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“I’ll fashion the lances.” Deighton bared square, white teeth. “Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday.” Griffith inclined his head. “Remember the Sabbath. They certainly do in St. Ives.”
“Monday, then.”
“Brilliant.” Griffith smoothed his cravat. “Shall we say four in the afternoon?”
“Brilliant.”
“The pasture at Rosewall Farm?”
“Brilliant.”
“None of this is brilliant,” interjected Muriel. “Diverting, possibly. Brilliant, no.”
“Will you attend?” asked Griffith. His eyes locked on hers, their expression unreadable.
A tingle started at the top of her spine and ended up in her toes.
What would it be like? A seduction that wasn’t…slight.
She turned toward the stone wall, to retrieve the basket, and her eyes fell to the mangled plant at the wall’s base.
The accident did have a casualty. The columbine had been shredded by the tire of Griffith’s bicycle. The flower was gone, as though it had never been.
Time to remember she wasn’t superstitious.
And to remember she had a purpose here.
She picked up the basket and turned back to Griffith.
“I have an engagement on Monday,” she said. “Sadly, I will miss the joust.”
She hurried to James, and Griffith wheeled his bike to them, and, at last, the path was clear. Deighton launched forward with a howl. The air he displaced as he hurtled away smelled of hot rubber and grease.
“We’re going this way.” Muriel pointed.
“I’m going the other way.” Griffith pointed, and a little pause ensued. “Enjoy your picnic.”
“Impossible.” James shook his head. “It’s Irish moss and seawater. Enjoy your joust.”
“I believe I will,” said Griffith, and he dinged his bell. His smile was wide and somehow indecent, far too transfixing for ordinary interaction.
The backs of Muriel’s knees went damp.
And then he was pedaling off.
She released her breath, and James glanced at her, eyes dancing. He looked away, then back. He drew a breath.
“Don’t,” she warned. He began to laugh.
“Stop.” She nudged him, so hard the jars clinked in the basket. “I thought your lips were too dry.”
“They are,” said James, and kept laughing.
4
It was the light that drew so many artists to Cornwall. The great marine painter J. M. W. Turner had inaugurated the tradition. He’d toured the West Country at the beginning of the century, walking or riding the whole of the way, nearly as far as Land’s End. The golden views he put to canvas inspired future generations, and the railway bridge made their treks west swifter and more comfortable. Now a dozen trains crossed the Tamar a day. You could chug out from Paddington Station in the morning and step off the Cornish Riviera in St. Ives in time to set up your easel and capture the sunset.
