confirmed, “I even have a few house dogs. I get along famously with them now. Big, small, doesn’t matter. They seem to like me too.”
“Hmm. What changed?”
He moved a bit, maneuvering onto his back and flexing his shoulders before lacing his fingers behind his neck. Charlotte could barely make out his profile in the gloom. Drowsiness was overtaking her again, and her eyes drooped despite her efforts to keep them open. She liked the sound of Dexter’s friendly baritone in the darkened room. Charlotte wondered why it made a difference whether the curtain was open or closed when she could barely see her hand in front of her own face, but the air in the berth seemed clearer somehow with the drapes out of the way. She imagined she could feel a faint breeze across her face.
“When I was seven or eight, my mother brought home a dog one day. A half-grown homeless pup she’d found on her way back from visiting one of the villagers who was ill. The dog was a little terrier bitch, no higher than my knee. Fluffy little thing, once she was bathed and the knots combed out of her coat.”
“Did this dog have a name?”
“Daisy,” Dexter said. “Mother had already started calling her that on the ride home. The thing was, nobody could have ever been afraid of Daisy, she was too sweet and good-natured. A gentle spirit. I think she showed me what a dog
could
be, and after that I knew what to look for. Or maybe I just came to associate having a nice dog about with happy times at home.”
“Mmm. I wish I could find a closet that had the same effect on me.”
Dexter chuckled. “An anticlaustrophobia closet. I’ll keep an eye out.”
“If we find one,” Charlotte pointed out, failing to stifle a yawn, “we could make a fortune. Excuse me.” She was unclear on the etiquette of sharing a bed with a handsome but platonic colleague, but it seemed impolite to yawn quite so hugely in the middle of a conversation.
“Quite understandable. Time for us both to get some sleep. We have another long day of pretending to be blissful newlyweds ahead of us. Good night, Charlotte.”
She thought she wished him good night back, but couldn’t be sure the words made it out of her mouth before sleep exerted its will over her eyelids and dragged her down at last.
* * *
“LORD JOHNSON’S TARGET! Lord Johnson’s target!”
“Pull!”
The trap launched off the deck above, striking a lazy parabola that peaked somewhere over the ship’s wake in time for the bullet to intersect it.
“Mark!”
Its twin, shot from the opposite side of the broad stern, seemed to come directly over Charlotte’s head at a steep angle. She forced a little squeak and giggle out of herself as the fowling piece discharged, jerking Lord Johnson’s shoulder back.
He had missed his shot, which she would have thought impossible given the lazy trajectory of the clay and the very fine make of the elaborate fowling harness Johnson was wearing.
The young Lord pushed the weapon, one adapted for the shorter-range clays, down along its track and off his arm. Then he made a great show of cursing and adjusting the trigger grip and stabilizing grip, all the while making pointed little remarks about the quality of Hardison’s goods.
“Oh I know, isn’t it
lovely
, Lord Johnson?” she twittered, batting her eyes and twirling her hat ribbons around her finger. “And so
shiny
!”
Dexter shot her a look and then stepped forward, clearing his throat.
“Johnson, if I may?”
With a few deft motions over the other man’s harness, Dexter had reseated the shoulder pad and fastened the middle strap of the chest piece, which had apparently never been buckled. Perhaps because the abundance of decorative and very
shiny
rivets made it difficult to locate the actual buckles amid such a profusion of brass.
Not waiting for Johnson to reseat the weapon, Dexter nodded to the steward, who returned his nod and called out to the company, “Lord Hardison’s target! Lord
“Hmm. What changed?”
He moved a bit, maneuvering onto his back and flexing his shoulders before lacing his fingers behind his neck. Charlotte could barely make out his profile in the gloom. Drowsiness was overtaking her again, and her eyes drooped despite her efforts to keep them open. She liked the sound of Dexter’s friendly baritone in the darkened room. Charlotte wondered why it made a difference whether the curtain was open or closed when she could barely see her hand in front of her own face, but the air in the berth seemed clearer somehow with the drapes out of the way. She imagined she could feel a faint breeze across her face.
“When I was seven or eight, my mother brought home a dog one day. A half-grown homeless pup she’d found on her way back from visiting one of the villagers who was ill. The dog was a little terrier bitch, no higher than my knee. Fluffy little thing, once she was bathed and the knots combed out of her coat.”
“Did this dog have a name?”
“Daisy,” Dexter said. “Mother had already started calling her that on the ride home. The thing was, nobody could have ever been afraid of Daisy, she was too sweet and good-natured. A gentle spirit. I think she showed me what a dog
could
be, and after that I knew what to look for. Or maybe I just came to associate having a nice dog about with happy times at home.”
“Mmm. I wish I could find a closet that had the same effect on me.”
Dexter chuckled. “An anticlaustrophobia closet. I’ll keep an eye out.”
“If we find one,” Charlotte pointed out, failing to stifle a yawn, “we could make a fortune. Excuse me.” She was unclear on the etiquette of sharing a bed with a handsome but platonic colleague, but it seemed impolite to yawn quite so hugely in the middle of a conversation.
“Quite understandable. Time for us both to get some sleep. We have another long day of pretending to be blissful newlyweds ahead of us. Good night, Charlotte.”
She thought she wished him good night back, but couldn’t be sure the words made it out of her mouth before sleep exerted its will over her eyelids and dragged her down at last.
* * *
“LORD JOHNSON’S TARGET! Lord Johnson’s target!”
“Pull!”
The trap launched off the deck above, striking a lazy parabola that peaked somewhere over the ship’s wake in time for the bullet to intersect it.
“Mark!”
Its twin, shot from the opposite side of the broad stern, seemed to come directly over Charlotte’s head at a steep angle. She forced a little squeak and giggle out of herself as the fowling piece discharged, jerking Lord Johnson’s shoulder back.
He had missed his shot, which she would have thought impossible given the lazy trajectory of the clay and the very fine make of the elaborate fowling harness Johnson was wearing.
The young Lord pushed the weapon, one adapted for the shorter-range clays, down along its track and off his arm. Then he made a great show of cursing and adjusting the trigger grip and stabilizing grip, all the while making pointed little remarks about the quality of Hardison’s goods.
“Oh I know, isn’t it
lovely
, Lord Johnson?” she twittered, batting her eyes and twirling her hat ribbons around her finger. “And so
shiny
!”
Dexter shot her a look and then stepped forward, clearing his throat.
“Johnson, if I may?”
With a few deft motions over the other man’s harness, Dexter had reseated the shoulder pad and fastened the middle strap of the chest piece, which had apparently never been buckled. Perhaps because the abundance of decorative and very
shiny
rivets made it difficult to locate the actual buckles amid such a profusion of brass.
Not waiting for Johnson to reseat the weapon, Dexter nodded to the steward, who returned his nod and called out to the company, “Lord Hardison’s target! Lord
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