Read Online The Indiscretion by Judith Ivory - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Judith Ivory
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comfortable."
"No, no. We'll share."
She bent over, a wonderful bottom-up shadow in the growing dark as
she unlatched a corner of the mysterious long satchel at her feet and dug her
hand down inside. He twisted his mouth, thinking he should go through that
thing, whether she liked it or not, to see what else it might hold for them.
And to see better what Liddy Brown was all about.
She brought out a package wrapped in butcher paper. It crinkled
loudly in the stillness as she unfolded it, the pale paper flashing in the
dimness. Open, she held the packet out. He bent his head over the edges,
sniffed – something smelled odd, like bay rum – then grunted, ugh.
Which made her burst into light, little peals of laughter, openly
relishing his displeasure. "Do you want the cucumber or the chutney and
cheese?" she asked.
He was stymied for an instant by the choice. Or lack of it.
"We'll split them both," she announced.
He frowned down at the dainty bread she handed him, its crusts cut
off. He offered it back. "No, you have it. You could use it."
"Certainly not. You need to eat, too."
"I don't need to as much as you do." He was being
gentlemanly.
She huffed. "You think I'm too skinny?"
"No," he told her honestly, "I think you're as
pretty as – as a pie supper." Given how hungry he was, it was a high
compliment.
Her head raised to look toward him. It tilted; she was trying to
assess him through the dark. After a suspicious moment she said, "You mean
that nicely, don't you?"
"Yeah." He laughed.
She nodded, seeming to debate herself whether or not to be
flattered.
He explained, "A pie supper. Can't you imagine how pretty
that'd be? Nothing but pie to eat?" Then he asked, "You hungry?
'Cause if you really don't care, I'll take half those sandwiches, now that I
think of it." He teased her.
"You're too fat anyway."
"I'm not."
He laughed harder. There was no predicting what she would or would
not quarrel over, this woman. She'd argue over nothing.
Or hand him sweet grace on a platter, right when he was ready to
chew himself up alive.
*
The
expression Night fell was never more appropriate. When the last inch of
sun sank out of sight, the moor became so lightless, it was eerie. The cloud
cover was thick. Not the faintest star twinkled overhead. There was not the
first light of civilization in any direction. Only a murky, fuzzy sliver of
moon, dimly haloed, peeped now and then from the occasional passing hole in the
clouds.
Lydia could see Mr. Cody's movement – that was about all – as she
helped him gather sticks from bushes and shrubs around the perimeter of where
they were setting up for the night. They'd decided to camp against the granite
outcrop that had hidden the ponies, since one wall of haven seemed better than
none. They piled their few things near it – her satchel, the gin and clothes –
then set off for the far bushes in search of the makings for a fire.
Though she eventually carried a skirtful of twigs, Lydia didn't think
she was worth much as a partner in fire-starting. Mostly, she just trailed
after Mr. Cody, afraid to let him get too far away.
"It's so dark," she murmured.
"Dark as a pocket."
"You make it sound cozy. It's not – yike!" Her
skirt caught on something that grabbed at her, not allowing her to follow for
an instant, so that her words came out more alarmed than she'd meant. She tried
to laugh away her unease. "I've not been in such pitch black since my
brother locked me in my mother's wardrobe as a joke, then threw the key out the
window."
Mr. Cody's shadow stooped and helped with her dress. "Nice
brother."
"He is, mostly. And I was the one who got in trouble. I
screamed and beat on the door so hard I literally broke my way out – my mother
was not happy that I destroyed her wardrobe."
"Well, we have what we need to break out of this dark."
He reached and caught her hand, his dry palm pressing to hers as his fingers
wrapped around the backs of her fingers. "Come on. It won't
comfortable."
"No, no. We'll share."
She bent over, a wonderful bottom-up shadow in the growing dark as
she unlatched a corner of the mysterious long satchel at her feet and dug her
hand down inside. He twisted his mouth, thinking he should go through that
thing, whether she liked it or not, to see what else it might hold for them.
And to see better what Liddy Brown was all about.
She brought out a package wrapped in butcher paper. It crinkled
loudly in the stillness as she unfolded it, the pale paper flashing in the
dimness. Open, she held the packet out. He bent his head over the edges,
sniffed – something smelled odd, like bay rum – then grunted, ugh.
Which made her burst into light, little peals of laughter, openly
relishing his displeasure. "Do you want the cucumber or the chutney and
cheese?" she asked.
He was stymied for an instant by the choice. Or lack of it.
"We'll split them both," she announced.
He frowned down at the dainty bread she handed him, its crusts cut
off. He offered it back. "No, you have it. You could use it."
"Certainly not. You need to eat, too."
"I don't need to as much as you do." He was being
gentlemanly.
She huffed. "You think I'm too skinny?"
"No," he told her honestly, "I think you're as
pretty as – as a pie supper." Given how hungry he was, it was a high
compliment.
Her head raised to look toward him. It tilted; she was trying to
assess him through the dark. After a suspicious moment she said, "You mean
that nicely, don't you?"
"Yeah." He laughed.
She nodded, seeming to debate herself whether or not to be
flattered.
He explained, "A pie supper. Can't you imagine how pretty
that'd be? Nothing but pie to eat?" Then he asked, "You hungry?
'Cause if you really don't care, I'll take half those sandwiches, now that I
think of it." He teased her.
"You're too fat anyway."
"I'm not."
He laughed harder. There was no predicting what she would or would
not quarrel over, this woman. She'd argue over nothing.
Or hand him sweet grace on a platter, right when he was ready to
chew himself up alive.
*
The
expression Night fell was never more appropriate. When the last inch of
sun sank out of sight, the moor became so lightless, it was eerie. The cloud
cover was thick. Not the faintest star twinkled overhead. There was not the
first light of civilization in any direction. Only a murky, fuzzy sliver of
moon, dimly haloed, peeped now and then from the occasional passing hole in the
clouds.
Lydia could see Mr. Cody's movement – that was about all – as she
helped him gather sticks from bushes and shrubs around the perimeter of where
they were setting up for the night. They'd decided to camp against the granite
outcrop that had hidden the ponies, since one wall of haven seemed better than
none. They piled their few things near it – her satchel, the gin and clothes –
then set off for the far bushes in search of the makings for a fire.
Though she eventually carried a skirtful of twigs, Lydia didn't think
she was worth much as a partner in fire-starting. Mostly, she just trailed
after Mr. Cody, afraid to let him get too far away.
"It's so dark," she murmured.
"Dark as a pocket."
"You make it sound cozy. It's not – yike!" Her
skirt caught on something that grabbed at her, not allowing her to follow for
an instant, so that her words came out more alarmed than she'd meant. She tried
to laugh away her unease. "I've not been in such pitch black since my
brother locked me in my mother's wardrobe as a joke, then threw the key out the
window."
Mr. Cody's shadow stooped and helped with her dress. "Nice
brother."
"He is, mostly. And I was the one who got in trouble. I
screamed and beat on the door so hard I literally broke my way out – my mother
was not happy that I destroyed her wardrobe."
"Well, we have what we need to break out of this dark."
He reached and caught her hand, his dry palm pressing to hers as his fingers
wrapped around the backs of her fingers. "Come on. It won't