“Thank you. I think so. Well, if you will excuse me, I had better get on with my shopping. Good day, Mr. Hutton. Georgiana.” She curtsied and started down the street.
Watching her depart, Colin murmured, “I say. What a beauty.”
As the elegant woman of two or three and twenty walked away, Georgie stood there feeling inelegant, immature, and rather awkward in her muddy hems and unkempt hair.
Why did she care? She had never cared before.
SIX
Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew,
She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven.
—Memorial, Sidmouth Church
After the following week’s divine service, Sarah stayed to talk with the ladies of the Poor’s Friend Society, discussing agenda items for the next day’s committee meeting. The monthly meetings were attended by the committee secretary, treasurer, and superintendents—all men—as well as the local magistrates and other leading gentlemen of the parish. Several of them contributed their ideas and resources toward the charity’s efforts, but it was the women who did the majority of the work, and they liked to be prepared.
When the other ladies left, Sarah paused to collect petals that had fallen from an arrangement of chrysanthemums and winter viburnum before the pulpit, and then picked up a dropped glove to place in the lost property box.
The Reverend William Jenkins nodded to her on his way to the vestry. “Ah, Miss Summers. What would we do without you?”
When he had gone, Sarah looked around the nave once again to see if there was anything else that needed tidying. An unexpected wave of weariness washed over her, and finding herself alone, she sat heavily in one of the pews.
After a few minutes of staring at nothing, her gaze was drawn to the many monuments in the church, there to commemorate the virtues of the dead, or to extend admonitions to the living. The inscriptions lamented the losses of daughters, sons, wives, and husbands. Many of them had come to the seaside hoping for a cure but instead died there.
Remembering her promise to Henrietta Liston, Sarah searched until she found her brother’s memorial. The square marble slab read
Near this place lie the remains of
Nathaniel Marchant,Esq.
...He died in the49th year of his age,and his disconsolate widow,
after receiving uninterrupted proofs of his affection for18years,
caused this stone to be erected to his memory.
How lovely. How sad, Sarah thought. What would it be like to be so deeply loved and cherished by one’s spouse? His poor wife! His poor sister too.
She looked next at a sarcophagus near the Communion table that held the remains of Maria Elizabeth Bucknall, who came to Sidmouth for the benefit of her health, and
...after a long illness,borne with pious resignation ... departed this life,
to the inexpressible grief of her family,aged25.
So much loss. How uncertain and brief life could be, Sarah realized. At the thought, her mind, as it often did, traveled back to Callum Henshall, who had been heartsick over his inability to save his wife. When he first came to Sea View as a guest and began leaving the house by stealth early in the mornings, she suspected him of something nefarious: meeting with smugglers or a clandestine rendezvous with a woman.
One morning, she had trailed after him through thick fog, following his flapping greatcoat and the flash of fair hair beneath his black hat. How surprised she’d been when he’d slipped through the churchyard gate. There, she’d spied him standing before a grave, bare head bowed, hands clasped over his hat brim. She had turned and crept away, not wishing to interrupt his private grief, feeling guilty and embarrassed over her baseless suspicions.
Some time later, she had gone to see the grave alone and realized he’d been standing at his wife’s headstone, topped by a Celtic cross.
Eventually, he had told her about his wife’s deep depression of spirits, made worse by her first marriage to a cruel man. Mr. Henshall had married Katrin, a young widow with a daughter, sure he could make her happy. When he failed, he had brought her to Devonshire, hoping the south coast—renowned for physical health benefits—would be good for her mind and spirit as well. Instead she had died. And while it was possible she had fallen from the cliff into the sea, he believed she had probably taken her own life. Since then, he had done his best to be a caring stepfather to Katrin’s daughter, Effie.
During their stay at Sea View, Effie had often been tetchy, as any adolescent could be. Despite that, Sarah had liked the girl and wondered how she was doing now. Was she fifteen yet? Georgie had befriended her, even though Effie was a few years younger, and the two had corresponded since the Henshalls’ stay at Sea View. Yet in recent months Effie’s letters had trickled off. Apparently she had lost interest in them as her father had.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Sarah inwardly chastised. She should hope for Effie’s sake that Mr. Henshall would marry a kind, affectionate woman who would love Effie and treat her as her own daughter. Mr. Henshall had confided that Effie’s real mother had been unable to care for her. When Katrin looked at her, she saw her cruel husband and could not fully love her. He’d said he hoped Effie did not realize this, but Sarah guessed the poor girl had been all too aware.
With thoughts of the two heavy on her heart, Sarah exited the church by the south porch only to find the outside air thick with mist, which transported her once again to the foggy day she had followed Callum Henshall there to the churchyard.
