Page 63 of A Shore Thing

“Nothing you could have done,” said James gamely. “Deighton serves like a cannon.”

“It didn’t help that I tripped over my own feet.”

James grinned. “You heckled well.”

“I heckled gorgeously.” Mr. Ponsonby twinkled. “I’ll give myself that.”

“Deighton was frothing.”

“I’ll reprise my best insults at the starting line.”

Muriel was following this volley in tense silence.

James caught her eye, a line appearing between his brows. “And how did you fare on your adventures? Where did you ride?”

“Zennor.” She and Griffith spoke at once.

The ensuing silence felt unbearably thick.

“Lovely,” said James. “Zennor.”

Muriel’s blush came on suddenly.

“I have to change,” she blurted. “For dinner. Won’t you all excuse me?”

She pushed the bicycle forward, causing James and Mr. Ponsonby to step apart.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then,” said Griffith. “Half past ten at Titcombe Hall.” She heard the hint of a question in his voice, but she was already past him, and she kept going, her spine far too stiff to permit even a nod of acknowledgment.

—

She spent a long while lying on the bed in her hotel room and emerged late for dinner, in an old blue dress that did little for her figure or coloring but at least covered her to the ankles.

In the dining room, she found James seated at a central table with two couples from London. They were deep in the fish course, and deeper in conversation. Something related to the Godrevy Lighthouse, and then to lighthouses more generally. She attended both the meal and her companions with but half a mind, smiling vaguely when James’s voice turned humorous, picking at the roll on her bread plate, draining her glass without tasting the wine.

As dinner concluded, and diners began to rise, Muriel felt speculative gazes turn again in her direction. Heat crept up her cheeks as a toothy, middle-aged man detached from one of the lingering parties and made a beeline for her table.

“Mrs. Pendrake,” he said. “Peter Lyons. Mark me now. I tricycle with my wife. We have a sociable, so we can sit side-by-side. She picks the destination, and I steer the way.” He nodded in approval of his own words and continued in a louder voice. “That’s the only sort of cycling compatible with feminine modesty. The sociable allows a lady to remain upright on a proper seat, while a man guides the machine, relieving her of unsuitable intellectual labor.”

Muriel’s eyes skittered around the room. People were inching over, forming a tightening cordon around the table.

“What you propose,” scoffed Mr. Lyons, “is a disgusting stunt.”

His mustache twitched as he waited eagerly for a response.

She stared at the mustache, feeling witless.

“Don’t listen to that windbag!” This burst from a younger fellow, in a natty suit, with slicked-back hair. He shouldered his way up to Muriel’s chair. “I put down a colossal wager. It’s dogged as does it, my dear. Mark me, and ride for the win.”

“Oh, pish.” Another man approached, waggling his fingers in the air. “We all know she won’t make it through the first day.”

“And why won’t she?” The woman sitting across from Muriel pushed back her chair and stood. “Naysayers dislike the idea of women on bicycles, because it draws attention to the scandalous fact that we have legs.” Her glare bounced to Mr. Lyons, then back to the finger-waggler. “Legs we can use to send the wheels in circles, just as men do.”

The finger-waggler shrugged, blue eyes shiny with complacency. “Mrs. Pendrake can bicycle down the lane, I don’t doubt. But she won’t be able to sustain the effort. Rivalry between the sexes is farcical. Women have inferior capacities. Our very brains are different. The female brain is five ounces lighter than the male brain, which correlates to…”

“Stop there, please, until I make my escape.” Now James was on his feet, interrupting. “I can’t talk brains on holiday. I made a promise. Mrs. Pendrake.” He offered Muriel his arm. “Would you care to take a turn in the garden?”

Five minutes later, they’d pushed from the room, descended the terrace, and struck out toward the hotel’s east wing. Muriel listened to the rhythmic crunching of gravel beneath their feet. The sun had painted the clouds with deep pinks as it slipped down below the curve of the bay.