Pam Rosenthal - The Slightest Provocation

Still, there was no point continuing to stare at the remains of his breakfast.

Nor was he improving matters by pacing around the room with the crumpled letter in his hand.

“I’m going to ride out to Grefford,” he called to his brother and sister-in-law, from the doorway where he seemed to have found himself. Good to get some air. He’d go down to the church, have a look at those records he’d been wanting to see. Cool his head. Maybe-who knew?-an idea would come to him about what to do next.

“And do take him outside, Susanna; the air will do him good,” he added, winking at the crooked but indisputable smile of appreciation the marquess summoned up in response.

The parish records told him pretty much what he thought they would. Lots of the names were familiar to him; he’d read them enough times in Traynor’s reports. Which confused his feelings even more thoroughly. Still, it was good to know. No illusions anyway.

A nice-looking round-faced girl was curtsying to him from the porch of the post office. Absently, he nodded in response and urged his horse along the street.

No. Wait. He wheeled the horse around.

“Peggy,” he called. “Peggy, I need to speak to you.”

He’d wait. The worst she could do was not show up.

“He didn’t say where to meet him, your ladyship. Like you’d know, I expect. And I didn’t like to ask.” The maid’s announcement coolly and demurely put.

“Yes, thank you, Peggy. Thank you, ah, very much indeed.” The mistress’s response rather less so.

“Oh, and Lady Christopher?” The girl had pursed her lips at the thought of the gentry and their inexplicable outlandish tastes. “His lordship said to be sure to bring your spectacles.”

An unbearably long luncheon, the young people unusually talkative. Fred had a thousand ideas about last night’s pyrotechnic experiments; Elizabeth was nearly as voluble about a new pair of earrings in moonstone and aquamarine. Each of them seemed to have an interminable list of things needing Mary’s or Jessica’s assistance in preparation for the assembly tonight. (And why, she wondered, was Fannie gazing at her so thoughtfully, her fine wide brow so deeply furrowed above those keen hazel eyes?)

When she finally did get out, the day had turned chilly, the sun, still fairly high in the sky, sporadically obscured by clouds that were still blowing in. Her cloak billowed about her in the brisk, wet wind.

The forest was quiet, muffled by wind and water. A few birds were calling, but one mostly heard dripping and rustling, the branches and undergrowth being too wet to crackle under someone’s feet as he approached.

For it seemed that she wasn’t late after all. They’d reached the stream at nearly the same time. She’d arrived a bit sooner; he was approaching briskly, appearing and disappearing behind tree trunks, his head bobbing up from behind wet tangles of blackberry, his hand carelessly batting branches and vines out of his way as he came.

Be careful what you wish for.

Had she wished for this?

He looked angry. Absurdly, his hat was in his hand rather than on his head, where it might have done him some good. His thick black hair was mussed, tightened into curls, and quite soaked in the misty air. She remembered-across how many years?-how he’d mimicked Jemima the gossipy nursery maid. Angel face on ’im below the mop of hair… mother’s dark secret…

And she remembered not only what she’d said to him, but what she’d been thinking, which was a good deal worse: Bitch. Cow. I hope you die, Jemima. For making Kit like you.

I’m not quite that bad now, she thought. She’d made some progress from the wild little pagan she’d been at fourteen. Thank heaven for small favors anyway.

Why was his face contorted by such anxiety? Had he also heard last night’s fireworks? Had he thought they might betoken violence? Was he-rather as she deserved-blaming her from keeping important and dangerous information from him?

Lovely. First she’d confess to Kit that she hadn’t reported the dangerous things Nick Merton had said. Then follow it up by telling him that he was still encumbered with her, there no longer being a lover waiting to take her off his hands.

Her mouth was dry. She couldn’t seem to speak now that he was here.

Which might have been just as well, because he’d begun speaking as soon as he’d broken through to the clearing where she stood.

“I must tell you something.” His voice was hoarse; his breath came sporadically. “And you must listen very carefully.”

Well, at least no one had been hurt last night. “Yes, of course I’ll listen,” she whispered. “And I’m so sorry,” she added.

But why was he staring? Was it really so inconceivable, she wondered, that she might apologize for something?

Her eyes were so limpid, he thought, her half-opened mouth so eager to help, the whole of her expression and posture so troubled and uncharacteristically sympathetic. But how could she possibly know about the letter he’d received?

No, she must be thinking of something else. Well, whatever it was, it could wait-and anyway, it was too wet and windy to speak seriously out here.

“I’ll tell you in the cottage,” he said.

“Of course.”

He led her by the hand, only vaguely aware that she was nearly running to keep up with his steps.

“Bloody hell.”

She gasped and he whistled at the damage last night’s storm had wrought. Of course, no roof lasts forever; but it’s still a shock to see one caved in, especially when you’ve taken such pleasure beneath it. There was no roof at all above the bed-which was soaked through and strewn with leaves and thatch. One wouldn’t want to use it for anything, perhaps ever again.

Ah yes, and they’d used up the firewood when last they’d met.

“It’ll be a brisk discussion,” she said. He didn’t laugh.

One of the chairs was reasonably dry. She mopped at it with the moist quilt, wrapped herself in her cloak, and sat down.

He remained standing. “I’ve had a letter.”

She looked relieved, and he wasn’t sure why. No matter: he hadn’t the energy to spare. Just let her be willing to help.

“First I’ll read it aloud,” he said, “and then you can look it over for yourself.” She nodded, her eyes very wide from inside her hood.

“Tell me what I’m not understanding in this message from Lord Sidmouth,” he said. “Help me see what I’m missing.”

Please, Mary, he almost added, before clearing his throat and beginning to read.

After he’d finished-and after she’d read it again for herself-they discussed it quietly.

Briskly, yes, and briefly too. For she couldn’t discern much more than he could. She could construe a complicated text, but there was little anyone could do with such a terse one.

“It’s almost as though the Home Office wishes there to be violence…” she began.

His eyes narrowed; she turned her face away.

They were silent. There were things one couldn’t speak of.

His neck and jaw were stiffening-in an effort, she thought, to think of an explanation other than the one his eyes had warned her not to give voice to.