Page 87 of The Spy and the Nightingale
“I’ve spoken with Lucy,” she said rather more abruptly than she intended.
“I thought you might have done.” His eyes were grave once more.
“She is agreeable, if you wish to stay here for a time. Lucy trusts my judgment of your character. I’ve brought the cart today. Unless you’ve reconsidered my offer, of course. As is entirely your right.” She was in danger of babbling. She laid a hand to her throat as if by doing so she could halt the nervous flow of words.
“Whatisyour judgment of my character?” So softly for so stern a man.
A simple question, but there was no simple answer, not for a man of his complexity.
Her own voice was not much above a whisper. “You never once betrayed my trust in the midst of so many necessary deceptions. I trust you still.” She drew a bracing breath before saying the rest. “And I’ve thought of you often too.”
Something in his eyeslit.“I accept.”
He had not brought much with him: a valise, a small trunk, a rifle, and a wooden crate. All were quickly loaded into her cart.
The crate, heavy for its size, contained books. She refrained from giddily asking in what languagesthosewere written. Bumping along behind her placid pony, the stiff breeze in their faces bringing the wet salt scent of the sea with it, she remarked, “I suppose before too long you’ll add some Scots to your linguisticrepertoire, especially if you engage in many more conversations with Mr. Bairden.”
“Aye, if I stay long enough to absorb it.”
How long did it take him, learning a new language by ear? She’d meant the comment lightly, but it was a sobering realization that he might not stay however long he needed to acquire a new language.
She had determinedly not allowed herself to feel any loss last autumn. Had refused to assign significance to something of such short duration. She’d known him such a short time in France, after all. Eight days!
And she’d barely recognized herself in Paris: embroiling herself in intrigues that took her to gambling hells and licentious clubs, posing as mistress to an immoral man—not that Beaumont was the true version of Nathaniel. Taking Nathaniel as lover. No, more than that: initiating it, when she never dreamt herself capable of so casual a liaison, one predicated purely on sexual desire rather than love. Surely that wasn’t truly her, was it? She could not imagine behaving that way now. Not even with him in front of her once more.
But she’d also had a glimpse last autumn of a future that could be hers, sweeter than ever she’d anticipated after so much loss, so much grief. Could she trust that though? Was that recollection the truth, or was it something her mind had constructed to excuse her out-of-character actions?
It seemed all she’d truly done these past six months was pack away the memories in a quiet corner of her mind, largely unexamined. They flooded her now, every moment her mind was not fully occupied with something else, and she wasn’t sure what to do with them.
Yesterday on a windy rock above the Solway, watching Nathaniel approach, the careful foundation she had laid these last months cracked. No, not merely cracked.
Split wide open, totally and irrevocably.
Unlike the previous day, Lucy Muir did not vacate the cottage upon Nate’s arrival. Her demeanor suggested neither unease nor comfort; he could read nothing from her at all.
His possessions were unloaded, and the cart put away and pony tended. Before he settled into the sisters’ spare room, however, it was best the two of them spoke openly with one another. Or as openly as she was willing to engage.
“Will you walk with me, Miss Muir?”
A look passed between the women. “I’ve not Isobel’s fondness for the heugh,” Miss Muir said, “but I’ll walk the shore path with you once I’ve fetched a bonnet.”
He did not offer his arm; he suspected she would not wish to take it. And although it was at his suggestion they walked, he gave her first opportunity to speak.
“It would be rather strange for you to continue calling me Miss Muir given theinformalcircumstances of our introduction. Although of course I was not introduced to you with your true name,” she added drily. “I cannot even recall what name it was you used.”
“That name little matters. It was, as you know, fictional.” He chose his next words with care. “But I will not presume informality based upon the circumstances under which we met. Calling you Miss Muir is a matter of respect.”
“Respect,” she repeated. “Very well, I accept that for you, it is so.”
“Would you prefer I call you otherwise?”
She considered the question before answering. “You may call me Lucy.”
“Aye, as you like.”
“Isobel calls you by your given name.” The observation was offered without inflection, but he suspected deep emotion underlaid it. What, precisely, he could not discern.
“You may also, if you wish.”
