Pam Rosenthal - The Slightest Provocation

Several had been tried and found wanting.

“I must not have had the knack of choosing,” Lady Rowen continued. “Or perhaps we were simply unlucky. The first man we hired didn’t like the food we brought him, another was discovered to be in league with a band of poachers, and the third couldn’t keep himself away from the girls in the village.”

Even going so far, she added, as to wash his hair, in order to ingratiate himself with his particular lady love. “At which point we had to let him go, and after which I prevailed upon his lordship to stop this silliness and have Mr. Brown build the set of ruins you now see on Rook Hill, if we must have something picturesque about the place.”

The plan had been to take down the hut, the marchioness had concluded, but somehow they’d never gotten around to it. Which of course, Mary already knew, having discovered the place for herself one day. Though there’d been no need to tell Lady Rowen any of that.

Today it looked more picturesque than ever. Vines festooned the windows; the silvery stone walls were spattered with lichen and chinked with moss. She could hear loud cooing from the family of doves that had nested somewhere under the eaves.

Or perhaps they were roosting in the chimney, which meant that one wouldn’t be able to build a fire on the hearth anymore, as Kit had once done with such care. Neither he nor Mary had known how such a thing was done-it of course being servants’ work. She’d been fascinated by how well he’d managed it, and delighted that they could take off their clothes without first diving under the ragged quilt for shelter from the chill, dank air.

She’d covered her quim with her hands that first time. He’d prised them away. She’d clasped them behind her back, to show that she wasn’t afraid.

But that had been much later.

For they’d only been children when she’d first happened upon the cottage.

She’d been wandering on the far side of her family’s land. Distracted by some pretend fancy, she’d strayed past the disputed borders and even farther, to what she should have recognized as the clear beginnings of the Rowen property. Crashing through bracken, singing or reciting to herself-she might have been twelve, she thought now.

Yes, it couldn’t have been too long after that time she’d spied him in Grefford. She’d been out of breath, her heart pounding-not from the thought of him, of course; she hadn’t been thinking of him at all. She’d been running, skimming along and barely keeping her footing. Paying no attention to a darkening sky and threatening wind, or even then to the raindrops making ripples in the brook that ran beside the path, until it had gotten much too late for her to get herself home, before the rain began in earnest.

The pretty cottage had seemed to her like something out of an old tale of sprites and elves. What great good fortune to find it-although at twelve, and still half immersed in whatever she’d been pretending, finding shelter from the rain (and just in the nick of time too) hadn’t seemed a particularly magical occurrence.

The cottage didn’t appear to be occupied-well, who’d live out here in the forest anyway? But she’d knocked politely, preparing a smile and a curtsy as she did.

Good, no answer. She turned the knob, pulled open the door, and took a step inside-only to find him planted firmly in her way, fairly pushing her outside into the wet again, before she’d even gotten over the threshold.

“Damn and double damn.” She didn’t usually say such things out loud. But she wasn’t about to be shoved-and certainly (now that she recognized him) not by that conceited Rowen boy.

“That’s nice language,” he’d said, “from a girl.”

“I beg your pardon,” she’d muttered.

He’d only shaken his head.

“Beg pardon, Lord Christopher. ” But her voice had come out too petulant. And she’d rather get herself soaked than curtsy to a nasty boy who wasn’t much bigger than she was-even if he seemed awfully strong, not budging an inch when she’d tried to push him aside.

“It’s my family’s property,” he’d said.

“Isn’t,” she replied, according to the rules of childhood confrontation, though, in fact, she knew it was.

“ Is. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Not only was he right about the property, she’d thought; he probably remembered her from the day she’d been playing with the village children.

“Get out,” he said.

“Isn’t,” she repeated a bit dispiritedly. “And anyway,” she added with more energy (and a bit of logic as well), “I can’t get out when I’m barely in.”

Would he push a girl out into the storm? It seemed he might. He’d raised his hands to put them against her shoulders. She’d stood up as straight as she could. Just let him try. But he’d drawn back, too polite or proper, finally, to attempt physical combat with her.

Polite was better than impolite, but the fact remained that the wet was beating down-more intensely now-on her back and bum and calves.

“But it’s raining,” she wailed. “I’m getting wet already and my governess is evil and will beat me with a stick for it. I’ll be tied up and chained, punished and starved and fed bread and water for a week.”

Which was an odd thing to say, since neither Mr. or Mrs. Penley believed in using any sort of corporal force, even on the least tractable of children. Much as her governess might have been tempted, Mary had never been physically punished in her life.

Still, she liked the sound of it-it was exciting to imagine herself in such a helpless and piteous situation. And it did get the boy’s attention.

“Really?”

“Truly. It’ll be your fault if I’m punished and beaten, and I bet you’ll be glad of it.”

He’d laughed, but he’d backed up and let her in.

After which there didn’t seem to be much to say, so they stood side by side at a broken window and watched the storm without further comment. It turned out to be a brief downpour, tumultuous while it lasted but traveling quickly south and leaving her enough time to run home before the next clouds blew in.

Not the most auspicious way to begin a friendship. Nor a love affair either. And certainly not a marriage. But they’d both come back the next day, which was mild and sunny, and she’d had an apple in her pocket, stolen from the sideboard.

“My governess isn’t really cruel,” she told him. “And actually,” she added, “she’s not allowed to strike me.”

“Of course. I knew that. I never believed you.” He’d laughed, though, in fact, he’d seemed a bit relieved-after all, who knew what he’d been taught to think of the Penleys?

“But someone struck you, ” she said.

The bandage on his nose and the black marks around his eyes were a great deal more visible than they’d been the day before, when the cottage had been so dark from the storm outside.

“A fight. Pugilism. Broke my nose.”

All of which she found far more impressive than her silly imaginings about a cruel storybook governess.

“It must have hurt.”

He shrugged, took a casual bite of the apple she’d offered, and passed it back to her.

“Did you win?”

He shrugged again, but she could tell that he had won, by the grin, spreading proudly, widely, and no doubt painfully over his bruised face.

“Sent home from school until it heals. Have to keep up with my studies, though.”

“Let me see.”

Spread out on the writing table under the window.

“Latin,” he said carelessly. “Very complicated. Difficult. Only for gentlemen.”

She took a peek.

“Poo,” she said. “You’re only in Caesar ?”