Authors: Amanda McCabe
"Yes. Venice," Amelia replied. "That's what I said."
"Indeed?" said Michael. "And what is it like to live in Venice?"
"Watery," Kate murmured without thinking. "Very watery."
Michael chuckled, a low rumble muffled against his daughter's curls.
Amelia tugged at his coat. "They ride everywhere in boats, Papa! Like when we go rowing sometimes, only they do it
all
the time. Even to the shops."
"Do they? Well, that
is
funny, since water plays a part in what I came here to ask the three of you."
Kate glanced back at him, puzzled. "Water, Mr. Lindley?"
"If you can take a pause in your lessons, Mrs. Brown, perhaps you and Christina and Amelia would care to accompany me on a picnic this afternoon after church. We could go look at the Semerwater, search for hints of the drowned city." He gave her a stare over Amelia's head, one filled with questions and heated desire, and an emotion she could not name.
For an instant, she forgot to breathe. Her hand tightened on the globe.
"Oh, yes, Michael, that sounds like such fun!" Christina said happily, saving Kate from having to answer when her throat was so tight. "I wanted to examine more closely a clump of valerian I saw growing there last month. May we, Mrs. Brown? It will be a kind of lesson."
Kate gave her a small smile. "Oh, yes. I think a nature walk would be just the thing for this afternoon. We can have a music lesson when we return, Amelia."
"Excellent," Michael said, giving her a secret grin over his daughter's head. "Then I will meet you ladies downstairs in half an hour. Cook will have a picnic ready for us by then."
* * *
Kate paused in laying out the picnic items to stare out over the Semerwater, her eyes shaded from the diffused sunlight by her new broad-brimmed straw hat. It was not a particularly grand or striking sight—it lacked the drama of paintings of Scottish lochs or the sensual allure of Lake Lugano. But it was pretty, a cool, flat expanse of pale blue gray water ringed by dark green trees. Stone farmhouses dotted the nearby slopes, with the ever-present stone walls tracing snakelike patterns on the ground.
The water lay still as a millpond today, placid and serene. Michael strolled along its edge with Amelia holding on to his hand, tugging him along. Her childish chatter floated like birdsong to Kate's ears. Her bonnet had fallen from her golden head and dangled down her back by its ribbons, leaving her curls springing free, gilded like guinea coins. Michael's own hat was held in his free hand, and the light breeze tousled his brown hair like a lover's fingers would, making it fall over his brow. He casually pushed it back, laughing down at his daughter.
Kate watched them with a strange proprietary pride, a smiling satisfaction. They made such a pretty portrait, the tall, handsome man and the sweet little child. They turned and waved back at her, identical merry smiles flashing warmer than the sun.
Kate waved back, and her heart gave an aching spasm. How she cared about these people! More than she had ever cared for anything, or even thought she
could
care. A life like her mother's demanded a certain callous detachment, a cool calculation. True emotion led to mistakes, to heartache.
As surely Kate would face heartache one day when she had to leave Thorn Hill and its family, never to kiss Michael again, or smile at his daughter or laugh with his sister. But for now she thought she could cry with the happiness that washed over her, the utter contentment with this perfect moment she had been unexpectedly gifted with. If she could only freeze time, keep this forever...
"Mother would say she will get freckles," Christina said.
Kate dabbed at her damp eyes before turning to Christina, who was examining some plants at the water's edge close to the picnic blanket. The apron she wore over her muslin day dress was covered with brown and green streaks. An open notebook and a pencil lay on a nearby rock.
"I beg your pardon, Christina? I was woolgathering," Kate said.
"Amelia and her bonnet. Mother would say she will get freckles from letting it dangle like that." Christina chuckled. "Freckles such as the ones I have."
"I don't think freckles will suddenly appear on her nose from one hour in the sun. But your mother is right—she shouldn't make a habit of it. And I see you wore your hat today, Christina. Thank you."
