Page 84 of The Summer Country

Yes, she knew what Dr. Braithwaite had said about Bridgetown in the hot season, but it was hot here as well, as far as she could tell. The sooner they left, the better. Surely Adam and Laura must be bored by now?

“Thank you,” she called after Queenie, then lifted her beribboned skirts and went to find Laura.

Laura wasn’t in her room or lying on the veranda. Emily finally found her in the garden, in a shaded bower where bright-petaled flowers grew and vines had been trained over a trellis overhead, creating a fragrant canopy.

George sat at her feet, still in his riding things, a book in his hand, his hat discarded beside him.

“I love thee to the level of every day’s / Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. / I love thee freely, as men strive for right.”

“Laura?”

George stumbled to his feet, stepping on his own hat in the process. “Oh, hullo. We were just reading.”

Laura sat in the shade of the bower, one hand, Emily noticed, lying lightly on her stomach. “It’s a book called Sonnets from the Portuguese. By a lady,” she added.

“Why from the Portuguese?” asked Emily.

George looked to Laura. “I’m not sure, really. Do you know?” Without waiting for an answer, he scooped up his maltreated hat and set the small volume reverently beside Laura on the bench. “I’ll leave you. I’ve a dozen tasks left undone.”

“You’ll find me those ledgers?” Emily prompted.

“The . . . ? Oh yes, certainly.” George took himself off in a flurry.

Laura, without comment, scooted her skirts closer to her, making room for Emily on the bench.

Emily settled herself beside her, disconcerted by the familiarity of it all. How often had they sat together like this, Laura with a volume of poetry in her hand, closed over one finger, as Emily held forth about this and that? But now Emily found the words stunted on her lips; she felt strangely uneasy in the company of her best and oldest friend.

“Did you have a good ride?” Laura asked as the silence lengthened.

“It was very hot,” said Emily. “Dr. Braithwaite is running a surgery from Peverills.”

“I should think you would enjoy that,” said Laura, looking at Emily tolerantly, and, for a brief moment, everything was as it had been again.

Emily twisted the locket on its ribbon around her throat. “Well, yes. But I’d rather thought we might stay in the bookkeeper’s house while I dealt with putting the plantation back into order, and if Dr. Braithwaite has his surgery there . . .”

Two fine lines appeared between Laura’s brows. “Stay at the bookkeeper’s house?”

It wasn’t how she’d intended to broach the topic. “We’ve rather overstayed our welcome at Beckles, haven’t we?”

Laura sat upright, the poetry book forgotten. “Has Mrs. Davenant asked us to go?”

“No! Quite the contrary. She seems perfectly happy to have us cluttering up her drawing room until the sound of the last trump. But you know what Grandfather always said, ‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be. . . .’”

“That was Polonius,” said Laura flatly. “In Hamlet. Your grandfather’s whole business was built on borrowing and lending.”

“Not his whole business. . . .” Emily shoved her carefully arranged hair back behind her ears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to distress you.”

“I’m not distressed,” said Laura, in a voice that, to Emily, gave the lie to the statement. Others might see Laura as reserved, but Emily knew all the little tricks of her tone, the silences that spoke louder than words. Laura was very distressed, indeed.

“It was just a thought. I—I’ve been worried about you. You haven’t been yourself.” Emily looked hopefully at Laura, willing her to say something. “Are you sure you’re quite all right?”

“Quite.” Laura stood, putting out a hand against the trellis to steady herself. A few petals drifted down about their heads. “Shall we go in? I should like to rest.”

As far as Emily could see, Laura’s day was one continuous rest, but it was clear that the topic was closed. “Do you know when Adam will be back from Bridgetown?”

“Adam will return when he sees fit to return.” Laura’s hands tightened on the volume of poetry. “Why?”

“No reason. I had something I wanted to ask him. It’s not important.”