The Indiscretion by Judith Ivory Page A

him things
like this or else hunched over, her arms folded into her knees and skirts,
herself as near to their burning wood as she could be without being on top of
it. She was cold; she was talkative. He remembered an old, apt expression of
his pop's and smiled: She could speak ten words a second with gusts up to
fifty. Ha, Pop would've liked her. With a little gin in her, Liddy put Sam in
mind of Juliana, his pop's longtime Mexican mistress. Vivacious, friendly, open
about her feelings, vague about the facts of her life – and seemingly without
the first notion of unsavory motives in other human beings.
    Liddy moved on to happily recapping their day, if he wasn't
mistaken, though he couldn't think why she'd be so happy about it, when,
sitting there, she reached absently up into her hair. She found the last
several hairpins and drew them out, tossing them on the ground to keep company
with the rest he'd dumped out earlier. He couldn't say he was sorry he'd
disposed of them. Her hair was as crazy, as wild and copious as honeysuckle
vines in June. She continued hunting through her hair, looking for any missing
pins.
    With the last one, she let her hair down completely, and the sight
was even better than he'd expected. Her hair stood out in a curly cloud around
her face. It spiraled down her back to her hips. It corkscrewed onto her
shoulders. If he stuck his hand in it, he'd probably have had to disentangle
himself with his free hand; he couldn't have combed his fingers through it. Her
hair was that dense and curly.
    When he finally horned in on the conversation, he found himself
saying, "You're not married."
    She threw him a discombobulated frown. She was going to insist, he
thought, then surprised him by saying only, "You don't know that."
    "You don't wear a ring."
    "I lost it."
    "There's no mark of a ring." He went on, "And
there's something about you. You're—" He hesitated. "You know nothing
of a man." He took a slow drink of gin before he said, "You're just a
sweet girl, Liddy Brown. A sweet, unmarried young woman with a little bit of
temper, a big, generous heart" – he laughed – "and a dangerous bent
for adventure now that you've had a taste of it and survived it." He shook
his head at her, smiling. "No more wild coach rides for you. It's making
you into a regular thrill-seeker." He smiled at her, joking, but feeling
admiration, too, and letting her see it.
    Such a winning smile he had, Lydia thought, even
if it came off crooked, using only half his face. His smile altered his words,
bringing with them all the confusing, pleasant embarrassment of a pretty
compliment. She felt a warm, flattered pleasure spread through her – though she
couldn't think where exactly the compliment lay. A thrill-seeker? No, that
wasn't her. She was too careful to value thrills for their own sake.
Nonetheless, she felt emboldened: satisfied with herself for having survived
the day and her own fear and worry, happy in the knowledge that she'd be less
likely to be as frightened tomorrow.
    She got up all at once, remembering something in her satchel.
    "Gonna iron some clothes?" he called. He'd twisted
around to watch her.
    "What?"
    "Nothing." He chuckled.
    She bent over, dug into the bag, then stood up, shaking out
petticoats and a shawl. "Blankets."
    He laughed harder when she dropped one of her petticoats around
his shoulders. "How sweet," he said. "And I'm sure it makes me
look real debonaire." He nodded, though, smiling up at her; it no doubt
improved the chill in the air. She sat again, wrapping herself up in the
frillier petticoat, then her soft, fringy shawl. Swaddled and more comfortable,
she picked up her brush again.
    She used a silver brush – which made her, Sam noticed, the richest
lady's maid he'd ever met, even if it was plate.
    She grew quieter – tireder, he thought – as she tried to get a
brush through her twining, winding hair. At one point, she stopped and
stretched, yawning up out of her wrapping of frills and