Page 23 of The Sisters of Sea View
“Have you been to Sidmouth before?”
“Um ... aye. Though it’s years ago now.”
Sarah tentatively asked, “And your ... wife ... was with you then?”
He nodded. “But I would rather not talk about it.”
Sarah blinked in surprise.
Again he grimaced. “Well, if ye’ll excuse me, I had better look in on Effie.” He turned and strode away.
Sarah watched him go, feeling more bewildered than offended. She guessed his rudeness stemmed from an unhappy past. He was a widower after all, and probably still grieving his lost love. And if so, she could not blame him.
When Viola arrived at Westmount to read to Major Hutton again, two men were arguing outside. The one wearing a stained apron she presumed was the cook. She had no idea who the tattooed man in coarse clothing might be.
The young cook frowned down at the basket the other man held. “Is that the best you could do?”
“It’s all they had at the market.”
“Leeks and spinach? Never made soup with them before.” He held up an aubergine. “And what do I do with this?”
“I dunno. They were out of pease.”
“Hang me, it’ll be weak soup tonight, mate.”
Noticing her approach, the tattooed man greeted her. “Here for the major, miss?”
“Yes. And you are...?”
“Taggart, first and only footman. And this is Chown. He cooks—tries to, at any rate.”
Taggart opened the door for her and led her inside to the major’s room—probably a study before the addition of the couch-bed that had converted it to sickroom and bedchamber.
In the dim light, the major glanced up and frowned. “You again.”
Viola ignored the slight. To protect herself from the man’s arrows, she donned her usual armor of indifference. “Good to see you too.” Walking to the desk, she observed, “Your staff here are ... unusual.”
“Are they?”
She nodded. “Your cook is a man, not French, nor very experienced, as far as I can tell.”
“Why not? He worked in our mess. He sorts the rest as he goes.”
“And your footman?”
“Unemployed, as many former soldiers are, unfortunately. He needed a job and I had one to offer.”
“I admire your compassion—don’t mistake me—but anyone less like a footman, I cannot imagine.”
“Why, because he refuses to powder his hair like a fop?”
“Or even to wash it. Or comb it. Or shave. Or press his clothes...”
“Is your delicacy so easily offended?”
“Not at all. Though I wonder what your ... less enlightened guests might think.”
He snorted. “I have no guests.”
