“The building will not collapse,” Mr. Jenkins said. “But the original plans will need some modification for reinforcement.” He motioned toward the majority of the damage on the east side. “And the bakery will need to be completely rebuilt.”
Arthur swallowed the pang his statement caused. “How will it affect the timeframe, Mr. Simper?”
“Shouldn’t set us back too far, sir.” Mr. Simper said. “I’ll tell the men they can return to work.”
Constable Humphries cleared his throat, stepping forward. “Once the investigation is completed, gentlemen.” He tipped his head toward the fire captain. “Mr. Thomas, your findings?”
Mr. Thomas motioned toward the east side of the building. “If you come with me, Constable, Mr. Grande, I’ll show you.”
“Very well,” Arthur said. “Mr. Simper, coordinate the changes with Mr. Jenkins, please. And Mr. Fawcett, arrange with Mr. Miller to revise the plans.”
The men parted, and Rodney Thomas led Arthur and Constable Humphries through the wall into the building between the warehouse and the bakery. This area was most certainly the most damaged. What remained of the space was blackened, and the majority of the roof was in a pile of broken and burned boards at one end. The same small cast-iron stove Arthur had warned Daphne about the day before lay on its side, its door open. Holes of various sizes riddled the wall that separated the shop from the bakery. The appearance of the room was haunting, reminding Arthur of a skeleton. The lingering smoke smell was so strong that even with the open air, it felt stifling.
Arthur coughed.
“This room is the point of origin.” Mr. Thomas crossed to the remains of the far wall. “You see here.” He indicated a bit of drooping ash poking out between the boards. “Rags or pieces of cloth stuck in here . . .” He pulled out the black substance, and rubbed it between his fingers, crumbling it into a powder. He sniffed his fingers. “Some sort of alcohol, I imagine for accelerant.”
Arthur and Constable Humphries stepped closer to see what remained of the cloth.
Mr. Thomas kicked aside some boards and crouched down, motioning for the other men to join him. “Coal.” He pointed to a black lump and then to another a short space away. “Probably from the furnace there.” He poked a finger into the ashes beside the coal, flicking them over and peering closer. “And kindling set around it.” He stood, brushing off his hands. “This was no accident.”
Arthur stood as well, his head dizzy. He felt both overwhelmed and furious. Could someone have truly started this fire on purpose?
“That is in accordance with the witness’s statement,” Constable Humphries nodded. He poked at the coal as well.
“Witness?” Arthur asked.
The constable rose, wiping the ash off his fingers onto his trousers. “Miss Dayley. She came by this morning to deliver a statement.”
“Oh.” Arthur was glad to hear that she was awake and apparently feeling better, but a small part of him was jealous that the constable had heard from her when he’d not.
They walked back through the warehouse to the main entrance, stepping outside to where Mr. Simper was talking to Mr. Fawcett and the vicar, Mr. Libby.
The men greeted the vicar.
“See here,” Mr. Thomas said from the doorway, returning them to the investigation. “The lock was broken.”
Constable Humphries nodded. “Miss Dayley corroborated that as well.” He bent forward, peering at the lock. “Based on her testimony and the evidence, we can be sure this fire was set deliberately.”
Arthur inhaled sharply. Hearing it said aloud felt like a punch.
“Do you suspect someone?” Mr. Thomas asked, peering at the lock as well.
“Of course it’s Jim Garrick,” Mr. Simper said. He planted his fists on his hips, motioning over his shoulder toward the docks with a flip of his head. “You all know what sort of man he is.”
“We can’t be certain,” Arthur said. He didn’t want to believe anyone capable of this—especially not in a place he’d come to think of as home.
“Garrick was dismissed from the crew, I’ve heard,” Mr. Thomas said. “But he has no grudge against Mr. Grande personally.”
Constable Humphries and Arthur shared a glance. “Actually . . .” the constable said, “he might at that.”
The others looked curious, but neither Arthur nor the constable elaborated.
Mr. Libby put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “I know I speak for the parish when I say we are saddened that something like this happened here in Brighton. This is not who we are. We consider you very much a part of our community, Mr. Grande.”
