There was nothing scandalous in her enjoying a friendship with Matthew—or even in her indulging in a mild romance with him. She was, after all, a free woman. She had no husband or betrothed. She had no children dependent upon her. She was independently wealthy.
And she was going to be fifty years old in a few months. It was time to do some living on her own account.
So she was not going to change her mind about going to the poplar alley this afternoon. The raw weather would not deter her. Nothing else would either. But she would go late so that he would have time to set up and immerse himself in his practice.
If he went at all, that was.
There was always the chance that he had decided differently from her and would never again set foot inside the park at Ravenswood. If that was the case, then she must accept it. She would not force her company upon him if he did not want it.
But oh, how dreary that would be.
She did not realize the full extent of her anxiety until she came to the end of the poplar alley and saw that he was there. He had his back to her, and she could tell that all of his concentration was upon his shooting. She went quietly to sit on the grass before the first of the poplars on the eastern side and propped her back against the tree while gathering her woolen shawl more warmly about her shoulders and across her bosom.
He had removed his coat and hat and stood there in his shirt and waistcoat over breeches and top boots. His large quiver was over one shoulder. One arm was holding his bow in position while the other hand plucked arrows from the quiver, set them to the bow, and shot them into the center of the target a long distance away.
Clarissa gazed with frank admiration at his long legs and narrow hips, at his powerful shoulders and arms. Only the silver threads in his dark hair betrayed his age from this back view. She loved those silver threads and the laugh lines on his face. She was so glad he was no longer the deeply unhappy boy of her memory and that she was no longer the girl who had the whole of her future life happily mapped out for perfection.
She expected that after he had stridden along the alley to retrieve his arrows and turned to make his way back, he would see her. But she could tell from the look on his face and the language of his body that he was in another world. No, not exactly that, for he hadto be fully present to shoot the way he was shooting. But she knew his concentration did not include what was peripheral to the task at hand.
She watched him shoot all his arrows again and go to fetch them—and again and again until at last when he returned from his walk to the target he looked up and looked around, frowning, first back to the summerhouse, then to this end of the alley, then to the tree where she had stood last time. And finally his head turned her way and he saw her on the other side of the alley. He set down his bow and quiver on the grass at his feet and came striding toward her. She smiled up at him.
“You came,” he said, stooping down on his haunches and reaching out his hands, palm up, for hers.
“Did you think I would not?” she asked, setting her hands in his and feeling their familiar roughness and hardness as his fingers closed about them.
“I did not know,” he said, and smiled back at her.
And she knew something had changed between them in the days since the picnic. An awareness and acknowledgment, perhaps, that this was far more than just a friendship, and that it was not about to end.
“And I did not know if you would come,” she said.
“I am glad I did,” he said. “I am glad you did.”
He squeezed her hands as he stood up again, bringing her with him and wrapping her tightly in his arms.
Ah, it felt good. So very, very good.
“So am I,” she said. “Glad that you did and I did, that is.”
They both laughed before he kissed her.
Chapter Twelve
“Are you not cold, Matthew?” she asked when he raised his head a minute or two later. She was rubbing her hands briskly up and down the outsides of his arms. Up and down his shirtsleeves, that was.
“Strangely,” he said, laughing, “I am feeling quite the opposite of cold at the moment. But I am shockingly underdressed. Excuse me a moment, Clarissa.”
He went to pick up his coat and pull it on before fetching the target and stacking all his equipment against the tree where he had left them last time. He glanced up at the grayish, lowering clouds. It was hard to know if they were rain clouds, but the sky had looked exactly the same all day, and it had not rained yet.
“I have it on the reliable authority of our head gardener,” she said from just behind him, “that it will not rain today. I trust him utterly.”
“He has never been wrong?” he asked.
“Not to my knowledge,” she said. “And he has been atRavenswood longer than I have. Of course, there are the times when he squints up at the sky and then off to the western horizon before he nods sagely and says that she may rain and she may not. The weather to him is feminine, it seems. But even on such occasions—especially on those occasions, in fact—he has never yet been wrong.”
“You are in a cheerful mood today,” he said, taking in the sparkle of laughter in her eyes and the upward curve of her lips, as well as the rosy glow in her cheeks and at the end of her nose. A bit of cold and wind had always done that to her.
“I am,” she said. “I came, having convinced myself that in all probability you would not be here. But you were, and I was glad. Did you finish Miss Wexford’s table? She called here this morning with Lady Hardington and Mrs. Danver. She was quite exuberant because you were very close to finishing.”
