Henrik’s neck muscles went taut. “I disagree.”
“I can’t look at you. Just listen.” She burrowed deeper into his chest. “Henrik is noble of birth and upbringing.”
That was the only noble thing about him.
“The Havmand is noble of deed,” she said. “And Hemming isnoble of character—kind and considerate and wise. And you—you are all of them.”
He squirmed in her arms. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”
“I’m not. The Havmand couldn’t be noble of deed unless you were, and Hemming’s character is yours. You said that part wasn’t pretend, and I saw your character last week here at the villa. You were protective, humble, honest, and you treated the Thorups as equals.”
“Well, they are.”
She squeezed his waist. “You sacrificed your lavish lifestyle for a higher cause. You let everyone look down on you, all to help your country. You are truly a noble man.”
He wanted to argue, but she’d given him a gift. Refusing it would disappoint the giver. He buried his face in her silky hair. “I want to be that kind of man. I do.”
“Because you have high standards.”
He stiffened. “Please don’t say that.”
Else slipped out of his arms, sat on the strip of grass between trees and rocks, and patted the ground, looking up to him with pink cheeks. “Can you tell me the story now? The one you said had to wait for another day? Something about your father’s standards and yours.”
“Ah, that.” Henrik stretched out on his back on the grass, and he laced his hands over his belly. He’d never told anyone the story, not even the Thorups, not even his friends Peter and Paul at Harvard. But the story played like a continual movie in the background of his life, framing every move.
Above him, clouds stretched long, like racing sculls. “I was fourteen. My Latin school held a big rowing race. You know how popular the sport is in Denmark, so this was like your big football games in America.”
Else murmured her understanding.
“As the day progressed, I won each heat. Then came the final race. The other boys were seventeen or eighteen. Although I was the youngest by far, I won. Everyone cheered—my classmates,my coach, my mother, my little sisters. But not the man I longed to please.”
“Your father?” she asked gingerly, as if fearing the answer for young Henrik.
The clouds drifted along, untouchable. “His face was like stone.”
“Oh dear. Why?”
Henrik ran his fingers into the grass beside him, the blades tender and easily crushed. “He said I could row faster than that. But I had a comfortable lead, and I didn’t want to embarrass the other boys. They were older than I. They were my friends.”
He jammed his finger into the ground in time with the words in his memory. “My father roared at me. ‘Friends? No, they’re competition. Until you learn that, you’ll never measure up.’”
“Oh, Hemming.” Else’s hand covered his.
He shook his head in the grass. “In that moment I decided I never wanted to measure up. Not if it meant abandoning compassion and sportsmanship and friendship.”
“I agree.”
“I backed up, backed away from my father, all the way to the lake. I jumped in my scull and rowed harder and faster and better than ever before. Not for my father. For myself. To get as far away from my father and his standards as I could. In many ways, I never stopped rowing.”
Else rolled her fingers around his, relaxing them. “I wouldn’t like you at all if you’d become the man your father wanted you to be.”
He met her gaze. “You also wouldn’t like the man I did become, the man I was three years ago.”
She gave a sad little smile. “No, I wouldn’t.”
But there she was, playing with his fingers. She seemed to like him a bit now, and that emboldened him. He ran his thumb along the length of her finger. “And now?”
She ducked her head and shrugged, but her smile deepened.
