“You’d rather I hide my desire for you or go about ignoring you like the barrister? A husband for the sunny days, never for the rain?”
He stomped to the doorway but stopped.This is not how this should go.
Clever Ruth had baited him. “I’m a passionate man, Ruth, but you are everything. I’ll do or be what you say: friend or lover. I’m not innocent. I have secrets—big ones that eat at me, but it’s all to keep you safe. I think you need safety more than anything. I can give that to you.”
A crash and then a scream sailed through the garden.
“Chris!” Ruth ran but stopped halfway.
Wycliff dashed past her, faster than a sjambok’s snap head, straight to Mrs. Bexeley.
The fish pond. The birdbath had fallen from its pedestal.
Christopher’s aunt had set her own baby down in the grass and was drenched, standing in the pond trying to keep Chris’s chin above water.
“Frog,” the boy said, taking in another mouth full of the soup, then his sobs matched Mrs. Bexeley.
Wycliff pushed into the pond. Holding his breath, he stuck his face into the water and moved leaves and flowers. The boy’s pinafore and his foot were wedged under the fallen birdbath bowl.
He reared up. “Keep his head above the water, Mrs. Bexeley.”
Gulping another breath, he knelt in the pond. Crouching down, he lifted the bowl and then the pedestal shaft and unhooked the caught pinafore. He tossed pieces of the broken bowl off the boy’s foot and pulled the sopping wet boy to his chest. “I have him, Mrs. Bexeley.”
Then he looked to Ruth. “Christopher is safe. I have him.”
He stood up straight and helped the soaked Mrs. Bexeley out of the pond.
The boy put his wet arms about Wycliff’s neck.
Mrs. Bexeley picked up her screaming baby. “I took my eyes off him for a minute.”
“Boys know how to get into trouble.” He came over and poked his wet finger at the little one. “Watch this one, too. Boys know how to scare their mothers. Christopher, let’s take you to yours.”
Wycliff looked up and started running again. Ruth was on the path to the pond but in the same spot he’d sped past her.
He put his arm about her waist. His arms were wet. He’d made her beautiful gown wet. But like a sailor paralyzed by the aftermath of a battle, she needed to move. She needed to awaken from this fog. “Your son is well, Ruth. Christopher, tell your mother you are sorry.”
“I wanted the frog, Mama. I jumped. He jumped.”
Tears streamed down her face.
Get her below, pull her to the hull, the entry of the Croomes’ house.“Come on, Christopher. Let’s get your mother back to the house.”
He towed Ruth all the way until they stood in the hall.
“I knew you’d get to him.” Her voice was muffled against his lapel. “I knew you would.”
He drew her closer and put the lad into his mother’s arms.
She sank to the floor, holding on to Chris like he’d slip away.
This moment felt private, with Ruth repeating her words of gratitude.
Could he belong to it? He truly wanted to. He had to.
Kneeling, he put his arms about them both. When he looked into the boy’s brown eyes and swooped his hand through Christopher’s fine, wet hair, he was grateful, too.
“Ruth, you need to get him out of these damp clothes. He can’t get the sniffles again.”
