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Authors: Alison Atlee
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they?” John said, just as Lillian had caught sight of three full-grown women sitting in the sand, not a one of them in a proper bathing costume, their bare toes pointing to the water. Each time a wave thrashed them, they squealed with the thrill of the cold and the rush, careless (or perhaps perfectly mindful) that the water had thrown their skirts well above their knees, putting all that flesh on display to whomever cared to look.
But John, as it happened, meant a circle of two dozen or more children sitting on blankets just below, their heads bowed. They were a ragged bunch—some charity outing, no doubt—but perfectly precious nestled on their blankets, chattering as the prayer concluded and they tucked into the sandwiches one of their chaperones was distributing from a wicker hamper. And wasn’t it rather adorable of John to note it? John Jones, amenable to children.
He suddenly straightened from the balustrade and touched her shoulders. “Wait here.”
And he left her. She turned to the sea to pretend she found it mesmerizing and whatnot, impatient, wretchedly aware of her singularity in the promenading crowd.
He returned with a brown paper bundle in his hands, filled with rock, bright sticks of candy with the word “Idensea” molded in the center. She gaped at the quantity until he said, “Help me pass it round,” and then she understood he meant to give the sweets to the charity children.
She had already refused one walk in the sand and felt annoyed that he was forcing her to say no again—one of her most effective tactics in man-management was to say yes as often as possible—but her new shoes and the chenille-embroidered hem of her walking costume were no more appropriate for trekkingunpaved ground than they had been an hour ago, and so she bade him toward the children with the assurance she was quite happy to wait.
He vaulted over the balustrade and, rather than distribute a sweet to each child, put the bundle in care of one of the chaperones, whose bless-you-kind-sir was not audible to Lillian but evident all the same. He strode back, shoes and trousers collecting filth. Lillian sighed, fully aware of her ambivalence. She liked the impulse behind the stunt better than its execution; she found him exasperating, and she found him compelling.
John Jones, such a great deal of work.
Yet the notion of polishing the diamond in the rough, of being the power behind the power, appealed mightily to Lillian. A woman had her place, she believed; it was on a throne, and not merely an ornamental piece.
“You might have saved yourself the trouble and paid the vendor to take it for you,” she told him.
“The trouble was the fun of it.”
Impulsively, he stroked her cheek. His thumb was enormous, hard and rough against her skin. Her throat felt tight, her knees fluid. The sensations, being involuntary on her part, were not wholly agreeable to her.
He had kissed her once, the only man who’d ever done so. When he had started kissing her entire mouth, she’d pushed him away in shock and . . . something else. He’d apologized, and she had not written a word about it in her diary, unsure how to phrase such a thing. And if she did record it, did it do John credit as a suitor, or count against him? Had it been appalling, or something else? Ever since, she’d been trying to decide.
As they strolled arm in arm toward the hotel to meet her mother and sisters for tea, she listened to his talk of the little railway he’d helped design. She said oh in all the appropriate places and with all the appropriate inflections, as appearing anything less than enthralled with a man’s interests profited a woman only on certain rare occasions. If she married him, she would have to listenwith more attention to be of any use to his career. A shame his ambitions weren’t more toward poet laureate.
She found them rather silly, these seaside buildings of his, insubstantial, like drawing-room ballads compared with a Bach
But John, as it happened, meant a circle of two dozen or more children sitting on blankets just below, their heads bowed. They were a ragged bunch—some charity outing, no doubt—but perfectly precious nestled on their blankets, chattering as the prayer concluded and they tucked into the sandwiches one of their chaperones was distributing from a wicker hamper. And wasn’t it rather adorable of John to note it? John Jones, amenable to children.
He suddenly straightened from the balustrade and touched her shoulders. “Wait here.”
And he left her. She turned to the sea to pretend she found it mesmerizing and whatnot, impatient, wretchedly aware of her singularity in the promenading crowd.
He returned with a brown paper bundle in his hands, filled with rock, bright sticks of candy with the word “Idensea” molded in the center. She gaped at the quantity until he said, “Help me pass it round,” and then she understood he meant to give the sweets to the charity children.
She had already refused one walk in the sand and felt annoyed that he was forcing her to say no again—one of her most effective tactics in man-management was to say yes as often as possible—but her new shoes and the chenille-embroidered hem of her walking costume were no more appropriate for trekkingunpaved ground than they had been an hour ago, and so she bade him toward the children with the assurance she was quite happy to wait.
He vaulted over the balustrade and, rather than distribute a sweet to each child, put the bundle in care of one of the chaperones, whose bless-you-kind-sir was not audible to Lillian but evident all the same. He strode back, shoes and trousers collecting filth. Lillian sighed, fully aware of her ambivalence. She liked the impulse behind the stunt better than its execution; she found him exasperating, and she found him compelling.
John Jones, such a great deal of work.
Yet the notion of polishing the diamond in the rough, of being the power behind the power, appealed mightily to Lillian. A woman had her place, she believed; it was on a throne, and not merely an ornamental piece.
“You might have saved yourself the trouble and paid the vendor to take it for you,” she told him.
“The trouble was the fun of it.”
Impulsively, he stroked her cheek. His thumb was enormous, hard and rough against her skin. Her throat felt tight, her knees fluid. The sensations, being involuntary on her part, were not wholly agreeable to her.
He had kissed her once, the only man who’d ever done so. When he had started kissing her entire mouth, she’d pushed him away in shock and . . . something else. He’d apologized, and she had not written a word about it in her diary, unsure how to phrase such a thing. And if she did record it, did it do John credit as a suitor, or count against him? Had it been appalling, or something else? Ever since, she’d been trying to decide.
As they strolled arm in arm toward the hotel to meet her mother and sisters for tea, she listened to his talk of the little railway he’d helped design. She said oh in all the appropriate places and with all the appropriate inflections, as appearing anything less than enthralled with a man’s interests profited a woman only on certain rare occasions. If she married him, she would have to listenwith more attention to be of any use to his career. A shame his ambitions weren’t more toward poet laureate.
She found them rather silly, these seaside buildings of his, insubstantial, like drawing-room ballads compared with a Bach
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