Her father and Mrs. Cartwright blinked.
Catherine found herself reflexively standing.
And then, without another word, she turned, walked out of the kitchen, and out of the house entirely.
Because some emotions were too big to be felt at a breakfast table. They required the whole of the blue sky and miles of unfurling green and movement.
Once out there she walked and walked. Faster, and faster. Until she was running. Because some great weight on her spirit had finally shifted and dissolved.
She wanted to cavort.
Perhaps roll down a clover-covered hill.
Finally she did twirl a little, arms straight out, for the pleasure of feeling the rush of country air sift through her fingertips.
He loved her.
Hedidlove her.
And all along, she’d thought that he’d been willing to fight for everyone except her. When the truth was he was willing to fight for everyone except himself. He had tirelessly done all of his own fighting for so long, and that included battling his feelings for her.
How he must be suffering to call to her so in that speech. A speech the whole of England, in essence, had heard. How magnificently bloody clever of him.
With his marriage proposal he had tried to claim her in a way that protected his terribly wounded heart.
How had she not seen it?
She’d saidneverto him and he’d stood like a man killed. Her stomach turned in on itself as she relived the perpetration of such a cruelty.
But the fact that he had delivered that speech meant that he hadn’t believed her. Not completely.
So she forgave herself. In the storm of emotion and pride and hurt feelings in the aftermath of the gossip, she had been unable to seeanythingclearly. She had no experience at all with this sort of thing, after all. And theybothhad botched things.
But how simple it all seemed now—if they loved each other, she knew there was nothing they couldn’t face.
The winning is in the fighting, he’d said. He was a man who simply did not give up. He might not have fought for her a few months ago.
But he was fighting for her now.
And she could meet him halfway.
A little over a fortnight after he’d given the Clover Speech, Kirke encountered Pangborne on the street just as he was leaving a pub in which he’d taken lunch.
They greeted each other with genuine pleasure that surprised both of them.
And then Kirke took a sustaining breath to gather nerve. “I’m glad I saw you today. I’ve been wanting to thank you for your book recommendation. My son lovesRob Roy.”
Pangborne went motionless. “Your son?”
To his credit, he managed not to inflect it with anything like shock. He said it almost gently.
“He’s seventeen years old. We’ve met only lately. But I’m very proud of him. The feeling is not yet mutual,” he said dryly.
Pangborne took this in silently for a second or two, during which Kirke’s heartbeat ratcheted up in speed. Finally he said, “Take it from this parent: no matter what you do, it may never be, Kirke. And even if it is, he may not ever tell you.”
It wasn’t atalleasy. It did not come naturally. But Kirke told him, very matter-of-factly and in just a few sentences, how Leo had come into the world: a youthful romance gone awry, a happy enough ending. And that the current relationships between all parties were civilized and congenial. He was paying for his son to attend college.
He was determined that thusly he would rob the gossip sheets of the air needed to kindle any more rumors. And anyone who bothered his son would need to answer to him.
