Page 21 of A Shore Thing

“Have I got your name down correctly?” Arthur Hawkings from the newspaper pushed between them, shoving his notepad under Deighton’s nose. “Colin Deighton, from Bristol? Your bicycle club is the Mutton Wheelers?”

Deighton stiffened. “Colin Deighton, Captain.” He stroked his hand over his badges. “You’re not going to write that I lost the joust? In the paper? I’ll sue for defamatory libel.”

Hawkings withdrew the notepad. “I’m happy to quote you as refusing to concede defeat. Any quote from you, Griffith?”

Kit shrugged, except his shoulders didn’t move. He felt as though a bag of sand weighed them down.

Ponsonby’s voice was repeating in his head, making it difficult to concentrate on what was being said around him. A week and a half. A week and a half.

He could picture Lucy, Gwen, and Nelly marching toward him, their skirts snapping around their ankles.

“You should write about our club run.” Deighton thrust his chin at Hawkings. “I’ve been planning it for months. We’ll be the first to circle Cornwall, coast-to-coast. We’re going west to Land’s End, south to the Lizard, east to Kingsand, north to Bude, west again to St. Ives. Ten days of riding over sandy road, and mud, and stone. Griffith wouldn’t last on his safety.”

“Is that a challenge?” Hawkings asked. There was a little hush.

Challenge?

“Not much of one.” Kit focused. “I could do that ride on a safety with no hands.”

Deighton laughed. “Only if you grasped onto my coat so I could tug you along. But I doubt you could reach.”

“The safety is low to the ground.” Kit acknowledged the obvious. “But that makes it faster than the ordinary. You’re not so much buffeted by the wind, and your position relative to the pedals allows you to exert more force with less fatigue. I could complete your tour.” He paused. “And so could any of the riding students I’ve trained, women as well as men.”

“Women?” Deighton laughed. “Women circling Cornwall on two wheels?”

“That’s what I said.”

Deighton returned his cap to his head, yanking down on the brim. “Here is the challenge, then. We leave Tuesday after next. If Griffith can train up a lady who completes the ride with us…” Deighton’s expression darkened as he thought. “The Mutton Wheelers will switch to safeties and admit female members. And if she doesn’t complete the ride, or if it takes her longer than ten days…”

“I’ll turn over my business.” The roaring in Kit’s ears quieted. He felt, suddenly, as though he stood in the eye of the storm of his life.

Lucy was coming to St. Ives.

He’d ride an infinite gyre if it meant he could avoid her.

“I’ll take the bets!” someone shouted, to a smattering of loud guffaws.

Deighton’s hand swooped at Kit like a hungry gull.

“Who’s the intrepid lady?” Hawkings flipped to the next page of his notepad, pencil poised.

“Excuse me. Coming through.” The crowd rippled. Kit turned. A breathless woman in a straw hat drew up to him. She wore no shooting boots today.

“I am the intrepid lady,” she said. “Muriel Pendrake.”

—

Muriel’s declaration was still hanging in the air when a furious farmer appeared out of nowhere, flanked by two equally furious dairymaids.

“Man alive!” one of the dairymaids cried. “Where are the cows? They ’aven’t broke loose?”

“Lor!” cried the other. “They ’ave!”

In the commotion that followed, Muriel was separated from Griffith, carried along as the crowd streamed for the fence. When she’d attained the road, she turned about, scanning for James. He wasn’t doctoring, was he? Deighton didn’t require medical attention, but perhaps that poor farmer had fallen into a fit. Dozens of shoulders, heads, and hats blocked her view of the pasture. She realized people were looking at her, their gazes curious, or—in the cases of several ladies—frankly envious.

Well, she’d made a spectacle of herself, volunteering to tour around Cornwall on a bicycle with a pack of rowdy yahoos and one devastatingly attractive rake. Instinct had spurred her forward. Her brain was just now catching up. Nonetheless, as she considered the ramifications of her action more coolly, she wasn’t entirely displeased. Problems proliferated, but also possibilities.

“Who wants to walk to Zennor?” A fresh-faced girl in a cotton print dress and a hat trimmed with seashells was trying to rally a contingent of similarly attired young women who, if they weren’t older, were at least doing their best to appear considerably more jaded. They smirked and yawned and fanned themselves, waiting for a preferable cue.