“Might I write to you, later, after we’ve all gone home? I have always wanted a regular correspondent. And since I have never had a confidantora regular correspondent, how wonderful it would be to have both in the same person.”
“I can think of nothing I would like more than to receive letters from you, except possibly to write you back. I do enjoy writing and receiving letters.”
Archie thought back to Effie’s speech the other night about embracing color, and finding moments of joy. He’d made vague reference to correspondence. Hmm.
The pair said their goodbyes, Effie clicking away down the hall until all was silent.
Whereas before Archie had felt strong and assured in his ability to hold up Clementine, he didn’t know what he was meant to do now that the holding-up part was over. This would be the analyzing part. He felt very ill-equipped for that. So he just kept standing there, kept holding up Clementine.
She surprised him by whispering, into his shoulder, “Who is Lord Featherfinch’s long-lost love?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he said into her hair. He still wanted to put his hands in it. To tangle his fingers in it and let them rest in the mahogany nest like baby sparrows in need of shelter. He settled for turning his face and resting his cheek on her head. Her hair smelled like the sea, which should have been impossible as they were nowhere near it. “I am all astonishment.”
“It has been a day of astonishment,” she said, and when she pulled away, he let her go, though he very much did not want to. “A week of astonishment. Nay, a month. Astonishment can be so very exhausting.”
Here he thought she would want to dissect Olive’s revelation. He’d felt unequal to the task, but the idea that she was going to saynothingabout it left him oddly bereft. Because that would mean it was time for him to go back to his room.
But what could he say? “Effie will be good to her,” was all he could think of.
“Yes,” she agreed.
“If you are exhausted, you should sleep.”
“Yes.”
Clementine had never been this agreeable. He wasn’t sure he cared for it. He led her to the mussed bed and pulled back the covers. She slipped in, and he smoothed them over her.
Then there was nothing left to do but leave.
“Arch?” she said into the quiet dimness, just as he had reached the door.
Feeling the reprieve of that word, the shortened version of his name he used to think he disliked, he turned and caught the end of her readjusting her posture. “Yes?” He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she’d been holding out her arms, like a child asking for an embrace. But no. He must have imagined it.
She looked at him for a long moment, and he would have sworn he saw her swallow a sentence, a thought she’d been going to vocalize but decided not to. “Good night.”
“Good night.” He consoled himself that he would see her in the morning. They were to spend the day together outside, and he could think of nothing better.
12
A Proposition (That Kind)
“Miss Morgan said to tell you she awaits you on the terrace,” Mrs. MacPuddle said when Archie appeared in the breakfast room the next morning, “and that she has made the necessary arrangements with the cook for your meals tomorrow.”
This caused Simon to lower his book. “Effie and I have opted to join you in your culinary experiment tomorrow.”
Archie would rather they hadn’t. He preferred the idea of sending Olive to eat ham with the boys while he had Clem to himself. But he told himself not to be greedy.
“And here is the meal you asked for,” Mrs. MacPuddle said. “Bread, cheese, fruit, nuts. No meats.” She handed him a basket, and Simon cleared his throat as if trying to attract Archie’s attention.
“Thank you.” Archie took the basket and made a point of not looking at Simon as he grabbed a handful of bacon from the buffet. Once he’d stuffed it in his mouth, conveniently, he could not answer Simon’s inquiry about where he was going, so he merely made an indistinct grunt and opened the door to the terrace.
She wasn’t there. Which was just as well: his cheeks were bulging with bacon as if he were some sort of carnivorous man-vole. He surveyed the ramshackle grounds. Ah, there she was, standing at the edge of the overgrown gardens, facing the forest. Clementine, at home at the edge of the wilds.
His breath caught.
Which, given the mouthful of bacon, brought on a coughingfit.
The noise carried across the gardens, such as they were, and drew Clementine’s attention.
