Page 50 of And Then There Was the One
When he pulled away from her at last, she stared up at him, her heart pounding in her chest, her lips still tingling, and for a moment, she did not know what to say.
“What’s the verdict, then?” he asked, sounding a bit smug. “Was the practice worth it?”
“I’m not answering that,” she said, with whatever shred of dignity remained to her, and he tipped his head back and laughed—a loose, happy, uncontrolled sound, one that made her want to laugh helplessly in reply. In the bright June sunshine, the long column of his throat shone golden before her. She wanted to bite it. Her thoughts must have shown on her face, because he opened his eyes and caught her gaze, and something in his darkened, and he tugged her toward him once more, giving her another kiss—quick and fierce this time. When they broke apart, their breathing was a bit unsteady, and he winked at her.
And Georgie didn’t even bother to attempt a frown.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
They decided to call on Miss Halifax just before dinner, when it was nearly certain that she’d be at home. Georgie was not at all confident that this plan of theirs was going to work—despite Sebastian’s blithe assurances that he was going to morph into a crime-novel-obsessed Murder Tourist before her very eyes—but she still thought it was better to approach Miss Halifax at home than attempt a sensitive conversation at the library or in line at the butcher’s.
At the appointed hour, Georgie was standing at the base of the stairs, awaiting Sebastian and ignoring the clattering sounds emanating from the kitchen downstairs, where Mrs. Fawcett was preparing a Sunday roast while Abigail was hard at work on some sort of elaborate dessert. Georgie had spent the better part of an hour attempting not to look like the sort of person who had been kissed in the kitchen garden by a man whom she’d caught admiring his reflection in a spoon on multipleoccasions. When he appeared, however, all such thoughts fled her mind.
“What on earth are you wearing?”
“My Murder Tourist disguise,” he said cheerfully, sketching a bow. Said disguise involved nothing more than a pair of round, wire-rimmed glasses and a tweed jacket. Withelbow patches.
“Thisis what you think Murder Tourists look like?” she demanded.
“Well, not really,” he said, bounding down the last few steps and leading her toward the door. “But I wanted to convey that I take literature seriously, and so thought an outfit change might be in order.”
“Do you truly think tweed denotes bookishness?”
“Georgie, it’s anaesthetic,” he said, as if trying to explain something very simple to a confused child. “I have to convince Miss Halifax that I am positively aquiver with bookish yearning.” He opened the door, then stepped back to allow her to pass through first. “Now, shall we?”
“Only if you promise never to use the word ‘aquiver’ again,” she said, and breezed past him into the evening sunshine.
Miss Halifax lived in a small cottage along one of the narrow cobblestoned lanes that branched off the village high street, and she answered the door a few moments after Georgie and Sebastian’s knock.
“Miss Radcliffe,” she said, looking startled. “This is… unexpected.”
“Miss Halifax,” Georgie said, and tilted her head at Sebastian. “This is Mr. Fletcher-Ford—he is an old friend of my family’s, staying with us at Radcliffe Hall, and he is an enormousfan of Agatha Christie’s mysteries. I mentioned your book club at the library to him today, and he was keenly interested and wondered if you might be able to accommodate him at this week’s meeting.”
Sebastian stepped forward, extending an eager hand, which Miss Halifax shook a bit warily.
“Could this not have waited until tomorrow?” she asked, sounding perplexed.
“I’m to blame for that, I’m afraid,” Sebastian said, before Georgie even had the chance to open her mouth. “I was so delighted once Georgie here told me about your book club—the Book Clue Crew, is it?—that I absolutely insisted we come to see you right away, so that I could start reading the selection this very night.”
“I see,” Miss Halifax said, still sounding as though she had doubts as to their collective sanity. “Well… would you like to come in for a minute?”
“I can think of nothing I’d like more,” Sebastian said with a wide smile, and in no time at all they were led through the cottage—which was small, but cozy and well-kept—and into the kitchen garden, where Miss Halifax had managed to squeeze a table and chairs. “I like to eat out here in the summer,” she explained, “and since it’s clear this evening…”
It was, indeed, a fine evening; the air felt cool and fresh after the rain that had briefly swept through late that afternoon, and there was a damp, earthy smell of early summertime that Georgie could not resist inhaling happily. Miss Halifax vanished back into the cottage momentarily, and Georgie fell into her favorite habit while in other people’s gardens: examining the plantselection. Miss Halifax had a few lovely rosebushes that were in full bloom—she narrowed her eyes, considering. A Parsons’ Pink and a polyantha, if she wasn’t mistaken. There were also some foxgloves and delphiniums. She nodded approvingly; lots of nice, standard flora native to the Cotswolds—and, she couldn’t help but notice, no lethal poisons in sight. This was the sort of garden she liked—not fussy; it looked as though nature itself were creeping up from between the paving stones and around the trellises, and Miss Halifax had merely exerted the lightest touch to influence its growth.
“What is your favorite plant?” Sebastian asked, apropos of nothing. He was gazing at his surroundings, reclining in his chair with a relaxed posture, looking perfectly at ease, as always. Even the ridiculous glasses and tweed jacket somehow didn’t detract from the image.
His question, however, startled her. “My favorite plant?” she repeated.
He nodded. “You must have one—I see how you love them.”
“I do,” she said. “Only…” Only no one had ever thought to ask her.
“I love bluebells,” she said, feeling a bit shy as she spoke. “They feel like a harbinger of everything I love about the countryside—they don’t appear too early, like daffodils, when it’s still wet and cold and we’re not in full bloom yet. They wait until spring is on the cusp of overflowing, when the air starts to smell sweet and the days begin to truly grow long and the sun is warm and I don’t want to wear woolens anymore—well, not all the time, at least,” she said, with a rueful glance down at her serviceable jumper, which she’d donned after a hasty bath thatafternoon. “They just symbolize to me all the best things about spring—about England—about… well, everything.”
She fell silent and immediately began to second-guess everything she’d just told him. Did it make her sound silly? Something she always worried about, when people learned of her interest in plants, of her dream of opening a botanic garden, was that she’d be perceived as a silly girl who liked pretty flowers. And now, when Sebastian Fletcher-Ford, of all people, asked her what her favorite plant was, she’d not been able to think of anything unattractive but interesting, or sneakily dangerous, but instead had chosen the most basic symbol of English springtime imaginable. Achildwould have chosen bluebells, for heaven’s sake. But she hadn’t lied—theywereher favorite.
While she was pondering all this, he merely regarded her thoughtfully, then nodded and said, “They suit you.”
