Page 85 of The Sisters of Sea View
The whisper of his breath tickled her cheek and ear, and the heat of his chest warmed her back.
“I shall never remember all that.”
“Very well, then I’ll finger the chords and you strum.”
He placed his hand on hers and guided her fingers. She found it suddenly difficult to breathe.
Mr. Stanley awoke and raised himself up on his elbows, grassfalling from his hair. He glanced over and teased, “I say, if I could teach music lessons like that, I might take up the profession!”
They played a few more measures in their awkward duet until Effie put her hands to her ears. “No, no, no.” She rose and came over. “Here, let me.”
“Of course,” Sarah said, quickly relinquishing the instrument. “Your father was only trying to demonstrate how to play one of these. Do show us how it is done.”
As Effie sat and began to play, Sarah glanced over and spied Emily grinning at her. And her mother looked suddenly wide awake and very interested indeed.
That evening, Sarah went belowstairs to the workroom, where she now regularly prepared biscuits, scones, and tarts. There, she flipped through her favored book,The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy, hoping to find a simple cake recipe to try. She stopped when she came to one markedTo make a Pound Cake.Then she gathered utensils and ingredients and began following the printed instructions.
Some time later, she heard footsteps in the dark adjoining kitchen. Their cook come to investigate?
Sarah called, “It’s only me, Mrs. Besley.”
Light appeared in the threshold. She glanced up and saw Callum Henshall standing there in trousers, shirt, and waistcoat, candle lamp in hand.
Her heart lifted. “What are you doing down here?”
“Came foraging for more of this.” He held up a piece of cold fish pie.
“Can you really be hungry? After today’s feast?”
“Aye.” His mouth quirked. “It’s a rare talent.” He looked at the cookbook, bowls, and pans gathered around her. “And what areyoudoing? Ye canna need to bake more. There was plenty left over from the picnic.”
“I know. But I wanted to attempt a cake.”
“Mind some company?”
She hesitated. Did she? No, she found she did not.
“Not at all. The pot there is still warm if you want tea to go with that.”
Setting down his candle, he poured himself a cup and sat on a tall stool. “What sort of cake is it to be, then?”
“A pound cake. The recipe seemed relatively simple compared to the others.” Although still tiring, Sarah realized. After beating the butter till it became the consistency of a “fine thick cream,” she had beaten together twelve egg yolks and six egg whites. Already her arms were throbbing from the effort.
She glanced at him sitting there across the table. A foot propped on the stool rung, he balanced a teacup on raised knee with one hand, while the other popped the remaining morsel of pie into his mouth with a smack of satisfaction.
Sarah pulled her gaze from his puckered lips as he chewed, back to the printed page.
Following the directions, she added a pound of flour, a pound of grated sugar, and a few caraways.
Setting aside his cup and swatting the crumbs from his hands, he rose and came around the table. He stood beside her and peered down at the recipe. “What’s next?” he asked.
She was instantly aware of his nearness, the warmth of him close to her.
“Um...” She had no idea. Collecting herself, she read the next line. “‘Beat it all well together for an hour with your hand or a great wooden spoon.’”
She glanced over in time to see his fair eyebrows shoot high.
“An hour? Och.”
