Page 100 of The Sisters of Sea View
“DearLady Kennaway...” Emily mimicked Mrs. Elton’s fawning tones.
“Hush,” Sarah admonished with a glance around the church. “Now is not the time nor place.”
19
Fishing and pleasure boats are frequently seen spotting the deep blue of the ocean with their white sails, and affording, as they tack and shift their positions, a pleasing and interesting spectacle.
—The Beauties of Sidmouth Displayed
The next day, Callum Henshall and Sarah set out from Sea View for their sailing trip. Mr. Henshall offered to carry her small basket, and together they walked down to the beach to meet Mr. Puddicombe.
In the distance, Sarah saw a modest-sized boat beached on the pebbles, bow out, ready to depart.
Mr. Puddicombe, a successful fisherman who owned several boats, stood waiting for them dressed in coat, boots, and wool cap.
Mr. Henshall offered his hand. “Thank ye for taking us out yourself.”
“Only the best fer one of the Miss Summerses.” He grinned, showing a missing front tooth.
Sarah smiled into the man’s weathered face. “You are very kind.”
“Now, miss, you step in and move forward. You too, sir, if ’ee don’t want to ruin yer foine boots.”
“Not at all. These have waded into the North Sea plenty of times.”
Puddicombe nodded his approval. “Good man.”
Mr. Henshall helped Sarah inside and handed her the basket. Together the men pushed the boat farther into the surf, and then Mr. Henshall leapt nimbly in, while the older man climbed inside with wet boots and heaving effort.
They rowed into deeper water, and then Mr. Puddicombe hoisted the sail. The light cloth unfurled and flapped until the wind filled it and drew it tight. The wind tugged at Sarah’s bonnet as well, but the ribbons tied under her chin held it in place.
With gentle waves lapping against the hull and lines snapping against the mast, they sailed farther from shore.
As Sarah surveyed Sidmouth from this new vantage, the Sid Vale reminded her of a large center stage, ringed by a rising amphitheater of hills. Looking up, she saw Mr. Lousada’s house atop Peak Hill and, there between lofty elms, the Lodge, where one of the county magistrates lived. These, along with charming Witheby Cottage, overlooked the town.
Mr. Puddicombe gestured to the tiller. “Want to give it a go, Miss Sarah?”
“No, thank you.”
He turned to Mr. Henshall. “You, sir?”
“I would indeed.” Shifting closer, Mr. Henshall maneuvered the tiller and adjusted the sail, his arms strong and his hands deft.
Soon they had passed Chit Rock and were sailing along the western beach.
The older man watched Mr. Henshall for a time, then again nodded in approval.
As they sailed west, Sarah admired the red face of Peak Hill with green foliage cascading over its edges like a leafy lace shawl. She also admired Callum Henshall, his coppery blond hair ruffled by the breeze, his golden eyebrows over sun-narrowed eyes, his handsome profile and lean torso.
To her relief, the wind was mild and steady and the sea calm. She closed her eyes and inhaled the fresh salty spray, ears filled with the sounds of splashing sea, flapping sail, and distant cries of gulls.
When she opened them again, she found Mr. Henshall watching her, lips quirked.
“Enjoying yourself?”
“I am, thank you.”
“Ready to feed the fishes?”
