Chapter 25 #2
“She is agreeable, if you wish to stay here for a time. Lucy trusts my judgment of your character. I’ve brought the cart today.
Unless you’ve reconsidered my offer, of course.
As is entirely your right.” She was in danger of babbling.
She laid a hand to her throat as if by doing so she could halt the nervous flow of words.
“What is your judgment of my character?” So softly for so stern a man.
A simple question, but there was no simple answer, not for a man of his complexity.
Her own voice was not much above a whisper. “You never once betrayed my trust in the midst of so many necessary deceptions. I trust you still.” She drew a bracing breath before saying the rest. “And I’ve thought of you often too.”
Something in his eyes lit. “I accept.”
He had not brought much with him: a valise, a small trunk, a rifle, and a wooden crate. All were quickly loaded into her cart.
The crate, heavy for its size, contained books.
She refrained from giddily asking in what languages those were written.
Bumping along behind her placid pony, the stiff breeze in their faces bringing the wet salt scent of the sea with it, she remarked, “I suppose before too long you’ll add some Scots to your linguistic repertoire, especially if you engage in many more conversations with Mr. Bairden. ”
“Aye, if I stay long enough to absorb it.”
How long did it take him, learning a new language by ear? She’d meant the comment lightly, but it was a sobering realization that he might not stay however long he needed to acquire a new language.
She had determinedly not allowed herself to feel any loss last autumn. Had refused to assign significance to something of such short duration. She’d known him such a short time in France, after all. Eight days!
And she’d barely recognized herself in Paris: embroiling herself in intrigues that took her to gambling hells and licentious clubs, posing as mistress to an immoral man—not that Beaumont was the true version of Nathaniel.
Taking Nathaniel as lover. No, more than that: initiating it, when she never dreamt herself capable of so casual a liaison, one predicated purely on sexual desire rather than love.
Surely that wasn’t truly her, was it? She could not imagine behaving that way now.
Not even with him in front of her once more.
But she’d also had a glimpse last autumn of a future that could be hers, sweeter than ever she’d anticipated after so much loss, so much grief. Could she trust that though? Was that recollection the truth, or was it something her mind had constructed to excuse her out-of-character actions?
It seemed all she’d truly done these past six months was pack away the memories in a quiet corner of her mind, largely unexamined. They flooded her now, every moment her mind was not fully occupied with something else, and she wasn’t sure what to do with them.
Yesterday on a windy rock above the Solway, watching Nathaniel approach, the careful foundation she had laid these last months cracked. No, not merely cracked.
Split wide open, totally and irrevocably.
Unlike the previous day, Lucy Muir did not vacate the cottage upon Nate’s arrival. Her demeanor suggested neither unease nor comfort; he could read nothing from her at all.
His possessions were unloaded, and the cart put away and pony tended. Before he settled into the sisters’ spare room, however, it was best the two of them spoke openly with one another. Or as openly as she was willing to engage.
“Will you walk with me, Miss Muir?”
A look passed between the women. “I’ve not Isobel’s fondness for the heugh,” Miss Muir said, “but I’ll walk the shore path with you once I’ve fetched a bonnet.”
He did not offer his arm; he suspected she would not wish to take it. And although it was at his suggestion they walked, he gave her first opportunity to speak.
“It would be rather strange for you to continue calling me Miss Muir given the informal circumstances of our introduction. Although of course I was not introduced to you with your true name,” she added drily. “I cannot even recall what name it was you used.”
“That name little matters. It was, as you know, fictional.” He chose his next words with care. “But I will not presume informality based upon the circumstances under which we met. Calling you Miss Muir is a matter of respect.”
“Respect,” she repeated. “Very well, I accept that for you, it is so.”
“Would you prefer I call you otherwise?”
She considered the question before answering. “You may call me Lucy.”
“Aye, as you like.”
“Isobel calls you by your given name.” The observation was offered without inflection, but he suspected deep emotion underlaid it. What, precisely, he could not discern.
“You may also, if you wish.”
Her face was angled slightly towards him. “A matter of respect, you said. Does that respectful manner extend towards my sister as well?”
