Page 7 of A Winter By the Sea
Leaning forward across the desk, he began, “Do you remember when His Royal Highness, the Duke of Kent, came to town last month looking for a suitable property? And I presented him with the panorama of Sidmouth?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“I have just received a letter. From Kensington Palace of all places! I have the amazing honor of being appointed ‘Bookseller to Their Royal Highnesses.’ My dear Miss Summers...” His voice shook. “This is my proudest moment.” He gazed in awe somewhere over her shoulder. “You know what this means, do you not? Prince Edward extended his royal patronage. My establishment can now rightly be called theRoyalMarine Library. Is that not astounding?”
“Oh, Mr. Wallis! I am so happy for you.”
He nodded, and his vague gaze suddenly sharpened.
“Let’s see that young upstart top that.”
———
A short while later, Emily emerged from Wallis’s Library, a newly borrowed book cradled in her arms.
Lost in thought, she did not see the man approach until he was almost upon her. Looking up, she jerked in surprise, dropping the book with a gasp.
Here was the man she had last seen clad in nothing but a towel and dressing gown. The “upstart” himself—Mr. Wallis’s younger, flamboyant competitor.
He was now fully dressed in gentlemen’s attire, albeit far more colorful than most—burgundy frock coat over floral waistcoat.
“Allow me.” He bent to retrieve the book from the rolled earth of the esplanade.
Straightening, he wiped the dust from the cover and read the title on the spine. “Excellent choice. I admire your taste in poetry.” He glanced at the door she had just exited through before returning his gaze to her. “If not your choice of library.”
She gaped at him, feeling unaccountably self-conscious. Even embarrassed.
“Then again”—the corner of his narrow mouth quirked—“if this is how you treat books, perhaps I should be relieved you frequent Wallis’s.”
She swallowed a guilty lump. “I ... I am usually more careful.”
His blue-green eyes sparkled with humor, and she realized he was teasing her. “I am relieved to hear it.”
He bowed. “Good day, Miss Summers.”
With that he turned and swept away.
She watched him saunter down the esplanade, tipping his hat to ladies as he went. Emily supposed they must have seen each other from a distance around town in the past, but she was sure they had never been introduced. Mr. Wallis had certainly not deigned to do so.
Then how did he know her name?
Sarah sat at her worktable in the parlour, embroidering small flowers onto a needle case. The worktable contained compartments for needlework supplies, and the silk bag suspended beneath held fabric.
As she stitched, thoughts of Callum Henshall revisited her, unbidden. The musical Scotsman and his stepdaughter had been their very first guests last spring. When they departed, he left her with a small memento—and a heart torn between duty and longing.
Sarah laid her embroidery in her lap and opened one of the table’s compartments. From it she carefully withdrew the spiky thistle—spiny bulb, dried-flower crown—the symbol of Scotland. Mr. Henshall’s handsome face shimmered in her mind’s eye, looking at her with warm admiration and a hint of sadness. For a long moment Sarah stilled, staring off into her memories and feeling wistful.
Georgiana came into the parlour, letter in hand. “Effie has written again. Remember Effie?”
Sarah looked up with a start, neck heating, as if caught doing something wrong. She was glad her little sister could not read her thoughts.
Sliding the thistle back into the compartment, Sarah replied, “Of course I remember Effie.”
Georgiana had befriended the younger girl during their stay, and Sarah had grown fond of both Effie and Mr. Henshall. In fact, she thought of the kind, attractive widower far more often than she ought.
“She mentions you in it,” Georgie said, tossing the letter onto the table before her.
Georgiana turned to go, and Sarah noticed she was dressed for the outdoors in cap, spencer, and half boots.
