Page 68 of Lyon of Least Resistance

“Ha!” a voice cried from above, and he tilted his head up to see Margaret grinning at him, her hair already working loose. “I like you much better when you’re not so stuffy.”

“I’m not stuffy all the time, Meg.”

“You are when we have guests,” Margaret said. “He makes me say please and how do you do, even to people I don’t like. Have you ever had to do that, Cordelia?”

Cordelia’s smile slipped.

“I-I have, yes,” she said.

“And did you like doing it?”

“Not at all.”

James’s heart ached at the pain in his wife’s eyes—the cause of which he now understood.

“Come along, then!” Margaret said. “It’s such fun up here, and the view is wonderful higher up. You can see all the way to Fircombe. I can see the church spire just from here.”

“I’m not sure if I can climb in these shoes,” Cordelia said.

Margaret’s face fell. “Oh. Georgiana always says that.”

“I have some sturdy boots that might be better? I brought them with me, but didn’t think it would be appropriate to wear them here. They’re not very fine.”

James took his wife’s hand and caught his breath at the fizz of need as her warm fingers interlaced with his.

“Wear them,” he said. “Wear whatever you like. You’re a free woman, Cordelia.”

She met his gaze, and a flicker of understanding passed between them.

“Watch me climb higher,” Margaret said, “then, when you have your boots on, you’ll know what to do.”

Margaret leaned back and reached for the branch above. She caught it and swung outward. Then she let out a scream, lost her grip, and fell out of the tree.

Before James could move, Cordelia pushed him aside and darted toward the tree, arms outstretched. Margaret slid down the trunk, but Cordelia caught her, breaking the fall, and wrapped her arms around the little girl as they both fell to the ground.

“Margaret!” James cried.

Shaking, his sister clambered to her feet and began to cry.

“Are you all right?” Cordelia said, kneeling beside her. Margaret nodded, her lip wobbling, then Cordelia touched Margaret’s arm, and she let out a cry.

“Dear Lord!” James said. “Have you broken your arm? I’ve told you to be more careful. There’s nothing to be gained from showing off.”

“I wasn’t showing off!”

“You were—in front of Cordelia. What will she think if you cry in front of her as if you were still in the nursery? No wonder Georgiana says you’re a wild thing if you—”

“James, that’s enough,” Cordelia said. “There’s no harm done. Just a graze, isn’t that right?” She rolled up Margaret’s sleeve and inspected the girl’s arm. “It’s nothing a little salve and a bandage won’t fix,” she said. “As a child, I got scrapes and bruises all the time. And they made me cry as well. But there’s nothing wrong in crying.” She turned and fixed her gaze on James. “Crying lets those whom we trust know how we feel—it can help when we want to be safe.”

“And what if we’re not among people we trust?” Margaret said.

“Then we must never cry,” Cordelia replied, her mouth set in a firm line, her jaw bulging as if she gritted her teeth.

Once again, James shivered at the expression in his wife’s eyes. What had she endured to elicit such hardness?

But her life had been hard. To survive, she’d had to become hard herself.

Cordelia rolled Margaret’s sleeve down, then patted her hand. “Let’s get you back to the house and see if Mrs. Case has anything for you.”