How could she explain her sudden reluctance to go outside? How long before someone realized that wasn’t Lottie being “unsociable,” as Celia had laughingly accused her? Before they realized it wasn’t just another of her foibles, this sudden reluctance to spend time with her best friend?
She stared at the new blouse hanging on the door handle. Mrs. Holden had given her one of her “looks” when she’d thanked Celia for it. Lottie knew she thought her graceless. She should have been more grateful. It was a very nice blouse.
But Lottie hadn’t managed to say much at all. Because there was nothing Lottie was going to be able to say. How could she? How could she explain that the first moment she had set eyes on Guy everything she knew, everything she believed, had been sucked away from her like someone pulling a rug from under her? How could she explain the searing pain of familiarity at his face, the sudden, bitter joy of recognition, the deeply held certainty that her very bones were already familiar with this man; they had to be—weren’t they cast from the same human porcelain as his? How could she tell Celia she couldn’t possibly marry this man she had brought home as her fiancé?
Because he belonged to her?
“Lottie! Lots!” The voice drifted upward, carried on the air. Just as she had known it would.
She waited until the second summons, then opened the window. Looked down. Tried to keep her gaze on Celia’s upturned face.
“Don’t be boring, Lots! You’re not studying for exams now.”
“I’ve got a bit of a headache. I’ll be down later,” she said. Even her voice sounded different.
“She’s been in there all day,” said Frederick, who was throwing tennis balls against the side of the house.
“Oh, come on, do. We’re going to head over to Bardness Point. You could fetch Joe. Make a four. Come on, Lots. I’ve hardly seen you.”
She wondered that Celia couldn’t tell that her smile was false. It hurt the sides of her mouth.
“You go on. I’ll just wait for this headache to clear up. We’ll do something tomorrow.”
“Boring, boring, boring. And I’ve been telling Guy what a bad influence on me you are. You’ll think I’m fibbing, won’t you, darling?”
“Tomorrow. Promise.”
Lottie pulled her head back into the bedroom so that she wouldn’t have to see their embrace.
She lay facedown on her bed. And tried to remember how to breathe.
G UY P ARNELL O LIVIER B ANCROFT HAD BEEN BORN IN Winchester, making him technically English. But that was the only English thing about him. Everything—from his tanned skin, so at odds with most of the pale English complexions around him, to his relaxed, diffident manner—marked him out as separate from the young men the girls had known. Merham men anyway.
He was a self-contained young man, polite, reserved, who nonetheless carried the casually gilded air of the heir apparent, surprised by little and prepared at all times for good things to happen. He seemed to suffer none of the tortured self-examination of Joe or be driven by the testosterone-fueled bullishness of the other boys. He gazed a bit wide-eyed around him, as if permanently amused at some unforeseen joke, occasionally letting out bursts of uninhibited and joyful laughter. (He was the kind of young man you couldn’t help smiling at, Mrs. Holden confided to her husband. But then Guy made her smile a lot; once she had got over the shock of her daughter’s swift engagement, she had viewed him as indulgently as a firstborn son.) Guy seemed as equally unfazed by the man at the taxi rank as by the prospect of formally asking Dr. Holden for his daughter’s hand in marriage. (He hadn’t yet. But then he had been there only a couple of days, and Dr. Holden had been terribly busy.) If he was somewhat passive, somewhat less forthcoming than the Holdens would have liked, then they weren’t going to judge him for it (gift horses and all that).
But none of this should have been a
She stared at the new blouse hanging on the door handle. Mrs. Holden had given her one of her “looks” when she’d thanked Celia for it. Lottie knew she thought her graceless. She should have been more grateful. It was a very nice blouse.
But Lottie hadn’t managed to say much at all. Because there was nothing Lottie was going to be able to say. How could she? How could she explain that the first moment she had set eyes on Guy everything she knew, everything she believed, had been sucked away from her like someone pulling a rug from under her? How could she explain the searing pain of familiarity at his face, the sudden, bitter joy of recognition, the deeply held certainty that her very bones were already familiar with this man; they had to be—weren’t they cast from the same human porcelain as his? How could she tell Celia she couldn’t possibly marry this man she had brought home as her fiancé?
Because he belonged to her?
“Lottie! Lots!” The voice drifted upward, carried on the air. Just as she had known it would.
She waited until the second summons, then opened the window. Looked down. Tried to keep her gaze on Celia’s upturned face.
“Don’t be boring, Lots! You’re not studying for exams now.”
“I’ve got a bit of a headache. I’ll be down later,” she said. Even her voice sounded different.
“She’s been in there all day,” said Frederick, who was throwing tennis balls against the side of the house.
“Oh, come on, do. We’re going to head over to Bardness Point. You could fetch Joe. Make a four. Come on, Lots. I’ve hardly seen you.”
She wondered that Celia couldn’t tell that her smile was false. It hurt the sides of her mouth.
“You go on. I’ll just wait for this headache to clear up. We’ll do something tomorrow.”
“Boring, boring, boring. And I’ve been telling Guy what a bad influence on me you are. You’ll think I’m fibbing, won’t you, darling?”
“Tomorrow. Promise.”
Lottie pulled her head back into the bedroom so that she wouldn’t have to see their embrace.
She lay facedown on her bed. And tried to remember how to breathe.
G UY P ARNELL O LIVIER B ANCROFT HAD BEEN BORN IN Winchester, making him technically English. But that was the only English thing about him. Everything—from his tanned skin, so at odds with most of the pale English complexions around him, to his relaxed, diffident manner—marked him out as separate from the young men the girls had known. Merham men anyway.
He was a self-contained young man, polite, reserved, who nonetheless carried the casually gilded air of the heir apparent, surprised by little and prepared at all times for good things to happen. He seemed to suffer none of the tortured self-examination of Joe or be driven by the testosterone-fueled bullishness of the other boys. He gazed a bit wide-eyed around him, as if permanently amused at some unforeseen joke, occasionally letting out bursts of uninhibited and joyful laughter. (He was the kind of young man you couldn’t help smiling at, Mrs. Holden confided to her husband. But then Guy made her smile a lot; once she had got over the shock of her daughter’s swift engagement, she had viewed him as indulgently as a firstborn son.) Guy seemed as equally unfazed by the man at the taxi rank as by the prospect of formally asking Dr. Holden for his daughter’s hand in marriage. (He hadn’t yet. But then he had been there only a couple of days, and Dr. Holden had been terribly busy.) If he was somewhat passive, somewhat less forthcoming than the Holdens would have liked, then they weren’t going to judge him for it (gift horses and all that).
But none of this should have been a
Similar Books
