The Indiscretion (22 page)

She opened her mouth, speechless. He'd made her speechless.

God help him, if he'd said anything like that to Gwyn, she d have
burst into tears. Hell, she'd have passed out.

Liddy, though, let out a wounded breath, frowned at him, then
recovered. She said quietly, "Stop punishing me for what I can't help.
Stop being so difficult."

Difficult
. When he
wouldn't have minded hearing how much she admired him – something, anything
positive – he got a good sharp pointer on how to improve.

"I'm not difficult." He was. God knew, he could be a
pain in the backside.

"You are: difficult, stubborn, crude—"

He winced.

Her face softened. She reversed herself in midsentence, a look of
concern overtaking her face.

It was unfair of her to become soft-hearted – soft-headed, he
reminded himself – now that she had him where she wanted him. He felt down one,
at her mercy. He hated the feeling of being at a competitive disadvantage, even
when he wasn't competing per se, just in case he might have to, in case things
got ugly—

On a whisper, her voice blew over him – the antithesis of ugly. It
was a little breeze, a zephyr of understanding that he wanted so badly, he was
afraid to believe he had it. "I have been so happy with you. It hurts me
to leave you, hurts me much more than I could have imagined." She pressed
her lips, rolling them inward a second, then looked away. "But I can't
abandon my family and friends, and I can't take you with me into them."

"I'm rich," he blurted. Then was embarrassed – it felt
like bragging, like wanting to buy her. He amended, "Well, pretty rich.
Not as rich as John D. Rockefeller or anything."

She gave him a sad glance, a man grasping at straws. "You
could be rich as a king, Sam, and it wouldn't matter. It's not money. It's a
question of land and holdings, of class distinction and power – my parents
expect their grandsons to sit in the House of Lords."

"Is that what you want?"

Oddly enough, the question seemed to make her angry. She glared,
before she looked away. To a rock on the riverbank, she said, "I don't get
everything I want. Not when I have a duty to—" She frowned, glanced at
him. "When people will be upset if—" She didn't like that either and
said so with a frustrated face. "Oh, I can't explain it. I can't let my
family down."

"Don't let yourself down. What does your family—"

She cut him off vehemently. "I love them. I've loved them for
twenty-four years: I've known you three days."

He shut his mouth. Of course. Why was he arguing? A man didn't
convince a woman to be interested in him. Either she was, or she wasn't.

He nodded, a single jerk of his head, which he then bent, rubbing
his forehead. He took his hat off to dig his fingers, his whole hand, back into
his hair.

When he was quiet – he was afraid to open his mouth for what would
come out – she murmured, all but teary-eyed, "What do you expect of
me?"

Nothing.

"What do you
expect?"
she pleaded.

"Not a damn thing. You're English, so is your family."
He threw her a narrow look. "Class distinction and power," he
repeated. "I came here to deal with the English and their stinking taste
for hierarchies and dominion" – she blinked at the words; good, let her
wonder where he got them and how he came to use them – "always eager to
master and assert superiority: It's a country of snobs, and you and your family
are some of the biggest."

"I'm not," she said. Her voice faltered, wounded.
"That's unkind."

"It's true."

"It's you, not us," she insisted. "You see offense in
every nuance and tone—"

At which point, her maid called, distracting him. Liddy, too. They
both turned their heads in her direction, toward the rise that hid the young
woman. She called again, whatever the hell she wanted.

Sam knew what he wanted: to reach out. He wanted to draw Liddy to
him. He wanted to say with gesture what he felt. Not these mean words, but
tenderness, dearness. God. Liddy. Look at us. If circumstances were different,
he'd have been allowed to, and the rest would have been easy. His body would
have said it for him: I need you, I want you; don't leave me.

That was when they heard the whistle. It was faint at first, a
distant two-note signal that piped over the run of the river.

"The train," she said, her eyes widening. "Oh,
no." She put her hand over her mouth, looking toward the craggy hill that
hid the train from them and them from anyone on it.

Again the whistle came – loud, growing louder, piercing, and
continuous: someone with his hand on the whistle cord who didn't let go.

Liddy swiveled around to face him, her fine eyes full of woe. Sam
wished he could have done something for her, eased her fright. She said one
word. "Rose."

