Page 55 of The Sisters of Sea View
Sarah’s thoughts whirled. “Forgive me, but I saw her grave in the churchyard. You said she was reasonably hale, physically. So how...?”
He released a ragged breath. “I’m ashamed to say that after we argued that night, I went into the parlour to pour myself a whiskey and fell asleep on the sofa. I have wondered every day since what might have happened had I stayed with her. If she might not have done what she did. If I might have saved her.”
Sarah’s heart lurched in pity and dread, guessing what he would say next.
“In the morning, she was gone. The servants and I searched for her, but she wasn’t anywhere in the house or grounds. I ran up here in a panic, fearing what I might find. I remember praying as I ran, ‘Dear God, please, please, please...’
“It took every ounce of courage I had to walk to the edge here and look down. I saw nothing. Rocks and waves, and that was all. I was relieved, but not for long. Fishermen found her later, washed ashore down the beach.” He winced then added, “Wearing her favorite blue dress.”
“Oh no.”
“The constable assumed she’d fallen. I didna say what I suspected. I wanted her to be buried in the churchyard, in consecrated ground.”
Another grimace. “The next few days were a blur. Contacting our solicitor. Writing to our families. Making arrangements with the coffin maker and the stonemason for her headstone.”
Mr. Henshall ran agitated fingers over his face, digging his fingertips into his forehead. “All the while, fearing—knowing—it was my fault. All ... my ... fault.”
Sarah gripped his sleeve. “You mustn’t say that. You mustn’t think that.”
He went on as though he’d not heard her. “No kin could arrive in time for the funeral. It was summer after all, and burials are dealt with quickly. Two days later, I found myself standing alone in the churchyard, before a mound of earth—racked with guilt, feeling like the worst man on earth.”
A few moments of windy quiet passed before Sarah asked, “Then what?”
“I returned to Scotland, and Effie and I had some good years together. As she grew older, however, she became a changeling. Happy one minute, peevish the next. Nothing I said or did was right. And how often she reminded me that I was not her real father and that he had been superior in every way.”
“Heavens!” Sarah said.
He nodded. “I had to bite my tongue not to tell her what he was really like. I pray Effie won’t be stricken as her mother was.”
“I doubt it. She sounds like a few other moody adolescents I knew.”
“Not you, I don’t imagine.”
“No, though Emily and Viola were certainly difficult at that age. Thankfully, so far Georgiana has not shown a rebellious streak. Let us hope she is a good influence on Effie.”
“Hear, hear.”
Impulsively, she squeezed his hand. “It is normal, Mr. Henshall. It shall pass.”
“Will it? In traditional families perhaps, but a relationship like ours, when my claim on her affection is tenuous?”
“From what I have seen, your relationship is solid and strong. I declare, you make me quite miss my own papa—at least the man he was before hardship embittered him.”
He sent her a wry look. “I am not sure I like ye thinking of me as a father figure. Even so, I am sorry yours succumbed to bitterness. Remind me not to do the same.”
Would Sarah be in his company long enough to remind him of anything? She doubted it but replied anyway, “I will.”
He studied her face, then said, “Your turn.”
“Hm?”
He cleared his throat. “I hope ye don’t mind, but Georgiana mentioned you were once engaged to be married.”
“Oh. Yes, I was.” She didn’t like to talk about it. She decided, however, that it might help him. And after all he had shared, it seemed right to reciprocate.
“I was engaged to marry a young clergyman—Peter Masterson.” Pronouncing his name brought back all the old feelings of love and loss. Peter had been a few years older than she. Serious. Kind. Responsible. She had fallen in love with him and he with her. She should never have agreed to a long engagement.
“He was to receive a family living in Shropshire, but first heagreed to serve as a chaplain on a ship bound for the West Indies. We planned to marry when he returned with his earnings. Instead, he died of yellow fever, as did so many. I did not learn of his death until months later, when his ship made it back to port. There I was, stupidly planning our wedding breakfast and happy future, when Peter was already dead.” She shook her head. “A cruel mishap? God’s will? Life in a fallen world? I don’t know. Either way, I wish I had married him before he left. I am haunted by the thought of him dying alone.”
