Page 44 of A Winter By the Sea
“What about your spiritual needs? Or medical care?”
“Spiritual needs? If that’s a fancy term for praying for us, then yes, the vicar comes by now and again, although it’s Mr. Butcher, a dissenting minister, who visits most often. And when one of us falls ill, the local apothecary comes when he can.”
“And how is the food?”
“Good. Wholesome.”
“Who prepares it?”
“Mrs. Novak cooks for us. She is older than any of us here, if you can believe it! But spry as well as kind.”
Mrs. Denby leaned closer and said in conspiratorial tones, “The treats Miss Sarah sends over taste better, but you did not hear it from me!”
She giggled like a girl, and Mr. Thomson smiled at her. “Your secret is safe with me.”
Emily felt the warmth of that smile in her own heart.Careful, Emily, she admonished herself.Don’t let your head be turned simply because he is kindto children and old people. Charles would be kind aswell. Any gentleman would be.
After visiting with Mrs. Denby a few minutes longer, they thanked her for her time and bid her farewell. As they walked out together, he said, “I look forward to telling His Royal Highness about the society and its good work. And to recommending his support.”
“Thank you,” Viola replied.
“Yes, thank you,” Emily echoed. And again she was aware of her twin’s speculative gaze studying the two of them.
10
[The Duke of] Kent encountered a fortune teller in Sidmouth, who told him, “This year two members of the Royal Family will die.”
—A.N. Wilson,Victoria
Later that day, after Mr. Thomson went to Woolbrook, Emily walked to Marsh’s Library and Public Rooms with a copy of Parry’s story. She had not confided her plan to Mr. Gwilt, for she did not want to raise his hopes should they be dashed once more.
“Miss Summers.” The owner rose and bowed when she entered. “A pleasure to see you again, and here in my humble establishment.”
“Mr. Marsh.” Emily held Mr. Gwilt’s manuscript tightly to her chest, not certain why this man disconcerted her so.
Perhaps noticing her discomfort, he did not approach but remained where he was.
His gaze, however, lowered to the pages in her arms.
“And what have you there? Another book Wallis plans to publish?”
“No. This is a manuscript. A story. I wondered if ...”
“Ah! Something by your own hand. You are a writer.”
Her sister again, Emily supposed, irritation flaring. “Who told you that?”
“No one told me. It was only a guess. After all, you are carrying a manuscript as though a beloved child. Also, you are clearly an avid reader. Which, in my experience, is the best training for a writer.”
Emily agreed with his assertion wholeheartedly. But before she could compose a reply, he went on.
“In fact, I’d wager you have read everything published about Sidmouth, its history and environs, and know Mr. Butcher’s guide cover to cover.”
“Perhaps. However—”
“I knew it!”
“While I admit I am an aspiring author, this manuscript was written by a friend of our family. I have helped him revise and edit this copy, but the tale, the emotions, the imagination are all his.”
