Page 78 of A Shore Thing

“My father—” Deighton reared. His front wheel skipped, and he jerked his handlebars, thinning his lips. “My father is not the captain of a bicycle club. Wheelmen follow the rules of the road. You’ll end up in the mud—not because of me. Because you’re halfway there already.”

“Two of your officers nearly ended up under a cow. Due to your poor judgment.” For a moment, Kit anticipated a kick to the head. Tension rolled off Deighton in waves.

“Reduce the rate of speed,” said Kit evenly. “You have nothing to prove.”

Deighton laughed, neck rigid. “This isn’t the rate of speed I’d adopt if I had something to prove. I consider this a moderate pace. But fine.” His posture relaxed. “I’ll reduce the rate of speed. So long as you ride with me. No straggling.”

“Fine.” Kit sucked in a mouthful of salty air. It had the taste of a mixed blessing.

“Fine,” repeated Deighton, and slacked the pace.

The next hours passed as predicted. Long intervals of hostile silence on the wheel punctuated by short periods of respite. The fog lifted at midday, and whenever they dismounted, he joined Muriel to admire the coastal scenery or ask her the names of the flowers threading the hedges. She didn’t seem remotely bothered that he’d abandoned his place beside her, or that it meant they’d no time to explore the coves. She waved away his explanation as easily as she waved away his regrets. He shouldn’t have felt surprised, let alone dismayed. He’d known she was self-sufficient. He admired her independent spirit. But he found himself wishing for some slight indication that she was bothered, just a little bothered, or at least pining for his return. At lunch, in Penzance, she was trapped between Egg and Prescott, and he watched her covertly, as she laughed and drank and brushed bright tendrils of hair from her face. He was trapped between Butterfield and Kemble, who were swapping facts about recent race results while Deighton paged through a copy of the Cyclists’ Touring Club’s Monthly Gazette and Official Record.

She bore her fate with better cheer than he did. Or was she actually enjoying herself? Egg, who couldn’t be more than eighteen, had terrible manners. He shoveled his food with his elbows on the table and talked eagerly with his mouth full, encouraged by her smile. His eyes had begun to shine with devotion. Prescott had better comportment. He was likely in his twenties and far more restrained. He’d just said something that elicited Muriel’s appreciation. Kit could tell from the way she angled her body and the lilt of her voice. She was asking him questions. They kept talking as they exited the pub, Kit skulking in their shadow, feeling vaguely villainous. The subject was birds. Prescott held his hand out, describing how the gulls in the St. Ives harbor took crusts without fear, and once, his whole pasty.

“I counted four different species,” she said, and he said he’d counted five, and then it was comparing plumage to discover if their observations corresponded.

As they rode southeast toward the Lizard, following the curve of Mount’s Bay, passing fishermen’s huts and Coastguard cottages, Kit scowled at the birds he couldn’t identify. He’d ride with her tomorrow, Deighton be damned. He’d sketch what seaweed had to be sketched. He’d throw in a portrait of a herring gull. End of story.

They cut inland to Helston and dismounted by the Loe. The gleaming waters of the lake were fringed with rushes and dark pines, and Muriel was instantly absorbed, wandering the bank in a reverie he didn’t dare disturb. South of Gunwalloe, they dismounted again, and Kit turned to see that she wasn’t among them.

“Where’s Mrs. Pendrake?” He addressed Prescott, who rubbed his chin, where his black beard had sprouted densely since the morning.

“She’ll be along shortly.” He turned as though she might have already arrived. The road was empty. He turned back to Kit with less certainty. “She said she was going down to the shore. I offered to accompany her, of course.”

“I offered as well,” piped up Egg. “I’d have been the bigger help. My mother keeps a seaweed album.”

“She told us to ride on.” Prescott frowned. “It wasn’t so far back. We can wait for her here.”

“We’re not waiting.” Deighton pulled on the brim of his cap. “My guess? She hired a conveyance back to Penzance, where they have proper amenities.”

Prescott and Egg exchanged a look.

“She didn’t mention Penzance,” said Egg. “She mentioned seaweed.”

“You know women and their whims.” Kemble shrugged and folded his thick arms.

“All mount!” called Deighton.

Kit was already on his bicycle, pointed in the opposite direction.

Deighton sneered. “Go after her if you’re worried.”

“I’m not worried,” said Kit. “But she and I are a club. We ride together.”

“You’re a club?” Kemble chortled. “Just the two of you?”

“There’s four at present.” Kit added Raleigh and Ponsonby on the spot. Honorary members.

“And your name?” demanded Deighton.

Kit’s brows pulled together. What the hell?

“The Flower Pedals,” he said. “See you at dinner.”

With that, he shoved off.

He wasn’t worried. He should have known that Muriel would stop to hunt for seaweed without him, even if it meant cycling the last leg down to the Lizard on her own. Her decision grated, ever so slightly, or rather, the fact that she’d taken matters into her own hands, without asking his permission. It wasn’t chauvinism, to consider himself the captain of their informally constituted club. He was the seasoned cyclist, responsible for her welfare, on the road, if nowhere else. Perhaps they needed a handbook, spelling some things out. He’d changed position in the column, true, without consulting her, but again—captain. And it wasn’t the same as leaving the column altogether.