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Chapter four
Fit and unfit
McCraestrodeoffin the direction of the closest river crossing.
“I was planning to walk over the bridge,” Lucinda said.
“In weather such as this? A foolish notion.” Dismissive as ever he picked up his pace. Did the thought not occur to him that it wasn’t a matter of choice? Deliberately she slowed her own pace, calling after his stiffly-held back.
“I am afraid I do not have the boat fare, but if you are in a hurry, please go ahead without me. I shall be perfectly fine taking the bridge on my own.”
“Oh,” he said, momentarily taken aback, if the puzzled face and pregnant pause were any indication. He slowed his pace until she caught up but did not change direction or break his stride.
“If you will allow me, I shall pay for the crossing. I would not forgive myself if you were soaked to the skin.” The sky was looking ominous again, and it would be churlish to refuse, but it would also mean she was further beholden to the irritating Scotsman.
“Very well,” she said, “I would be most grateful,” though it was hard to infuse any enthusiasm into her voice. Enthusiasm would only encourage him to hang around for titbits and encouraging Robert McCrae was the absolute last thing she desired.
The river crossing turned out to be something of a reprieve since it was impossible to carry on a conversation while the wind whipped against your face and snatched your words away, turning them into a muffled, unintelligible blur. The reprieve, however, was short-lived, for as soon as they were safely landed, McCrae began to probe.
“I am sorry if I caused offence. It did not occur to me that you would not have the fare. The academy is always busy. I assumed it was doing well.”
“Things have improved,” she said guardedly, “but Father was not long back from Ireland, having lost his arm, when the plague struck. All business and trade suffered terribly during those dreadful times. We count ourselves fortunate to have survived.”
“Indeed, indeed.” Mention of the plague was oft a conversation killer. Those who lived through it did not like to relive it, and those who had fled, or had no experience of it, were not keen to know the details. For a time they walked in silence until he started the wheels of conversation again. “Who ran the academy when your father was in Ireland?”
“Father had a provost. We were betrothed. The plan was for us to marry when I was older, in order to keep the fencing academy in the family.”
“Yet he does not have a provost now.”
“He does not.” Instead of remaining silent and leaving the past to rest in peace, McCrae continued to dig and probe, an interrogation that was as unwelcome as it was clumsy, no matter how carefully he tried to choose his words.
“I trust something untoward happened?” he said, causing her heart to spasm violently and her hand to fly up to her chest. His words hit home more than he could ever know.
“He died during the plague,” which was the truth, albeit a part truth, though not exactly a lie. McCrae had the good grace to flinch and show a faint blush of embarrassment. Served him right for prying so much.
“I beg your forgiveness, he said.” She gave him a curt nod. “You must have been devastated.”
Lucinda shrugged. “Not as much as you might expect. We were not well suited. The match was never my choice. I cannot abide a man who tries to rule me.”
“Woe betide any man who attempted that task.” It was hard to tell if he supported her opinion or was mocking her because, for once, there was no smile about his eyes. You could find more expression upon a corpse. “Yet under the law a husband has the right to rule his wife.”
Hmmph. So he was mocking her. “Then perhaps I am simply not the marrying kind.” That should draw a stop to any further discussion. They were almost upon her doorstep, and she did not want him accompanying her inside. Yet still the thick-skulled Scotsman did not take the hint.
“Surely you cannot mean that.”
She reached out to take her basket from him, but he held fast to the handle and would not let go.
She tugged.
He resisted.
“You must want children. All women do.”
In exasperation she exploded. “From what I have seen, having children poses great risk for little benefit. My basket please.” She gave a firm angry tug on the handle just as McCrae released his hold, which had the unfortunate effect of sending her tumbling backward to land in a puddle, her legs hither and thither and her skirts flying upward.
“Oh no!” she gasped, not from pain, nor humiliation, nor even dismay at ruining her dress. It was the sudden revelation that caused her to gasp. With the disarrangement of her skirts, everything was on display. Rapiers. Men’s breeches. The lot. Too late she pulled down her skirt. For a brief moment McCrae’s eyes widened. Did he notice? Did he not? It was hard to be sure for almost immediately he was smothering her in a profusion of apology and solicitation.
“Are you hurt?”
