watching her and grinning so broadly his eyes seemed to have vanished.
She wondered if he’d seen her fling her arms up over her head.
Bloody man .
Lady Georgina, from the shelter of her large bonnet, looked troubled, too—she was peering at Lord Milthorpe with some of the concern that had plagued Cynthia at first. Or perhaps she was embarrassed by the ribald joke. Or perhaps she didn’t understand it. Or perhaps she was transfixed by a fantasy of Miles Redmond bringing brandy to her and getting the job over with quickly.
“Now, now, Mister Redmond,” Lady Windermere admonished as she wiped her eyes. “Perhaps I should now remind you that we are not in the tropics, that we are in England, and that perhaps certain topics are not proper for mixed company.”
It was another halfhearted attempt at chaperoning.
“Oh, I’m absolutely certain brandy and spiders are a proper topic for mixed company,” Miles said soberly.
“Well, when put like that,” Lady Windermere capitulated happily.
And in this state of giddy bonhomie, they all finally came upon a lovely, broad silver snake of water lined by dense clusters of crack willow, ash, and alder trees.
This, apparently, was to be where their picnic was held.
Chapter 7
M iles said something to the footmen. They settled their burden, and one flipped open the woven hamper lid, bent into its depths and removed a folded rectangle of fabric. They billowed it outward and began to smooth it over the ground with the aid of the other footmen.
Miles stepped over to help them smooth one corner, which brought him nearer to Cynthia. He murmured, “He loves to laugh. Nearly as much as he loves dogs. And shooting.”
She resisted the urge to tread on his instep.
He stepped away in time, anyway, perhaps sensing the impulse.
The removal of things to eat from the hamper went on for quite some time: stacks of plates and silver, dark bottles of cider and ale, cold chicken and whole golden loaves of bread swaddled in linen napkins. The unpacking slowed when a footman staggered under a half wheel of white cheese, but he was propped up by a quick-moving Miles. Slices of seed-speckled cake were fanned on plates, and strawberries, blueberries, and currants spilled into bowls.
As all the talk of mating and killing and the heat of the day did something to whet appetites, they all fell upon the food like hungry jaguars. A comparison Miles provided, straight from the jungles of Lacao.
They were attended at intervals by tiny flying and crawling interlopers—all of which Miles Redmond identified for everyone by lengthy Latin names.
Some attention had been paid to tending the lawns up to the stream bank, but native Sussex flowers had sprung up: blue-purple rampion and bladder campion nodded on stalks over the stream like bystanders at a boat race. Betony fluttered on stalks; lavender self-heal hid in the long feathery grasses at the bank.
Iridescent dragonflies patrolled the stream and buzzed over them to see what the fuss was about. A butterfly loped by in the air. It, too, was blue-lavender, in keeping with the floral theme of the stream bank.
“Polyommatus icarus,” Miles told everyone. “The common blue.”
“Do they really have butterflies that eat people in Lacao?”
Jonathan asked this, mostly to make everyone gasp. He knew full well it isn’t true.
“No, but they have plants and people who would happily eat men,” he told his younger brother.
This did elicit a gasp.
And suddenly Miles had everyone’s attention, and he talked of Lacao, and she saw him ease out of his coat, out of his hat, roll up his sleeves, and enter, through words, the world he’d explored and loved, the world that had made him famous.
And despite herself, Cynthia was interested, and then rapt. She listened to him field questions—about snakes and flowers, about weather and customs, about dogs (Milthorpe) and cannibals, about poisons and the variety of deaths that could be had from them at the
She wondered if he’d seen her fling her arms up over her head.
Bloody man .
Lady Georgina, from the shelter of her large bonnet, looked troubled, too—she was peering at Lord Milthorpe with some of the concern that had plagued Cynthia at first. Or perhaps she was embarrassed by the ribald joke. Or perhaps she didn’t understand it. Or perhaps she was transfixed by a fantasy of Miles Redmond bringing brandy to her and getting the job over with quickly.
“Now, now, Mister Redmond,” Lady Windermere admonished as she wiped her eyes. “Perhaps I should now remind you that we are not in the tropics, that we are in England, and that perhaps certain topics are not proper for mixed company.”
It was another halfhearted attempt at chaperoning.
“Oh, I’m absolutely certain brandy and spiders are a proper topic for mixed company,” Miles said soberly.
“Well, when put like that,” Lady Windermere capitulated happily.
And in this state of giddy bonhomie, they all finally came upon a lovely, broad silver snake of water lined by dense clusters of crack willow, ash, and alder trees.
This, apparently, was to be where their picnic was held.
Chapter 7
M iles said something to the footmen. They settled their burden, and one flipped open the woven hamper lid, bent into its depths and removed a folded rectangle of fabric. They billowed it outward and began to smooth it over the ground with the aid of the other footmen.
Miles stepped over to help them smooth one corner, which brought him nearer to Cynthia. He murmured, “He loves to laugh. Nearly as much as he loves dogs. And shooting.”
She resisted the urge to tread on his instep.
He stepped away in time, anyway, perhaps sensing the impulse.
The removal of things to eat from the hamper went on for quite some time: stacks of plates and silver, dark bottles of cider and ale, cold chicken and whole golden loaves of bread swaddled in linen napkins. The unpacking slowed when a footman staggered under a half wheel of white cheese, but he was propped up by a quick-moving Miles. Slices of seed-speckled cake were fanned on plates, and strawberries, blueberries, and currants spilled into bowls.
As all the talk of mating and killing and the heat of the day did something to whet appetites, they all fell upon the food like hungry jaguars. A comparison Miles provided, straight from the jungles of Lacao.
They were attended at intervals by tiny flying and crawling interlopers—all of which Miles Redmond identified for everyone by lengthy Latin names.
Some attention had been paid to tending the lawns up to the stream bank, but native Sussex flowers had sprung up: blue-purple rampion and bladder campion nodded on stalks over the stream like bystanders at a boat race. Betony fluttered on stalks; lavender self-heal hid in the long feathery grasses at the bank.
Iridescent dragonflies patrolled the stream and buzzed over them to see what the fuss was about. A butterfly loped by in the air. It, too, was blue-lavender, in keeping with the floral theme of the stream bank.
“Polyommatus icarus,” Miles told everyone. “The common blue.”
“Do they really have butterflies that eat people in Lacao?”
Jonathan asked this, mostly to make everyone gasp. He knew full well it isn’t true.
“No, but they have plants and people who would happily eat men,” he told his younger brother.
This did elicit a gasp.
And suddenly Miles had everyone’s attention, and he talked of Lacao, and she saw him ease out of his coat, out of his hat, roll up his sleeves, and enter, through words, the world he’d explored and loved, the world that had made him famous.
And despite herself, Cynthia was interested, and then rapt. She listened to him field questions—about snakes and flowers, about weather and customs, about dogs (Milthorpe) and cannibals, about poisons and the variety of deaths that could be had from them at the
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