"Aah, at it again, I see."
Sam jumped. Clive, right beside him, folded his arms over his
chest. Sam asked, "How did you get down here?"
"Same way you did. I said, 'I'm with him,' and the fellow
said. 'She has two coaches?' I answered, 'Yes,'" He glanced sideways,
smiling. "So are you two getting married yet?"
"I hope so."
At midpoint, halfway through the twenty-four arrows, when she came
in for a drink, he corralled her, Clive watching protectively but giving them a
discreet distance. Sam started by saying, "I don't want to argue—"
She agreed immediately. "We shouldn't hurt each other's
feelings."
"No, we shouldn't. If it happens, though, we should see it
and try to fix it.
"Right," she said.
They agreed. So where was the problem? He was flummoxed. Why
hadn't they been to the altar already? Why didn't the program say, "Mrs.
Samuel J. Cody?" Or "
Lydia
Cody?"
"'Course that'd leave you saddled with a two-bit
cowboy—" he began.
"What does 'two-bit' mean?" she asked as she set down
her glass, untouched. They stood inside the tent, a little private moment in
the swarm of people.
"A quarter. It's American money: not much."
She scowled at him. "You?"
"Yeah, me."
"You know that's absurd, don't you?" She squinted,
looking almost angry, as if he couldn't mean it. "You can climb out the
window of a coach while it's careening. You can kill a rabbit at fifty yards
with a stone—"
"A fluke, and you know it—"
"—then cook it. You know about bulls, then you turn around
and talk about
Swan
Lake
– you're much more
sophisticated than you want to let on. You're a regular Indian with a bow and
arrow. You swim like a fish. You read stories to a woman you've pulled from a
bog, whom you actually make feel good about her part in it. And you—" She
took in a breath then said softly, with so much passion – prickly, whispered
passion, but passion nonetheless – that it caught him aback, "You make
love like – like an angel."
He stopped. This was sounding pretty good.
Till she added, "Yes, you're tetchy and hardheaded and march
conspicuously to your own drummer, because, so far as I can tell, you're afraid
to march in step with anyone else—"
What did he want from her? Not this. Not a list of his faults.
"But, fiddlesticks, who cares?"
Again, she threw him off.
She told him, "I don't care about your faults."
He pulled his mouth sideways. "You sure are quick to list
them."
She blinked. "Because I'm not blind. I know who you are. And
I love you anyway."
"Well, thank you
awfully
,
Your Majesty." He imitated her. "But you will pardon me if I'm not
thrilled: My many shortcomings are not what I want to be loved for."
"You want to be perfect?"
"I want to be good enough."
"You are."
He was? He frowned. So did this mean everything was all right? Did
this mean he could drag her back out onto the moor and live with her there
forever? Or at least marry her here?
No, it meant her next end at the targets had come up. They called
her name in a list of several through a loudspeaker.
"Ooh," she said, taking off at a trot, holding her hat.
"I have to shoot. Wish me luck."
"Knock 'em dead, Lid. You can do it, sweet thing."
You're amazing, he said under his breath.
*
And
she did. By the end of the fifty-yard shoot, Lydia Bedford-Browne was not only
the high score, the high hits, best gold,
and
the champion: She'd broken the women's British record. Only one of her arrows
the entire day missed the targets, the one that had set her back to a
theoretical tie at sixty yards.
While the band played, her family and their friends – half the
archers were her friends – came from the field, from the grandstand, the
bandstand, and tents, from all over. Sam had to fight to get near her.
And when he did, all he could think to do was call to her,
"Congratulations."
"Thank you." Many people jostled her and wanted her
attention, but she watched him. It made him feel good, though he didn't know
what to say from here.
Boddington, though, the big mouth, suddenly had a lot to say.
"Straw targets," he was expounding as he came up with Gwyn Pieters on
his arm. "A true marksman shoots at moving targets. Straw targets are
nothing. I mean, they just stand there, waiting to be hit. Why, you should have
seen us on the grousemoor…"
At first, Sam ignored him. The man belittled Liddy's win, but let
him. He was an ass.
It was too much, though, when the ass said, "It's a woman's
sport. For skirts.
Lydia
's a nice
woman, don't mistake me, but she sets too much store by all this. It's only
straw." He mocked her. "Certainly, she's good when shooting straw,
but she's never shot at anything live, nothing moving as I have or most of the
men here. She isn't capable of real shooting. It's a silly woman's sport,
archery—"
Sam couldn't resist. "So what do you want? Shall I grab a
target and run up and down the field like a crazy grouse with one of your dogs
after it?" Madder than he realized, he said, "Hell, she could shoot
the eye of a mosquito at a hundred yards. She's a regular Annie Oakley."
"Annie Oakley?" Boddington asked.
"Yeah, the American markswoman who—"
"I know who she is," Boddie said. "And, no, you
don't have to run with a target. You could just stand there with the cigarette
in your mouth – isn't that how Oakley does it? She shoots cigarettes and coins
from men's mouths and fingers." He shuddered. "Ugh."
"She could do it," Sam said.
Lydia
's eyes
widened. "Sam—"
"She could."
"Fine," Boddington said. "Let's see it. I have
fifty pounds that says she'll go wide. Or put an arrow through your
cheek."
"Peanuts," Sam told him. "I'll bet a hundred – no,
two hundred – no, five hundred" – he was sort of enjoying watching ol'
Boddie's eyebrows go up – "that she pins the cigarette to the target
without touching a hair on my head – five hundred pounds and my cheek
against" – he looked around for something he might want, then spotted
Boddington's new carriage – "against that." He pointed.
"Ha," Boddington said, though for a few seconds his eyes
lingered nervously on his new vehicle. "The way the two of you
fight," he said, "you'll be lucky, Cody, if she doesn't skewer your
privates."
