He forced a smile, refusing to let his mother stain the moment. “It was a long time ago. I was so young that I don’t remember him.” He gazed at the peaceful river, wanting to absorb its tranquility.
“In some ways, not remembering can be more painful. I lost my mama the day I was born, and sometimes the loss feels almost too much to bear. It seems unjust that I didn’t know her and that she didn’t even get a chance to hold me.”
“If I’ve learned anything, it’s that life isn’t fair,” Henry felt the bitterness return. “And oftentimes there’s nothing we can do to change that.”
“I disagree,” she said. “I think one ought to take control of one’s life. Even when it seems impossible, there’s always a way.”
“What about situations that occurred before you were born? How is one to do anything about those?”
“You can’t do anything about past situations, but you can take charge of the future. I can’t change losing my mama at birth, but I can try to live a good life. That’s what she would have wanted.”
Henry frowned into the distance. He wished it were that simple.
“Listen to us!”—Annabel laughed as if sensing Henry’s mood had darkened—“It’s such a lovely day, and here we are dwelling on unpleasant memories.”
“You’re right,” he said, relieved to leave the past behind. “Here I am in an oasis with a charming lady, and all I can do is brood. Forgive me.”
They walked in comfortable silence along the riverbank, listening to the rippling water and chirping birds, until they arrived at a small bridge where bent willows lined the bank and kissed the water as if in reverence to the Great Stour.
“This is my favorite place,” Annabel said.
They mounted the bridge and watched a family of ducks dive for food.
“Oh, look at that one.” She pointed to one of the ducklings, struggling to get out of the water and onto the bank.
Henry shared her laughter but could not keep his eyes on the ducks. While she watched them, he watched her, mesmerized by her long, dark lashes and perfectly arched brows, and captivated by the sensual curve of her lips.
“What is it?” She glanced up at him, her cheeks a lovely shade of pink. “Is something out of place?” She touched her awkwardly-pinned chignon, hidden under a blue satin tail that extended from the dainty bonnet perched on her forehead.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “Nothing at all.”
“But you’ve been staring at me. There must be something.”
“I didn’t realize,” he said. “I couldn’t help myself.”
The color in her cheeks deepened. She averted her gaze to the water. Pressing her lips together, she suppressed the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth.
The moment brought a passage from one of Coleridge’s poems to his mind:She listened with a flitting blush, / With downcast eyes, and modest grace; /And she forgave me, that I gazed/ Too fondly on her face!
It saddened him to think he’d lost the inclination to write his own lines about such an experience. And for the first time in two years, he felt the tug of creativity—the force deep inside him that compelled him to write. Then just as swiftly, he pushed it aside. Acknowledging that desire—worse, claiming it—meant owning the imposter and giving up his father.
“Something’s upset you,” she said.
“Not at all; I’m fine.”
But it hadn’t been a question, and she continued to watch him, her brows slightly furrowed.
“I was thinking about a poem. By Coleridge, that’s all. It popped into my mind.”
“Do you read a lot of poetry?” She inclined her head in question.
“I dabbled in writing it for a while—” he forced a smile—“but that was a long time ago.”
“Do you have any? Poems, I mean. I should like to read your work.”
“Not anymore,” he said, wondering what her reaction would be if she knew that two years ago, he’d been offered publication and refused, choosing to slip safely into obscurity instead.
He ran a hand over his face and looked down at her. He should apologize for his forwardness and offer to see her home, but he could not take back his words. It was the most honest he’d been in a long time. He didn’t want to part from her—not yet.
