Page 45 of A Winter By the Sea
His mouth quirked. “One of your many admirers, I assume?”
“Not at all. He is at least fifty. I look on him as more of an ... uncle.” An odd, eccentric uncle, but she did not mention that.
Mr. Marsh raised his chin in understanding, then expelled a fatalistic sigh. “You want me to read it.”
“I do, yes. I believe this has merit and want to see it published.” She tentatively laid it on his desk.
He wrinkled his nose as though smelling something foul. “I would be more interested if you had written it.”
“Why?”
He held her gaze, eyes alight with ... something ... she could not fathom. Not attraction, which she was familiar with. This was something more ... speculative.
“Because you interest me.” He sat back down and inhaledslowly, fingers tapping on his desk. “I’d like to see a sample of your work.”
“My work?” For a second she thought he’d meant a sample of the most common type of women’swork—needlework, a skill she sorely lacked. Then she realized what he must mean. “A sample of my editing abilities? Pages I have corrected?”
He shook his head. “A sample of your writing.”
“Of my ... handwriting?”
“Come now, feigning ignorance does you no credit. I want to gauge your writing skill—your way with words, your ability to communicate, to describe, to inform, to entertain, to impress.”
Goodness. He expected her writing to do all that? Her palms began to perspire.
She could show him a few pages of her novel, she supposed. Viola had read the opening chapters and given her suggestions for improving them. Emily had already made the changes and had polished the first chapter too many times to count. Even so, the thought of showing it to this man filled her with abject fear.
Reluctantly, she admitted, “I have written several chapters of a novel, but it is not yet finished.”
“A tantalizing Gothic romance destined to be all the crack and make us both rich?”
“I ... would not describe it like that, no.”
Another sigh. “Even so, I should like to see it. Bring me something tomorrow.”
“To what end? I highly doubt you would be interested in a”—she recalled Mr. Wallis’s description—“novel for young ladies.”
“I shall be the judge of that. In the meantime, I have a different project in mind for you. Before I explain particulars, I need to determine if your skills are sufficient to the task.”
She bristled, pride and insecurity wrestling within her. “I did not come here seeking employment for myself.”
“I know. But if you do as I ask, I will consider this uncle’s manuscript.” He tapped the pages on his desk before sliding them back to her.
“You haven’t even read it yet.”
“I shall, in due course. First, bring me something of yours. I know I shan’t be disappointed.”
“Your confidence in me is unmerited.”
Again his blue-green eyes glinted. “On the contrary, I think I see in you something very valuable indeed.”
A few moments later, Emily left Marsh’s Library and started for home, walking west along the esplanade.
Behind her, slow and steady footsteps crunched the snow. Emily looked over her shoulder and saw a woman in a hooded cloak, head bowed against the cold. Was she following her? Or simply walking in the same direction?
Emily picked up her pace, ears attuned to the trailing footsteps. The woman quickened her pace as well.
Emily was relieved to reach the old fort and turn up Glen Lane. There were only a few houses on this narrow track. Surely the woman would continue along Peak Hill Road or turn back after reaching the end of the esplanade.
