Page 116 of The Sisters of Sea View
Emily stared at her, arrested by her bare face. “Where is your veil?”
Viola shrugged and reached up as if to assure herself it was still on the back of her head. “I did not wear it.”
Before Emily could react, Viola set a few letters on the library desk. “I picked up the post, since I was passing.”
Emily eagerly searched through the day’s collection. That longed-for letter had still not come. She slapped her palm against the desk. “Nothing. Again. He truly has cut our acquaintance.”
Sensing her sister studying her, she glanced up and saw Viola frown.
“You still blame me, don’t you.”
Emily’s focus shifted to her mouth, lingering on the scar.
Then she looked away. “I don’t know. My heart hurts, and I ... I want to blame someone.”
Viola huffed. “That is not fair.”
Emily threw wide her arms. “None of this is fair!”
When Viola had stalked off, Emily sighed. She decided that if Charles would not write to her, she would write to him. She was tired of waiting. She wanted to know why he had changed toward her. Toward them. Was it honestly because of Viola—when he had known her andabouther all their lives? Or had he simply realized he did not care forher? Did not esteem her, love her, enough to marry her? The not knowing was worse, surely, than learning the truth would be. At least, she hoped so.
Finding she was out of paper, Emily went to her mother’s bedchamber. The room was empty, as it rarely was. She glanced from the window and saw Mamma sitting in the garden with some needlework, a lap rug covering her knees. The sea-bathing appeared to be helping her, at least to a degree. The sight of her mother out of this bed and this room, sitting in the sunshine, cheered her.
Taking advantage of the quiet, she sat down at Mamma’s writing desk, pulled forth a sheet of paper, dipped a quill into the ink pot, and began to write.
Dear Charles,
I hope you will forgive the intrusion, if intrusion a letter from a lifelong acquaintance and former neighbor could be. I do not mean to seem forward. But we were all good friends once, or so we believed. Only now you are so changed. What have I done to deserve your cold indifference? Or is it not me, exactly, but because of my sister?
She paused and stared blindly at the wall, thinking. If the latter were the reason, what could she say to refute it? What could any of them say, really?
A floorboard creaked in the passage, and her heart lurched. She did not want any of her sisters to catch her writing to Charles. They would deem it inappropriate. Demeaning. Desperate.
She quickly slid the page under the leather desk pad and pulled forth a blank sheet in its place.
Georgiana appeared in the threshold. “Oh, it’s you. What are you doing in here?”
“Writing a letter. I ran out of paper.”
“That’s a regular habit with you. Perhaps you ought to become a jobbing writer and get paid by the word. Our money problems would be over.”
“Ha ha. I wish.”
Georgiana looked past her. “Where is Mamma?”
“In the garden.” Emily nodded toward the window.
Georgiana crossed the room, and Emily laid a hand over a corner of the letter sticking out.
Her sister stood near her and peered out the window. “So she is. Perhaps I shall join her.”
“Have you and Bibi made all the beds? Is the parlour dusted?”
Georgiana huffed. “You are getting worse than Sarah!” And she stomped from the room.
Emily inwardly groaned. She had succeeded in angering two sisters in a matter of minutes.
When Georgie’s footfalls faded, Emily lifted the desk pad. She stilled, taken aback to find not one letter hidden there, but two.