He had no idea how much she knew of what had passed between himself and Isobel six months ago in France. He framed and discarded several possible replies, but possibly she had not particularly expected an answer because she spoke again before he’d found one.
“I’ll not attempt to warn you off.” She laughed without humor. “I suspect threats, however much substance I could impart, are useless in any case. You seem a man quite used to dealing with all manner of peril. And Issy can more than handle herself, I’ve learned.”
“But?” he prompted. The word hung unvoiced at the end of her sentence.
“But you do owe her honesty, whatever your intentions.”
He’d never lied to Isobel, nor was he about to start. “I’ve never been dishonest with Isobel, although there were and still remain details I cannot tell her about the work I do.” Did.
“Why have you come to Auchencairn? And why now?”
He was starting to apprehend that Lucy opted for bluntness over politesse.
Had she been that way before, or was it a change wrought by her experiences of the past year?
Isobel had described her sister last autumn as na?ve and sweet, but the woman beside him was neither.
Undoubtedly her experiences had reshaped her, as trauma does all people.
Plain speaking suited him fine after years with only shades of truth, but it was not entirely comfortable to be the target of such directness.
“I thought to tell Isobel—and you, if you wish to hear it—what came of matters in France after your departure. But I’ll admit there’s more to it than that.”
Although he’d not allowed that motive much daylight on the journey here.
A bit myopic, maybe, put against the journey’s length and the difficulty in tracing their precise location.
Despite what Isobel had surmised half in jest about his resources, it had not been easy tracing them to this corner of Kirkcudbrightshire, even with Quinn’s help.
The lengthy journey had given him ample opportunity to examine his memories; he’d permitted it, with his mind no longer occupied by his work.
He’d wondered if what passed between himself and Isobel was founded on anything more than sexual chemistry and the intense circumstances under which they’d met.
As soon as he saw her again on the heugh, hair escaping its pins and the dimple that appeared when she was amused, he’d had his answer. There’d been lust, aye, but also something more than that, or at least the potential for it. And yet for all that, he barely knew her.
Did she mourn for Jamie? Rather, undoubtedly she still grieved and always would. But was that grief still all-consuming? It had seemed that way, given her nightmares and the morning she’d told him of Jamie’s death. And yet . . .
Not so long ago he’d had little precedent to doubt his instincts or his reason. It was novel, facing so much internal uncertainty, and he didn’t much like it, truth be told.
Lucy required a direct answer after challenging his motives.
He collected his thoughts. “I came with no expectations. I do hope—” But then he wasn’t sure how he meant to end it.
Hope wasn’t a luxury he’d had in a very long time.
He shook his head. “I haven’t a better answer for you, but it’s an honest one. ”
“Hope is sufficient as an answer for now.” Lucy’s voice had gone soft enough he had to duck closer to catch her words over the gentle shushing of the water, the sea breeze, and the cries of shorebirds.
“Perhaps the best reason you could give.” Her eyes, so like her sister’s, were nonetheless steely when she fixed them on him.
“But you must also be honest with Isobel. She deserves no less.”
“Aye.”
“Then we understand one another.”
“Aye, we do.”
They continued onwards, skirting the edge of the highest tide line, a week or more old.
Sand and bits of desiccated seaweed collected on his boots; he’d need to clean them carefully this evening.
It had been a long time since he’d had leisure to walk a shoreline.
He’d done it often enough in childhood; it was what came of growing up on a coastline with family whose livelihood came from the sea.
Although walking with Lucy was not precisely leisurely. She strode at a brisk pace, and hers was not a wholly comfortable presence.
“I am not certain I wish to hear about France,” she said after a time. “Or rather, I am not . . . ready. But perhaps I will be someday.”
“You’ve only to ask, if and when you feel equal to it.”
“Perhaps not soon. If you stay with us long enough, perhaps. Do you plan to stay long?” And then she shook her head. “No, you cannot know that yet, and it is a conversation that you will in any case have with Issy. For now, it will be enough for you to repair the crofter’s cottage.”
“Aye. Beyond that . . .” It wasn’t his call. “It will be at Isobel’s will.”
Lucy’s mouth curved in a genuine approximation of a smile. “We do understand one another.”