to himself than to them, but her ears catch it.

Diamonds, Crewe, Daughter, Sarah, well, Sara. "How do you spell Crewe, Sir? C-R-E-W?" Sam asks, pressing her folded hands into each other. Do not get his hopes up, do not get mine up either

Her father turns to look reprovingly at her, shaking his head ever so slightly.

But Mr Carmichael only lifts his head slightly from where he has slumped in his chair, "C-R-E-W-E." He emphasises the last letter "Captain Ralph Crewe. -th Regiment." It all has the monotone of words said over and over, or in a dream or a fever. His chest heaves

The right spelling, the same story.

"I know where she is!" She barely holds herself sitting in the chair, and fails.

"Samantha!" Her father barks, "it is not decourous to interrupt. Is that what they taught you at the Seminary?"

But she had eyes only for Mr. Carrisford as she goes towards him, he's pushing himself violently upright in his chair, eyes lighting up, "You know where she is? You're sure?"

"She's at Miss Minchin's Seminary for Young Ladies on - Square in London. She came there when she was seven and I was eleven. She grew up in India, she speaks Hindustani," "Sam stared about the room, what else can I tell him "She told me about Shiva, and Ganesh, and Buhdda.." She whirls abot, pointing to each of the statues in turn. "Her mother was French, but died before she knew her, Sara speaks it as well as a Frenchwoman herself." She runs out of breath, gasps inelegently for more

"Yes," Carrisford says, a bright, near wild flush on his face "I remember Crewe married a French lady- Isabelle, her name was." He looks only at Sam "She's at this Seminary, you say?"

"Yes." Now the hard bit, Sam draws closer to the man "When her -Sara's- father - that is, Captain Crewe - died, Miss Minchin kept her on as a servant, to 'cover the debts' she said." Carrisford's face plunges in agony and she hears even her unshockable father gasp.

"A Servant Crewe's little Sara?" Then Carrisford is shouting towards a door "Ram Das... Ram Das! Ram Das!" He reaches forwards and grabs at Sam's hands, his grip surprisingly strong for the frailness of her hands. Ram Das rushes in, a flash of gold in the corner of her vision.

She drops to her knees in front of Mr Carrisford, putting them on the same level, and sees tears brimming in the man's eyes. "Thank You." He wheezes, "Thank you." Now words fly out from him in a rushing torrent, one arm reaching to push off the covering blanket, "Ram Das, we go to London, order the carriage ready to the station. Jaladi, Jaladi!" But the torrent ends in a gasp and a fit of coughing, shaking the man through.

Sam glances at Ram Das as the Sikh steps closer, pulls the blanket back around, a hand on his master's shoulder to keep him down "No Sahib, no London for you. See, you are not yet well enough."

"You don't understand," Carrisford half snaps, half pleads, staring at the other man, "Sara's there - Miss Crewe."

Sam watches as Ram Das nods, "I understand this, Sahib. But I also know you will put youself back in bed, being like this. You will not go to London. Doctor Sahib said Rest."

Sam bites her lip, it is far too true that Carrisford is in no fit state to travel to London. And even he seems to accept this, stopping his efforts to move from the chair. Instead he looks to where their hands are still folded together, to her, and then over her shoulder to where her father must be. His eyes are burning bright.

"Reverend, would you go? You and your daughter? Go and bring her back? I'll give you a letter for the Mistress of the Seminary, giving you authority to do so- I've seen Crewe's papers, I'm Sara's guardian-in-law. If she won't take that, my lawyer Carmichael lives nearby, go to him"

Sam twists, heedless of any damage to her dress, hating the stiff bodice, to look at her father. His face is a little stunned, but he slowly nods. "If you have the proof of this Mr Carrisford, and you, Samantha," His eyes come to rest on her "can identify the girl..."

Sam nods quickly, Please, please.

Her father dips his chin "Then I would be happy to help."

I rise up from sleep to near-wakefulness. I am partially aware of the different light, the different bed. Good-morning Martin I say, in my thoughts– as I have said, aloud or otherwise, every morning for twenty-eight years. Today I do not speak aloud to his photograph, for I am not in Lyminster but in Hastings instead- as so sweetly requested by Miss Samantha. It would not have been right to bring him with me, although he never really leaves.

Ah, Miss Samantha.

I remember the first time I really met her, although I had seen her as a babe in her mother's arms and at church, of course.

She must have been, oh, about four, her hair in a riot of orange curls about her head, brought along by Reverend Stewart on one of his parish visitations. She'd sat patientlyon the too large chair for a little while, no doubt an eternity for a bored child, her eyes roving about as much as she dared. But she had begun to fidget, and her father had turned an eye to her.

“Samantha, sit quietly please while we are talking.”

She had stilled, but with a dark light in her eye. Reverend Stewart had continued his discussion, I forget now what was being talked of.

“Please Miss Johnson”... The words dropped into small patch of silence as her father stopped talking to drink his tea

I turned to her, I must admit, slightly relieved for the interruption “Yes, Miss Samantha?”

She looked at me with very bright, curious eyes. “Why does that picture have a black band in the corner, and why is the watch sitting on the mantelpiece under it rather than in your pocket?”

I turned my head to follow her gaze, not that I needed to. The summer picture of the two of us, taken when he joined up, and his watch, laying with it's chain curled like a tail at the base of the frame. Almost all I had left of Martin.

Her father gave a little chiding cough. But I rose from my chair and took down the photograph, taking it to her. She looked at it carefully, folding her hands demurely in a sweet effort not to touch it

“You see this man?” - She nodded solemnly - “This was Martin Roberts, he was the young man I intended to marry when I was younger.”

“Is that you?” She asked, studying the young woman with her pinned up hair and her white dress, it was slightly sprigged, but that doesn't notice in the photograph.

“Yes.” Not even ten years ago, that photograph was taken.

She looked at it for a moment longer “You were very pretty, and he, he has nice eyes.” She tilted her head, the way a crow might and spoke with a decided tone “He looks smiley.”

Oh child – I swallowed, and the words came with a huskiness “He was.”

“Samantha.” Her father's voice was firm, one that scolded, He walked over to us and looked hard at his daughter “I believe we talked about this.”

“But all I said was...”

Samantha”

She bowed her head, fingers knitting, then turns her head up to me “I'm sorry for upsetting you, Miss Johnson, and asking about Mr Roberts.” The tone is that of formality, of recitation.

The vicar gave an approving nod, Samantha, go and put your coat on.”

She nodded and slipped off the chair. He turned to me hen turned to me “I add my apologies too Miss Johnson. She is only young after all-.”