Page 44 of The Sisters of Sea View
“Good man. Excuse me, but may I ‘sneak’ past you into my room?”
“Of course. Let me get out of your way.” Emily stepped aside.
When the door closed behind him, she glanced again at Tom and saw his jaw clench.
“Do all yer guests treat you so familiar?”
“No. It’s just ... It’s my fault, really. He is staying in my oldroom, and I forgot and let myself in. He means no harm, I assure you.”
Tom seemed to measure her words, then his posture eased. “Well, I learned what I come for. I’ll get out o’ yer way.”
When Tom left, Emily went back down to the library. Glancing out the south window, she noticed Mr. Hornbeam on the veranda. Viola was seated near him, head bent over a book, apparently reading to him. That surprised her.
Georgiana stepped outside from the drawing room and spread a lap rug over the man’s knees. Through the open door, Emily heard, “There you are, Mr. Hornbeam.”
“Thank you, my dear.”
Georgie sat on the steps nearby. Viola closed the book, and for a time, the three sat quietly.
Emily studied the man, his head toward the sea, his eyes shielded behind dark spectacles. Curiosity nipped at her.
Going to the door and stepping onto the veranda, Emily began, “Good day, Mr. Hornbeam.”
“Ah, Miss Emily.” He smiled in her direction.
She sat in a chair on his opposite side. He had been with them two days, and as far as she knew, his son had yet to arrive. “Any word from your son?”
“Not yet. In the meantime, your sisters have been kind enough to keep me company. Very pleasant indeed.” He turned back toward the sea.
Watching his contented profile another moment, Emily said, “May I ask you a personal question?”
His mouth quirked. “Let me guess. You want to know why an old blind fool came to the seaside to gaze upon views he cannot see?”
Emily bit her lip, glad he could not see her flush. “Well, I would not have said ‘fool.’”
He laughed good-naturedly. “Ha. Only thought it, no doubt, and I would not blame you.”
She said, “I suppose you can feel the ‘mild, salubrious breezes’ Mr. Butcher extols in his guidebook?”
He nodded. “Miss Viola was just reading some of that to me, and it’s true I enjoy the air here. Yet it’s more than that. I can smell the breeze as well. Salt. Sea. Grass. Flowers.”
Emily countered, “Fish. Damp nets and traps. Seaweed.”
Again he chuckled. “True but I tend to focus on the pleasanter smells. And the sounds.”
Emily glanced at the chimes in the corner, softly tinkling in the breeze. “You mean the wind chimes?”
He nodded. “Not only that—a whole symphony of sounds. Low lapping water, to the rising roar of waves like tympanum, striking rock in a mighty cymbal strike. Then comes the crunching of shoes on pebbles, the flapping of ladies’ parasols in the wind, fishermen calling out the day’s catch, and the gay laughter of people on holiday.” He raised his hands as though conducting an orchestra. “Cue the piccolo trill of curlews and sandpipers, the squeals of children as cold water splashes over their feet, and the warnings of mammas and nursery maids, clucking over their charges.”
Emily wished she had pen and paper to write this all down.
“When evening falls,” he continued, “the beach empties, the fishermen return to their cottages, the tourists to their hotels, and refreshment sellers to their shops, like birds to their nesting places. Then only the sea remains, tides rising and falling but always there, as constant as their Creator.”
A moment of silence followed his speech.
Finally Emily breathed, “You should have been a poet, Mr. Hornbeam.”
“Why, thank you, my dear.”
