Page 32 of The Sisters of Sea View
He nodded. “For many years, I was Clerk Assistant of the House of Commons. However, the gradual loss of my sight put an end to that career. My wife and I have one son, who is now grown. Sadly, my good wife passed on eight years ago.”
“I am sorry.”
Viola added, “We all are.”
“Thank you. And your parents?” he asked in turn.
The sisters looked to Sarah to answer for them.
She said, “Our father died last year. Apoplexy, brought on by ... stress. He lingered for nearly two months before a second attack took his life.” She cleared her throat and then went on. “Ourmother lives with us, but her health has not been good in some time. We originally came here for a season hoping the climate would help, and now live here year-round.”
“And where was home, originally?”
“May Hill, in Gloucestershire.”
“Ah. And what do her doctors advise?”
“Our doctor at home simply prescribed a draught to help her sleep. We have consulted a physician here who prescribes warm and cold sea-bathing. We trust it will help.”
“Did the onset of her symptoms date to your father’s death?” he asked.
Sarah shook her head. “She was not well before that. She suffered from colic and a fever. The fever left her, yet the weakness has lingered. They assured us it’s nothing contagious. But she is still, well, languishing.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I am sorry—for her and for all of you. How good of you to take such excellent care of her and the house. She is blessed with loving offspring.” He dabbed the serviette to his lips, then asked, “Does she never join you for meals?”
“Presently, she prefers a tray in her room, although she hopes her strength may yet return. In the meantime, she insists we take luncheon together as a family. She says, ‘We may keep a guest house, but you will still dine together like genteel young ladies even if you have to serve yourselves.’”
He smiled. “She sounds delightful. Clearly her mind is still strong, as well as her sense of humor.”
“Very true.”
“I look forward to meeting her while I am here.” He raised his hand. “However, if she prefers solitude, far be it from me to intrude.” His mouth quirked. “Although I seem to have intruded already.”
They all assured him that he was no imposition, and they were pleased with his company.
And they meant every word.
———
After luncheon, Sarah began preparing her first trough of muffin dough. Something told her the task would prove to be more complicated than biscuits, but she’d decided she would at least attempt it.
From observing Mrs. Besley, Sarah knew the busy cook often heaped ingredients together by memory and was impatient about waiting for dough to sufficiently rise. Sarah, however, carefully followed the recipe, letting the dough rise for a few hours before forming it into balls, which she rolled in flour, then rolled thin. Lowen helped her stoke the fire and heat an iron plate on the stove. On this, she cooked the muffins, turning them when one side and then the other seemed done. The instructions warned not to let themdiscolor. The first batch became too brown, but on her second try, the muffins were golden perfection.
Sarah told herself she had recently eaten and should wait until breakfast to try one. Lowen showed no such hesitancy, eagerly toasting one on a fork over the fire. When he split it open with his hands,ew-owing from the heat, the muffin looked like a honeycomb inside. He slathered it with butter and topped it with jam.
After a few bites, he pronounced, “Now, that’s a good muffin.”
He finished it off, then added, “You did well, miss. Better than a London muffin-man, and”—he lowered his voice—“better than Martha Besley.”
The yeasty smell of fresh bread overcame Sarah’s resolve. Following the elderly man’s example, she toasted a muffin over the fire, then spread butter and jam on it. She closed her eyes to savor the crunchy outside and soft, warm inside. A good muffin, indeed. Now if only Mrs. Elton would agree.
———
Later, Sarah donned bonnet and gloves, readying to depart for evensong. Viola would stay home with Mamma, and Emily said she had an errand and some correspondence to finish for tomorrow’s post, so only Georgiana accompanied her.
On their way to the churchyard, Georgie moved ahead to talkto her friend Hannah. Sarah lingered behind. She told herself she was doing nothing inappropriate. After all, it would do no harm to stroll through the churchyard before the service. Even so, guilt raised sweat at the back of her neck, and she felt oddly nervous as she walked toward a bendy young elm to look at one particular grave, its granite headstone topped by a Celtic cross. As she neared, she read the inscription, and realization washed over her.Of course....
Katrin McKay Henshall