A second later, as if summoned, the maid came racing round the
slope, pointing, panting. "There's a train down there!"

"Did they see you?"

"I don't know." She frowned in dismay. "There's a
kind of flag down there as well."

The bow. With Liddy's initials on it. And his underwear. Its
flying out there in plain sight had seemed so practical when he hadn't slept with
her, but now that he had, it felt downright incriminating. A red flag that said
he'd had his clothes off.

He looked at Liddy, knowing this was all they were going to get:
some angry words amounting to half an argument.

The maid asked, "You were this close to a train and didn't
get home?" She looked flummoxed.

"Only since yesterday morning."

"Since yesterday morning," she repeated.

Yeah, right, now it all made sense.

"What do we do? Where is Meredith? Why isn't she here? We
have to leave before anyone finds us."

"I don't know. She was on the opposite hill ten minutes
ago."

The train's whistle blared again, different from yesterday:
louder, more insistent, as if its locomotive had stopped, its whistle a long
blast, a call: It didn't move.

Steam. Long, loud rushes of steam could be heard from a train
resting motionless on its tracks.

"Oh, God," Liddy said. "Where can we hide?"

Sam laughed. "Nowhere. Not if they saw Rose. They'll come in
this direction – the direction of a campsite, a horse, and the three of us, not
to mention Meredith, if she suddenly shows up. I don't know where we'd hide all
that."

"Oh, God," she groaned again. "
Now
what are we going to do? What are we going to tell
people?"

"We could always try the truth," he suggested. Her gaze
immediately jumped to his, though, the look in her eyes so woebegone at the
mere thought that he instantly said, "Right. Never mind. I'm sure we can
come up with something much better than that."

13

N
ow what are we going to do?
It had been a rhetorical
question.
Lydia
had never
intended it to send Mr. Wilderness into roughriding action. She would have
thought of something herself within the minute, something much more
satisfactory. If only Sam had given her a minute.

Instead, though, someone far off and below called out,
"Hel-loo-oo-oo!" Clearly, people were coming from the train in their
direction.

At which point, Sam said, "I wish we had time to discuss and
vote on it, but we don't, so here's what we're doing."

He took Rose by both shoulders and walked her backward,
half-carrying her by the arms to the edge of the riverbank. Only in the last
several steps did she stumble and stammer out protests. Only at the last
instant did she understand what was happening enough to scramble violently. Too
late. He picked her up and pitched her, her small body sailing, frock flapping,
arms and legs treading air, out into the river. Rose wailed the whole distance
until she was swallowed up in a splash.

Sam turned toward
Lydia
, and she
immediately backed away. "Just one moment," she said, holding up her
hand.

There was no stopping him, though, or even slowing him. He feinted
a leap in one direction, then went the other, catching her round the waist when
she bolted.

"That wasn't fair!" she yelled as he carted her sideways
under his arm against his ribs.

He only laughed at the edge of the river, then said, "I'm
leaving. You have no man to explain. I'll find this Meredith if she is out
there to find. All you have to do is figure out a way to account for my, um,
our flag down there. Tell them they're yours. Tell them you sleep in a union
suit. My mother used to, so there you go. Anyway, you'll find some way to make
it believable." Half sarcastic, half appreciative, he laughed again.
"'Cause you've become one of the best liars I know, Lid. You're blue
ribbon."

He turned her upright by the bottom and torso and said close to
her ear, "Rose didn't look right for a woman who's been lost on the moor,
and you, sweet thing, may as well match her. In you go. You can say you both
went for a swim."

The river lay rushing before her one moment, while
Lydia
struggled
against the man behind her – her elbow got in a good knack to his hat. Then the
next, with a lift, she was in the air, the water beneath her. When she hit, it
was shockingly cold, though not terribly deep. She went under, but quickly
found the bottom with her feet.

She stood up waist-deep in the cold river, its current pulling at
her skirts, Rose clambering beside her.
Lydia
pushed her wet
hair from face, then held her posture like that, arms up, as her gaze found
Sam.

On the riverbank, he'd moved quickly. He was over by the horse,
his hands working at the buckle of a stirrup. He was changing the length.

