yourself, or do you buy them?”
He laughed. “You, a fisherwoman? You amaze me. Tell me, who designs your fishing gowns?”
“Not a fisherwoman, an angler , if you please,” she said, and then added wistfully, “I wear boys’ clothes—that is, I used to. I fished with my father when I was a girl. We’d leave at dawn and stay until dusk, or until we got something for our efforts. He had special boots made for me, and when we saw how my clothes looked after a dunking when I went too enthusiastically after a fish on the line, he let me wear breeches.”
Miles couldn’t imagine this woman ever wearing boys’ clothing, wading in icy water, casting a line, pulling a fish from a hook. Not as she had been before her illness, or as she was now.
“I was very good at it too,” she said, raising her chin as though she’d heard his thoughts. “I used a blue elver fly, my favorite lure. It took me a while to learn to cast; in fact, I almost didn’t get beyond that point. A bad cast made me the recipient of a hook in my arm. It had to be cut out, and left a scar. See?” she asked, pushing up a tight-fitting sleeve to prove it to him.
She pointed to the thin white line on her forearm, looked up, and saw his expression. There was more than pity, there was shock and sorrow. Then she realized that the scar was hardly discernible among all the purple and yellow bruises and cuts on her thin blue-white arm. She hastily pushed her sleeve back down and raised her head higher. “I suppose it’s not so bad now, but then I thought Mama would have a fit,” she said briskly. “My father said it would be a badge of honor. Well,” she admitted, “he had to say something to stop both our tears.”
“Call that a scar?” Miles said quickly, schooling his expression to one of mock scorn. “See this?” He tapped his chin. “From a cannon. I got it in battle.”
“Oh my!” she said, diverted. “Were you in much danger?”
“From myself,” he said with a laugh. “Because, you see, I got the wound quite literally from a cannon. Some fool hadn’t tied it down, and it went rolling during a groundswell. I tried to be a hero and secure it myself. It almost secured me, to the deck, and forever. Now, if you want to see a battle scar, there’s one on my leg, and another on my hip…” He paused, and using a mock spinsterish air, added, “But only if you ask me nicely, and when we know each other better.”
Annabelle went still. He realized it was perhaps not the best thing for him to have said to his wife,a woman who should have known where all his scars were by now. “So,” he said too brightly. “As to your wound, I suppose that put an end to your fishing lessons?”
“Oh no,” she said. “We went out again, though we both were more careful after that. I got quite good, actually, although I never caught the grandfather of all trout my father told me about. I’m glad of it. I think I caught sight of him once, sleeping in the shallows, the sunlight shining on his scales. He was huge. Wily and strong, my father said. We named him Uncle George and my father insisted we say good morning to him before we started fishing, then bid him good night before we left, even though we couldn’t see him. If we didn’t, he said, we’d never catch a fish again because he was the king of the stream.”
She smiled in reminiscence, “I don’t think my father wanted to catch him. In fact, if he ever did I’m convinced he threw him back, because Uncle George made that pool, and without him it would have just been fishing.”
“I tell you what,” Miles said on a sudden inspiration. “Would you like to watch me fish? We can take a chair for you, maybe in a few days when you’re feeling stronger and it’s a little warmer. My favorite spot is under some overhanging branches, so it’s cool there even on mild days. It’s in a deep part of the pool, near the rocks, just before the streambed takes a dip and the water startsrushing
He laughed. “You, a fisherwoman? You amaze me. Tell me, who designs your fishing gowns?”
“Not a fisherwoman, an angler , if you please,” she said, and then added wistfully, “I wear boys’ clothes—that is, I used to. I fished with my father when I was a girl. We’d leave at dawn and stay until dusk, or until we got something for our efforts. He had special boots made for me, and when we saw how my clothes looked after a dunking when I went too enthusiastically after a fish on the line, he let me wear breeches.”
Miles couldn’t imagine this woman ever wearing boys’ clothing, wading in icy water, casting a line, pulling a fish from a hook. Not as she had been before her illness, or as she was now.
“I was very good at it too,” she said, raising her chin as though she’d heard his thoughts. “I used a blue elver fly, my favorite lure. It took me a while to learn to cast; in fact, I almost didn’t get beyond that point. A bad cast made me the recipient of a hook in my arm. It had to be cut out, and left a scar. See?” she asked, pushing up a tight-fitting sleeve to prove it to him.
She pointed to the thin white line on her forearm, looked up, and saw his expression. There was more than pity, there was shock and sorrow. Then she realized that the scar was hardly discernible among all the purple and yellow bruises and cuts on her thin blue-white arm. She hastily pushed her sleeve back down and raised her head higher. “I suppose it’s not so bad now, but then I thought Mama would have a fit,” she said briskly. “My father said it would be a badge of honor. Well,” she admitted, “he had to say something to stop both our tears.”
“Call that a scar?” Miles said quickly, schooling his expression to one of mock scorn. “See this?” He tapped his chin. “From a cannon. I got it in battle.”
“Oh my!” she said, diverted. “Were you in much danger?”
“From myself,” he said with a laugh. “Because, you see, I got the wound quite literally from a cannon. Some fool hadn’t tied it down, and it went rolling during a groundswell. I tried to be a hero and secure it myself. It almost secured me, to the deck, and forever. Now, if you want to see a battle scar, there’s one on my leg, and another on my hip…” He paused, and using a mock spinsterish air, added, “But only if you ask me nicely, and when we know each other better.”
Annabelle went still. He realized it was perhaps not the best thing for him to have said to his wife,a woman who should have known where all his scars were by now. “So,” he said too brightly. “As to your wound, I suppose that put an end to your fishing lessons?”
“Oh no,” she said. “We went out again, though we both were more careful after that. I got quite good, actually, although I never caught the grandfather of all trout my father told me about. I’m glad of it. I think I caught sight of him once, sleeping in the shallows, the sunlight shining on his scales. He was huge. Wily and strong, my father said. We named him Uncle George and my father insisted we say good morning to him before we started fishing, then bid him good night before we left, even though we couldn’t see him. If we didn’t, he said, we’d never catch a fish again because he was the king of the stream.”
She smiled in reminiscence, “I don’t think my father wanted to catch him. In fact, if he ever did I’m convinced he threw him back, because Uncle George made that pool, and without him it would have just been fishing.”
“I tell you what,” Miles said on a sudden inspiration. “Would you like to watch me fish? We can take a chair for you, maybe in a few days when you’re feeling stronger and it’s a little warmer. My favorite spot is under some overhanging branches, so it’s cool there even on mild days. It’s in a deep part of the pool, near the rocks, just before the streambed takes a dip and the water startsrushing
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