"I'm not worried—"
"Sam—" Liddy complained, louder.
Their eyes met. It suddenly occurred to him what he was doing:
"No, you do it, Liddy: I'll trust you and cooperate."
Her eyes grew wide. She wet her lips and stared at him. Whoa. He
could tell by her face he'd said the right thing. Finally. Accidentally.
Because he meant it.
Hoping for a lucky streak, he continued, "And I'd like you to
trust me and cooperate so I can take a shot at you. With this." He
retrieved a small velvet box from his coat pocket, then tossed it.
"Catch."
In a hand against her bosom, she did, then put her bow under her
arm to examine the box in both hands.
Watching her open its small, hinged lid, Sam was suddenly on edge.
"Oh, dang," he said, "don't embarrass me in public, okay? Even
though I'd deserve it. If you don't want it, just sort of close it and—"
Her mouth, her face, her expression, opened in surprise at what
she found inside. She stared down into a box smaller than the palm of her hand
– looking, he knew, at a perfect diamond as large as the tip of her finger.
More nervous still, he apologized. "Look, I know it's a
little crass for it to be so big, but, see, I figured it had to be bigger and
better than Gwyn's, since she'd tell you if it wasn't, and you're kind of
competitive." Beneath the diamond, attached – he hoped she'd find it – was
a platinum engagement ring.
She looked up at him, her amazed, open mouth drawing into a smile
that gaped a little. Delicately, with three fingers out, she plucked the ring
from its box, and put it on, wiggling her hand to stare at it.
She spilled up, one eyebrow raised at him, then bit the side of
her lip. She teased, "Do you think it'll throw my shot off? It's awfully
heavy."
"No. I think you'll do everything better wearing it. Does it
fit?"
"Yes." She frowned and smiled, both, studying her
finger. "Perfectly."
He admitted, "Your brother helped me." Then added,
digging into his coat pocket again, "Oh, and something else." She
waited as he reached around in an empty pocket. There was a moment of panic
until he remembered he'd put it into his inside pocket. "Here," he
said, finally and oh so nervously.
He handed over a piece of paper rolled tightly with the matching
partner to the diamond ring, a wedding ring, holding the paper in its scroll.
She took it, puzzled, sliding the ring off and unrolling his official offering.
"It's a special license." The fanciest – and quickest –
way to get marriage in
England
. He wished he
weren't such an expert on how to set up marriages, but there he was; at least
he knew. "I had to move heaven and earth to get it by today."
"Our names are on it!" she said with surprise, then
looked up at him. Earnestly, she asked, "Sam, do you think this is a good
idea? I mean, we fight an awful lot."
"Yeah, I think it's a good idea. I really want this, Liddy. I
want to marry you, live with you forever. I never wanted anything so much in my
life." He laughed a little sheepishly. "And, yeah, I think it's okay
if we fight. We do a lot things pretty intensely. You're right, it's no good,
purposeless bickering. Still, if you're upset with me, you have to say. And I
have to say if you rile me."
When that didn't seem enough, with every face turned to him, and –
oh, own up, Cody, you're rambling: He couldn't shut up. "See, so long as
we say what we need and leave off criticizing what the other one wants, we'll
be okay, I think. Arguments are chances to meet each other halfway. And we
will; we always will: as soon as we figure out where halfway is."
Liddy beamed at him. What a smile she had.
Someone sighed.
Another person, a lady's voice, said, "Oh, that's so
sweet."
"How lovely," said someone behind him.
"They're in love."
"They'll do beautifully together."
Boddington interrupted with, "Yes, if she doesn't kill him.
Are you going to do it?" he asked, real sarcastic. "Or are we going
to stand here forever and watch the two of you make eyes at each other?"
His own eyes kept going to the huge diamond ring. "Either hand over my
five hundred pounds, Cody, or walk out there and let her shoot."
"Sure," Sam said and shrugged, Mr. Nonchalance.
"Who has a cigarette?"
A dozen people did.
"Sam—" Liddy frowned at him.
"Do it," he told her.
"You want me to?"
"Yes. I'm going to trust you. You'll do fine." He added
more playfully, "Plus you always wanted a carriage with a crest on it. Now
we can have one. Win us his carriage."
He took one of the offered cigarettes. Boddington himself lit it,
and Sam turned on his heels. He strolled casually out to the first target, one
hand in his trouser pocket, the other holding out the burning tobacco, letting
it swing with his arm.
He was not as relaxed as he looked, or hoped he looked. It
occurred to him that now Liddy was excited.
Distracted.
A fine sweat was on his forehead by the time he reached the straw
target and turned sideways. He bent down on one knee, planted the other foot in
the ground, and rested his arm on his thigh, putting the cigarette at the gold.
This was easy, he told himself.
It was hard. Out the corner of his eye, he knew when she loaded
the arrow, then aimed. All over him, like goose bumps, he felt when the breeze
picked up. She waited, everyone silent, Sam as tense as if steel ran down his
spine. The wind blew his shirt against his chest. Maybe he should turn around.
The way the wind was, it would drift the arrow from its path toward the
cigarette right into his ear. That'd be dandy, he thought, an arrow through his
head, in one ear, out the other.
After a full minute of his heart racing and the crowd so quiet he
could hear a bird's chirping on the tent top, the breeze gently flapping
everything in sight – Liddy eased the string back, lowered the bow into her
skirts, and toed the ground. Boddington jeered. Sam couldn't hear what he said,
but could see his mean mouth moving. Yep, he was going to have to flatten the
fellow's nose; it was going to come to that. Then, no, Liddy hooked back at the
jackass, said something, then turned toward Sam again.