“Why?” I asked. “What—”
“Oh, Jam. What do you know of him—besides his name?”
“He’s a famous opera singer, is he not?”
“And—?”
“He’s Italian?”
“And—?” His face was nearly in mine. “The most famous singer…of…his…type.” He leaned back in his chair, grinning at me. “Jam,” he said, “he’s a castrato.”
“No,” I said. “Oh God, what…?”
“What do you say to our poor Miss Kent? You simply tell her you made a slip of the tongue, that you meant to say ‘Andrea Nozzari’ instead. I think she’s actually heard him sing. She will be impressed; she might even forget about the Farinelli thing.”
“No. Oh God no.” How could I face her now? “I should pack up and leave.”
He took hold of my arm. “Don’t be ridiculous. By this evening, we will all be laughing—she will be, and you too, I imagine. It’s not a fatal mistake, you know.”
Not fatal, no, of course, but still—in Carrot’s own words, I would be the laughingstock of the evening.
“Jam,” Carrot went on, his twinkling eyes boring into mine, “I have seen you in many a daring and brave act. This is simply another kind of bravery: hold your head up and admit to error, force a laugh if you must, and move on. Others only get the best of us when they sense a weakness. One can never hurt a man who refuses to be hurt.”
“But what can I say to her?” I asked.
“You will find the words,” he said, motioning with his hand. “Go; it will only be harder the longer you wait.”
I left the room and walked slowly across the hall and into the drawing room, my mind scrabbling for something to say. Miss Kent was seated at the pianoforte, playing a simple tune that seemed familiar. She didn’t glance up even when I was nearly beside her. “I made a mistake,” I said, all other possible excuses failing me. “I should have said Nozzari.”
She nodded solemnly. “I agree, a better choice.” She looked at me then, her eyes merry. “A much better choice. Shall we begin?”
She was a delightful teacher, never taking herself, or the music, too seriously. She said I was a natural musician, and I, flattered, standing at the pianoforte, gazing down at her graceful hands, fell a bit in love.
In the meantime, Miss Gilpatrick popped her head in and out of the drawing room as she arranged a picnic luncheon. I drove the pony cart, with the two ladies as passengers, and Carrot and Rowland ahead on horseback, leading the way. It was a lovely day, the sky the deeper blue of early autumn, the leaves of the trees beginning to turn to yellow, the farm laborers in the midst of mowing and reaping. One could well imagine Constable just over the next ridge, or perhaps down in the dale ahead, painting the scene.
We picnicked under an ancient oak, and I flirted a bit with Miss Kent. She smiled, amused, I now imagine, at my clumsy, boyish attempts. We all talked desultorily until one and then another dozed off, even Miss Kent, with Carrot’s head on her lap. But I was infatuated with the day and with my presence there, and I could not think of wasting a moment of it in sleep. Instead, I wandered off on my own, following a path that might have been a sheep trail and whose end was a mystery to me, making it all the more intriguing. I found myself eventually at the bottom of a fell, which I climbed in order to take in the view, and was rewarded with a vast expanse of meadows and fields, ending, at the horizon, with a dark escarpment that I took to be the beginning of the moor. Beyond, I knew, would be the North Sea. I had, as yet, never seen the sea, and the knowledge that it was just there, not so very far away, excited me. I realized, looking off at what seemed like the edge of beyond, how desperate I was for a new life, for Jamaica, for the world to open to me.
Turning back, I saw Carrot not far behind, apparently having followed the same path as I. By the time I returned to the foot of the fell, he was nearly upon me. “I wondered where you had gone,” he said in greeting.
“You can see the moors from up there!”
“Jam, there are moors all around.”
“But not those, not so vast,” I responded.
Carrot grinned and hooked his arm in mine as we headed back. “If you stay another day, we could take ourselves over there.”
“I can’t,” I said.
“You can do whatever you choose.”
Carrot could. He had independence, a home, good friends. “Someday,” I said. “But Mr. Wilson has been like a father to me; I owe him this, to take charge until the mill is sold.”
“Surely you will come back for a visit, before you sail for Jamaica,” he said.
“I will,” was all I could say. I could not be sure how, but I knew I’d give anything to spend more days like this one.
But Carrot was not finished. “Your brother is really a rather decent chap, once you get to know him.” Somehow Carrot had always been able to read my mind. He slung his arm across my shoulders. “Do you remember the time you tried to pummel me to death?”