Voices called, suddenly surprisingly clear. "Over here!"
"No, I see smoke over there." "This way. I saw the girl this
way." "Is it the two women, do you think?"

Sam was unfazed. He finished with the last stirrup, grabbed hold
of the saddle, and swung up. Atop the horse, he raised his arm in a familiar
gesture, reaching for his hat to straighten the brim: But it wasn't there.
Lydia
blinked,
lowering her arms as she looked around, slowly swirling in the water. On land,
Sam turned the horse full circle, scanning the area. They both saw his hat at
the same time. Downriver from her, floating on its brim, his black Stetson with
the silver beads drifted rapidly away, a loss.

Meanwhile, by the voices, she could hear there were a lot of
people, a trainload, just down on the other side of the rise, swarming through
the heather. Coming after her. While she stared after Sam. On horseback, he
plashed across the river, then up the opposite slope.

At the top, he risked turning the horse. He lifted his hand, but
only got it up partway before he lowered it as fast as he'd raised it. He
stared down at her for a second. Then the cowboy reeled his horse around and
kicked its sides. And, in a blink – a hiccup – Sam was gone, the place where
he'd been the moment before oddly still: the sun shining down brightly,
impassively, on the rocky knoll.

How could it? she wondered. When inside her a kind of shadow
overtook her spirit. Lost. She had lost him in some huge way she hadn't
expected: his good graces gone. She thought, He threw me in because he was
angry with me. He didn't need to. He hates me for the choice I've made. He
loathes me. He thinks I'm a liar, a snob. Names. My lover calls me names.

Irritation finally got her moving. What did he know of her real
life? Who was he to judge? How dare he? Why, if he were standing here right
now, she told herself, she might have a few things say…

Lydia
began to
trudge and paddle her wet, bedraggled way to the riverbank, Rose slightly
ahead. As it turned out, dragging a fully dressed body waist-deep in water to
the shore was much more work than swimming there in her underclothes. It took
enough time that a whole line of people had arrived to witness the last few
feet of her struggle.
Lydia
barely saw
them. Because all the while, in a kind of fury as she made for land, she argued
mentally with Sam. She tried to convince her impression of him, indelibly
bright in her mind, to forgive her for going home.

Oh, the things he told her in her mind. You tart. You snob. You
child. The names he used. She explained about her family again. Such good
reasoning. She dissected the idea of loyalty, then the idea of love. Didn't he
understand the concepts? She argued every imaginable way for him to accept her
decision. He should think kindly of her. He should stop saying mean things to
her. He should leave her alone.

But the Sam in her mind wouldn't. He just wouldn't.

*

Men
in bowler hats, in top hats, a fellow in a cap, women beneath parasols, a
couple arm in arm, women holding small children by the hands. The train had all
but emptied itself with curiosity. Half-sliding, half-walking,
Lydia
went down the
steepest slope with this gathering group into the heather.

A young man, curious, shouldered his way beside her. "So you
two young ladies have been lost on the moor for days?"

"No," she snapped, "we were out here for a
stroll." She picked up her pace.

She was moving briskly, when she saw Sam's hat – one of its beads
flashed sun at her bike mirror. Chances were, she could have walked past it,
and no one else would have noticed. The hat lay, caught on twigs at the bend in
the river, in a shallow where the bank was low. Barely breaking stride, she
detoured to snatch the hat up, then kept going.

She traipsed, gripping it, running her thumb along the smooth
felt, over and over. Oh, Sam. To ride off without it. Then, as she saw him
again in her mind's eye, another absence occurred to her – his shirtsleeves,
his wrongly buttoned vest: Sam had not been wearing his coat at the river. It
was still at their campsite.

The band leveled. Walking through the heather, the purple wasn't
as lovely as yesterday; it looked drier. Just beyond the heather, as they
approached the train,
Lydia
could see
stragglers, mostly women, waiting at various points along the line of cars. At
the locomotive, the engine driver, a stoker, and two other uniformed railway
people stood by.

