Page 109 of A Winter By the Sea
“The truth is, I am writing a new Sidmouth guidebook for Mr. Marsh.”
Mamma screwed up her face. “Mr. Marsh?”
Their mother, who had been an invalid and primarily housebound until late last summer, was not as familiar with the local businesses as her daughters were.
“Of Marsh’s Library and Public Rooms,” Emily supplied.
“Ah. You have spoken of Wallis’s library almost daily since we moved here, but I don’t recall you mentioning this Mr. Marsh before.”
“His establishment is at the far end of the esplanade, beyond the York Hotel,” Sarah explained. “I met him last night at the ball. He is a competitor to Mr. Wallis.”
“Competitor, yes. That’s just it,” Emily said. “I feel a bit guilty for agreeing to do this for Mr. Marsh when Mr. Wallis has always been so kind to us. My name will not appear in the publication, so I hope Mr. Wallis might not discover my involvement.”
“Few things remain secret in a small town,” Sarah said.
“Is he paying you to do this?” Mamma asked.
“A little. But he has also agreed to consider Mr. Gwilt’s story as well as my novel someday, should I write the guide for him. Mr. Wallis, however, made it clear he is not interested in either.”
Emily looked down at her clasped, ink-stained hands. “Was I wrong to agree?”
“I do wish you would have told us straightaway,” Mamma replied. “But I am glad you have told us now. This family has suffered enough secrets, I think. Will this project injure Mr. Wallis? Professionally, I mean?”
“I can’t imagine it having much impact. A few people might buy Mr. Marsh’s guide instead of his, but he is better established and has many publishing interests beyond the one guide. Beyond even his library.”
“Then why do you feel guilty?”
“Because I have always felt loyal to Mr. Wallis, and this seems like a betrayal.”
“Then perhaps you ought to tell him now, before the guide is published,” Sarah said. “Explain you did it to aid Mr. Marshand further your own writing career, but you mean him no ill will.”
“What if the guide is a miserable failure? Do any of us really want my name associated with it if it is?”
“My dear.” Mamma tucked her chin. “We all know you are talented. Why on earth should it be a failure?”
“I don’t know. I just feel ill at the thought of people reading and criticizing words I wrote—even if they only describe the age of the church, the commodious attributes of each hotel, or the local purveyors of Bath chairs.”
Another frown from Mamma. “What has all this to do with Mr. Thomson?”
“He knows about the guidebook—he wrote for me while my hand was bound. And he has offered to accompany us. Even secured the use of one of the royal carriages for the purpose. Mr. Butcher’s guide describes the surrounding villages and churches, for those who wish to take day trips, I suppose. Mr. Marsh has asked me to do the same.”
“Well, as long as your sister goes with you, I don’t see any harm.” Mamma looked to Sarah. “Do you?”
“There is nothing wrong with it, or at least nothing immoral about writing a competing guidebook. As far as your loyalty to Mr. Wallis and the guilt you feel ... that is between you and your conscience. Did you pray about this before agreeing?”
Emily hung her head. “No, I simply plunged in, as usual.” She sighed. “I hope I won’t live to regret it.”
———
Early that afternoon, an enclosed carriage rattled up Sea View’s drive. On its box sat a young groom bundled up in greatcoat and muffler, a fur wrap covering his legs.
Emily, Georgiana, and Mr. Thomson climbed inside. Once they were settled, Mr. Thomson rapped on the front window and the carriage started off.
At the bottom of Glen Lane, they turned west up Peak Hill Road. The horses hauled the carriage up the steep incline far more quickly than they could have managed by donkey or by foot, the animals’ steaming breaths the only evidence of their exertion.
Soon they reached the summit, and Emily glimpsed the English Channel in the distance to the south. Inland, to the north, stretched a patchwork quilt of frosty fields and stands of silvery trees in winter’s slumber. Georgiana remained glued to the window in fascination while Emily found herself glancing at Mr. Thomson’s profile now and again, wondering what he was thinking.
After descending the western side of Peak Hill, they soon reached Otterton, one long street of ancient cottages, neatly thatched and whitewashed. A brook ran along the length of the street, and this, along with a stand of fir trees at the center of the village, gave the place a rustic air.
