Page 34 of A Winter By the Sea
“That’s just it! He has his own house. A fine house and workshop, by all accounts, on the outskirts of town.”
“So you would have to give up this place?”
“He has not said as much, but really, it would not be practical to keep two houses. I could not do justice as landlady nor as wife if I tried to do both.”
“And he would not give up his home to live here?”
“He built that house with his own hands with help from his dear papa, God rest him. I could not ask it of him, but nor am I ready to give up my livelihood. I have become accustomed to being an independent woman.”
“I understand. So will you refuse him?”
“I don’t know. I told him I needed to think about it.”
Sarah squeezed her hand. “Of course you do. Take your time. There is no rush.”
Leaving Broadbridge’s a short while later, Sarah glanced over at the marketplace, topped by its ball and weathercock.
The market’s brick walls protected shoppers and sellers alike, and in two corners stood metal barrels containing warming fires to ward off the worst of winter’s chill. There were not as many stalls as in spring and summer, when area farmers brought in fruits and vegetables, but the local greengrocer and fruiterer were there, with modest displays of hothouse-grown offerings and imported produce. Several bakers offered bread and cakes for sale. Meat, poultry, and eggs could be boughtat the market, or people could arrange to have them delivered right to their door.
Seeing the poulterer reminded Sarah of something. Mrs. Besley had told her they’d not received their usual delivery of eggs that morning. Assuming it was an oversight, Sarah approached the poultryman to mention it and to buy a few dozen now.
“Good day, Mr. Bidgood.”
“Miss.”
She gently mentioned the missed delivery, keeping any criticism from her tone.
“Sorry, miss. We’d no eggs to deliver. And none to sell ’ee now, sad to say.”
“Why? I do hope your hens are in good health?”
“Oh aye. Though them lay fewer eggs when it’s cold.”
“I don’t recall a shortage of eggs last winter.”
“No, miss. But there were no royal party at Woolbrook last winter. Them want a great many eggs. A great many. Not that I’ve seen a farthing for a one of ’em yet.”
“Oh dear. How unfortunate.”
“Aye. But I’ll do me best to deliver some to ’ee in a day or two.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bidgood.”
She turned away, wondering how long they would get by with the few eggs they had on hand, and what they might serve for breakfast instead of eggs, which were a staple.
The cake she had thought of making would have to wait.
She noticed Mr. Bernardi then, a straw market basket over one arm, talking or perhaps bargaining at one of the stalls.
He waved to her. “Miss Summers! Do come and lend your advice.”
That the confident chef would ask advice about anything surprised her, but she drew her mantle more securely around herself and walked over to join him.
“What do you think of this veal?” he asked, pointing. “It isnot so large as what I found in London markets, but nor, by excessive bleedings, rendered so white. The butcher assures me it is very sweet.”
“We don’t often serve veal, but I trust Mr. Drewe.”
“In that case, I shall take it.” He turned to the butcher. “Please send it to Woolbrook Cottage.”
