Page 18 of Persuading Penny (Jane Austen Association #4)

As she went on, I leaned closer to Steve. “This is one of my favorites, especially this upcoming verse.”

He smiled and nodded, listening to the reader intently.

What the hammer? What the chain,

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? What dread grasp.

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

As she went on to finish the final verse, she once again spoke in that soft tone and returned to her seat, sitting as the last words were spoken.

The crowd applauded in sincere appreciation.

The second reader, a tall thin man standing nearly seven feet tall came bursting through the door of the tea house. He marched about, his reading style engaging and animated as his gestures emphasizing every word.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree by William Butler Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay

and wattles made;

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the

honey-bee

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

He came to stand right in front of our table, his voice booming;

And I shall have some peace there

For peace comes dropping slow

He moved on as he continued, and all eyes followed his every movement until the poem ended and we applauded.

The third reader, seated in the farthest corner of the tea house, remained seated and impossible to see as he began his poem.

On the Grasshopper and the Cricket by John Keats

The poetry of earth is never dead

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,

And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;

His voice, rich, deep and filled with emotion was one that I knew well. I’d heard that voice often. Had heard it read poems to me, just me.

That is the Grasshopper’s – he takes the lead

In summer luxury, - he has never done

With his delights; for when tired out with fun

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.

My breath caught in my throat and my heart suddenly pounded as I was flooded with emotions.

The poetry of earth is ceasing never:

On a lone winter evening when the frost

Has wrought a silence from the stove there shrills

The reader stood, confirming what I already knew. Cliff, looking so perfectly handsome in a white shirt and dark pants. He looked better than he ever had as he walked to the front of the room all eyes were on him. He continued to recite the poem, women practically swooning.

The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,

And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,

The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.

I’d been the one to introduce him to the poem. We’d been sitting on a bench in a quiet park. On seeing a grasshopper, I’d begun to recite the poem.

It’d quickly become our little secret poem... citing a line here and there whenever we came across a grasshopper or cricket.

And now, it was his alone... or was he perhaps sharing my beloved poem with someone else? With Bridget?

He finished the poem, took a humble bow as applause filled the room. After a beat, he cleared his throat and began again:

Daffodils by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o’er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd

A host, of golden daffodils

Beside the lake, beneath the trees

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

I smiled. For some reason this particular poem always made us smile, even laugh at times. There was something in the phrasing, the choice of words that never failed to amuse us.

Or perhaps it was simply the way Cliff always read it, with that intonation...

The very same intonation he used now.

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude

And then my heart with pleasure fills

And dances with the daffodils.

––––––––

A part of me wanted to stand up and walk out. The pain of those raw emotions was so hard to bear. But of course, I wanted to stay; stay and hear him, see him and remember all those times.

He’d cited Emily Dickinson the very first time we met. After a brief walk just outside Tel Aviv, we’d sat beneath a tree with a mass of dazzling stars sprinkled across the night sky.

But just as the moment grew quiet and romantic, a fly buzzed around our heads, as if to deliberately ruin the moment.

And he’d said;

I heard a fly buzz when I died;

The stillness round my form

Was like the stillness in the air

Between the heaves of storm.

He’d looked at me, a crooked smile on his youthful face. “It may not be the most romantic poem, but... Seems like the moment called for it.”

I’d laughed and had been so charmed by him.

Throughout the remainder of our time together in Isreal, he’d throw out a line from Poe, or Tennyson, or Browning, whether the occasion called for it or not. I, too, shared with him my love of poetry and my favorite poets. It’d quickly become our little thing, a passion we shared.

But now, as his voice grew louder, his hands clasped behind his back, he walked through the rows of tables to the back of the room, around to the corner and...

He was coming right to us. I hardly dared look. What would he think of my presence? That I’d deliberately come to see him? Well, no. His name hadn’t appeared on the bill. Even the organizer had said he was a last-minute addition.

I glanced up. Our eyes met. He faltered. My heart stopped. He cleared his throat and resumed. I tightened my hold on my cup. He turned and continued on his way.

Though Cliff’s voice came to my ears, no words registered in my brain. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t make out the words, just the soothing pleasure of his voice.

“Are you alright?” Steve said, breaking into my thoughts.

I smiled at him, realizing that my eyes had watered up. “It’s one of my favorite poems,” I said without even knowing what the poem was about. But knowing Cliff, he wouldn’t be up there reading something that didn’t move people.

As he finished his last poem and looked at the far corner from where he’d come, I once again wondered if he was there with Bridget.

That’s fine, I told myself as that intolerable sense of loss filled me again.

He has the right to be with Bridget, just like I have the right to be here with Steve.

Yes. I had Steve. I wasn’t here alone.

