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The horse bobs its head in blissful appreciation as I scratch behind its big, feathery ears. “Mmm?”
“Perhaps now isn’t the right time.”
Something in his tone snaps me back to attention, and for the first time since we stopped I realize that he hasn’t taken his eyes off me.
“You can ask me now. You can ask me anything. What is it?” I say breathlessly.
He looks around the country road as if to make sure we are truly alone, his gaze flitting from the golden treetops to the darkening clouds above. Then, so quickly and so gently that I hardly have time to register what’s happening, he takes my chin in his hand and tilts my face up, pressing his lips to mine. His body moves close to me and everything in me comes alive. I want to press myself against his chest, wrap my arms around him and feel the steady beat of his heart like I felt that night at the pond.
My body explodes with warmth, an exhilarating sensation starting where his lips meet mine, running like a fuse down my spine and blossoming between my legs. My knees are weak, but he’s there, holding me upright to him like his life depended on it. It’s a long, slow kiss, expertly administered. When we pull away, I can barely breathe. Drowsily, I open my eyes. He’s flushed and sparkling. With one hand still cupped under my chin, he takes his other and gently as a breeze tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
“No,” he says more to himself than to me. “Not now, not like this.”
Before I can even regain my balance, he’s swinging up into the saddle, and asks, “Are you sure you can get home all right from here?”
Too breathless to speak, I nod.
“Good,” he says, wheeling his horse around. “And if I call on Friday, will you be at home?”
I nod again.
He doesn’t start riding away though, instead he brings the horse right up next to me. I crane my neck up to see him, feeling every inch like a young maiden in a fairy tale, looking upon her golden prince, desperate and grateful for any little favor he might bestow.
“I didn’t come the last time I promised you I would,” he says. He sits so well on the horse, so straight and composed, but his knuckles are white around the reins and when he swallows, it’s hard and fast.
“Oh,” I say, surprised. “I know you were busy.” I think he could say anything in this moment and I would forgive him.
When he speaks again it’s low and even. Determined. “It does matter. I’ll be back for you, Lydia. I swear it.”
And with that, he touches his heels to his horse, taking off at a canter down the road. I hardly dare to breathe as I stand there, watching his straight back and broad shoulders grow smaller and smaller until the trees swallow him up.
23
THE WIND TUGSat my dress, and rain is starting to spit when I finally drag myself away from the fork in the road. I clutch my cloak tighter, shivering despite the lingering warmth in my stomach. The woods that were sparkling and magical when Mr. Barrett was here press around me, and the rain comes down harder, staining the lichen-splotched stone walls a dark, unhappy black. But there might be a thousand spirits glaring at me from the woods today, following my every movement, and I wouldn’t care. It doesn’t matter that my clothes are soaked through or that my toes are cold and gritty with mud. A flood could rise up from the river and sweep me away, and in this moment I would still be the most content I’ve ever been in my entire life.
By the time Willow Hall rises before me the rain is coming down in heavy, unforgiving sheets. Ada and Joe are standing in the back doorway, Ada wiping floured hands on her apron and laughing at something Joe says as he smokes his pipe. When she sees me she breaks off midsentence and Joe turns around, silently running an eye up and down my sorry figure.
I duck between them, the warm, yeasty smell of baking bread greeting me like an embrace. “I was caught in the rain,” I say, as if it weren’t perfectly obvious.
They share a knowing look. Joe gives me a polite nod, taps out his pipe and leaves Ada to her fretting.
“What were you thinking? You’ll catch your death of cold!” Taking me by the arm, she drags me away from the door, her eyes widening at the trail of muddy footprints in my wake.
“Your mother will have a fit,” she says, wasting no time in fetching the mop and getting to work on my mess. “And you ought to take off those wet things and get in front of a fire.”
There’s a strange clattering noise, and it takes me a moment before I realize that it’s coming from me. My teeth are chattering so hard that I’m in danger of biting through my tongue. Obediently, I peel off my cloak and wring out my stockings, letting the snug warmth of the kitchen envelop me. It might be the only room in Willow Hall that feels cozy, thanks to Ada’s cooking and the fact that, unlike the rest of the house, it’s a bit messy. With flour still smeared across the wood-block table, and upturned bowls and pots full of simmering broths, it looks like someone actually lives here.
“S-sorry,” I stammer as I warm my purple fingers by the kitchen fire. I should probably be helping Ada clean up my mess, but mopping floors and being sensible about wet clothes are part of a faraway world in which I’m not part of the moment. I’m living in a dream, or a novel, where handsome princes ride all night, thundering down a country road to save their lady’s honor. A place where my feet never touch the ground—let alone leave muddy tracks. A place where I’m wanted, needed, even loved.
Ada stands up, stretching her back and casting a critical eye over the tile floor. “Did you have a good walk then?”
“Hmm?” My fingers are finally starting to regain a more natural color as I stiffly flex them back into feeling.
“You’re grinning like your head is fit to crack. It must have been a good walk.”
“Oh,” I say, doing my best to straighten my face. I take the blanket that Ada holds out to me and wrap it around my shoulders. “Yes, the best walk I’ve ever had.”
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