Fire Along the Sky
Page 50
Now Lily wanted to go to her chamber, but more than that she needed to confound her brother. To Simon Ballentyne she said, “I'll get my wraps.”
They walked for half an hour in the cold, talking of nothing in particular: the new snow, the moon, the news from New-York. She recited what she could remember of her letter from home and Simon grunted low in his throat and said nothing that might reveal his thoughts or tell her what she wanted to hear: her brother was safe.
“You miss your people,” he said, as he might say you're fevered or you've cut yourself.
“I didn't think I would,” she admitted, almost relieved to have the idea out of her head and in the world. “Don't you miss your family?”
The question surprised him, she could see that. He said, “I've no wish to see Scotland ever again.”
There was a story here, of course; one he would tell her, if she were to ask. If she didn't, he would keep his peace. Simon Ballentyne was a rare man, one who was neither put off nor unmanned by a refusal and able to bide his time.
At the banks of the St. Lawrence they stopped to watch the rising of a wafer-thin moon, bruised with shadow. The river was normally crowded with ships and boats of every kind, some of which were the property of her cousin the earl far away in Scotland. The few that remained were iced in and the rest were gone now to warmer seas: the world was such a large place, almost too big to fit inside her imagination. Lily shivered thinking about it.
“You're cold,” said Simon. “We should turn back.” From his voice she could hear that he did not really want to go back, just yet.
“I'm not so very cold.” Lily wrapped her cloak more tightly around herself. “It's beautiful here.”
“Aye,” he said gruffly. And then: “Are you thinking of the sweetheart you left behind?”
A bold question, but Lily couldn't find it in herself to be offended. Her mother would rebuke such impertinence with a few well-chosen words, but the truth was, Lily was weary of deception and she had the idea that she could talk to Simon Ballentyne. He was strong and quiet and competent, and young women turned their heads when he went by and blushed prettily.
The silence drew out between them. Lily thought of telling him the truth. I love a man who has a wife. To say those words out loud was such a strange thought that she might have laughed.
“What makes you think I left a sweetheart behind?”
“It's plain to see you're heartsick, and fair green with it.”
A flush crawled up her neck, irritation but mostly panic; the impulse to share her secret with him left her just as suddenly as it had come.
“I left no sweetheart behind.” When he said nothing she looked at him and saw things in his face she couldn't quite read. Anger, or disappointment.
She said, “You don't believe me.”
“You don't believe yourself.”
“Very well,” Lily said, hugging herself and rocking back and forth on her heels. “Believe what you like.” Then her anger got the best of her anyway.
“And what of you? I suppose you left some unhappy girl back in Carryckton.”
“Aye,” said Simon Ballentyne. “That I did. Brokenhearted and miserable unto death.”
“You want to talk about her?”
“Christ, no,” said Simon. “I'd rather cut out my tongue than talk about it.” He paused and looked down at her with eyes that seemed almost black in the night. His expression was severe, as if she were the sinner and he the confessor.
Lily turned away and he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. Even through the layers of wool she imagined she was feeling the heat of him.
He said, “Her name is Ellen Cruikshank, and she's the wife of the man who lives across the lane from my mother. I last saw her ten years ago, when I left home.”
Panic filled Lily's gut and rose into her throat and made her fingers go numb. In his face she saw an understanding that should not have been there.
“I left because otherwise I would have shamed her and myself and my family, and we needed no more of that. I left my home for the same reason that you left yours.”
Lily forced herself to breathe deeply, drawing in the cold air and holding it until her lungs screamed in protest. She wanted to slap him and run away; she wanted to tell him that wherever he got this idea about her, he was wrong; she wanted to weep.
But when she opened her mouth something very different came out. She said, “Do you still love your Ellen?”
“No,” Simon said very calmly. “Love needs to be fed, and mine starved long ago.” He blew out a noisy breath and drew in another one. “So I'll ask you again, lass. Did you leave a sweetheart behind?”
Lily said, “I left no one behind who would claim me as his sweetheart.” The truth and a lie all at once. Nicholas would claim her, if he could.
“Ah, then,” said Simon. “Then maybe it's time you had one.”
He kissed her without further discussion or question or excuse. His beard prickled; his mouth was cold and warm, soft and knowing all at once. He was no stranger to kissing; it had been ten years since he saw his Ellen, but he had not been without the company of women, that much was clear.
“Stop thinking of Ellen,” he said, and kissed her again, more purposefully this time.
