Page 107 of A Winter By the Sea
Mutter’s Moor, on the fringes of Sidmouth, takes its name from Abraham Mutter, one of Jack Rattenbury’s accomplices.
—Richard Platt,Smugglers’ Britain
The next morning, Emily almost skipped breakfast, not sure she was prepared to see Mr. Thomson, nor that he would wish to see her.
Then again, she longed for a cup of tea. And pastries.
Perhaps she could slip in and out again before anyone else came down to eat. She hesitated outside the breakfast room door and heard the low rumble of male voices within. So much for that plan.
She took a deep breath and entered.
Mr. Bernardi looked up. Mr. During, however, continued to stare at his toast and jam as though they were of great scientific interest.
She steeled herself and said, “Good morning, gentlemen.”
Mr. Thomson lifted his chin as though it weighed a full stone. “Miss Summers,” he said, his demeanor cool, although perfectly polite.
Mr. Bernardi asked, “And how is the belle of the ball this morning? You survived the dance mania? Or are your feet begging for mercy?”
She managed a weak grin. “I am well, thank you. My feet survived and the rest of me also.”For the most part, she added to herself, aware of an ache in her chest at Mr. Thomson’s detached expression.
He folded his table napkin, set it aside, and rose. “If you will excuse me, I would like to get to Woolbrook early this morning and see how the duke fares.”
Mr. Bernardi said over the rim of his cup, “I shall follow shortly.”
James turned to the table-decker, who continued to stare at his plate, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. “During?”
“Hm? Oh yes. Excellent tea.”
The other two men exchanged a look, and Mr. Thomson departed alone.
Emily drank her tea and nibbled a pastry. Then, after helping Jessie clean away the breakfast things, she went into the library to work on the guidebook, not expecting to see Mr. Thomson again until almost dinnertime.
Yet an hour later, he returned.
Seeing him approach Sea View through the window, Emily went into the hall to meet him. “Is the duke’s cold not any better?”
“I am afraid not. Worse, by all accounts.”
“I am sorry. Can we do anything? Mrs. Besley makes an excellent chicken soup that has seen me through many a cold.”
“Unfortunately his condition has progressed beyond soup. Dr. Wilson proposed leeches.”
“Oh no. Poor man.”
He nodded. “The duchess asked us all to help move theduke’s bed into another room—one that is slightly warmer. The house is frightfully cold. Hopefully the move will help.”
“I hope so too.”
“In the meantime, I have no work to do and am again at your disposal. Might I be of some assistance with your project, or have you moved on without me?”
Emily blinked, surprised he should offer after last night’s ball. She knew she should politely decline. Her hand was better. She did not need him any longer. What she needed was to keep her distance. But the words would not come.
Instead she said, “I have been able to write and have nearly finished the Sidmouth sections. However, I still need to write about the surrounding villages, like Mr. Butcher did in his guide. I have not yet visited them all. Mr. Marsh said I should simply use other published guides as my source, but I would like to see at least some of them for myself.”
“Understandably. When will you go?”
“I don’t know. I have not yet figured out how to manage it. We have no carriage, and even if we did, I could not go out of town on my own.”
