“Quite so,” Ryan said. Her skin tingled, thinking of the heated water, and the cool air, and the thrill of bathing in an actual waterfall. She wanted to try it—in fact, she couldn’t remember wanting the simple pleasures of warmth and cleanliness more—but she felt suddenly shy and uncertain. How did one transition from uninvited guest to... tobather? Undressed and splashing about in an underground waterfall? In the home of one’s estranged fiancé? It was so unimaginable; it was like guessing the procedure for spinning straw into gold.
“Could I trouble you for a... a towel that I might use for...” Ryan scrambled for the correct word “...for after?”
He stalked to a cupboard in the bedroom and returned with a white towel. It appeared well worn but clean. He held it out to her. Ryan accepted it. He did not leave. Together, they stared at the waterfall. A tendril of steam unfurled between them.
“And sorry,” she ventured again, “is there... soap?”
“There’s a ledge beside the spray of water. Do you see it? There is soap on that ledge.”
“Oh, lovely. All of this is very welcome, indeed.My wound is almost healed, I assure you; but I’d be lying if I said a warm waterfall didn’t sound very therapeutic.”
More staring.
“After I’ve stepped into it,” she went on, “can I trouble you to, er, collect my dress and hang it by the fire? Even five minutes of heat would do it well, I think. I’ll just leave it—”
She glanced around.
“On the floor? Shall I?” she suggested. “It will soil your bedding if I lay it out.”
“I’ve a woman who comes several times a month to tend to the laundry and the floors. Please do not worry about the house.”
Ryan stared in the direction of the bed. Would it be too much to ask, she wondered, to request a change of clothes? She glanced back to him, clutching the towel.
“But can I impose on you for an old nightshirt or dressing gown that I might wear for sleeping...” She let the sentence trail off.
He made a second silent trip to the cupboard and returned with a folded garment in white linen. A man’s night shirt. She stacked it on top of the towel.
Ryan waited a beat, hoping he would say or do something to facilitate how she might go from standing there, clutching linens, to splashing about in his waterfall. It was a vain hope. He was silent. He was nothing if not consistent.
“Are you afraid?” he asked finally.
“Oh no—not afraid, more like uncertain. We bathe in a large copper tub at Winscombe. And when we swim, it’s in the Atlantic Ocean.”
He shook his head. “This is like standing in a warmsummer rain, only better. Here—sit on this ledge.” He pointed to a shallow ridge of rock beside the waterfall.
“Now?” she heard herself ask.
“I’ll show you,” he said.
Still clutching the towel and nightshirt, Ryan settled on the ledge. The mist was thicker here, more like fog. Warm droplets dampened her face. She could feel her hair growing heavier, absorbing the moisture. A fine sheen of condensation settled on her dress and her hem soaked up water at her feet. She snatched up her skirts, exposing her ankles.
“Wait,” he said, frowning, “but have you worn your shoes?”
“Oh, well I’d not yet— You marched me here from the paddock.”
“First rule of the waterfall,” he said, taking a knee in front of her. “No shoes.”
While Ryan watched, he took up her heel and tugged off her left shoe. She’d not bothered with stockings, and her bare foot slid free. She settled it on the damp stone floor and he reached for the other foot, tugging at her shoe.
“The floor is so warm,” she said.
“The hot spring heats the rock.” He set her shoes away from the water. “Now put it in,” he said.
“In?”
“Put your foot beneath the spray.”
Ryan cinched her skirts higher and tentatively extended one foot to the stream of water.