So far, she had managed to avoid more than a handful of questions
– people were reluctant to push for more answers than those that confirmed
identities – confirming that "the poor, lost women" were
"saved" by the train. This excitement had been enough to delay
explanations. The trek down the slopes had worked to keep people quiet – the
trek and perhaps awe for the way the two women looked. Though she could only
imagine how she herself looked,
Lydia
could attest
that Rose was a disaster. Her clothes stuck and clung, the hems wet, filthy.
One sleeve had been torn. Her hair was matted. Her face had a smudge.

Oddly enough, it was with Rose that substantive questions began in
earnest. Panting to catch up, she said, "Miss
Lydia
, slow
down." She caught
Lydia
's arm, though
Lydia
jerked free.
If the girl wanted to walk with her, she would have to keep up. Rose frowned.
"Do you need your tonic? Do you have asthma? How can you walk so
fast?"

Lydia
led the way,
in fact, everyone else behind, which was unlike her. She could never remember
daring to do such a thing before, partly because she'd never been able. Partly
perhaps because her mother felt it unseemly for a woman to lead anything.

Trotting to stay abreast, Rose whispered, slightly winded, under
her breath, "The hat. What are you doing with his hat? Drop it."

Lydia
brought it to
her chest and clutched it.

"What's gotten into you? You're not helping."

The heather ended, and the train loomed up, large, waiting, silent
all but for some faint hisses of steam and water puttering beneath. The driver
held up his hands, quieting the people as they came up behind her. Then he
turned to
Lydia
also. "We
found this bow," he began.

"It's mine."

"And we were wondering what this" – Sam's red underwear
– "was."

"A union suit, I think it's called."

Another man, in a top hat, couldn't resist stepping in to ask,
"Whose is it?
What
is it?"

Someone laughed, followed by a round of tittering. Obviously, it
was underwear. Strange underwear.

Lydia
ran her fingers
along the hat brim. A Stetson, a red union suit, and a dusty coat that might
materialize at any moment. She opted for, "A man was traveling with
us."

Rose coughed, then stammered out, "Y-yes, the f-first day,
then he disappeared."

"Without his underwear?" came from another direction.

"It was an extra pair we thought to use as a signal."

"Why should he wander off?"

"He, um, drank a lot," Rose offered. "He was
perfectly worthless, quite uncivilized."

Blank stares. As if to say, So that made him go off on his own in
the middle of the moor, leaving two women?

Lydia
thought to
add, "One of those American cowboys." Faces turned toward her. She
blinked and said, "He, um – he, um, drank a lot." What else? "We
think he, ah, stumbled off to relieve himself then got—" Yes. "Um,
lost. We don't know what became of him. That first night, he was on very good
terms with the driver's gin, then in the morning—" She held out her hands.
"We just couldn't find him."

"Even though we called and called," Rose added.

"What a fool," someone said.

"Oh, yes," Rose agreed quickly. "A drunken
fool." She looked at Sam's hat and tsked. "Americans," she said.

One of the men laughed, then several more. A young woman offered,
"Yes. An American from that Wild West Show last year went to a restaurant
in
London
. When his
steak came out a dash rare, he took out his gun and shot it." More
laughter. It was the sort of story people loved to hear – and believe – about
Americans who lived west of
Boston
.

One fellow, a foot shorter than Sam, held up the underwear. The
legs dragged on the ground, the red underclothes of a giant. "Red,"
he said. That was the only word he needed to speak. Nearly everyone laughed, a
great joke.

Questions began to come more regularly and from all quarters.

"How did you live?"

"What did you eat?"

"We ate—" Rose began.

"Rabbit,"
Lydia
supplied.
Goodness, it was getting easier.
You are
blue ribbon
.

"Yes!" her maid agreed brightly. "Miss
Lydia
shot it with
her bow."

And when the arrow fell out,
Lydia
told herself,
we'd chase it down. And fish, she might have added, we netted fish in our
skirts. Oh, the lies she could invent, so close to the truth.

And so it went. All in all, it could have been worse. Sam came off
looking fairly foolish, though happily no one knew it was Sam. While
Lydia
and Rose,
though they hadn't hidden the fact that a man was involved, had made the man of
their story so witless as to render his manliness void. Two women and one fool
under the stars together were not nearly so hard to dismiss as one woman and
handsome, capable Sam.