“Correct me, but I believe not seeing me was your express wish.You’rethe one who keeps joiningmeout here.”
“Yes, but—” But what? Nothing he could say would make any sense. Clementine was doing exactly what he’d asked her to. “I brought you a telescope,” he said, suddenly remembering the putative reason for his appearance this evening. He handed over the small instrument. “There’s a widow’s walk on the guardhouse. Effie wanted to go ghost-hunting, and we found it mounted there. It was in terrible shape, but I’ve cleaned it up. Perhaps it will aid in your stargazing efforts with Olive, though for the record, I still think you should insist she climb a tree.”
It was too dark to properly see Clem’s expression—her lantern this evening was casting only the faintest of glows—but somehow, he could feel it. It was equal parts surprise, excitement, and . . . something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
When he passed her the telescope, their hands brushed, and he started. It was odd: he knew Clementine as well as he knew anyone, yet he could probably count on one hand the number of times they had touched. Their childhood ramblings had been conducted side by side, but Clem had never needed anyone to boost her up a tree or help her jump off a wall. There had been the odd time, in their teens, perhaps, when they’d been in company and their parents had expected a show of manners, and he’d taken her gloved hand and bowed over it, both of them struggling not to laugh at the absurdity of such formality between them. And of course there had been the dramatic ride away from the inn last week, but that had been different, somehow. That had been his body going through the necessary motions to make sure they reached safety.
And all those times there had been clothing between them. Gloves.
He thought it possible that this was the first time he and Clementine had ever touched skin-to-skin.
No, he didn’tthinkit possible. He was certain. He would have remembered this feeling. It was remarkably like the thrill of the hunt. Of that moment when, after riding hard and long in the cold, crisp air, one suddenly caught a glimpse of the fox.There it is.A thunderbolt of recognition, a jolt of elation.
He had been momentarily afraid he would fall off the roof.
“Are you quite all right, Arch?”
He gathered himself and changed the subject. “You and Olive seem closer than you used to be.” Though what did he know? He hadn’t seen them for years.
“I think we are. We grew apart after Mother died, but we’ve recently . . . grown back together.”
“Why did you grow apart?”
“I’m not sure. It’s something I’ve been pondering lately. We’re quite different in terms of our constitutions and interests, of course, and there is an age gap, but honestly, I don’t know. I suppose it’s like with us: life pulls you one way, and sometimes it pulls friends and family another.”
“Perhaps your mother was the glue that held you together.”
“I think you may be right.”
“What happened to change things? To make you grow back together?”
“Why, Mr. Bull, I suppose,” she said wonderingly.
“Yet from the outside, it would seem that Mr. Bull should have driven the two of you even further apart. She did run off with him, did she not?”
“She did, but I had already broken off my engagement to him—and I did think that would be the end of it, but of course it turned out it was not.”
He could not help but feel there was more beneath the surface of what she was saying, of whatbothsisters had said. That there was a piece missing.
“Why?” he asked, softly, carefully, trying not to betray how interested he was in her answer.
“Because I wrote him a letter crying off, and he sent me one in return saying he understood and wished me well. He did not protest or try to talk me out of it. So I naturally concluded that would be the end of it.”
“No, I mean why did you break it off?” She didn’t answer right away, and he began to think she wouldn’t. “You said earlier that you’d had ‘certain realizations.’ Tell me what they were.” He winced. That had come out sounding too commanding. He did realize this was none of his concern.
“My realizations are none of your concern.”
He smirked into the night. “Tell me anyway.”
Another long silence unspooled. She wasn’t going to talk. Which was her prerogative. He lay back on the roof. She did, too. That she was going to stay out here with him caused a kind of warmth to spread through him despite the chilly night. They would watch the stars together for a bit.
Just as he had come to relish the silence, she whispered into it. “Arch, I have anticipated my marriage vows.”
He didn’t know what to say. He swallowed his first impulse, which was to tell her that it didn’t matter. Well, no, his first impulse was shock. But that wouldn’t do anyone any good. He swallowed hissecondimpulse. It wasn’t up to him to decide what mattered to her. He considered reassuring her that no one would have to know, but perhaps the fact thatsheknew was enough to distress her, and, again, he could hardly tell her how to feel.
He hardly knew howhefelt.
She sat up suddenly, as if she were making to leave, and he realized that by not speaking, he was likely giving the impression that his silence was of the disapproving variety. “Well, I have anticipated my marriage vows, too,” he finally said, trying to infuse the remark with some levity.
