Page 24 of The Sisters of Sea View
“Little surprise there.”
When he said nothing more, she asked, “What shall I read today? The newspapers again?”
When he remained sullenly quiet, she picked up another broadsheet and began reading.
“Sidmouth. This pleasing and fashionable watering-place is now in full beauty, and is every day receiving fresh accessions of visitants, among whom are: Sir John and Lady Kennaway, the Honorable Mr. Bourke, the Rev. J. Trollope, and Colonel Fitzgerald. Our first ball for the season takes place on Wednesday next, at the London Inn.”
When she paused for breath, he asked, “Will you attend this ball?”
“No. Shall you?”
“Of course not.”
She glanced at his form beneath the loose-fitting, full-length banyan and wondered if something was wrong with his legs. Had they been injured too? She decided not to pry.
“What next?” she asked. “An advertisement for bilious pills? Vegetable tooth-powder, or acidulated essence of anchovies?”
“No, thank you. That is more than enough for today.”
“I am supposed to remain an hour.”
“Thunder and turf.” He wrinkled his long, thin nose. “The correspondence, then.”
She stepped to the basket, picked up a letter postmarkedDerby, and broke the seal. In the dim light, she read:
“Dear Major Hutton,
My mother gave us permission to correspond, so I wonder why you have not replied to my letters—”
“Not that one,” he snapped.
She flinched at his grating tone and could not help glancing at the signature:Miss Lucinda Truman.
Viola picked up another, its ornate hand more difficult to decipher. She carried it toward the window, to a crack of light between the shutters, and even lifted her veil, although she kept her face averted.
“To Major John Hutton,
The honor of your presence is requested—”
“Not that one either.” He raised a frustrated hand. “Look, you might as well pass by any invitations. I am not in a sociable state of mind ... or body.”
She picked up the next. “Another from Miss Truman?”
“No. Set it aside.”
She sighed. “You are not making this easy.”
“I don’t intend to.”
“Then, apparently, we are moving back to the safe haven of grain prices.”
She read on until she had nearly put them both to sleep. Just as she was about to announce her departure, a dark-complexioned man in gentleman’s attire knocked once and entered. His friend Armaan, she guessed.
“Ah, good day. You must be Miss Summers.”
“I am.”
He bowed, his black wavy hair falling over his brow as he did so. “Armaan Sagar, at your service.”
