Page 77 of The Sisters of Sea View
When Sarah returned to the office a short while later, Emily was there waiting for her, eyes flashing.
“That man has a stuffed bird in a cage.”
“Yes, I know.”
“He talks to it, like it’s alive.”
Sarah sighed. “I know.”
“He’s mad.”
“Don’t say that. We know nothing about him or what he’s been through. And other than his ... pet, he seems an ideal guest. Even paid in advance.”
“Good. Otherwise, he’d seem just the sort to abscond without paying, claiming lunacy.”
“Hush.”
Emily pressed a hand to her forehead. “Oh, how low you have brought us.”
Pain and defensiveness flared. “This is all my fault, is it?” Sarah challenged. “Papa’s debts? The entail? Our reduced circumstances?”
“No, I... I am sorry, Sarah. I know it’s not your fault.”
Yet Sarah did feel responsible. Not for their father’s debts, but for his death, and the calamity that had led to it. For she alone had known what her sister intended to do, and had done nothing to prevent it.
After another call on the major, Viola returned to the poor house, this time with a copy of the New Testament and Psalms.
Mrs. Denby greeted her warmly. “Back so soon? Delightful!”
Viola settled into the chair near her.
“What are we reading today?” the old woman asked, eyes alight.
“I have brought the New Testament and Psalms. Any preference for where I start?”
“Oh! Delightful. How about the Gospel according to John? It’s one of my favorites.”
After fumbling through the pages to find it, Viola began to read. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him; and without him was not anything made that was made....”
Viola read on for a time, until a soft knock rapped the door.
“It’s open!” Mrs. Denby called, looking over. The door creaked wide. “Ah, Mr. Butcher. Do come in.”
Viola started, glad now she had left her veil in place.
With a glance at Viola, the man hesitated. “I can come back if you are busy.”
“Not at all. How kind of you to call. Are you acquainted with my new young friend?”
“I do not believe I have had that pleasure.”
“This is Miss Summers. Viola, this is Mr. Butcher. Miss Summers has come to read to me. Is that not most generous?”
“Indeed it is.” He bowed to her. “A pleasure to meet you.”
Viola sat mute, feeling stunned. This was the author of the Sidmouth guidebook, the man her family wished to impress so he would give Sea View a favorable review. The pressure to say the right thing pressed on her, paralyzing her tongue.
The clergyman was elderly with a long, drooping nose and kind, deep-set eyes. Although dressed in traditional gentleman’s attire, he wore a brimless fabric hat that looked rather like a nightcap with a cuff and a tassel on top.
