Page 95 of The Sisters of Sea View
Mamma smirked. “I shall no doubt swallow plenty as I try not to drown.”
“Now, now, madame. You need not be anxious. The bathing machine operators will take good care of you.”
He added, “If nausea or thirst trouble you after taking the sea water, drinking ass’s milk will help. But these inconveniences will pass after two or three days.” After a few more instructions, Dr. Clarke rose, donned his hat, and took his leave.
When they were alone, Mamma said, “When we first visited Sidmouth, I saw a notice from a local man who supplies donkeys with proper saddles for invalids and ass’s milk, yet I never thought I would be so poorly as to need either one.”
“I know, Mamma. But if it will help, please try.”
Mamma sighed once more and patted Sarah’s hand. “I shall.”
When Emily joined her sisters for luncheon that day, Sarah shared the doctor’s advice and asked for volunteers to go sea-bathing with Mamma.
Emily immediately asked to be excused. It had been onething to accompany her into the controlled environment of the medical baths. The open sea was an altogether different—and frightening—prospect.
Sarah and Viola were both too busy to go. Thankfully Georgiana, who liked the water, declared she would be happy to sea-bathe with Mamma.
They began that very afternoon.
Recalling the doctor’s admonition to take exercise before entering the sea, they did not hire a donkey or sedan chair to carry Mamma to the beach. Instead, Emily and Georgiana each took an arm and helped her walk the modest distance. Once they reached the bathing machines and helped Mamma inside, Georgie remained with her. Emily waited on shore with an extra towel and warm shawl, ready to help Mamma home again, worrying all the while.
A short while later, the pair emerged from the bathing machine. Mamma appeared winded and weak, wet hair fallen from its pins and hanging around her shoulders in uncharacteristic disarray.
She was so limp and tired that they regretted their decision not to hire a chair. The two girls struggled to help Mamma across the beach and were relieved when sturdy Tom Cordey offered his strong arm to assist her home.
18
Mrs. Elton was growing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston as to pigeon-pies and cold lamb.
—Jane Austen,Emma
That same afternoon, Viola made her way to the poor house to call on Mrs. Denby again.
As she walked along the esplanade, she glanced ahead and saw a man step out of the York Hotel. He tipped his hat to two ladies, and then turned up Fore Street. As he turned, Viola glimpsed his profile, and a prickling familiarity crawled over her like a millipede. A moment later he passed out of sight.
It couldn’t be him, she told herself. It was only her imagination. She had allowed herself to think of the surgeon recently, and those memories were now haunting her.
And really, she had barely seen this man’s face. Would she even recognize him after seven or eight years? Most likely it was not him. He lived far from Sidmouth.
Despite these inner assurances, the shivery feeling persisted. So instead of turning up Fore Street, Viola passed by the hotel and took the footpath along the river, just in case.
Reaching the poor house a short while later, she gave Mrs. Denby a brown paper parcel of biscuits Sarah had sent along forher, and then read fromThe Pilgrim’s Progressfor a time. The old woman sat listening, back hunched and head bent.
“As I walked through the wilderness of this world, I lighted on a certain place, where was a Den, and laid me down in that place to sleep; and, as I slept, I dreamed a dream....”
When Viola noticed the woman’s eyes begin to close, she paused, laying the book on her lap.
Gaze straying to the lace pieces on the table, she said, “Will you tell me about your time as a lace maker?”
“Oh.” Mrs. Denby lifted her head, instantly alert. “If you like, of course. Let’s see. My family and I made Honiton lace. Are you familiar with it? Very popular in these parts.”
“I have seen some in the shops. Beautiful.”
The old woman nodded. “My mother, sister, and I made sprigs like these.” She gestured to the pieces. “And my aunt did sewing on, joining the sprigs or sewing them onto netting.”
“How did you learn? Did your mother teach you?”
Mrs. Denby shook her head. “I was put to lace making at a local school at just six years of age.” She looked past Viola, eyes cloudy with memory.
