Page 28 of The Gentlewoman Companion

“The sky is ominous, but we have time, don’t you think?” She brushed past him, her skirts feathering against his legs.

“If you want to get home before the downpour, best make this quick.”

Graham gave Halverton the oars with a smirk. “Enjoy yourself, my lord.” Halverton ignored his insinuating tone. He did not have romantic feelings for Miss Thorpe. How could he? He barely knew her, and what he did know was puzzling.

They sat across from each other, Miss Thorpe twisting toward the bow as he paddled into the glassy pond.

“You know, I’ve never been on a pond. It’s calming.”

“For me as well,” he said, pulling harder, gathering speed.

“I would come here every day if it were mine.”

“When my father was alive, we visited regularly.” His mention of his father recalled the previous day in his study. “It was kind of you to listen to me yesterday. I hope I did not force my confidence.”

“Not at all. People in general are fusty and too apt to keep their feelings close.”

“As you do?” He hadn’t meant to say it, but she was a contradiction, revealing little about herself yet unreservedly sharing a bottle of lemonade.

She startled. “I? Oh⁠—”

“I beg your pardon. You have no obligation to me.”

Miss Thorpe turned toward the front of the boat, prompting Halverton to follow her gaze over the water where a flock of ducks preened, oiling their feathers in preparation for the coming rain.

She spoke quietly. “My family is not so exemplary as yours. That is to say, my mother was lovely, but I cannot praise my father as you do yours.”

He sensed her reluctance and did not press; it was no business of his, yet he wanted to know more. It was an unfair expectation, especially since his confidence in her was something he could not explain. She possessed a fascinating passion—evident in the burning of her dress, the way she rode Daisy, even her begging to drive the carriage—which piqued his curiosity.

Clouds rolled heavy and black above them as they glided farther into the pond, but he could not bring himself to turn back. Perhaps she simply needed time—and he saw how much she enjoyed the boat. In silence, they cut through still water, sending ripples to upset the cattails bordering the shore. A fat raindrop fell onto his nose, followed by another.

“Should we return?” he asked.

She opened her palm to the sky. “I don’t mind a little rain.”

The boathouse was a fifteen-minute row away, and the drops of rain would become a downpour. He turned toward shelter, gathering speed as the rain fell ever harder, crumpling the smooth pond and nearly blinding him. Surely, Miss Thorpe could not wish to get soaked. Rain fell in unrelenting streams, saturating his coat. He cursed himself for taking Miss Thorpe on this ill-fated expedition and dragged the oars until his back and arms burned.

He paused to wipe the rain from his face. Glancing at Miss Thorpe, he expected to cringe at her discomfort. Instead, she said, “I adore summer rain! Don’t you?”

He could scarcely make out her words through the deluge. With her face turned upward, she held her arms open as if embracing something delightful. Her mouth opened to the rain as it streamed down her cheeks, over her neck, soaking her bodice.

He looked away and carved a swift path back to safety.

“Stop!” she shouted.

He glanced around, looking for the source of her concern.

“Put down the oars, and soak it in.” Her arms spread like wings. “Feel the rain. Listen to it.”

“But I’m wet!”

She nudged him with her foot. “You’re missing it.”

Without a clue as to what he was overlooking, he obeyed, wanting to solve the riddle that was Miss Thorpe.

He felt the rain. It was wet and cold. He listened. A roaring hush urged him to paddle. He yielded to the impulse, and while Miss Thorpe expressed her delight with the downpour—I am enraptured! Enchanted! It sings to my very soul!—he tried to ignore the fatigue in his arms and back as he propelled ever harder through the storm.

The intense joy Miss Thorpe projected as he steered the boat through the water was incomprehensible. The rain brought nothing but discomfort. While her behavior was not quite improper, it was original. His mother certainly benefitted from the young lady’s presence, her spontaneity and joie de vivre. To Halverton, the attitude was foreign, but not necessarily unwelcome. Miss Thorpe certainly made the mundane interesting, even the rain.

Perhaps the intense focus Halverton gave to everything he did prevented him from seeing beyond his objectives, kept him from appreciating a simple rainstorm. He stayed the oars, crossed them over his lap, and tried once more to enjoy the rain as Miss Thorpe did. He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing. Then, he felt it: the sense that the rain was more than merely a wet nuisance. It was cleansing, refreshing, thrilling. It sparked in him the urge to laugh, to move, to live.

He opened his eyes, grinning, to observe Miss Thorpe. With one hand she gripped the side of the boat, smiling up at the sky. The other hand pressed against her heart, and she moved her lips in words he could not hear.

“What?” he asked.

Her head jerked down to face him. “Nothing.”

“What were you saying?”

“I was…” She lifted a shoulder as if deciding she may as well explain herself. “I was talking to my mother.”

“I apologize. I did not mean to intrude.”

She waved away his concern. “Thank you for this loveliest of afternoons.”

Her wet cheeks glistened, pink and curved with happiness. It was indeed a lovely afternoon.

Thunder clapped in the distance. Miss Thorpe turned toward it with a grin, but Halverton had not lost all his practicality to one rainstorm. He retook the oars and propelled them to safety.