That was the first surprise and the second one was this: she liked his touch. He was not Nicholas; she should not be moved by him, but she was.
They walked for half an hour in the cold, talking of nothing in particular: the new snow, the moon, the news from New-York. She recited what she could remember of her letter from home and Simon grunted low in his throat and said nothing that might reveal his thoughts or tell her what she wanted to hear: her brother was safe.
“You miss your people,” he said, as he might say you're fevered or you've cut yourself.
“I didn't think I would,” she admitted, almost relieved to have the idea out of her head and in the world. “Don't you miss your family?”
The question surprised him, she could see that. He said, “I've no wish to see Scotland ever again.”
There was a story here, of course; one he would tell her, if she were to ask. If she didn't, he would keep his peace. Simon Ballentyne was a rare man, one who was neither put off nor unmanned by a refusal and able to bide his time.
At the banks of the St. Lawrence they stopped to watch the rising of a wafer-thin moon, bruised with shadow. The river was normally crowded with ships and boats of every kind, some of which were the property of her cousin the earl far away in Scotland. The few that remained were iced in and the rest were gone now to warmer seas: the world was such a large place, almost too big to fit inside her imagination. Lily shivered thinking about it.
“You're cold,” said Simon. “We should turn back.” From his voice she could hear that he did not really want to go back, just yet.
“I'm not so very cold.” Lily wrapped her cloak more tightly around herself. “It's beautiful here.”
“Aye,” he said gruffly. And then: “Are you thinking of the sweetheart you left behind?”
A bold question, but Lily couldn't find it in herself to be offended. Her mother would rebuke such impertinence with a few well-chosen words, but the truth was, Lily was weary of deception and she had the idea that she could talk to Simon Ballentyne. He was strong and quiet and competent, and young women turned their heads when he went by and blushed prettily.
The silence drew out between them. Lily thought of telling him the truth. I love a man who has a wife. To say those words out loud was such a strange thought that she might have laughed.
“What makes you think I left a sweetheart behind?”
“It's plain to see you're heartsick, and fair green with it.”
A flush crawled up her neck, irritation but mostly panic; the impulse to share her secret with him left her just as suddenly as it had come.
“I left no sweetheart behind.” When he said nothing she looked at him and saw things in his face she couldn't quite read. Anger, or disappointment.
She said, “You don't believe me.”
“You don't believe yourself.”
“Very well,” Lily said, hugging herself and rocking back and forth on her heels. “Believe what you like.” Then her anger got the best of her anyway.
“And what of you? I suppose you left some unhappy girl back in Carryckton.”
“Aye,” said Simon Ballentyne. “That I did. Brokenhearted and miserable unto death.”
“You want to talk about her?”
“Christ, no,” said Simon. “I'd rather cut out my tongue than talk about it.” He paused and looked down at her with eyes that seemed almost black in the night. His expression was severe, as if she were the sinner and he the confessor.
Lily turned away and he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. Even through the layers of wool she imagined she was feeling the heat of him.
He said, “Her name is Ellen Cruikshank, and she's the wife of the man who lives across the lane from my mother. I last saw her ten years ago, when I left home.”
Panic filled Lily's gut and rose into her throat and made her fingers go numb. In his face she saw an understanding that should not have been there.
“I left because otherwise I would have shamed her and myself and my family, and we needed no more of that. I left my home for the same reason that you left yours.”
Lily forced herself to breathe deeply, drawing in the cold air and holding it until her lungs screamed in protest. She wanted to slap him and run away; she wanted to tell him that wherever he got this idea about her, he was wrong; she wanted to weep.
But when she opened her mouth something very different came out. She said, “Do you still love your Ellen?”
“No,” Simon said very calmly. “Love needs to be fed, and mine starved long ago.” He blew out a noisy breath and drew in another one. “So I'll ask you again, lass. Did you leave a sweetheart behind?”
Lily said, “I left no one behind who would claim me as his sweetheart.” The truth and a lie all at once. Nicholas would claim her, if he could.
“Ah, then,” said Simon. “Then maybe it's time you had one.”
He kissed her without further discussion or question or excuse. His beard prickled; his mouth was cold and warm, soft and knowing all at once. He was no stranger to kissing; it had been ten years since he saw his Ellen, but he had not been without the company of women, that much was clear.
“Stop thinking of Ellen,” he said, and kissed her again, more purposefully this time.
That was the first surprise and the second one was this: she liked his touch. He was not Nicholas; she should not be moved by him, but she was.
