sober in my life.”
“My father drinks quite a lot.” She spoke to control the spirals of nerves inside her. “He is a rather dull man and I believe it makes him feel alive. My brother, an affable fellow, fortunately prefers sport to rouse his spirits.”
“And what, sweet Isolde, makes you feel alive?”
She could not hide her feelings. “Today,” she whispered. “This.”
And for a moment following those rash words—words truer than any she had ever spoken—pure, perfect longing stretched between them. He parted his lips to speak. Frightened at her own impetuosity, she did not allow it.
“I think your father and brothers are wrong,” she said. “We must fix upon a profession for you so that you can make your name in the world.”
He leaned back against the fence and spread his palms upward.
“I am as clay in your hands, fair Isolde. Fashion me as you will.”
“But what can you do ? You must tell me so that I will not be obliged to continue guessing.”
His brow creased in thought. “Well, I can read, of course.” His eyes glimmered. “I can ride. I can wield a sword and pistol. I can sail fairly well.” He paused. “And I can, apparently, fall in love with a lady whose name I do not know within the course of a few short hours.”
Her heart tumbled.
“You can . . . sail?”
“Fairly well,” he murmured.
“Then you must join the Navy and become a great ship captain! You will be the scourge of Napoleon’s fleet.”
“Your confidence warms me, madam, especially as you are accepting my sailing ability wholly upon faith.”
“But is that not what this day is about?” She spoke softly. “Faith?”
His eyes were very intense. “And hope.”
And love. It was before them and between them, more powerful than anything either of them had known. But it could not be real. This was not reality. This was a dream. Ladies and gentlemen did not meet at country fairs and fall in love so swiftly. Did they?
She did not know. She only knew what her mother had taught her about men and women together, and it was not this—this longing to be near him, this sharp familiarity alongside the sheer newness of a man wholly foreign in every way she understood men to be.
“I wish to . . .” His voice trailed off. She waited, breaths short. His eyes shone wondering, like her heart. “I wish to give you a gift.”
She smiled. “Is today not gift enough?”
“For me, yes. But a lady deserves something more. A posy, at the very least. Alas, I’ve a mere penny amongst the lint in my pocket. It will suffice for only a single flower.”
“I will treasure it more because you have given it out of your want rather than your plenty.”
He bought her a flower and she tucked it in her hair.
“You have spent your last coin. What will you do for dinner now?”
“I shall live upon the pleasure of this day and be well satisfied,” he said quietly.
The sun dipped over the festival, spreading its ochre rays upon farmers and gentry. The music of pipe and fiddle, mandolin and drum accompanied them when the voices faded as they wandered side by side through fields of wildflowers flanking the fair grounds. Arms brushing, occasionally hands so that she quivered with feeling, they spoke of her anticipation to visit London the following year. He told her of the sights she would see—the great River Thames and the docks teeming with activity, the gothic splendor of Westminster Abbey, the figures at Madame Tussauds Wax Museum. He teased her about her lifelong rustication in the country and preened his town bronze to draw her laughter, and she did laugh and could not look away from his smile.
But as the sun’s golden glow turned to red, their quips became fewer, their voices increasingly uneven, unable to support the levity of mere flirtation. The day would end, whether they would allow it or not, and so would their idyll.
They had not spoken in many minutes when he turned to her, grasped her hands and spoke
“My father drinks quite a lot.” She spoke to control the spirals of nerves inside her. “He is a rather dull man and I believe it makes him feel alive. My brother, an affable fellow, fortunately prefers sport to rouse his spirits.”
“And what, sweet Isolde, makes you feel alive?”
She could not hide her feelings. “Today,” she whispered. “This.”
And for a moment following those rash words—words truer than any she had ever spoken—pure, perfect longing stretched between them. He parted his lips to speak. Frightened at her own impetuosity, she did not allow it.
“I think your father and brothers are wrong,” she said. “We must fix upon a profession for you so that you can make your name in the world.”
He leaned back against the fence and spread his palms upward.
“I am as clay in your hands, fair Isolde. Fashion me as you will.”
“But what can you do ? You must tell me so that I will not be obliged to continue guessing.”
His brow creased in thought. “Well, I can read, of course.” His eyes glimmered. “I can ride. I can wield a sword and pistol. I can sail fairly well.” He paused. “And I can, apparently, fall in love with a lady whose name I do not know within the course of a few short hours.”
Her heart tumbled.
“You can . . . sail?”
“Fairly well,” he murmured.
“Then you must join the Navy and become a great ship captain! You will be the scourge of Napoleon’s fleet.”
“Your confidence warms me, madam, especially as you are accepting my sailing ability wholly upon faith.”
“But is that not what this day is about?” She spoke softly. “Faith?”
His eyes were very intense. “And hope.”
And love. It was before them and between them, more powerful than anything either of them had known. But it could not be real. This was not reality. This was a dream. Ladies and gentlemen did not meet at country fairs and fall in love so swiftly. Did they?
She did not know. She only knew what her mother had taught her about men and women together, and it was not this—this longing to be near him, this sharp familiarity alongside the sheer newness of a man wholly foreign in every way she understood men to be.
“I wish to . . .” His voice trailed off. She waited, breaths short. His eyes shone wondering, like her heart. “I wish to give you a gift.”
She smiled. “Is today not gift enough?”
“For me, yes. But a lady deserves something more. A posy, at the very least. Alas, I’ve a mere penny amongst the lint in my pocket. It will suffice for only a single flower.”
“I will treasure it more because you have given it out of your want rather than your plenty.”
He bought her a flower and she tucked it in her hair.
“You have spent your last coin. What will you do for dinner now?”
“I shall live upon the pleasure of this day and be well satisfied,” he said quietly.
The sun dipped over the festival, spreading its ochre rays upon farmers and gentry. The music of pipe and fiddle, mandolin and drum accompanied them when the voices faded as they wandered side by side through fields of wildflowers flanking the fair grounds. Arms brushing, occasionally hands so that she quivered with feeling, they spoke of her anticipation to visit London the following year. He told her of the sights she would see—the great River Thames and the docks teeming with activity, the gothic splendor of Westminster Abbey, the figures at Madame Tussauds Wax Museum. He teased her about her lifelong rustication in the country and preened his town bronze to draw her laughter, and she did laugh and could not look away from his smile.
But as the sun’s golden glow turned to red, their quips became fewer, their voices increasingly uneven, unable to support the levity of mere flirtation. The day would end, whether they would allow it or not, and so would their idyll.
They had not spoken in many minutes when he turned to her, grasped her hands and spoke
Similar Books
