Page 3 of A Sea View Christmas (On Devonshire Shores)

TWO

And who, indeed, that has once seen Edinburgh, but must see it again in dreams, waking or sleeping.

—Charlotte Bronte, letter

All too soon the time they’d allotted to Edinburgh began to draw to a close, and there was still no sign of Callum Henshall.

“We can’t return to Sidmouth without at least trying to see him,” Claire insisted. “You have his direction from his letters. Let us pay a call. Then you will learn why he hasn’t responded instead of assuming the worst. And you need not fear you are being too forward. I will say I insisted.”

William grinned. “And I shall happily share the blame.”

Sarah relented. “Oh, very well. Just to put my mind at ease.”

Had Mr. Henshall given up on Sarah and begun courting someone else? Was that why he had not replied nor come to see them? She hoped the truth would not prove to be worse than she imagined.

The next morning, Sarah dressed in a becoming frock and Claire curled her dark hair with a hot iron.

“You look lovely, Sarah,” Claire assured her.

Sarah thought the blue eyes staring back at her in the mirror looked weary as well as wary. She had not slept well, anxious as she was about the upcoming visit.

They set out for Kirkcaldy early that day, taking the new steam-powered Broad Ferry across the Firth of Forth to Dysart.

From the harbor, they hired a driver with an old landau and even older horses to take them the rest of the way.

Since the day was fine, they lowered the folding hood to enjoy the scenery.

The wind spoiled the curls Claire had arranged so neatly on either side of Sarah’s face, but the views were worth it.

About a mile from the harbor, the driver pointed out the ruins of rough-stone Ravenscraig Castle, and recognition flashed through Sarah.

She recalled a long-ago meal around the Sea View dining table and Mr. Henshall’s green eyes alight with nostalgia as he enthralled them with tales of his childhood, describing the abandoned castles near his home and a time he and a few other lads “stormed Ravenscraig and laid siege to it with our wooden swords....” A land agent had set his dogs on them, and they’d had to hide in a shepherd’s hut until the beasts gave up the chase, lured away by haggis.

Even now, Sarah smiled at the memory. His handsome face, good humor, and rich, accented voice were still clear in her mind.

The driver hailed a passing farm wagon and asked for directions to Whinstone Hall.

Leaving the town of Kirkcaldy behind, they followed a wooded track until they reached a rambling two-story house of dark stone, its front door and windows framed in lighter sandstone.

Sarah saw stables, a few other outbuildings, and fields dotted with grazing sheep beyond.

The front lawns were neatly trimmed, but the shrubs were in need of pruning and the flower gardens grew in weedy disarray.

After helping the ladies alight, William led the way to the front door and knocked.

As they waited, Sarah’s heart beat painfully hard.

She pushed a limp curl off her face and then twisted her gloved hands together.

A friendly cat approached and rubbed against Sarah’s ankles, seeking attention, but Sarah was too distracted to oblige.

Would Mr. Henshall be there? How would he react to seeing her on his doorstep? With pleasure or discomfort?

A few moments later, a housemaid welcomed them inside and showed them into a nearby parlour. “The master is away,” she said, “but the lady of the house will be with ye shortly.”

The lady of the house?

Was the maid referring to Effie, or...?

As they sat down to wait, Sarah’s stomach sank. Had Mr. Henshall married someone else without telling them? Perhaps a Scottish woman who shared his homeland and way of life? If so, could she truly blame him?

The woman who entered a few minutes later was perhaps a year or two older than Sarah’s seven and twenty. She had a thin, pretty face and light ginger hair, and she walked with the faintest of limps.

“Good day,” she began. “I wasna expectin’ callers. What may I do for ye?”

Definitely a Scottish woman, down to her accent and red hair. In fact, she looked a bit like Effie.

William had risen at her entrance, but she gestured for him to be seated, while she perched on the edge of the settee.

Sarah said, “I did write to Mr. Henshall to let him know we were coming.”

“Did ye, now? I don’t recall him mentioning it.” She chuckled. “Then again, I tend to forget things or mislay them now and again. Are ye acquainted with Callum?”

Callum. The woman’s familiar use of his given name stung.

“Em, yes,” Sarah faltered. “I am Miss Sarah Summers. Mr. Henshall and Effie stayed with us in Devonshire the summer before last. We have corresponded several times since then.”

“Ah, I do remember Effie describing the long journey and the boarding house they stayed in, somewhere in the south of England. So terribly far from here. Managed by a family of sisters, I believe.”

“Y-yes.” Sarah gestured to her companions. “And this is my sister Claire and her husband.”

Sarah turned back to the woman, who had yet to give her name. Dare she hope she was only the housekeeper? The woman seemed too young and well-dressed for the role.

“Mr. Henshall has been very kind to our family,” Sarah explained, “and we simply wished to call on him while we were in the area. To thank him.”

“Miss Summers, ye say?” the woman repeated, testing the name on her tongue with no recognition evident in her expression. “I’m afraid it’s not familiar.”

