She laughs, rather harshly. “I would say I have already opened every part of myself to you.”
I close the distance between us and take her hand in mine. “But not your heart. Not yet.”
She does not answer. I lift our intertwined hands and place the back of hers upon her heart. “Will you let me in here too?”
She half grimaces. “I should go. Or I will miss my train. And you’d better stay with Grisham until he wakes up.”
My hand tightens on hers. For a moment she regards me with genuine apprehension, as if fearing for her freedom. She need not. I want to be chosen not because she has no other choice, but because she cannot see the path of her life running anywhere except alongside mine.
I let go of her hand and step back. “Go then.”
She picks up her straw hat from the picnic blanket, sets it on her head, and ties the ribbons beneath her chin. As she passes me, she slows a little, and her hand brushes ever so lightly over my jaw. I stare after her as she marches away from me on the path.
“We will have a picnic here when you return,” I call out. “My housekeeper makes an excellent gooseberry cake. And you can fight Grisham for the chicken-and-ham pie.”
She stops for a moment, glances over her shoulder, then resumes her departure and soon disappears around the bend.
I DO NOT WRITE HER. Instead, I send her sketches.
Sketches of her reading, her head bent just so. Sketches of her brushing her hair at her vanity. Sketches of her playing with Grisham, his three legs blurring with eager speed.
From her part, a resolute silence.
Sketches of her empty bed. Sketches of her bathtub, steaming with hot water, strewn with lavender, roses, and chamomile. Sketches of my bed—not hers—with sashes tied to the bedposts.
Nothing.
I send a drawing of my bookshelves, filled with her favorite titles.
Still more silence.
I do not give up, but I am beginning to despair.
GRISHAM IS LISTLESS TOO. I toss him the tennis ball; he slogs laboriously toward it, as if he has at last realized he is missing a leg, and slogs laboriously back me.
I sit down on a wooden bench and scratch him behind his ears. “You will see her again.”
He does not look as if he believes me. I don’t blame him; I do not sound as if I believe myself.
“It’s only been a week, not that long.”
Only the longest seven days of my life.
“Let’s give her three more days. After that I will set out and drag her back, and tie her to this bench so she has no choice but to throw balls for you all day long. What do you think of that plan?”
“It’s the worst plan I have ever heard.”
Her voice. I turn still as a statue. Grisham, however, barks with joy and sprints in her direction.
“My goodness, Grisham, you almost knocked me over.” She laughs. “What’s this? You brought me the ball? Here, fetch.”
Grisham takes off like a bolt of lightning.
I rise slowly. Clad in a utilitarian brown jacket-and-skirt set—surely the most beautiful clothes anyone has ever worn—she is gazing in the direction Grisham disappeared. But a few moments later, she turns her head and our eyes meet.
“How was your trip?” I ask in a surprisingly even tone. “And your family?”
“Everyone is well. They send their regards.”
“And you? Are you well?”
“In the very bloom of health.”
I wait a beat; when she says nothing else, I ask, “Are you not going to ask if I am well?”
“You have enough will and strength to come and drag me back home in three days. I assume you are well enough.”
Home. My heart thumps.
Grisham returns, panting happily. She takes the ball from him and hurls it into the distance. He takes off with a happy “arf.”
She tucks a nonexistent loose strand of hair behind her ear. “My family was worried about you.”
“They wrote copiously.”
She laughs a little, and rather ruefully. “Yes, they let me know.”
“You might not have realized that I have been in love with you, but they have known for years.”
“They told me.”
“Only in passing, I’m sure. They know you listen to no one’s counsel but your own.”
She slants a glance at me. “You think I am arrogant.”
“I think you are stubborn, sometimes obdurate—it’s part of your charm. And I prefer it that way. Otherwise how would I know whether you are back because you bowed to the pressure of your family or whether you chose to return?”
“Now you are convinced I chose to?”
“Will you try to persuade me otherwise?”
Grisham is back again. She casts me another look, then sinks down and touches her nose to his. “Are you glad to see me, big boy, are you? Goodness gracious, I have missed you.”
WE MIGHT HAVE STAYED OUTSIDE all afternoon if it weren’t for the sudden change in weather. Half an hour after her return, rain splatters down. But it isn’t a thunderstorm; there are no flashes and no booms. We usher Grisham inside and he happily trots off in the direction of the servants’ hall to look for scraps from the table.