Page 78 of A Winter By the Sea
“I am well. Just ... thinking.”
Later that day, Emily wrote a clean copy of the newest section of the guidebook and added it to the first batch of pages.
Then she put on her mantle and gloves and set off for Marsh’s Library and Public Rooms, the man’s leather portfolio in her arms. She wanted to show him a draft of the pages describing the town and church, not wanting to progress too far until she knew she was on the right track.
Emily walked briskly along the esplanade, past Fort Field, a cold breeze tugging at her hood. She regretted not wearing an extra flannel petticoat under her dress. Glancing ahead, she noticed one of Mr. Wallis’s sons on the library veranda, sweeping off the snow. Mr. Wallis himself stepped out and gestured to the stair he’d missed.
Seeing him, nerves jolted Emily and she faltered, her steps slowing almost to a halt. She suddenly wished she’d taken the longer way through town.
Tightening her grip on the portfolio, she ducked her head and walked on, hoping he would not notice her.
“Miss Summers?”
She looked up guiltily. “Oh, good day, Mr. Wallis. Lost in thought.”
“I just received the newestWaverlynovel and thought of you at once.”
“H-how kind. Perhaps another time? I am just... out on an errand.”
He glanced at the portfolio she clutched to her chest like a muff ... or a shield.
“Of course.” His eyes narrowed behind foggy spectacles, and his small mouth cinched tight. Curious, or suspicious?
Emily forced a smile. “Well. Good day.”
She walked away, pressing her eyes tight against another wave of guilt.
I am doing nothing wrong, she reminded herself. Yet she didn’t wholly believe it.
Emily felt, or at least imagined, Mr. Wallis’s gaze following her. Would he watch her walk all the way to her destination? She was tempted to turn up Fore Street so he wouldn’t see which door she entered. Instead, as she neared the York Hotel, she risked a glance back and saw with relief that the veranda was now empty. Perhaps the cold had overridden his curiosity.
A few minutes later, Emily sat in nervous silence before John Marsh’s desk. She clenched gloved hands together in her lap while he read the pages, often dipping his quill to scrawl a note or addition in the margins. She began to think he hated it. He probably did. He was most likely sorry he’d ever asked her.
He looked up. “Excellent. Good start. Keep going.” He stowed his pen and handed the portfolio back to her.
Relief.
They spoke for a few minutes longer, then Emily stepped outside in a daze of satisfaction, so much so that she did not pay attention to where she was walking. Sidestepping to avoid a delivery boy, she landed on a patch of ice. She slid, free hand flailing, then her feet flew out from under her. She tried to stopher fall with the same hand, the other clutching tenaciously to the portfolio.
Crunch.She landed hard on the walkway and pain shot up her arm.
The door behind her opened and rapid footfalls approached.
“Miss Summers!” Mr. Marsh squatted beside her. “I saw you from the window. Are you injured?”
“I don’t think so. Only my dignity.” She tried to push herself up and cringed. “Oh no. I’ve hurt my hand.”
Taking her other arm, he gingerly helped her to her feet. “Let’s get you to Dr. Clarke.”
“I am sure I don’t need a doctor.”
“A surgeon, then.”
“Emily? Are you all right?”
She looked up. Charles Parker stood there, just outside the York Hotel. She imagined she looked a fright, with her hat askew and a long hank of hair hanging down, having come loose in the fall.
“I just slipped on the ice.”
