“Nothing beyond the necessary logistics. I should have preferred to be alone, though I appreciate that I don’t know how to swim.”
Before he could think better of it, he said, “I could teach you.”
“You know how to swim? You must, as you previously referenced floating for long stretches of time.”
“Yes, I adore swimming. I used to go quite a lot at my family’s estate in Cornwall.”
“Your family has an estate in Cornwall.”
Something about her posture changed, stiffened ever so slightly.
He knew what was wrong. His immersion in the sea had allowed him to marshal his thoughts on the extraordinary events of the day. It had stung, when she’d suggested, earlier, that perhaps he hadn’t been the true author of the poems he’d sent her. But he understood why her trust had faltered. “Julianna, I must apologize. Again. Properly.” He hadn’t been able to before, when they’d first encountered each other at the Pavilion, or later at tea, with the boys hovering like overzealous chaperones. And his attempt earlier, before they settled on sea-bathing, had been insufficient.
He leaned toward her, acting on an instinct to take her hand, but of course they couldn’t do that here.
God damn all these bloody rules everywhere.
He took a fortifying breath. “I should never have deceived you.”
“Indeed you should not have,” she said tartly.
“I should like to say in my defense that I never lied to you about anything that was in my heart. About anything to do with sentiment, or poetry, or anything important.”
“You don’t think who you are is important?”
“Oh, Jules,” he said, his heart nearly breaking. “Youknowwho I am.”
“Do I?”
“Yes!” he cried. But again, he could hardly fault her for doubting. “Let me explain.” He told her the same thing he’d told the boys last night, about how thrilled he’d been when she accepted that first poem, and when she offered such excellent editorial suggestions. “I won’t lie—anymore. Initially, I was miffed that you’d suggested changes. But I read your letter, and I knew you were right. I’ve gone on to trust your editorial judgment absolutely. There has been a time or two when I wondered if the printed poem ought to contain the names of two authors.”
“Of course it shouldn’t have. I was merely doing my job.” She was trying and failing to suppress a smile. He thought she was flattered by his words, though he meant them not to flatter but to explain.
He went on to tell the rest: how the more poems she printed, the higher the stakes felt. How once their correspondence became personal, the stakes becametoohigh for him to tell the truth.
“I was afraid of losing you,” he finished solemnly. “I know lying is bad, but losing you would have been worse.”
Did he imagine it, or did it appear for a moment that her eyes were welling with tears?
No, he had imagined it, for she smiled and turned her face toward the setting sun. The pinkness of the sky had deepened. It made her skin glow.
Her posture was less stiff than it had been before, and he felt it as a small victory.
“Did you look at the sky while you were sea-bathing?” he asked, though what he really meant wasDo you forgive me?
“Yes,” she said, still gazing at the sun, and he somehow knew she was answering both questions.
* * *
“Where the hell have you been?”
Effie felt dazed as he walked in late to dinner that night. His mind was at once slow and fast, racing back over every bit of his time with Julianna even as some part of him was still languorously floating under the blue Brighton sky.
“You made it back all right.” That was from Archie, ever the worrier.
Effie answered the first question, which had been from the more direct Simon, as he seated himself. “I went sea-bathing.” He turned to Archie. “I’m sorry I wasn’t at our appointed meeting place.”
“We waited an hour,” Simon said, though the pique had gone out of his tone.
