minute."
She nodded and grew silent. He took the bottle, and she wrapped
her arms about her knees, setting her chin on them to stare into the fire. She
didn't intend to say anything further. Perhaps it was the silence or the night,
maybe the gin. A cozy intimacy for confidences. She murmured, "Everyone is
misjudged for a minute, sometimes longer. It's difficult to take a person's
measure, unless you know him well." She shrugged, wistful. "I don't
think a handful of people know me. Not who I truly am. Maybe not even
that."
When she slid a glance at him, he was staring at her, serious,
contemplative.
He broke the protracted silence with, "You know, for a
snobby, complainin' woman, you sure have a streak of wisdom in you, Mrs.
Brown."
Lydia had to couch
her face to hide the pleasure the silly backhanded comment caused her. Foolish.
She put her mouth and chin behind her knees with just her eyes watching the
fire over her kneetops. Its flames lapped at the log. The thickest piece, an
old stump he'd found, glowed neatly now. It was covered in little shrunken
rectangles of ash, the wood burning so that it glowed red from inside, from its
core.
She found herself giving voice to her most honest fear. "Are
we going to survive, do you think?"
He laughed. "Abso-dang-lutely."
"We were lucky to get the rabbit."
"Nah, I hit it accidentally. There's plenty out here. We
could live off the land till winter. Though we won't need to – given the width
of the moor, we could walk the whole thing in a day or two."
As if to reinforce what he said, be lifted the gin bottle,
toasting her with it, then upended it. He drank till the bottle glugged a
burble of air.
She liked that he could be sanguine about their predicament. He
wasn't worried. Of course. They were going to be perfectly all right. They'd go
to sleep. They'd probably have another rabbit in the morning for breakfast.
Then they'd walk south and get to the road. They'd stay on it till they either
met someone or came to civilization. They weren't in any real danger.
Though her arms were cold, and her back away from the fire felt
chilly. The wee hours promised uncomfortable temperatures. Unless of course two
people were huddled together. She looked at him.
He wasn't saying anything. He knew it, too. He was waiting for her
to come to the conclusion.
----
6
W ithin a short time Lydia was
recognizably tipsy, but she didn't mind. She liked the feeling. The more gin
she drank, the more she felt … happy, almost cocky, with their adventure;
unhampered, spontaneous. She felt good. He was right. They were fine. And there
was nothing very wrong with her. Truly. Except, she thought drunkenly, that her
dinner menus didn't have rabbit and gin on them often enough.
Lydia kept up most of the conversation, telling the man across
from her about Rose's wedding, for no particular reason other than he seemed
quietly interested. "They had an accordion player for dancing, and
everyone, even her grandmother, danced. Sometimes they sang with the music,
too…"
Sam listened with only half an ear, gratified to see Liddy so
relaxed. He himself was exhausted, with a pretty strenuous day catching up with
him. In the not too distant future, he figured, he'd be overwhelmed by sleep,
but for now he fought it. For one, he was just cold enough to prefer drinking a
little more gin to sleeping. And, for two, he couldn't seem to get enough of
watching Lydia Brown laugh and gesture and talk, now that she had a little gin
under her belt.
They were going to lie down together, he knew that, and it was
another reason he avoided going officially to sleep for the night. He wasn't
certain how well he'd tolerate putting himself up against Liddy Brown here,
touching her to keep warm and not for anything else.
Her arms wide, Liddy demonstrated the width of some river at a
town called Swansdown, then with a movement of hand and wrist the wiggly way
the river narrowed then wound under a bridge. She was either showing
She nodded and grew silent. He took the bottle, and she wrapped
her arms about her knees, setting her chin on them to stare into the fire. She
didn't intend to say anything further. Perhaps it was the silence or the night,
maybe the gin. A cozy intimacy for confidences. She murmured, "Everyone is
misjudged for a minute, sometimes longer. It's difficult to take a person's
measure, unless you know him well." She shrugged, wistful. "I don't
think a handful of people know me. Not who I truly am. Maybe not even
that."
When she slid a glance at him, he was staring at her, serious,
contemplative.
He broke the protracted silence with, "You know, for a
snobby, complainin' woman, you sure have a streak of wisdom in you, Mrs.
Brown."
Lydia had to couch
her face to hide the pleasure the silly backhanded comment caused her. Foolish.
She put her mouth and chin behind her knees with just her eyes watching the
fire over her kneetops. Its flames lapped at the log. The thickest piece, an
old stump he'd found, glowed neatly now. It was covered in little shrunken
rectangles of ash, the wood burning so that it glowed red from inside, from its
core.
She found herself giving voice to her most honest fear. "Are
we going to survive, do you think?"
He laughed. "Abso-dang-lutely."
"We were lucky to get the rabbit."
"Nah, I hit it accidentally. There's plenty out here. We
could live off the land till winter. Though we won't need to – given the width
of the moor, we could walk the whole thing in a day or two."
As if to reinforce what he said, be lifted the gin bottle,
toasting her with it, then upended it. He drank till the bottle glugged a
burble of air.
She liked that he could be sanguine about their predicament. He
wasn't worried. Of course. They were going to be perfectly all right. They'd go
to sleep. They'd probably have another rabbit in the morning for breakfast.
Then they'd walk south and get to the road. They'd stay on it till they either
met someone or came to civilization. They weren't in any real danger.
Though her arms were cold, and her back away from the fire felt
chilly. The wee hours promised uncomfortable temperatures. Unless of course two
people were huddled together. She looked at him.
He wasn't saying anything. He knew it, too. He was waiting for her
to come to the conclusion.
----
6
W ithin a short time Lydia was
recognizably tipsy, but she didn't mind. She liked the feeling. The more gin
she drank, the more she felt … happy, almost cocky, with their adventure;
unhampered, spontaneous. She felt good. He was right. They were fine. And there
was nothing very wrong with her. Truly. Except, she thought drunkenly, that her
dinner menus didn't have rabbit and gin on them often enough.
Lydia kept up most of the conversation, telling the man across
from her about Rose's wedding, for no particular reason other than he seemed
quietly interested. "They had an accordion player for dancing, and
everyone, even her grandmother, danced. Sometimes they sang with the music,
too…"
Sam listened with only half an ear, gratified to see Liddy so
relaxed. He himself was exhausted, with a pretty strenuous day catching up with
him. In the not too distant future, he figured, he'd be overwhelmed by sleep,
but for now he fought it. For one, he was just cold enough to prefer drinking a
little more gin to sleeping. And, for two, he couldn't seem to get enough of
watching Lydia Brown laugh and gesture and talk, now that she had a little gin
under her belt.
They were going to lie down together, he knew that, and it was
another reason he avoided going officially to sleep for the night. He wasn't
certain how well he'd tolerate putting himself up against Liddy Brown here,
touching her to keep warm and not for anything else.
Her arms wide, Liddy demonstrated the width of some river at a
town called Swansdown, then with a movement of hand and wrist the wiggly way
the river narrowed then wound under a bridge. She was either showing
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