Page 8 of The Sisters of Sea View
“Educated gentlewoman respectfully informs the nobility, gentry, and visitors that she is available for reading to invalids. Letterspostpaid and addressed to V.S., Post Office, Sidmouth, will be duly attended.”
Viola stared at her. “You did not.”
“I did.”
Sarah winced. “Emily...”
“Why not?” Emily insisted. “She lives a far-too-sheltered life. All she needs is a little encouragement. And her wages will help pay for the extra maid we shall have to engage to do her share of work here.”
Viola shook her head. “You know I don’t go out among strangers.”
“Oh, come. You can call on a few elderly invalids with sight dim enough to need someone to read to them.”
“I won’t.” Viola crossed her arms. “Besides, no one may apply.”
“They already have. I picked this up at the post office just now.” Emily lifted a letter, unfolded it, and read:
“Dear V.S., There is someone you might greatly help with your services. Perhaps for one hour per afternoon? If that meets with your approval, please apply to Mr. Hutton, this Thursday at three pm.”
Emily looked up. “That’s tomorrow.”
Viola sat there, struck silent. Her irritation with Emily for the moment overshadowed by another thought. She ... help someone? She, who had always needed help—caused work, summoned shame—help someone?
Sarah frowned. “Hutton? That’s the surname of the man who wrote to reprimand us for opening a guest house here. What is the direction?”
Emily scanned the letter’s final lines. “Westmount, Glen Lane, Sidmouth.”
Their angry neighbor. They all exchanged troubled looks.
Already nervous, Viola was now doubly so.
At least reading to a churlish old man would be better than sweeping floors and making beds.
She hoped.
Their first guests arrived in a donkey cart, driven by local lad Puggy Smith. In his letter, Mr. Henshall had mentioned he and his daughter planned to travel by mail and stage coach as far as possible, and then hire a private conveyance from the nearest inn.
Sarah stood wringing her hands at the window, praying for everything to go smoothly. Mamma, confined to her bed as usual, had promised to pray as well.
The two people who alighted were not at all what Sarah had expected. She’d imagined an octogenarian accompanied by his middle-aged spinster daughter. Instead, a man in his midthirties reached up to assist down an adolescent girl. Then he picked up an instrument case and stout valise, while Puggy followed, carrying a second valise and a pair of bandboxes.
Sarah opened the door to them. “Mr. Henshall and Miss Henshall, I presume?”
“Aye.” The man removed his hat, revealing dark blond hair. His side-whiskers and the stubble shadowing his chin were a shade lighter, and his eyebrows fairer yet.
“Welcome. I am Miss Sarah Summers. How was your journey?”
“Long and tedious,” the girl replied, before her father could do so.
“No doubt.” Sarah held the door wide as the two entered. “I imagine you must be tired and thirsty. Would you like tea?”
“Just our rooms, if ye please,” the man replied.
The girl frowned at him. “I want tea.”
Sarah looked from sullen adolescent to weary father. The ginger-haired girl might one day be pretty, once she outgrew her spots andbad temper. The man was already handsome—of average height, trim, with broad shoulders. His features were well-formed, but the deep vertical lines between his brows and weary green eyes spoke of concern or perhaps pain. She wondered if he might be ill and had come to Sidmouth for its touted health benefits.
She said brightly, “Then I will show you to your rooms and bring tea to you there. Will that suit?”
