The Arrangement (32 page)

Tab jumped down from the love seat and accompanied them back to their own apartments, darting ahead and then waiting for them to catch up. He took up residence on the sunniest windowsill in their sitting room while they went upstairs to get ready.

It was indeed a lovely day. A group of gardeners were erecting the wrought iron rail beside the pathway to the lake. Sophia took Vincent’s arm and they walked farther out onto the lawn before turning down toward the boathouse.

“Are you feeling more in command of your own estate than you used to be?” she asked.

“I am,” he told her. “Oh, I know my people are always going to make sure that I am well protected from everything that poses even the slightest threat to my person, from raging bulls on down to pecking chickens. But I have insisted upon knowing what is going on with my farms, and I have insisted upon being taken about in the gig to see for myself, as it were, and to talk to my people. I still feel very stupid when I ask questions whose answers must seem glaringly obvious to them, but I will keep asking. Only so I can get to the point at which I do not need to ask. I shall grow into a very dull squire, Sophie, who can discuss nothing more interesting with his guests than the price of corn or the newest sheep-shearing methods.”

“
Are
there different methods?” she asked.

“I have not the faintest idea.”

They both laughed.

“Mrs. Jones has asked me to be honorary president of the women’s sewing circle,” she said. Mr. Jones was the vicar.

“No!” He stopped walking to look in her direction in mock astonishment. “Is that a huge honor, Sophie?”

“Well, you may make a joke if it,” she said, “but I am sure it is just that. Not strictly an honor, perhaps, but a reaching out. So few people have ever reached out to me. I do not quite know what the ‘honorary’ part means, of course. I shall have to ask. If it merely means that they can throw out my name and title to dazzle women’s groups from other villages, then I shall decline. But if they want me to sit in their circle sewing with them, then I shall accept, even though my skill with a needle is nothing to boast of. I have never,
ever
had a woman friend. Not that the women here will want to be my bosom friends, I suppose. They will think, very foolishly, that I am too far above them. But friendly acquaintances, let us say.”

She was babbling a bit and they had still not resumed walking. And actually Lady Trentham had written to her several times and was in the way of becoming her friend. But at a distance.

“Oh, Sophie,” he said, “I am sorry. I have Martin—and yes, he is a friend and has been since my childhood—and I have the Survivors, and there are numerous friends at Barton Coombs I have neglected for six years. I had not thought that of course I am not enough for you.”

“Oh, that is not—” she began.

“No, I know it is not what you meant,” he said. “But I do not think you would be enough for me either, Sophie.”

She felt a stabbing of hurt and disappointment. And there it was. The reminder that they would never be all in all to each other, that despite their easy companionship, they would never really be even friends, let alone…

“We all need friends or at least friendly acquaintances of our own sex,” he said. “There is a different sort of relationship with friends of one’s own sex than with someone of the opposite sex, and it is one we all ought to cultivate. What I mean is that I understand and am glad for you, Sophie. I am sure you will enjoy the sewing circle. And the quality of your silence suggests to me that I am digging a deeper hole for myself with every word I speak. I have not hurt you, have I?”

“No, of course not,” she said. “I am the one who said I wish to join the sewing circle because I want the companionship of other women.”

There was a brief silence, during which neither of them moved.

“I like your companionship too,” he said. “We rub along well enough together, do we not?”

He looked a bit anxious.

We rub along well enough…

Yes, they did. She smiled a little sadly.

“We do,” she said. “Shall we face the terror of the boat ride? Or shall we stand here for the rest of the afternoon?”

“Oh, the boat ride, by all means.” He offered his arm again. “Just be thankful that we do not have a whole ocean to cross.”

“We might discover a new continent,” she said.

“Atlantis?”

“Or something completely unknown,” she said. “But for this afternoon I think I shall be happy just to reach that island safely.”

“You have put yourself into capable hands,” he told her.

“It is not your hands I am concerned about,” she said.

He laughed as they resumed walking.

Sophia felt a bit like crying.

S
ophia ought to have been far more worried than she was, considering the fact that she could not swim. But she was too busy giving instructions to feel nervous. He was rowing with great energy and skill, except that he had no sense of direction, of course. At first it did not seem to matter as long as he pulled in the general direction of the island, but she could see after they were out on the water that there was a little jetty for them to pull into. Elsewhere the bank looked rather steep.

With his skill and her guidance they landed safely, and he climbed out and took the rope from her hand and tied it to a stout post.

“Madam?” He bowed and offered his hand, for which she was thankful. The boat had swayed alarmingly when she had tried to climb out unassisted.

“Oh, goodness,” she said. “And later we have to row back again.”

“We?” He waggled his eyebrows at her and bent to feel around for the towels. “Or you can swim home if you prove to be a more than usually adept pupil.”

She took the towels from him and slipped a hand through his arm. He had left his cane in the boathouse.

“I believe the temple was built as a folly purely for picturesque effect when viewed from the house,” he told her as they made their way up to it. “However, a former viscountess, or perhaps it was her mother—one of my ancestors, anyway—was a pious soul, or so I have been told, and made it into a little shrine. She was Catholic.”

Sure enough, there was a door on the temple and stained glass windows, and inside there was a crucifix on the wall and candles and an old leather-bound prayer book on a table beneath it. There was a chair beside it, a rosary hooked over the back. Nothing else. There was no room for more.

“I wonder if the lady rowed,” she said.

“Or swam.”

“I daresay,” she said, “she had a faithful retainer who brought her across whenever she wished to come. Our ancestors always had faithful retainers, did they not?”

“If they lived in stories they did,” he agreed. “I wonder how Martin would like the title of faithful retainer.”

