Page 87 of The Sisters of Sea View
“Very well.”
He poured a cup of coffee for her, and then Viola followed him into the breakfast parlour, where Chown was arranging plattersof bread rolls and cold ham and said he would return as soon as he could with boiled eggs.
Viola took the seat Mr. Hutton pulled out for her. After a moment’s hesitation, she untied her bonnet and removed it, setting it on the empty chair beside her. One could not drink coffee through a veil.
He took his own seat, glanced up at her, and stilled.
Drawing a shaky breath, Viola told herself it didn’t matter. If the patriarch was going to be disappointed or find her revolting, better to know before she became attached to this family. In truth, more attached than she already was.
Had the major told his father of her defect, described her scar and how she’d come by it? Or was Mr. Hutton shocked? She lifted her chin, forcing herself not to look away.
His eyes turned downward at the corners. He appeared not repulsed, but simply sad.
“Well, my dear. It is good to see your face clearly at last.”
“Did the major explain?”
“He did. He was afraid I might blurt out the wrong thing. And I confess, in the past I might well have done. But these last few years, with so many of our lads coming home broken and battered, and now my own son so cruelly injured...” He shook his head. “No. I have learned I was wrong to put so much value in surface things. A woman’s perfection. A man’s prowess with horses or hunting...”
Mr. Hutton rose, crossed the room to the sideboard, and opened a drawer. From it, he withdrew a small, oval frame. He carried it over and laid it on the table before her. The frame held a miniature portrait of a handsome soldier in uniform—a proud, fine head upon broad shoulders.
Jack Hutton. Before gunpowder and fire had changed him. Scarred him. Stolen some of his swagger. How young he looked. How confident.
“He doesn’t like me to leave that lying about. Doesn’t want thereminder of what he used to look like. But I thought you might like to see it.”
Mr. Hutton peered down at the image. “He thought himself invincible. Immortal. Young men often do. He was only a lieutenant then, out to rise in the ranks and conquer the world.”
Viola studied the face. The posture. The bearing. There was no denying this had been a striking, attractive man, despite his long nose and thin upper lip. Yet there was a certain haughtiness she didn’t like. Perhaps hardship had beaten it from him, even as it left him scarred. She would not wish it back for all the good looks in the world.
Mr. Hutton returned the miniature to the drawer and sat back down with a sigh. “Now I just want my son to heal, inside and out, and to embrace life again.”
“So do I.” She passed him the plate. “In the meantime, try these.”
He picked up a biscuit and took a bite. His eyes widened, and he quickly took another. “Your sister made these, you say? Delicious. Too bad I am too old for her. I would marry her myself!”
Viola chuckled and helped herself to a ginger biscuit. Delicious indeed.
The two were sitting there companionably, chatting and laughing, when the major entered, hair still damp, towel in hand, and a slight frown on his face. He wore a dressing gown thrown over trousers, a wideVof neck and chest showing.
He drew up short upon noticing her there. “I wondered what all the jabbering was about. What are you two up to? Thick as thieves the pair of you, plotting my demise, no doubt. I shall have to watch my back!”
In contrast to his words, Viola saw the humor and affection in his expression, and her heart warmed at the sight.
His father said, “Very true. Now go and finish dressing, my boy. You’ll embarrass Viola.”
“Not at all,” Viola mumbled even as her face heated once more.She wondered what they would say if they knew she’d seen him dressed in far less.
Inspired by Mr. Henshall’s playing, Sarah sat at the pianoforte that morning. Laying her list of tasks on the bench beside her, she selected a piece of music and tentatively began to play.
Her fingers felt dull and slow at first, but soon the familiarity began to return, and with it, the pleasure.
She would have to practice more often.
All too quickly, the list of waiting tasks prevailed and claimed her attention. Sarah rose and walked from the room.
Mr. Henshall, hat in hand, was leaning against the doorframe of the nearby drawing room. When he saw her emerge, he straightened in surprise.
“Miss Summers. I thought it must be Miss Viola playing. Ye denied being skilled, but that was quite good.”