Arthur’s throat constricted. “Thank you, sir.” He did not doubt the vicar’s words at all. He’d been nearly overwhelmed by the outpouring of condolences and well wishes from the other townspeople. Not to mention the multitude of meat pies, fresh bread, and puddings that had been delivered to his hotel room. He’d never be able to eat it all; however, Mr. Fawcett was making a valiant effort on his behalf.
“And I hope your building project will continue in spite of this . . . this horrible incident?” Mr. Libby asked.
“It will.” Arthur gave a sharp nod. “Mr. Jenkins believes the bones of the structure are still sound.”
“Found your night watchman sleeping off the effects of a belly full of whiskey in the alley,” Constable Humphries said.
Arthur scowled. That the man would choose this night of all nights to drink himself into oblivion felt suspicious.
“We are very lucky the fire brigade arrived in such a timely manner,” Mr. Fawcett said.
“Luck had nothin’ to do with it.” Mr. Thomas frowned. “If Miss Dayley hadn’t screamed—raised the alarm—we might have lost the whole building.”
Daphne had saved more than the pile of papers after all. Arthur felt a rush of gratitude and something that was becoming more common as he thought of Miss Dayley. A warm kind of happiness that made his heart skip and his stomach feel light.
“She’ll be glad to know that,” Mr. Libby said. The vicar looked at Arthur and opened his mouth as if he would say more, but he must have changed his mind, and he closed it again.
“I’ll take my leave now.” Mr. Thomas tugged on the brim of his cap. “Good day to you, gentlemen.”
The fire captain started away, but Arthur called for him to stop. He took a few quick steps, catching up to him. “Mr. Thomas, I thank you again for saving my property.”
“No need for thanks.” He shifted his gaze, looking uncomfortable.
Arthur continued anyway. “I should like to repay you and your men.”
“Not necessary, sir. We’re just doing what we trained for.”
“I wonder,” Arthur said, “if I might be permitted to join the fire brigade. I’ve no experience, but I am willing to learn.”
Mr. Thomas gave a solemn nod and extended his hand. “We’d be pleased to have you, Mr. Grande.”
The two shook hands, and Arthur felt a measure of relief that he’d be able, in a small way, to repay the debt to the town of Brighton.
When he returned to the other men, Arthur found that Mr. Simper and Mr. Jenkins had departed and Constable Humphries was taking his leave. He bid the man farewell and thanked him for his assistance.
Mr. Fawcett followed the officer up the street. “You must find this . . . this . . . despicable . . . criminal and punish him to the full extent of the law . . .”
“I am glad to have a moment alone with you,” Mr. Libby said, motioning for Arthur to follow him a short ways away. He opened the satchel that hung on his narrow shoulder and pulled out a paper-wrapped parcel, from which there emanated a delicious smell. “First of all, Mrs. Libby sent this for you with her deepest condolences about the fire.”
Arthur took the parcel. “Thank you.”
Mr. Libby drew in a deep breath. “And this is for you.” He handed Arthur a letter. It was addressed to him, but the pattern of the wax seal gave no clue as to the sender.
Arthur assumed the l
etter was from Mrs. Libby as well. He smiled his thanks to the vicar and slipped it into his breast pocket.
“Miss Dayley came to see me this morning,” Mr. Libby said.
He spoke as if he were starting a conversation that he didn’t want to have. The hair on the back of Arthur’s neck prickled. “And she is well?”
“Yes, yes.” The vicar pinched his lip. He glanced to the side, then to Arthur. “She spoke very highly about you. And I must say you’ve been a good friend to her.”
The uneasy feeling grew, making Arthur’s stomach tight. “Sir, what are you telling me?”
“Well, I’ll let her speak for herself.” He tapped Arthur’s chest where the letter sat in his pocket. It’s from Daphne. But why would she send a letter? And why ask the vicar to deliver it? It all felt wrong, and a new sort of fear moved into his thoughts, setting his nerves on edge.
