Page 44 of To Swoon and to Spar
“Last I saw her, she had her pelisse on and was heading down the stairs” was the woman’s solemn reply, as if to imply that she never expected to see Jane again. How one could lookquiteso mournful while polishing a banister was beyond him.
So Penvale fetched his coat and set off.
It was a wet, blustery day, and no sooner had he stepped outside than he was hit with a blast of salty wind in his face. The main entrance to Trethwick Abbey faced away from the ocean, and he stood in the gravel driveway, gazing at the rolling green hills in the distance, deep in thought.
Where would Jane have gone?
He turned seaward, recalling their discussion about the cliff path.
The path in question was a narrow strip of dirt and gravel, bordered on the western edge by only a couple of feet of wind-torn grass and the dramatic jagged rocks of the cliff face. Below, there was nothing but open air and crashing ocean. The path wound behind Trethwick Abbey and continued along the sea cliffs to both the north and south of the house—if one walked far enough to the south, the path would begin a gentle descent into St. Anne’s, while to the north, it eventually descended to a cove with a small beach and clear, cold water perfect for sea bathing.
Penvale set off to the north, reasoning that if Jane were upset and didn’t wish to encounter anyone, she’d likely walk away from the village rather than toward it. While the wind was cold, during the rare moments when it died down, the air itself was reasonably mild, the first day in ages that had felt as though spring might be beginning tomake its presence known. After only a few minutes of walking, Penvale spotted Jane, her red pelisse standing out like a beacon against the gray sky and ocean. She was perched atop a large boulder with her knees tucked up under her chin, her arms wrapped around them, her gaze fixed steadily out to sea.
If she heard his approach, she gave no indication, and she did not turn to acknowledge him as he hoisted himself up onto the boulder next to her. He turned to look at her, even as she kept her eyes relentlessly focused on the waves—indication, if he’d needed any, that she was not going to make this easy for him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice just loud enough that the wind couldn’t steal his words. She cut him a sideways look but didn’t reply, clearly waiting to see what else he had to say.
“I speak carelessly sometimes. I don’t often think about what others will think of what I say—if what I say might hurt them. I’m not accustomed—” He broke off, drew in a deep breath, wishing he could physically crawl out of his skin, so uncomfortable did this admission make him. But he would do it. She deserved honesty from him, at least.
“I’m not accustomed to my opinion mattering enough to cause offense,” he said, and now she did turn to look at him, the wind whipping the tendrils of dark hair at her temples that had escaped from the braided knot at her nape. Her eyes were wide, more blue than violet today, and there was color in her cheeks from the cold wind.
“But—your sister. Your friends.” She seemed incredulous, and Penvale wondered, in a flash, how she saw him—what she thought of his life, as she had come to know him. He was not used to wondering what anyone else thought of him; what he thought of himself had always been enough.
What, then, had changed?
“I love my sister and my friends,” he said evenly, and she leaned closer to him so that his voice carried to her ears above the gusting wind. “But they have their own lives—their own marriages, now—and I know that mine is not the most important voice in their ears, if it ever was. And this is as it should be, of course.”
He looked at her and reached out a hand to seize hers, warm in his grip even through the gloves she wore. “I know that ours is not a marriage that either one of us would have chosen”—why did it cause him a bit of a pang to utter those words?—“but it is still a marriage, and I have no right to treat your feelings carelessly. Not when I should treat them with more care than anyone else. Not…” Here he hesitated, not wishing to do further damage, then took a breath, trusting that she would take his meaning. “Not when others, I suspect, have not been so careful in the past.”
A flicker of her eyes was the only sign that he had guessed correctly, and she glanced down to her hand, held tightly in his.
“I know you are perfectly capable of sending a polite invitation, and I know you can host my friends without insulting them. I was being an ass by suggesting otherwise.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I watched you in the village the other week, with the villagers—I know you were trying. And I know you will try when my friends visit, too, and I was not giving you enough credit when I implied that you would offend them. It was… well, it was very badly done, and I wish I’d taken three seconds to think before I opened my mouth.” The confession made him feel raw and exposed, but it was not untrue, and she deserved this, and much more, from him.
She looked up at him now, the dark lashes framing her eyes impossibly long and thick, and considered him for a long moment. Penvalehad the sense that she was taking his measure, and he felt a rather desperate wish to know what she thought as she regarded him.
“I know that I am shy,” she said. “And I know that I… am not at ease, to say the least, when I am around people I do not know well. And I know—I know that I seem ill-tempered and rude in these situations, and even as I am doing it, I cannot work outwhyI am doing it or how to behave any other way. But I do not wish to embarrass you or make any of your friends uncomfortable. And I… I apologize if my behavior in London has made our marriage difficult for you or made you feel that you have something to prove to your friends.”
“Hang my friends.” His voice came out sharper than he intended, but she did not flinch. “I don’t care what they think about our marriage. I only care whatyouthink.”
And, even as he spoke these words—these words that he had not intended to say at all—he realized that they were true. He did care what she thought—of their marriage, ofhim.
When had he started caring?
He reached up with his free hand to cup her cheek, cold and soft. He was drawn toward her as if by some peculiar gravity.
“What—what are you doing?” Her voice was scarcely more than a whisper, one he felt against his skin.
“I don’t know,” he said, and then he kissed her.
When his lips first touched hers, she went rigid with surprise, but after another second, her mouth softened beneath his, and he deepened the kiss, his hand sliding down to cup her jaw, angling her head to the side.
Her hand landed tentatively on his shoulder, then slid up to his neck, and he felt her lips curve into a smile against his own.
“What is it?” he asked, drawing back just enough to speak but notfar enough that he could see anything other than the vivid blue-violet of her eyes as he rested his forehead against hers.
“You need a haircut,” she said.
“Why,” he asked, slowly winding a curl of her hair around his finger, “are you so concerned with my appearance? First you want me to wear spectacles, now a haircut?”
