Page 92 of The Sisters of Sea View
Sarah scanned the names. “I am some acquainted with Mr. Puddicombe and Mr. Heffer. They both seem pleasant, trustworthy fellows.”
“I’ll start with them.” Eagerness lit his face. “Where shall we go? Exmouth? Or Dawlish?”
“So far? That would probably take several hours. It would be difficult for me to get away for too long.”
“Then we might simply sail along the coast as we please. Perhaps take another small picnic?”
Sarah stared vaguely into the distance, imagining it. Riding the gentle waves, a fresh breeze on her face, sea birds soaring above them, sitting close to Callum Henshall. It sounded peaceful and relaxing and ... romantic.
Doubts pressed in. Would he think this meant they were courting? By agreeing, would she be guilty of giving him false hope? She was the eldest daughter living at home. She had responsibilities to her mother and sisters. Forming an attachment with any man, especially one who lived so far away, would be irresponsible.
But to vocalize any of that seemed far too presumptuous. Hewas only asking for a few hours of her company, not a lifetime. She instead expressed a more practical concern. “I have little experience with boats. What if I become seasick?”
He smiled gently. “Then I would remind ye to look out at a fixed point on the horizon. And if that failed, I would hold your hat as ye fed the fishes and lend ye my handkerchief afterward.”
She chuckled. Oddly, his words put her at ease. He could not have romance in mind with talk of feeding fishes.
In the morning, Mr. Henshall appeared in the office doorway, features tight. Quite different from his warm, pleasant manner of the day before.
“Miss Summers. I don’t know what to do. I don’t wish to break down one of your doors, but something is wrong with Effie. I hear her crying in her room, and she refuses to let me in.”
Sarah rose instantly. “Did the two of you argue?”
“Not this time.”
“Is her stomach still troubling her?”
“Ah dinnae ken.” In his anxiety, his accent thickened.
Together they hurried upstairs. Outside the adjoining rooms, Sarah asked him, “Do you mind if I try talking to her through the inner door, instead of out here in the corridor? I don’t wish to embarrass her.”
“Of course.” He opened the door to his room for her.
Sarah laid a hand on his arm. “Wait here a moment. I will see what I can do.”
Sarah entered Mr. Henshall’s room alone, noticing his fresh, lingering scent yet unable to identify it. Heather? Scots pine?
She stepped to the connecting door and knocked softly. “Effie? It’s Miss Sarah.”
“Go away.”
“Is something wrong? Might I help in any way?”
“There’s nothing ye can do. Nothing anyone can do.”
“Now, now. I am sure that’s not so. Are you not feeling well?”
“I feel awful. I am dying, I know it. Just leave me to die in peace.”
The girl could certainly be dramatic. No wonder her poor father was worried.
Sarah considered. While she had paid Mr. Farrant to install keyed locks on the external doors to guest rooms, she had not gone to the same expense for the internal doors. These held only traditional latches, like the one on her mother’s door.
Sarah said, “Please open the door. Your father is understandably concerned and so am I.”
An indecipherable moan was the only reply.
Pulling a pin from her hair, Sarah knelt and employed the same method she had used when her mother had not responded. Opening the door a crack as the latch allowed, she inserted her pin and lifted the latch.
