“Esther Dawes,” she told him, with a smile. “And I believe you’ve already had the pleasure of Reginald Ruffington’s acquaintance.”
“I . . . what?”
Esther pointed at the dog, who was gambolling around them in wide, gleeful circles. “My late husband’s notion. He had the oddest ideas about what was amusing.”
“Oh, right, yes, because watching some poor fool fall face-first into a stream is the epitome of wit.”
She chuckled. “We deserved each other.”
There was a pause. Micha frowned, trying to remember how ordinary people spoke. How you conveyed the right sort of things, how you cared and showed you cared. What was too much and what was not enough. It had been so long since conversation had not been imposition or transaction. “Sorry for your loss and ... all that.”
“So am I, Michael, so am I.”
“Uh, you want to tell me about him or something?”
“You’re a sweet boy. But no. I wouldn’t bore either of us with that.”
“I wouldn’t be bored,” he lied. In that, at least, he was well practised. “And I’m twenty-three and a half, nearly twenty-four, you know, so you can stop calling me ‘boy.’”
“My heavens. Twenty-three and a half? Ancient. Practically dead yourself.”
“I should have let you chase your own damn dog.”
“Take some advice from an old, old lady, Michael.” She smirked up at him. “If you want anyone to take your claims of maturity seriously, don’t calculate your age in fractions.”
She had led him through the other side of the meadow and down a narrow lane, edged by clusters of yarrow and teasel, pink and white pockets amid the fading yellow-green. The first of the village cottages lay just beyond—he could just about make out sunlit stone and thatched roofs, the occasional tangle of ivy and climbing roses. It was so fuckingpicturesque Micha would have scoffed had he not been feeling quite so drenched and shivery.
“Nearly there, dear. We’ll soon have you right as rain again.”
“I’ve been ill.” Micha scowled. “That’s the only reason I—” He gave a violent sneeze.
“Yes, yes, Michael.”
Esther hustled him along until they came to a simple square cottage in the same elegant slate-and-ironstone style as the rectory and wreathed in dark-yellow wisteria. As soon as they approached, a door popped open across the street and a woman came flying towards them, like a frigate under full sail. Panting a little, she came to a halt, glancing expectantly from Esther to Micha and then back to Esther again.
“Michael,” said Esther, in rather dry accents, “this is my dear friend Ada Stanton. Ada, this is Michael Dashwood.”
She was about twenty years younger than Esther, with a comfortable peaches-and-cream prettiness. “How thrilling.” Her eyes roamed over him with avid interest.
“Ruff was so disobliging as to pull him into the brook,” explained Esther.
“I shall lend my assistance!” cried Ada immediately.
They hurried him into Esther’s house, and Ada peeled him out of his coat while Esther made up the fire.
“Um,” said Micha awkwardly, “I can—”
“Oh, do stop getting in the way, Ada.” Esther tugged at her friend’s arm.
“But we should get him out of these damp things at once.”
“For which he does not need your assistance.”
Ada put a hand to her heart and heaved a deep sigh. “But one sees so few drenched young men these days.”
“Well, find your own and push him in the stream yourself.”
Micha, who thought himself far beyond such things, actually blushed. The truth was, he was unaccustomed to the attentions of ladies, and he had no idea how he was supposed to react.