Arthur bid the vicar farewell, not knowing the words he used. His thoughts felt slow as he stepped inside the ruined bakery and righted a chair. One of the legs sat unevenly on the shards of glass, but he didn’t correct it. He took out the letter, running his finger beneath the edge to break the wax seal.
Dear Arthur,
Please excuse the impersonal nature of this letter. I feared that if I spoke to you in person, my courage would fail.
When you read this I will be gone. I plan to take the mail coach to Dover and from there, the ferry to Calais and onward to Paris.
Yesterday I did something that terrified me because I could not bear the idea of you losing the thing you’d worked so hard for. I couldn’t bear to see your dream destroyed. And as I watched the bakery burn, I realized that you were right all along. The bakery isn’t what I want, and my own dream no longer seemed so frightening.
I thank you for your friendship to me this past week and your encouragement to pursue my passion. While I shall miss my friends and home, I think the thing I shall miss the very most is you.
Arthur paused, blowing out a heavy breath and rubbing his eyes before he continued.
I believe with all my heart that The Grande Hotel by the Sea will be the most splendid structure in all of Brighton and will make the prince regent immensely jealous. I cannot wait to see it for myself when I return.
Mrs. Libby was very pleased when I informed her that you’d happily participate in a theatrical performance during the Ladies’ Auxiliary League’s harvest luncheon. And I do hope your hat stays where it belongs.
With warm regards,
Daphne
In spite of the lump in his throat, Arthur chuckled at Daphne’s parting tease. He read the letter again, feeling very proud of Daphne and very sad for himself.
Encouraging her to leave had been one of the most difficult things he’d ever done, and yet it had been the right thing for her. If only that assurance eased the ache in his heart. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, knowing without a doubt the pain wouldn’t disperse until she returned.
Thirteen Months Later
Daphne walked up the familiar road, feeling at home and lost at the same time. So much had changed in a year, and yet Brighton was the same town—her home—and she was thrilled to be back.
The smell of the sea breeze and the sound of birds crying and waves crashing brought back a flood of memories. Brighton’s tourist season was at its height. Bathing machines had taken up their positions on the beach, and visitors filled the shops, restaurants, and walkways. The town held an air of amusement and relaxation.
Daphne took the route she’d walked for years—along the beach road toward where the bakery used to stand. With each step, the nervous flutters in her stomach became more pronounced. What would she find when she arrived? Would he—? She shook her head as questions flooded into her thoughts. She’d not contacted Arthur in over a year, unsure of exactly what to say. And, save for a parcel containing a silk scarf at Christmastime, he’d not contacted her either.
She’d left suddenly, and she expected he may have been offended. Was he hurt? Angry? Had he moved on? Was he married? Would he even remember her? The questions returned, and try as she might, she couldn’t silence them.
Daphne came around a bend, and suddenly there it was, The Grande Hotel by the Sea. She stopped, and her thoughts froze as she took in the sight.
The building was made of whitewashed brick and stone, with large windows and balconies. It stood three stories tall, somehow managing to look imposing without being ostentatious. Manicured hedges and ornamental trees adorned the front and lined the walkway to the main doors. The building that had once been the bakery blended flawlessly with the rest of the structure, and although she’d expected it, Daphne felt a hint of sadness not to see the Our Dayley Bread sign.
The nervous quivers returned when she noticed the guests walking in and out of the hotel. All wore the fine trappings of high society and moved with an air of sophistication. Daphne hesitated, but she reminded herself that her gown was of the latest Paris fashion. She held her head high and climbed the steps.
A doorman in a top hat and tails pulled on the polished brass handle, giving a bow as he opened the door. “Good morning, miss.”
“Thank you.” Daphne stepped inside, and for the second time that day, her breath was stolen away. It was exactly as he’d described, but the sight was even more splendid than her imagination had conjured. The gaslights of the chandeliers glowed through enormous globes, making the marble floors and brass fixtures shine. Straight in front of her stood the reception desk, made of carved mahogany and staffed by two formal-looking gentlemen. Thick carpets covered sections of the floor, and above, a balcony with a marble balustrade ran around the upper level of the lobby. Deep chairs and plush sofas were arranged throughout the space, and among them, Oriental pots with large palms.
