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“Enough of this.” Deighton’s square-jawed face reddened. “What’s good is an unobstructed path.” He began to flick the lever on his bell.
“Mr. Deighton.” James ignored the tinny noise. “Some physicians believe that cycling decreases indigestion, but increases chronic diseases of the heart and arteries.”
“For God’s sake, clear the way!” Deighton fairly bellowed it. “I have the heart of an ox!”
“And I have a sphygmograph at the hotel.” James clapped his hands. “I’d love to study your pulse. Butterfield’s too, if he’s amenable, and whoever else.”
Deighton tipped dangerously and compensated with a rather savage jerk of the wheel. “Mr. Raleigh,” he snarled, in a lower voice. “Please assist the lady in clearing her bicycle from the path.”
“It’s not my bicycle,” said Muriel. “It’s Mr. Griffith’s.”
“What?” Deighton’s eyes bulged. “You’re joking.”
Muriel glanced at Griffith. He stood beside James, on the edge of the path, looking faintly—rakishly—amused.
They’d kissed.
She was now Muriel of the slight seduction. Muriel of ticklish regions unknown.
Mortifying.
At least she’d shocked James.
She wasn’t gawking at Griffith. Was she?
“It is my fault the bicycle’s in the path.” She snapped her eyes back to Deighton. “I stepped in front of Mr. Griffith, and he tried to avoid me and was thrown into the field.”
“I don’t know what’s more disgraceful.” Deighton stared down at Griffith with a horrified sneer. “Riding a safety, or getting yourself unseated.”
“It didn’t seem particularly safe,” observed Muriel, and bent to right the bicycle. It was surprisingly heavy, the metal frame warmed by the sun. Griffith was there in an instant, taking it from her hands.
“Starley & Sutton’s latest,” he said. “The Rover. Their finest machine yet.”
Even upright, his bicycle was dwarfed by Deighton’s.
He patted the leather saddle. “They call these low-mount models safeties. The Rover has direct steering. A chain drive. Wheels of roughly equal size. It’s going to revolutionize cycling.”
“Ruin cycling, you mean.” Sweat was rolling over Deighton’s brow as he jerked his handlebars from side to side. “It’s a sport. It’s not for women, children, or the elderly, or the infirm. They can recreate, within limits, on tricycles and safeties. But real cycling necessitates an ordinary, a high wheeler, like this one. Real cycling is for men with dexterity and skill. The day we cease to value the achievements of the strong so we can cater to the whims of the weak—that day is the day I die. The day our society dies.”
“I wish I had my sphygmograph now,” murmured James. “Mr. Deighton, I can hear your circulatory system.”
“I hire out Rovers.” Griffith addressed himself to James. “If you want to try one yourself.” His gaze brushed Muriel’s. “Either of you.”
“You are the proprietor of the St. Ives bicycle shop?” Deighton listed precipitously and came back to equilibrium with notable strain. His thighs looked ready to burst the seams of his knickerbockers. “I saw the advertisement. You give lessons! And you can’t even ride.”
“I can ride.” Griffith shrugged.
“Riding a safety—even if you aren’t unseated—isn’t riding.”
“I can ride a high wheeler as well. I’ve raced high wheelers. I have three at the shop.”
Deighton lit up. “A competition, then.”
“You want to race?” Griffith’s brows lifted. “There’s no track. We could—”
“Joust!” crowed Deighton.
“Joust,” echoed James. “As in, joust?” He cut his eyes toward Muriel. “Aren’t you glad I brought my surgical bag now? I say, old boy.” He looked back at Deighton. “Do you always travel with lances?”
