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“We agreed not to talk about this.”
“We didn’t agree on anything of the kind. You’ve been avoiding the subject.”
“Fine. I’m happy to continue with avoidance.”
“You’re not happy. That’s why I’m telling you to go to London.” She dropped down beside him. The amber-toned sunlight held the first hint of autumn. Beyond the cliffs, the sea was silver with fish. The pilchards were running.
“I’m happy,” he said, not entirely dishonestly. He had his Sisters again. Lucy was leaving for Stratton Grange, and Nelly and Gwen had gone south to Newlyn, but that was immaterial. He had Sisters. He had art.
“She’s on Gower Street,” said Lucy. “I have the address from Ponsonby.”
“You’re persistent as the croup,” he told her. “And I don’t see how you’d trust an address from Ponsonby.”
“It’s James Raleigh’s address.” Lucy smiled, wryly. “So he has a vested interest.”
“What, then?” Kit set down his rock and his brush and hugged his knees. “I should ride up on a white horse and plight my troth?”
“I was picturing a bicycle.” She gave a tiny shrug.
He pictured it too, then shook his head. “I don’t think you understand.”
“I understand what I saw between the two of you.” A smug note crept into her voice. “And this avoidance. It’s not like you to clam up.” She paused. “You’re afraid of letting something out.”
“Funny.” He flung back, crossing his arms behind his head. “She said I was afraid too.” He frowned at the sky. “I am dauntless when it comes to affairs of the heart.”
“Affairs.” Lucy’s voice was pointed.
He propped himself on an elbow to glare. “Are you judging me? Of course you’re judging me. You and Weston are so sickeningly sweet on each other, you think all people should mate for life, like swans.”
“Do swans really mate for life? Or are they a symbol of love because pairs of them touch their heads together and form hearts with their necks?”
Prescott would know. Kit only scowled.
“Oh dear.” Lucy’s eyes began to dance. “You’re a swan! You presented yourself as a strutting peacock, but you’re a hopelessly devoted swan. You’re afraid of letting out a telltale honk! Or hiss.” She hissed loudly, stretching out her neck.
“That was the worst swan imitation I’ve heard in my life,” Kit informed her, without being sure he’d ever heard another.
She pursed her lips, curled her fingers, and made a heart with her hands.
“Stop it,” he growled. “I’ve no wish to be tied down.”
He wouldn’t feel tied down with Muriel, though. He knew that already. He’d grow. She’d grow. They’d grow together.
He was in love with her. It wasn’t his usual casual besottedness. God have mercy, Lucy was right. He was in swan with her.
He’d been aware, hadn’t he? This whole time? It felt cataclysmic to articulate it, even to himself. Volcanic pressure built in his chest. Any moment, the smoke would pour out of his ears.
Lucy’s lips were trembling.
“Honk,” she whispered.
He’d best remind himself of the facts.
“Whatever you saw between us,” he said, “it’s over. She’s headed for New York.”
“And it wouldn’t make the remotest bit of sense for you to go to New York.” Lucy rolled her eyes. “What ever would you do in a grand metropolis famed for art and culture, with galleries and museums lining the streets, and your first patron already on the hook?”
He ran his fingers through his hair, fidgeting.