Christina touched the brim of her yellow straw bonnet as if she had forgotten it was there. "It keeps the light out of my eyes while I examine these specimens," she said quietly. "But I
did
use more of that rose lotion this morning. It smells so lovely."
"And it will make your skin very smooth by the time you go to Town, I promise. Now, do you have a moment to help me lay out the food for our picnic? I vow your cook sent enough for twelve people!"
Christina laughed, and left her plants to remove containers from the large basket. There were platters of cold chicken and ham, vegetables, a pork pie, a loaf of fresh bread, jellies, and cakes. There was a flagon of tea and one of lemonade. All spread out over their blanket, it
did
rather look like a meal for a flock of hungry laborers.
Once it was all settled, Kate walked with Christina down to the lake's shore to fetch Michael and Amelia.
Amelia ran over to her, catching at her skirts. "Oh, Mrs. Brown, look at what I found!" She held up a chunk of blue glass, worn perfectly smooth by the unceasing movement of the water. It shimmered like Kate's mother's sapphire brooch in the light.
Kate took it in her hand, carefully examining it for any rough edges that might cut tiny hands. Not finding any, she handed it back. "It's absolutely beautiful, Amelia, dear. You found a jewel from the sea."
Amelia giggled. "Semerwater isn't a
sea,
Mrs. Brown! It's a lake."
"Well, a jewel from a lake is even more precious," Kate answered.
"Come with me, Amelia," Christina called, holding her hand out to her niece. "You can show me your jewel. And I think cook sent some of those lemon cakes you like."
Amelia and Christina scampered away, their young steps nimble over the uneven ground. Kate felt a sudden wave of shyness as she found herself alone with Michael. Her cheeks were hot despite the cool breeze, and she couldn't meet his gaze as he watched her. And he
was
gazing at her. She could feel the touch of his regard, like soft petals drifting over her skin.
She peeked up at him from beneath her hat, and found his glance steady, a ghost of a smile drifting over his lips. She gave him a little smile of her own, and slid her fingers lightly over his sleeve when he offered his arm.
Never had she thought the day would come when she would have no idea what to say to a man, but here it was. All her light chatter, her store of inconsequential comments, had vanished. Her boldness in the library last night must have belonged to another woman. Only the hot rush of memories, the sensation of scent and need, still belonged to today's timid Kate.
What did a
respectable
lady say to a man the morning after she drank too much brandy and ended up sitting on his lap, kissing him passionately? She had no idea. But she did have suspicion that such ladies remained respectable because they never did find themselves in such situations.
Michael slowed his steps beneath the spreading branches of a tree, drawing Kate up at his side. "Kate—Mrs. Brown—" he began, then broke off with a rueful laugh. "I am not sure even what to tell you today. I feel like such a fumbling schoolboy."
Kate sighed in relief. At least she was not alone in her awkwardness. But it seemed to her that Michael should
never
feel unsure with any lady. Surely they all flocked to him, as starving masses to a luscious banquet. As the Ross girls did at the assembly. "You can call me Kate."
"I just wanted to say—about last night," he said, then paused.
Don't say you are sorry again,
Kate silently pleaded. She didn't think she could bear it.
"I wanted to say thank you," he finished.
"Th-thank you?" Kate whispered in surprise.
"Yes. Oh, I'm not saying this well at all, Kate. But you don't know,
can't
know, how much your being here at Thorn Hill means to me. To all of us. I've been frozen so long. Or perhaps
drowned
is a better word. Just like your kingdom under this lake. Things were gray. Always gray. But now..." His words drifted away on the breeze.
"Now?" Kate prompted. She wasn't entirely sure what Michael was trying to tell her. Yet she
did
know it was something fine and good, something to cherish.
Just as the man himself was.
He smiled down at her. "I think Christina and Amelia are expecting us. I never meant to talk your ear off, Kate. I just wanted to tell you how much our time together last night, indeed every moment we have spent together, means to me. I never meant to disrespect you in any way with my—attentions." He gave her a boyish, apologetic grin. "I'm sure you can tell how long I've been a country widower. I'm more accustomed now to working in the fields than conversing with beautiful ladies."