Seeing them, she blushed. Arthur had used her suggestion.
Walking slowly around the room, she ran her finger over a glass-topped table that held a vase bursting with hothouse flowers. Paintings of the sea and other sites she recognized near Brighton hung on the walls. She glanced into the dining room, noting the crisp linens and delicious aromas. Arthur had done it—all of this—and she felt immensely proud.
She walked along the rear of the lobby, past the staircases. The windows looked out onto a stunning garden. She paused, admiring the flower beds and statuary. Families walked along the paths, and children played in the shade of the trees. The scene was idyllic.
She continued around the lobby. Ahead, a woman played the grand piano. Daphne walked past and then braced herself to see the smoking lounge. Just a quick glance.
But when she looked into the space, she gasped. Instead of a gentlemen’s salon, the layout of the room was almost exactly like the bakery—only larger and much fancier. She stepped inside, finding a dining area with wrought-iron tables and chairs reminiscent of a French café. The walls were papered a subtle rose color, and along them hung paintings of French street scenes. And the window treatments were striped in black and white. Beyond the dining area were new display cases, and on the counters, domed cake stands. All empty, as if waiting . . . Daphne’s pulse pounded in her ears.
She lifted her gaze, seeing the painting of her family hanging in its spot beside the kitchen entrance. High on the wall behind the counter was a sign painted in elegant scrolled letters: Dayley’s Delectables. He hadn’t forgotten her after all.
Something thumped on the floor at her feet, startling her.
A man’s top hat.
Daphne picked it up but didn’t look around, using the excuse of dusting off the hat to compose herself.
Taking a breath, she turned.
Arthur Grande stood before her, and though she’d expected to see him, she’d not expected the mess of emotions that rose in her throat. He wore an elegant, custom-tailored coat, and on his cravat glowed a gold pin. He smiled, leaning on his walking stick and looking supremely handsome. She swallowed. “Arthur, what is all of this?”
“Do
you like it? Rather presumptuous of me, I know. I just couldn’t help myself.”
“But—”
His brows pinched together. “Do not feel obligated in any way; that was not my intent. I just hoped . . .” He scratched his cheek. “I wanted you to have a place to come home to.”
“It is . . . wonderful,” she said. “More than I can say. I—”
He grinned. “Come, let me show you.” He led her into the kitchen.
Daphne was stunned. The kitchen was entirely modern, with wood-topped preparation tables, a pantry of ingredients, shelves of copper pots, crocks full of utensils, stacks of painted dishes, and—Daphne gasped.
“Gas ovens,” Arthur said proudly. “I’m told they regulate heat—essential for creating delicate pastries.”
“Yes,” she said, running a hand over the table, her fingers itching to start baking. “They—” She turned toward him. “It is all—so much more than I ever . . . Arthur, you did this for me?”
“Well, I do think a pastry shop will be profitable, but I did have some ulterior motives.” He stepped closer, taking his hat from her hands and tossing it onto the table with his walking stick, then slid an arm behind her waist, pulling her toward him. “Éclairs.” He smacked his lips. “I really do love éclairs.”
Daphne laughed.
Arthur’s grin softened, and he lifted her chin. “And that was my other motivation. You said the bakery was your heart—and I rather wanted to take care of that.”
Her cheeks flared in an exceptional blush. “Perhaps it was, but now I think my heart belongs somewhere else.”
Arthur leaned close until his lips nearly touched hers. His hand moved behind her neck, and he tilted his head to the side, closing his eyes. “Oh? Where is that? I hope it’s nearby.”
“Very near,” Daphne whispered just as his lips covered hers. She wrapped her arms around him, returning the kiss fully. All the tension and worry and wondering fled, and she poured all her emotions into her touch, wanting him to know without a doubt that she was here, she’d returned to stay, and he had her whole heart.
A Week in Brighton Page 8