Sunlight was beaming through one of the windows and casting multicolored light over everything. The effect was glorious.

“It smells a bit musty in here,” he said.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Where is this shallow water?”

It was behind the temple, on the far side of the island, where the land sloped more gently into the lake than it did on the near side. Sophia still did not like the look of it.

“Perhaps,” she said, “we should just sit and sun ourselves. That rowing looked like strenuous business.”

“Was clutching the sides of the boat with whitened knuckles just as strenuous?” he asked her.

“There is
no way,
” she retorted, “you could have seen that, even if it were true, which it is not. What are you doing?”

It was a foolish question to ask since there was nothing wrong with her eyesight. He was undressing.

“Have no fear.” He looked her way, grinning. “I shall leave on my drawers entirely to save your blushes. And you may leave on your shift lest I peep.”

She opened her mouth to argue and shut it again. He was not going to be moved, was he? And if he was going to go in the water, she had to go with him. He could not
see
. Sometimes she almost forgot that.

She undressed down to her shift. Why did being unclothed, and not even fully unclothed, seem far more wicked outdoors than it did in their bedchamber? There was no danger of being watched. There was no vantage point from which they could conveniently be seen even if someone had been looking for them.

Sunlight lit him up like a god—a very fond and foolish thought. But if there was any muscle in his body that was not fully developed and honed through frequent and strenuous exercise, she had certainly not seen it. And yet he was slender and slight of build and not particularly tall. It was a good thing for her that he was not.

He was perfect.

“You are very quiet,” he said. “Are you cowering?”

No, just admiring.

She took a few steps toward him and set her hand in his.

She had expected the water to be cold. She had steeled herself against the shock. It was—

“It is
freezing
!”

“It is rather,” he agreed. “It feels quite chilly on the ankles. I wonder how it will feel on the knees and the hips.”

They soon found out. The land dipped more sharply than had been apparent. It was a thousand times worse. Sophia gasped and did not know how to expel the breath.

“I think we should go b-b-b-back,” she managed to say through chattering teeth.

Without letting go of her hand, he held his nose with his free hand and went straight under until only his hair was wafting on the surface. He came up again and shook his head. Droplets of icy water rained on Sophia’s shoulders.

“Ah,” he said. “It is better under than out. Or will be.”

He went down again and reemerged moments later.

“It is better under,” he said. “Trust me. Is that your teeth I hear clacking?”

Hardly. She had them too tightly clamped together.

“Oh, bother,” she said and bent her knees and went straight down until she felt the water close above her head.

She came up sputtering.

“Liar!” she cried. “Oh, liar.”

He was laughing.

“Under,” he said, grasping her other hand. “At least up to your neck. Let your body adjust to the water’s temperature. Oh, Sophie, this feels
so
good.”

Despite her own discomfort, she looked fully at him. His hair was plastered to his head, water droplets were running down his face, his eyes were wide open, and he looked radiant. Carefree. Her heart melted.

She went under until the water covered her shoulders. Already it felt not quite so cold. Sunlight danced across its surface. How lovely, how freeing it must be to be able to swim.

“Come,” he said. “Let us go a little deeper, and I’ll teach you to float.”

“Oh,” she said, “I wish it were possible, but I fear it is not.”

But she waded deeper with him just because of that look on his face. He was enjoying this so much.

“Oh, ye of little faith,” he said. “Lie on the water. I’ll hold you. Like this. No, no need to cling or bring up your knees. That is the surest way to sink like a stone. Stretch along the water. Put your head back. Reach out your arms. Now relax. I won’t let you go. Just relax. Imagine you are on the softest, most comfortable of mattresses.”

It was incredibly difficult to relax, knowing there was only water beneath her—and his hands. It
did
feel lovely, though. And she trusted those hands and his word that he would not let her go.

She kept her eyes tightly closed.

“You are not fully relaxed,” he told her.

Well, there were the muscles that were holding her eyes clenched. And stomach muscles too, she discovered when she mentally checked them.

She opened her eyes and turned her head a fraction. His head was half bent over her. And—

Oh,
God,
she loved him.

She stared up at him, shaken—and yet relaxed.

For of course she loved him. He had rescued her. He had married her. And he was beautiful and sweet and kind. It would be very strange if she did
not
love him. It was not such an earth-shattering revelation.

And it made no difference to anything.

Except to make her heart hurt a little bit more.

“There,” he said softly. “Now you have it. Trust yourself. Trust the water.”

And she felt his hands slide away from beneath her.

She kept her eyes on his face. She did not sink. And she did not need his hands. She would never allow herself to need them. Or him, except in a purely material way, for she would starve without his support. But not in any other way. She might
want,
but there was a difference between wanting and needing.

She could float alone.

She could live alone.

He floated beside her, his hand occasionally touching hers, and she looked up at the sky. It was a vast, deep blue, with a few puffs of white cloud.

So relaxed. So beautiful. With a dull ache in the throat.

She turned her head to look at him, swallowed a mouthful of water, and scrambled and splashed her way to her feet. The water came to her chin. They must have floated outward. There was a moment of near-panic as she coughed and waded closer to the shore, drawing him by the hand.

“You must have floated on your own for all of five minutes,” he said. “Well done. Once you can float, you can learn to swim in a trice.”

“Not today, though,” she said. “Allow me to bask in the triumph of one mighty achievement at a time.”

“I am going to swim,” he said, and he turned back into the water and began to swim away into the lake with powerful strokes.

Sophia, standing knee-deep and watching, could almost feel his pleasure.

But how was he going to find his way back, foolish man? He did not have Mr. Fisk beside him today.

She left the water and wrapped a towel about her shoulders. But she did not sit down or take her eyes off him. She shaded them with one hand against the sun.