I wasn’t to be pitied. I’d noticed the way women had looked at him as we’d walked in.

They’d nearly looked at him as much as they had Cliff.

Yes. I was not to be pitied. I was very much to be envied.

Nathan came back to address the crowd. “And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. An evening dedicated to our precious planet. I do hope you’ve enjoyed this evening, and I hope to see you when we do it again next week. Thank you all for coming.”

Some patrons stood to leave, while others remained to enjoy their tea or coffee.

“Do you want another cup of coffee before leaving?” Steve offered.

“No. I think I’ve had enough.”

I tried to avoid looking in Cliff’s direction but couldn’t help but glimpse him as he picked his jacket up off the back of the chair and come our way.

Would he just pass by? Would he ignore me completely? Would he show his disdain for my presence there?

He came closer as Steve and I rose, ready to leave the coffee house.

“Hello, Penny,” he said, his tone oddly possessive.

Had I not known him better, I would have sworn I’d detected a slight tremor in his voice. But it couldn’t be. Cliff never had a frail or trembling voice.

“I didn’t really expect to see you here tonight,” he added.

Steve looked at Cliff then at me, a question in his eyes as he put his hand around my waist.

“You know my appreciation for poetry,” I said. I felt the heat of Steve’s hand on my hip. Other than a chaste kiss on the cheek and perhaps holding my hand to assist me as we boarded the tour boat or to hop over a puddle, we’d never really touched.

“You’re a very good reader,” Steve told Cliff.

“Thank you.” Cliff’s tone was as cold as I’d ever heard it.

I looked at the two men, clearly sizing each other up.

“Steve,” I said, “this is Cliff. He’s working on the same project as I am.

We’re in different departments... like totally different departments and we rarely cross paths, but we do work for the same.

..” I realized I was rambling on, saying nothing that needed to be said.

“We work for the same production house.”

“Oh,” Steve said extending his hand to Cliff. “Nice to meet you. It was a pleasure hearing you read those poems.”

“Thank you,” Cliff said again. His gaze dropped to Steve’s hand on my hip. He coughed and added, “Are you from Bath?”

“No,” Steve said, shooting me a dazzling smile. “But I am looking to buy a property here. I certainly do have the incentive to move here.” He pulled me closer to him.

Cliff’s jaw tightened and he shot me a quick glance before setting a cold glare on Steve. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” Steve said, his chest puffed out with abundant confidence. “There are a few estates on the periphery of Bath that have caught my eye. They are all very interesting. I love the city, but I do need space. So an estate nearby would be perfect.”

Cliff nodded without any true interest. “Well,” he said, looking at me. “It’s been nice bumping into you.”

“Yes,” I managed to croak.

He walked on and I stood there, frozen.

“We’d better get going,” Steve said, his eyes on Cliff as he walked out the door.

The tension that’d built up as the two men faced one another intensified as we walked out into the cool night air. I didn’t know what to say. I had nothing to say to him. Everything in my head revolved around Cliff. All the questions. All the emotions. All the wants and desires.

“I very much enjoyed this evening,” he finally said as we neared where our cars were parked.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I said. “Not everyone appreciates poetry.”

“Well, I may not be very knowledgeable in the ways of poets and poems, but the evening was pleasant all the same. Lord Byron, Robert Frost, Edgar Allen Poe... all names I’ve heard before without much knowledge of what they’d written.

But I fully intend to look up and read more poems by the poets who were read tonight. ”

“I’m happy to hear it. It’s always a pleasure to introduce someone to the world of poetry.”

We reached our cars. “The evening was all too brief,” he said. “I was hoping we could find something else to do to extend our pleasure, yet I couldn’t help but notice how you led us back to our cars.”

Really? Had I done that? I’d wandered off without any real goal. But there we were, facing the end to the evening. I had to imagine that I’d just thought it was the natural progression.

No. I hadn’t thought that at all. As soon as Cliff left that tea house the evening was over as far as I was concerned.

Steve walked me to the door of my car. “I guess the emotions associated with poetry readings are more overwhelming than I thought.”

It was clear that he wasn’t talking about poetry at all. He was referring to the emotions associated with seeing Cliff.

Had he been able to guess that there had once been something romantic between us; that we were more than just coworkers?

“How about we meet for lunch tomorrow,” Steve said.

I nodded.

“Or we could meet at Sydney Garden and have a picnic.”

Again, I nodded.

He leaned in to kiss my cheek. He was so sweet, and I suddenly realized how I had effectively left him behind. My thoughts were no longer with him.

I brought myself back to the present, to the here and now, to the handsome and caring man standing right there in front of me. “Yes, Steve. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. I’ll fix us a splendid picnic.”