Pam Rosenthal - The Slightest Provocation

“It must be a very absorbing memory.” He stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, and she jumped a bit at the suddenness of seeing him.

“How long have you been watching me?”

“Long enough to see a smile flit across your face before you sighed, rather ruefully.”

She’d smiled, had she? Well, enough of that.

She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “ Why did you set that spy on me? After you said you wouldn’t. I trusted you, you know. It’s cruel to me, Kit, and unfair to Peggy and my family too. Isn’t it enough that you’ve got me a prisoner at Beechwood Knolls? And that you’ve pulled the wool over the eyes of everyone in Grefford as to your… character. But to spy on me. I won’t stand for it, and I…”

He raised his hands. “Wait. Halt. Desist or in any case explain. This could be serious. There’s some spy set upon you?”

“Don’t pretend not to know. She’s seen him twice now-the red-bearded man, tall, brown coat, I think she said…”

His eyes widened. “ Him, really? Peggy saw him?”

“There, you see, I knew you were behind it. He’s approached her twice now, bold as brass. It’s just not fair, Kit, not gentlemanly, and you promised…”

“Which way did he go?”

“What, you want me to be keeping track of your spy…?”

“Mary, stop, he’s not my spy. Hell, if only she’d told you which way he… wait.” He’d taken a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “He says… damn, on his way to Sheffield. What time does the Chesterfield coach…? No, by the time I get to the village he’ll be gone. Nothing to be done about it now.” He stepped the rest of the way into the cottage.

Now that they were both all the way inside of it, the room seemed smaller than she remembered it. He dragged a broken-down chair from next to the bed to nearer the writing table. “I seem to remember that the writing desk chair is the better one. Take it, won’t you?”

She shook her head. “I’ll be going as soon as you explain to me who the man in the brown coat is, and why he isn’t spying on me. No, that’s not what I meant. But you know what I meant and you know who he is. He’s working for you…”

“Indeed he is not.”

“He’s in the employ of someone… you owe money to?”

“No again. In fact, between my winnings at the fives court last week and the money your Mr. Bakewell has made for me, I’ve never been richer. But this is interesting. Try again, Mary. What other crimes would you like to indict me for? A vile seduction?”

“No, that’s not your style.” Whoring, rather, she was about to say. Except that she’d said it all already in Calais. She’d said everything bad about him that she could think of-and a few more things into the bargain. “Are you acting as magistrate these days? Oh, Lord, don’t tell me you want to arrest him for poaching.”

The heartiness of his laughter was proof-if she’d needed any-of the silliness of that guess. She dropped into the chair he’d offered, and he took the more rickety one, leaning it back against the wall in that way that men enjoyed doing for the way it rather fore-grounded their legs and other, proximate parts of their bodies.

While as for the man in the brown coat. It could be only one thing, then. “You’re after him for a revolutionist.”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

Then he was. Some vile government business she was bound to disapprove of. No point staying any longer.

She sat a bit straighter. Actually, she thought, if she were to sit any straighter in this small, uncomfortable chair, her bum would slip off the front end of it.

“I thought you’d be in London, working for the Home Office.”

“I hope to be. They said to come back when Wat’s better.”

“Well, that’s… good, then.”

“ They didn’t find me ungovernable.”

“I’m sorry I said that.”

“You were angry. We were both angry. It’s all right, Mary.”

She felt herself trembling a bit, like she lately had been doing at bedtime. “I must go.”

He shrugged. “I expect so. Ah, but wait a moment. You said I was holding you prisoner at Beechwood Knolls. Which sounds bloody unfair of me. Rather provocative, but unfair still. For I shouldn’t want to keep you from walking to the village, especially as you look so fetching with a basket over your arm. We need a schedule, as to when you can be seen in the neighborhood and when I can. Maximum freedom, minimum fodder for the gossips.”

“That would be most helpful.”

“I’m good at that sort of thing. Let’s see…”

He was right. In very little time he’d sketched out an orderly, even a fair arrangement.

He’d kept her there this long, he thought. But they seemed to be approaching some sort of threshold. For she was standing now.

“But how did you think to find me here?” he asked.

“I didn’t. I was so furious I was going to confront you at Rowen. I just came through here in case…”

“Yes, I came here just in case as well. I’ve come by every day, in fact, since I’ve been home.”

“A coincidence, then.”

“If you like.”

It wouldn’t be easy, he thought, for her to get by him, the way he’d situated himself in the doorway. Odd. Once upon a time he hadn’t wanted to let her in.

“Mary?”

“I’d like to go.”

“I know you would, but, Mary?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“Just allow me to say it. You needn’t even answer. Mary, I’ll be here every day, at one in the afternoon. Waiting for you. Wanting you. It won’t mean anything, I swear it-it doesn’t change anything we’ve discussed up until now. No one will know, and at the end of it you’ll still have your freedom from me.”

She’d opened her mouth to speak. He waited a moment and then continued.

“No, it’s not right or good or kind or moral. It’s simply what it is and what I want. I shan’t beg or apologize or ask again, so you needn’t…”

He hadn’t blocked her way. He’d let her slip out the door as once he’d let her slip in. Wordlessly, running down the path as quickly as she’d come so many years ago.

It was an awful lot of work, when the chances of her coming were so small. Probably nonexistent, Kit thought. Still, once he’d written a report and some recommendations to Lord Sidmouth, he couldn’t think of much else to do. Anyway, he didn’t mind the labor of carrying firewood over to the cottage. Rather like in Spain, during some moments when officers had had to help with various duties around camp. More difficult, though, to do it so that no one noticed the marquess’s brother hauling firewood.

Luckily, Mr. Greenlee hadn’t evinced any curiosity about it when Kit had wandered down to his workshop. In fact, the estate carpenter had appeared to think it the most natural thing in the world, that Lord Christopher might want a fire in the old hermit’s cottage in order to be alone there with his… thoughts. And that, wanting to be private, he was willing to do the physical labor himself.

Help yourself, my lord, there’s plenty of scrap wood, ash and oak; it will burn quite well-and here, take these smaller bits and shavings. You do remember, don’t you, that you’ll need kindling? Kit assured him that he did still indeed remember how to build a wood fire in a grate, and he was obliged to Mr. Greenlee for having taught him how, more than a decade ago…’Pon my honor, how the time flies by, don’t it?