“Ha,” she said derisively. But she was smiling. So was he.
“Do you remember when we used to cross the river between our properties by swinging from a rope I had tied to a tree branch that overhung the water?” he asked.
“Oh,” she said. “Matthew, you were cruel. I cannot believe I allowed you to goad me into something so dangerous.”
“But every time after you did it, you were exhilarated and bubbling over with triumph and laughter,” he said. “You never once fell into the water, did you?”
“But you did,” she said. “You were showing off and trying to do it one-handed. You lost your grip.”
“Not to mention my dignity,” he said. “I tried to persuade you that it was deliberate, but you set your hands on your hips while I dripped like a drowned rat on the bank before you and clamped my chattering teeth together. And you said, ‘Ha!’ just as you did a few moments ago.”
“Oh, Matthew,” she said, tapping his arm. “We did have good times. You put some adventure into my life.”
“And you put laughter into mine,” he said.
“Will you have more lemonade?” she asked him. “More cakes?”
“Neither,” he said, getting to his feet. “It is time I was getting home.”
“You will come again?” she asked him, getting to her feet tostand beside him. “Perhaps on a day when you do not practice archery? The day after tomorrow?”
It was a Saturday. He usually took both Saturday and Sunday off from work, having decided long ago that he would never make himself a slave to his working life. Occasionally there was an exception, but not often.
“It will be a Saturday,” she said, echoing his thoughts. “Perhaps you could come earlier in the afternoon.”
He looked through the glass windows at the park surrounding them.
“Have you ever been up into those hills?” he asked, nodding east toward the line of them in the distance. They apparently formed the boundary between Ravenswood property and that of Cartref, home of Sir Ifor Rhys.
“Many times,” she said. “They do not look particularly high from here, but the view in all directions from the crest of the highest hill is quite magnificent. There is a roadway along the top, just wide enough for two riders to go abreast or for a gig or curricle. Have you never been up there?”
“No,” he said.
“Then we must go on Saturday,” she said. “I will have the gig made ready.”
“What, Clarissa?” he said, grinning down at her. “Have you grown into a staid old age? Is there anything wrong with your feet?”
“It would be a long walk,” she said. “With a stiff climb at the end of it. Do not look at me like that. We will walk if you insist. And then we will trudge up to the top. Weather permitting, that is.”
“You have two days in which to pray for rain,” he said.
“Or, better yet, for snow,” she said.
They walked back along the alley so he could retrieve his equipment.
“Do you make your own arrows?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said. He drew one out of the quiver and handed it to her. He watched as she slid her thumb and forefinger along the smooth, straight length of it and noted the perfection of her hand and manicured fingernails. He thought of his own callused fingers and short nails and rough palms in contrast.
“Amazing,” she said. “You must tell me the full story sometime. Perhaps when we are at the crest of the hill on Saturday, admiring the view and catching our breath.”
“Perhaps,” he said.
He hoisted his quiver over one shoulder and took the target and his bow in his hand, and they fell into step along the path. When they reached the driveway, he turned toward the village and his rooms above the smithy while she made her way back to Ravenswood Hall.
Two totally different worlds, which they would apparently bridge for the summer with some sort of resumption of a long-ago friendship.
So be it. It was not, perhaps, the wisest idea either of them had ever conceived, but when had he ever considered wisdom as a motive for any of his actions? And was she not entitled to a short break from devotion to her family and other duties? Did she not deserve some time just for herself, to do with as she pleased?
