Page 43 of Across Time

"How did it go tonight?" Marie asks when she gets home. "Henri was not awful?"

I blink. The truth is that Henri has not been awful in a while, but it feels like something I don’t quite want to admit. "No more so than ever."

“How did you keep the kitchen so clean?” she asks. “You can’t sweep with the crutches.”

A surly voice in my head retorts yes, the crutches I need because of you, but I no longer feel quite as much rancor about it. "We ate outside, actually."

Her eyes go wide. "You did?"

"At that hay bale on the far side of the barn, where the sun sets."

She is speechless for a moment. And then, finally, a small smile. "A picnic? Well," she says. "Well."

17

The following weekend, Marie-Therese and Henri decide there's no way I can avoid mass again, as telling the village I’m not Catholic—my suggestion—would apparently be far worse than skipping mass.

So on Sunday, instead of sleeping in—not that there seems to be much sleeping in here ever—I rise early to don the hose and the blue dress and curl my hair. All the effort—plus wearing garters, gloves and a hat—no longer seems strange to me. I feel frilly and girly, but as long as no one from home can witness it, I don't mind.

When I leave my room, Henri is waiting, lean and handsome in his suit, comfortable in his skin and the fine clothes. He looks like a man who attended Oxford: intelligent and arrogant and confident, certain of his place in the world. I envy him that.

He stands when I enter the room, eyes tripping over the dress to the shoes. He swallows. "I suppose you'll do,” he says with half a grin.

I’m beginning to think that the more he approves, the less willing he is to say so. But would it kill him to compliment me just once? "You're such an asshole."

A brow raises as he heads toward the door. "I know it's asking a great deal, but if you could perhaps restrain your foul mouth and sharp tongue during mass, I'd greatly appreciate it."

I slowly raise my eyes to his. "Just because you don't curse much doesn't mean your tongue is any less sharp than mine."

His mouth tips up in an arrogant smirk. "Except I've had no complaints about my tongue so far."

I slide my gloves on and flash him a smile. "The only females I’ve seen you near since I arrived are livestock. Just because you can’t understand them doesn’t mean they’re not complaining."

He walks out the door, choking on a laugh.

Marie comes downstairs just then. "You look like the cat who got the cream," she says with narrowed eyes, observing me.

I exhale. "I'm always a little happier when Henri leaves the room."

"Hmmm," she replies, still narrow-eyed. "So you claim."

* * *

Henri drives into town and parks on the street. When I reach for the door, he casts me a warning glance. "Open that door yourself and I'll break your other ankle too."

He grabs my crutches from the trunk. "What a strange world you live in,” I say, when he finally reaches me and performs the heroic feat of turning a handle to release me from the car, “where it's not appropriate for me to open a door, but it is appropriate for you to threaten me with bodily harm."

"Have I ever touched a hair on your head?" he asks, opening Marie's door next.

"That would be a more convincing argument if you hadn't held me at gunpoint."

Marie groans. "Will you two not even stop on a Sunday?"

She marches ahead of us and Henri comes to my side. “You started that one,” he says.

"You know, I'm not argumentative by nature," I reply. "You just bring it out in me."

"Likewise." He glances my way. The sunlight hides his expression. "So you and Mark never fight?"