Page 110 of The Seaside Homecoming
Sarah and Georgiana walked on, stepping around beached boats and lobster pots, their half boots crunching over the pebbled shore, the call of seagulls in the air.
A young lady in her early twenties strolled toward them, a small basket over her arm. Sarah recognized Eliza Marriott, who lived nearby. They did not know her well but shared a friendly passing acquaintance, especially Georgiana, who spent a great deal of time out of doors, as did Eliza. While Georgie pursued sports of every kind, Eliza focused on one pursuit: conchology. She regularly walked the area beaches in search of interesting seashells.
They stopped to greet her. “Good day, Miss Marriott,” Sarah said.
“Miss Summers. Georgiana. Care to see my latest discoveries?”
“Yes, please,” Georgie enthused.
In her basket lay several shells of various sizes, shapes, and colors: chalky white to shiny pearl, pale gold to pale pink. Eliza pointed to each one in turn, using names likeconch, cockle,mitre, andlimpet.
“Goodness, they are all so different and interesting.”
“I think so. You shall have to call at Temple Cottage and see my entire collection sometime. I have a new penwork casket with small compartments to display them.”
“Sounds lovely.”
After bidding her farewell, Georgie and Sarah resumed walking.
Around them, fishermen mended nets, children played onshore, and well-dressed visitors strolled the promenade, greeting friends as they passed.
Georgie gave a contented sigh. “I love it here, don’t you?”
Sarah considered. “I like it, yes. I am not pining for May Hill, if that is what you mean. I think the move has been good for all of us.”
“That’s not the same as loving it, though.”
Sarah shrugged. “Does a place make someone happy, or is it the people one is with, or something else?”
Georgie rolled her eyes. “That’s too deep for me.”
Leaving the shingled beach, they moved up to the packed-earth promenade, which workmen were maintaining with iron-handled stone rollers. Just past the York Hotel, they turned left, following the footpath along the River Sid.
The marshy track was muddier than Sarah had expected. “Perhaps we ought to have gone another way.”
From a side street a youngster came running, playing hoop and stick. His hoop got away from him, and Georgie leapt to grab it before it flew over the bank into the river. With a mumbled word of thanks, the lad took it and ran off again, using the stick to roll the hoop back up the street as he went.
With a rueful look at her sister’s muddy half boots, Sarah encouraged Georgie to walk on. Passing Marsh Chapel, they soon reached the Sidmouth School, its yard enclosed within a brick wall. Through its gate, Sarah saw a group of boys—and one athletic girl named Cora—kicking a ball.
Sarah waved to the schoolmaster. “Good day, Mr. Ward.”
He returned her wave and opened the gate for Georgiana, who joined the children for a rousing game, while Sarah continued on to the poor house.
She stopped to serve bread and jam to two old men playing draughts in the common room, and then went to visit Mrs. Denby.
“I’ve brought you some little treacle tarts,” Sarah said.
“Thank you, my dear.” Mrs. Denby smiled and invited her to sit down. Then she studied her through thick spectacles.
“What is it, Sarah?”
“Hm?”
“You seem sad. Or at least, distracted.”
“I’m sorry. I hoped my visit would cheer you.”
“You always do, my dear. But if you will pardon me poking my nose in, sometimes I think you spend so much time looking after others that you neglect yourself.”
