Page 48 of A Figure of Love

Oliver seemed not to hear the incredulity in his voice. Instead, he nodded, his face wreathed in eagerness. “Yes, there is a pool just upriver from where you and Mama are making the lake. It is my favorite spot to fish. And to swim, when it is warm enough.” He cast a yearning look out the window, which showed the pale sunshine of a spring day, and a blue sky with scudding clouds. Gareth repressed a shiver.

Fishing. He thought about what he knew about the pastime: nothing. He glanced down at the stack of legers and frowned. He was tired of his frustrating inability to concentrate. He looked up to find the boy bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet, waiting.

“I’ve never fished before,” he confessed.

Oliver could not have looked more surprised if Gareth had confessed to being a girl. “Never?”

“Not even once. I grew up in London,” he paused, “Although I suppose I could have fished in the Thames.” But not for fish.

Oliver grimaced. “Mama says the fish there are not fit to eat. She says they are not even fit to touch.”

Gareth could well believe it. The boys he’d known—the mudlarks—who’d worked the filthy river had lived in dread of infection and wounds that could end in death.

“It’s not difficult,” Oliver said, breaking into Gareth’s unsavory memories. “You can learn quickly. And I have two fishing poles, one is Mama’s.”

“Your Mama fishes?”

Oliver gave him a variety of smile Gareth would categorize as ‘from-one-man-to-another.’ “She gets impatient and usually gives up and sketches. Girls do not, in the main, care for fishing.”

Gareth felt his lips curve into a smile. “It is a manly activity, then?”

“Oh, yes,” Oliver assured him.

Gareth stood. “Well, I had better give it a go.”

Oliver smiled at him in a way that could not but please him. “I will wait for you in the stables, where Horrocks lets me keep my poles.”

“Wait for me?”

“Yes,” his eyes flickered over Gareth’s clothing. “Don’t you wish to change your clothes?”

Gareth looked down at himself. He wore his usual country rig, which Chalmers had selected, assuring him it was the preferred garb of country gentleman: buckskins, top boots, and a wool coat—green today—over a colored waistcoat, narrow green and brown striped. He looked at the boy, who was dressed similarly, although his clothing looked oft washed and patched.

“I have no other clothes.”

That was good enough for Oliver.

They went first to the stables, where Horrocks, Gareth’s stablemaster, gawked, but quickly recovered and sent a stable lad to fetch the poles from the tack room.

“Goin’ fishin’, aye? In the deep blue hole up the river?”

Oliver nodded.

“You watch out for Old Harry, lad. He’ll steal your bait and the rod along with it if you don’t keep your wits about you.”

Oliver chuckled. “Oh, Mr. Horrocks, you say that every time. But I have never seen such a fish.” He turned to Gareth. “Mr. Horrocks says Old Harry has been there since he was a boy and that he is this big.” He spread his arms as wide as they would go.

Horrocks gave a rusty laugh. “No, he’s this big.” He spread his own arms.

Armed with advice, poles, nine leaping, panting dogs, and an old tin for bait, they made their way on foot toward the east-northeast part of Gareth’s property.

“It’s not a long walk, only a quarter of an hour. We can dig our bait by the water.”

“Tell me about the bait and how one fishes in such a way as to catch a specimen like Old Harry.” Gareth knew worms were used, but he enjoyed listing to the boy talk. His enthusiasm was soothing and made him feel more optimistic. Already he was glad he’d decided to come. The day was clear and warm after such a long streak of rain. The ground was slow to dry up, but he would be able to remove the big rock before too many days were out.

The thought sobered him. He would have to leave after he’d completed that task. After all, what other reason did he have to stay?

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