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He was aware of a taut silence within, while the world without went black with flashes of light and deep booms that rattled the old windows.
“Someone’s been here,” he said, as he watched the flames take hold. “Everything else about the park looks . . . not neglected exactly, but not well attended to. The firewood’s been brought in recently, though. Must have been Alice’s doing. We used to play here as children.”
The three camp beds he and his two friends had used were still here. Two were bare. One held bedding. Alice, clearly, had spent time here recently. Why? He hoped she wasn’t having second thoughts about her marriage, because it was too bloody late. Not to mention he had enough complications in his life without adding Blackwood to the list.
The doors flew open to a blast of wet wind.
He and Olympia hurried to the doors and slammed them closed. He latched them, locking out the world. Holding reality at bay. For the moment.
She quickly stepped away, brushing the wet from her hands. “Look at you,” she said. “You’re soaked to the skin.”
“It’s summer,” he said.
“It’s not that warm,” she said.
“We have a fire.”
“The damp lingers in stone buildings,” she said. “This one’s practically on top of a river. You’re not only wet but bruised. Your ankle will never get better, the way you abuse it.”
“It’s getting better,” he said. “The way you fuss about it, a fellow might get the idea that you cared . . . about him.”
For a long moment she stared at him.
“He might,” he said.
“Might?” She marched to the fire, then to a window, then back to face him, hands on her hips. “Might? How thick can you be? I as good as proposed to you!”
“Yes, well, you shouldn’t spring that sort of thing on a fellow without warning.”
“I’ve all but ripped off my clothes and screamed, ‘Take me now.’ How much warning do you need?”
“That was rather too subtle for me,” he said, “since you didn’t actually take your clothes off. Then there’s the thinking part. A large, complicated thinking part.”
“It isn’t that complicated,” she said.
“Then let’s say it’s . . . fraught. That’s a good word.”
“It’s a stupid word.”
“You’re going to make this difficult, aren’t you?” he said.
“I’m not making anything difficult,” she said. “I understand everything. Perfectly. Too, too well. Which means we need not go over the ground of friendship, loyalty, and honor once again. It makes me want to scream—and mine is not a nervous sensibility. I am not an excessively emotional sort of person. I’m practical and sensible. I know you haven’t seen much of that side of me, but—”
“I’ve seen several sides of you,” he said.
How will you feel in a year . . . in five years?
He knew how he’d feel. He felt it now.
“I’ve seen so many sides of you,” he said. “Which means I understand, better than ever, why Ashmont won’t let you go.”
“Because he’s possessive and obstinate.”
“Is that what his letter sounded like to you? Because that wasn’t what I heard. Mind you, I only caught parts of it—and that was against my will, but my aunt and his evil uncle were blocking the damned door while they argued about it. Otherwise I would have caught up with you sooner.”
“You shouldn’t have come after me. Not this time. Not the other day.”
“No, it ought to have been Ashmont, but it wasn’t.”
“It wasn’t Ashmont because he was too drunk—on his wedding day—the day you claim he was so thrilled about.”
“Yes, well, he can be a bit of an ass at times.”
“A bit! At times!”
“I’m not in a position to throw stones,” he said. “The point is—the reason I came after you . . . this time—”
“He didn’t even write the letter himself!” she said. “That is, he did put pen to paper, but those weren’t his words. He doesn’t write that way, let alone speak that way. And there were hardly any inkblots. And it covered two sheets of paper, on both sides!”
“He makes the blots from stopping to think.”
“He didn’t have to think. Somebody else did that for him.”
“Not exactly. The thing is, I’d rather not be defending him at the moment, but one must present the case fairly.”
“I don’t need anything presented. I’m not stupid.”
“The letter shows how sincerely he wants you back,” he said. He was going to be fair. He was going to be sporting. Honor and friendship demanded it. “For Ashmont to submit to the indignity of letting his uncle dictate a love letter—well, that shows feeling, I think. And though the words weren’t Ashmont’s, the sentiments were. I know. I heard him, on the night before he was to be married.”
She folded her arms and her expression became stony. But her changeable eyes had turned grey, and he saw pain there.
About them, the storm threw fits. The world turned black, then bright white, then black again, while thunder underlined their words and their silences.
Inside was quiet, except for the fire’s crackling, but the quiet was so heavy that Ripley felt as though he walked through chest-deep mud.
Or maybe quicksand.
He thought, and picked his words carefully. “Is that why you bolted today? Because of the feelings Ashmont’s uncle helped him put into words?”
“Yes.” She unfolded her arms and paced to the fire, then to a window. “I wanted to cry. But when I got outside, away from everybody, I couldn’t cry. And I couldn’t go back and arrange the books to calm myself because everybody would find me, and then I would certainly cry. So I walked.”
“If you don’t want to marry him, don’t marry him,” he said.
“I don’t want to. But I must. But I can’t. How can I? How can I, when—”
A crash outside cut her off. The windows lit again. Another crash, with echoes.
As his eyes adjusted to the changing light, he saw that her pained expression was gone, as though the lightning had blasted it away. For a moment she seemed puzzled about something. Then she took a deep breath and let it out. He watched her bosom rise and fall. He told himself not to look there. He didn’t listen, as usual.
“Never mind,” she said. She unwrapped the white neckerchief from around her throat.
He hadn’t understood why she’d needed it in the first place, except as decoration for a very plain dress. And yes, it made sense to take it off. It had grown rather warm inside, with the windows closed and a fire blazing perhaps more fiercely than a damp day in June warranted. Because of thinking too hard and not paying proper attention to what he was doing, he’d made a great deal more fire than the small room needed.
Then she started unbuttoning her dress.
Ripley experienced the same sensation he’d felt a short while ago—a lifetime ago—in the library, when she’d set down the letter and walked out. He closed his eyes and opened them, but no, this wasn’t a fantasy or a dream.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“I’m being unsubtle,” she said.
The dress was made like a coat, buttoning from neck to hem. She was halfway down the bodice already, though there must be more than twenty very small buttons there. And another two or three thousand on the skirt.
While she went on unbuttoning with alarming efficiency, it took his mind a moment to make sense of I’m being unsubtle.
Then he remembered.
“Olympia,” he said.
She went on unbuttoning, concentrating very hard on what she was doing, apparently, because she caught her bottom lip in her teeth and a small crease had appeared in her brow, directly above the nosepiece of her spectacles.
“Dammit, Olympia.”