Had Mr. Henshall truly not mentioned them? Hurt filled her at the thought. Apparently his time at Sea View had meant more to her than to him.

The woman went on. “Then again, he’s mentioned several ladies in recent months, so it’s difficult to recall details. Well. I shall be sure and pass along your gratitude.”

Claire spoke up. “He is not here, then? Or Effie?”

The woman shook her head. “They have gone to visit her grandfather in Perth, many miles from here.”

“Do you expect them back soon?”

“I really canna say. Could be hours. Could be days. Depends on how soon he recovers. He’s fallen ill again.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

The woman shrugged. “My father is often ill. Yet he has survived far worse and will no doubt rally again.”

“Your father?” Sarah echoed. “Then you are Mr. Henshall’s ... sister?”

“His wife’s sister, aye. Miss Isla Ross.”

“Ah.” Relief flooded through Sarah.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed William send Claire a confused look, which Sarah translated as, The man Sarah admires has a wife?

She hurried to correct that misapprehension. “So you must be Katrin’s sister. Mr. Henshall pointed out her grave in the Sidmouth churchyard. I am sorry for your loss.”

“Thank ye. Katrin was my only sister—God rest her. And Effie is her daughter. My one and only niece.”

Sarah nodded her understanding, then asked gently, “If your father is ill, do you not wish to be there with them as well?”

Miss Ross nodded. “Aye, were I welcome. He and I had a falling-out some time ago. It’s why I live here now. That, and to be close to Effie. I oversee things here in the house for them.”

“How kind.”

“Happy to do it. Effie is precious to me. The mere thought of her moving far from here, far from Scotland ... Nay! It canna be borne.”

Sarah hesitated. “I am sure no one is suggesting such a thing.”

“Are ye? I hope you’re right. Thankfully, he has been spending time with one of our neighbors, Miss Sorley, who lives just down the road. Charming woman.”

At the news, Sarah’s heart banged like iron against her ribs, and she dared not meet her sister’s gaze.

They left the house a short while later, with no offer of refreshment and little encouragement to remain.

Claire squeezed her hand. “I am so sorry, Sarah.”

“Don’t be,” Sarah said, a dull ache in her chest. “Perhaps it’s for the best.”

“Nonsense.”

“As I have said before, a relationship with someone who lives so far from Sea View, and Mamma, and the rest of you, would be impractical. Today’s disappointing visit will make it easier to come to terms with that reality.”

They climbed inside the waiting landau. Once they were all seated, Sarah glanced back at the charming stone house with its neglected garden and bid Whinstone Hall and Mr. Henshall farewell.

As the vehicle lurched into motion and drove away, Sarah turned her eyes forward.

She drew a long breath, squared her shoulders in resolve, and faced her companions.

“So there is no reason to factor my future into your decision about the Edinburgh house. You must choose what is best for the two of you alone.”

“Well ... there is no need to decide now. We have several factors to consider, including what is best for Mira.”

“Of course. Family comes first.”

They returned to the terraced house and packed up their things. Sarah donned a practical carriage dress and her most unaffected demeanor. She was not crushed. She was fine. Self-sufficient and capable. She glanced at the longcase clock and felt a kinship with it: tall, steady, and dependable.

She helped Claire pack, and then assisted Campbell and the housemaids in covering the upholstered furniture and Turkish carpets to help protect them from sunlight until Claire made her decision.

All the while, she was aware of Claire watching her, a worried expression pinching her pretty face, but her sister wisely chose not to say anything.

Sarah sent her what she hoped was a reassuring smile and kept busy.

Many times throughout the lengthy return trip, Sarah repeated to herself that this outcome was for the best. A closed door.

A definite sign. Mr. Henshall’s silence coupled with hundreds of miles between his home and Sea View were impediments that seemed indisputable now.

And even though the “lady of the house” had only been his sister-in-law, she had hinted that he was pursuing a woman who lived close by.

Yes, that would be better for Effie. Better for them all.

Sarah had been right to conclude that any future between them was impossible.

Apparently, he had come to that conclusion as well.

She resolved to remain single and content.

Life would be less complicated that way.

Sarah shifted toward the side window and made a concerted effort to turn her thoughts away from Mr. Henshall and toward the Christmas season ahead. The effort felt like trying to turn a huge ship against the tide. But with determination and self-discipline, she managed to take her thoughts captive.

She recalled her conversation with a melancholy Georgiana before they’d set out on this trip.

Recent Christmases had been dismal affairs, first with mourning and the move to Sidmouth after Papa’s death, and then last year, with royalty come to stay next door, they’d been called on to host three of the Duke of Kent’s staff.

Amid all the busyness as well as straitened finances, their own celebrations had been minimal at best.

Georgie had been quite disappointed, and Sarah had promised her the next year—this year—would be better, and they would enjoy a far more festive Christmastide.

And as soon as she returned to Sea View, Sarah meant to make good on that promise.