He thought her
beautiful
? Kate's hand strayed up to pat at her hair, a warm glow of pleasure radiating out from her heart. Other people had told her that, of course, had paid her compliments that were far more florid or poetic. But she had never believed them, until this moment, under Michael's steady gaze.
"You have never treated me with disrespect, Michael," she answered, with a little smile. "And I, too, enjoy our time together."
"What are you both whispering about?" Christina called teasingly, shattering their tiny, fragile world of two. "You will miss the lemon cakes!"
"We are coming, Christina," Michael called back.
They turned their steps back toward the girls, but in her daydreams Kate still stayed beneath that tree with Michael, going up on tiptoe to press her lips to his.
* * *
Michael watched Kate as she talked with Christina and poured out a cup of lemonade for Amelia. Her slender hand smoothed Amelia's windblown curls, and their feminine laughter floated to him on the breeze, as light and perfect and sparkling as champagne.
He couldn't help but grin like a fool at hearing that sound, at seeing his daughter's face glow as she gazed up at Kate. Kate leaned back on the blanket, balancing herself on the palms of her hands as Amelia snuggled against her. Christina held up one of her precious plant specimens, pointing out aspects of the leaves and roots. His sister looked as young as Amelia then, content in her outdoor element.
How long had it been since he had seen them looking so very happy? Weeks? Months? It was true that life had been good for all of them since they came to Thorn Hill. His mother was relieved that he had given up his old ways, and that she had a household to oversee. Christina liked being close to nature, to her plants, though he thought she would enjoy being near people who shared her interests: scientific societies, museums, and such. Amelia—Amelia was his sweet cherub, his pride and joy. But she was growing up; she was not a baby any longer. She needed a lady to look after her.
And he, Michael? What did
he
need? All these years, since Caroline died, he thought he needed only work. Hard work, and looking after his family, putting their needs first always, was the only way he knew to atone for his old sins, to begin to forget them. Building walls under the warm sun, feeling the ache of his muscles, the honest sweat, brought forgetfulness. If he labored hard enough, stayed up late enough with the ledgers, he could even sleep at night, free from dreams and ghosts.
He enjoyed his time with his family, listening to their conversation, watching the intense concentration on Amelia's little face as she played a new piece of music. He liked his occasional visits to the buxom Becky at the Tudor Arms. It was a good life, one he had cobbled together piece by piece all on his own.
But lately—ah, lately he had felt differently. A strange discontent would come over him at the oddest moments, a longing for something else. Something
more,
something grander and deeper.
He could date these longings to one particular moment. The moment he saw a lady in gray standing alone on the moors near a broken-down post chaise, gazing steadily at him with unreadable dark eyes. Every encounter with Kate Brown had only deepened his need to know more about her, to know
everything.
Yet she remained so elusive, even when she was in his arms. Whenever he thought she was in his grasp, she danced lightly away, as a sprite made of air and water.
Those brief moments when he had kissed her, felt her body against his, were perfect. She fitted there as if they had always been together, and the taste of her was sweet, like the richness of an Italian summer, the headiness of new wine.
But then he was left alone again in the darkness, and it was as if she had been a dream in truth. Until they met again this afternoon, and he felt her magic anew. He became a tongue-tied lad again.
Kate, though, appeared as cool and tranquil as a Raphael Madonna. As if she had never wound her arms about him, moaning softly under his kisses. Perhaps she had brought a twin sister with her into Thorn Hill, he thought whimsically, and it was the twin who gave him brandy-scented caresses in the library.
Whatever her sorcery was, he was becoming uncomfortably aware of one thing—he did not want to be without her. Ever. When he knew he would see her, his heart felt light and merry as it had not in a very long time. Anytime he gazed on her, as he did now, watching her laugh with his daughter, he felt—could it be? He felt
happy.