Lucy Gordon - Princess Dottie

He reddened. “That's not really what I said.”

“Well, it's what you meant by 'damaging.' Me coming out with something daft isn't going to damage anyone but me, now is it? Kingdoms aren't going to rise and fall because Dottie Hebden opened her big gob-”

“Aren't they?” he murmured grimly.

“-and that's lucky because she's always blurting out something stupid. A really daft cow, that's what everyone says. Well, Mike doesn't say it because he doesn't dare but…oh heck, I'm sorry!”

“It's perfectly all right,” said the waiter, rubbing himself down. Carried away by her own eloquence, Dottie had made a wildly expansive gesture right across his path. He'd gone straight into it before he could stop, with disastrous consequences to the artistic creation in his hands.

A wail from behind him indicated that the chef had arrived on the scene, and it wasn't all right with him. “My masterpiece,” he moaned, regarding the mess on the floor.

“I shall naturally pay for any damage,” Randolph declared with a touch of loftiness. It was maddening to have this interruption when he was getting a glimpse into Dottie's mind, even though what he found there made him deeply apprehensive.

“Damage? Damage?” shrilled the chef. “It took me an hour to get it perfect. Do you really think that you can-?”

“I never think,” Dottie said penitently. “Oh, I'm so sorry. How could you ever forgive me?”

She'd risen from the table and taken the chef's hands in hers, smiling up into his eyes. He was a foot taller, so that Randolph was able to see straight over Dottie's head, and observe the precise effect she was having on the man. From avenging angel to trembling jelly in three seconds flat, he thought in admiration. The chef was almost burbling, assuring her that there would be no further trouble, she wasn't to worry herself…

“That was very clever,” he said when they were alone again. “How long did it take you to perfect it?”

“Hey, c'mon, I wasn't being cynical.” Her tone suggested a crime.

“Be fair. You were just boasting about how you could reduce Mike to a quivering wreck any time you liked-”

“I was not boasting,” she said firmly. “Mike loves me, which is why it works.”

“With him, maybe, but what about the others? 'A smile usually does it,' is what you said. You knew exactly what you were up to just then, Dottie.”

“Oh well.” She gave a wicked chuckle. “I didn't do badly, did I?”

“No, they're not even going to charge for the 'masterpiece' you ruined. One flash of your eyes and he buckled at the knees.”

“But that's not being cynical,” she said earnestly. “That's being nice to people. I did spoil his master piece, so I just said sorry and…and…that's all there was to it.”

She meant it, he realized. Dottie might talk about playing off her tricks, but the truth was she preferred being nice to people. The smile sprang from her kindness and honesty, which was why it was dynamite.

Encouraged by Randolph, Dottie chatted about her family, which seemed almost nonexistent. Neither her parents nor her grandparents were still alive, and he gathered that she'd been alone since she was sixteen. She told this part of the tale without conscious pathos. She'd fended for herself and survived with her humor intact. No big deal.

She knew how to tell a funny story, and a woman who could do that had never been part of Randolph's experience. All the strains and tensions of his life seemed to fall away as he rocked with laughter at her description of her grandmother coping with her grandfather's numerous flirtations.

“'Course she knew he loved her really, and she loved him, but she was always chucking pans at him, and if she really thought he'd blotted his copybook she'd be after him like a ferret up a drainpipe.”

“Pardon me?” he said, startled. “Ferret? Drainpipe?” These too, were outside his experience.

“Sorry. Don't suppose you've ever seen a ferret, have you?”

“No,” he said thankfully.

“Grandpa wanted to keep some, as pets, but Grandma said over her dead body, and he said not to tempt him.”

She finished the meal with an exotic ice cream and another glass of wine.

“It's my third,” she said guiltily. “Ought I?”

“Wine as good as this can be drunk safely,” he assured her. “And I promise you're quite safe with me.”

“No funny business?”

“No funny business.”

The word, “pity,” flitted through her head and was gone before she could be sure it had ever been there. The man across the table was regarding her with kindly amusement. His eyes were warm and suddenly she felt as though the two of them were the only people left in the world. She wondered why she hadn't realized before just how handsome he was.

She seemed to see him more clearly than before, and it occurred to her that he was two different men. He had the body of an athlete, broad shouldered, tall and powerful, as though his whole frame had been made hard and taut by a life in the outdoors. His hands were a rare combination of size and grace, as though he could hold anything in them, with no appearance of effort.

Yet his face told a different story. It was lean, almost austere, with fine features and dark, expressive eyes: the face of a thinker, a scholar, perhaps a poet. This was something Dottie had never seen in her life before, yet she recognized it at once, and felt a faint stir of response.

Then she laughed at herself. What could she do with a man like this? A man she couldn't read.

“Are you a soldier?” she asked impulsively.

“Why do you ask?”

“Just…something about you,” she said helplessly. Life in a family with a small vocabulary hadn't left her equipped for this. ventured

“I did a stint in the army,” he said truthfully. It had been part of his training.

“But not anymore? I mean, you didn't want to make a career of it?”

“No, but it's not impossible that I might return,” he said with a wry grimace. She made no answer and he saw a vague look in her eyes, as though she had gone into a trance. “Dottie?”

She came back to earth. She'd been watching his mouth, the way the lips moved against each other as he spoke, or used them expressively.

“Yes?”

“What were you thinking?”

“That this is the best night out I've ever had.”

“Doesn't Mike take you out?”

“Yes, we go dog racing sometimes. It's great.”

“What do you want, Dottie?” he asked suddenly. “I mean, out of life.”

“But you know what I want. I'm going to marry Mike and we're going to have the garage.”

“And live happily ever after,” he finished wryly. “Nothing else?”

“Lots of kids.”

“But don't you ever want to soar into the heavens?”

“In an airplane? With me it was always boats.”

“How do you mean?”

“Grandpa used to take me to see the River Thames. I loved it. I watched the boats and thought about faraway places.” She glanced through the window to where the river flowed, shining under the shore lights and those from the occasional boat.

“Why don't you show me?” Randolph suggested, signaling to the waiter.

In minutes they were outside, making their way toward the water. It was quiet along the embankment, and they could hear the soft lap of the water. For a while Dottie had nothing to say, until at last she rested her arms against the stone ledge overlooking the river with a sigh of deep contentment.

“I didn't really mean soaring in an airplane, Dottie,” Randolph said, taking up the thread of their previous conversation. “I meant, inside you.”

“People don't soar in Wenford,” she said with a faint sigh. “It's not a soaring sort of place.”