Chapter 19 #2
“No. Not for a long time,” he said. “But I know the cadence of it and how difficult it is to stop.”
She nodded. She knew that, too, the way the counting was both a lifeline and a cage.
Almost did she say, tell me something real, but she stayed the words, sensing that he would speak when he was ready. And some moments later, he did.
“When I was perhaps thirteen or fourteen, I found an injured bird in the yard. A jackdaw. One wing bent at the wrong angle.” He paused. “I do not know why I picked it up. I was not soft about animals.” Another pause, longer. “I was not soft about anything.”
The crash of the waves carried upward. She tightened her grip on his arm without meaning to.
He noticed. Of course, he noticed. He rested his free hand on hers for an instant and then let go.
“I kept it in a box in my room for three weeks. Fed it. Set the wing as best I could. I did not know what I was doing. I had never tended anything in my life. I found a book about animal husbandry in the library and extrapolated my actions from what I read.”
Minerva ducked her head to hide her smile.
“The wing healed badly,” he said. “The bird could not fly properly, only short distances.” He stared out at the water.
“When the term ended, I could not bring it, so I left it in the yard before I got into the carriage. I told myself it would manage.” He was quiet for a moment. “I do not know that it did.”
The wind moved between them, heavy with salt.
“I have thought of that bird more times than is reasonable for a grown man to think of a bird,” he said.
She looked at him, the straight line of his nose, the hard blade of his jaw, the stillness of his form. She recognized that stillness now, understood it, a curtain drawn over the maelstrom that raged beneath, none of it permitted through.
“Why do you tell me this?” she asked.
“Because you told me something true. And because—” A pause, almost imperceptible. “And because I find I would like you to know it.”
Not it seemed only fair, the way he had framed the story of what he had done to the boy from school. That had been tit for tat, reciprocity, a transaction as it were. This was different, offered without justification. Not an exchange. A gift.
“Did you name it?” she asked after a long moment. “The bird?”
“Jack,” he said.
She looked at him then and found him staring not straight ahead, but at her, his expression laid bare, the mask removed. He looked younger, freer.
“That’s a terrible name for a jackdaw,” she said.
“I know,” he said, and grinned, the expression so open, so unexpected that she laughed. His grin widened.
His gaze dropped to her lips, lingered, finally rose again.
She looked back at him steadily.
He raised one hand and tucked a strand of hair the wind had pulled loose back from her cheek, his gloved fingers careful, unhurried. He left his hand there a moment, his palm curved against her cheek.
Then he kissed her, warm lips, firm and confident, his tongue sweeping past the seam of her lips to touch her own, dance, withdraw.
He did not kiss her the way he had in the parlor. That had been need and restraint colliding, cancelling each other out. This was quieter, softer, his mouth moving on hers with a gentleness she had not expected of him.
When he drew back, she opened her eyes to find him watching her, his hand still cupping her face.
“Tomorrow,” he said, and she felt a little bubble of elation rise in her breast.
“Tomorrow,” she said, her voice husky and hoarse.
He lowered his hand and stepped back. She watched him turn and walk away along the path, the wind setting the hem of his coat dancing. She watched until the curve of the headland took him.
Hugging herself, her blood humming, she stood a moment at the gate to Cliff Cottage, the sea behind her and the house ahead as she pressed two fingers to her lips and held them there. Then she went inside.
And so, it became a pattern. Each afternoon, if the weather allowed and sometimes when it did not, they walked the cliff path.
He came to the gate, and she came out to meet him, or she was already on the path when he found her and fell into step beside her, or she came upon him at the curve where the headland opened and fell into step beside him.
And each afternoon, they told each other something true and real.
Small things. Large things. Honest things.
She told him about the ice shop, closing her eyes as she described the smell of it and the cold smooth against her tongue.
She told him about the first dress she had worked on at Mrs. Barlow’s, a violet taffeta, how she had sat trembling, afraid she would ruin it.
“Did you?” he asked.
“I did not.”
“No,” he said. “You would not have.”
He told her about Cato, that the gray had been sold by his previous owner, who had called him ungovernable.
“You considered that a recommendation rather than a warning,” she said.
He looked at her, eyes sharp. “I did.”
“Of course you did,” she said with a laugh.
He did not laugh in return, but the corners of his mouth curled in answer.
He told her that he had stood on the cliff path one morning the previous week when the scent reached him before he saw it, an eruption of purple flowers in the thin soil at the edge of the track, wild thyme growing in low mats, the small flowers clustered purple against the gray-green cliff grass.
He had the thought, he said, Minerva would like those.