Page 114 of A Winter By the Sea
“Anything I can do?”
“Would you mind fetching cream from the larder? I need to add a pint in a few minutes, just before I send it up.”
“I don’t mind at all.”
Chown, the cook from Westmount, hurried in, out of breath. “Might I borrow some butter, Mrs. B.? Oh, sorry, miss.”
“That’s all right,” Sarah reassured him. “I was just on my way to the larder.” To Mrs. Besley, she added, “I shall bring butter as well.”
Sarah walked into the workroom she and Mr. Bernardi had often shared, struck anew with regret, and by some unusual aroma.
She walked into the cool larder for the cream and butter. On a larder shelf, she saw a covered plate and a small card beside it markedMiss Sarah. Mr. Bernardi’s doing, she guessed. Curious, she walked over and removed the cover. On the plate was a salad made of the radicchio he had promised to prepare for her when they had strolled through the market together. The small purple heads had been sliced and grilled, then sprinkled with white cheese and tossed with some sort of dressing.
After delivering the cream and butter, Sarah returned to the larder and carried the plate to the workroom table. Bending low to inhale the tantalizing aroma, Sarah set down her burden and picked up a fork.
She took an experimental bite.Mmm.As Mr. Bernardi had said, grilling the vegetable had given it a slightly sweet and smoky taste that paired well with the tangy cheese and savory dressing. The bitterness had gone.
The chef came in and, seeing her, paused just over the threshold, uncertainty etched on his brow.
She smiled at him. “You were right. This is delicious. Although I imagine it’s a dish not everyone enjoys.”
He slowly nodded. “It’s something of an acquired taste.” He dipped his head in a self-effacing manner. “Like me.”
“Thank you for making this for me.”
“I am glad you enjoyed it.” He looked at her from beneath his dark lashes. “Truce?”
“Truce.”
From the adjoining kitchen, Mrs. Besley called, “Soup is ready, Miss Sarah!”
Sarah rose and moved to retrieve the heavy ironstone tureen with its lid and platter, but Mr. Bernardi intercepted her. “Please. Allow me to carry it for you.”
21
Away with your fictions of flimsy romance;
Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove!
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,
Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.
—Lord Byron, “The First Kiss of Love”
After completing her chores around the house the next morning, Emily returned to her bedroom to write alone, glad her hand cooperated. She had enjoyed Mr. Thomson’s assistance and his company during yesterday’s research trip, but after their ill-advised tête-à-tête in the carriage, she decided she would be less distracted and more productive working someplace she would not hear his voice and be tempted to seek him out.
From her notes, she added to the section headedEnvirons of Sidmouth, writing descriptions of Otterton and the other villages and the churches they had viewed.
Despite the quiet room and her efforts to concentrate, she found her thoughts returning to the previous day. Had James Thomson wanted to kiss her in the carriage? She had thought so at the time. But she had been wrong before.
She had once thought Charles Parker intended to kiss her, but that was more than a year and a half ago and he had not done so.
What would it have been like? Uncertain? Awkward? She certainly had little idea what to do. Or would it have been perfect—the stuff of every novel and every romantic poem she’d ever read?
In her current mood, Emily was tempted to be cynical about the power of a kiss. Could pressing two mouths together really be that wonderful? Maybe. After all, mouths smiled and sipped warm chocolate. Then again, those same mouths ate onions and drooled.
Would she ever know?
