Chapter 33

"Go to London," said Lucy, underlining the words with a slash of her brush through the air.

"I can't have heard that right." Kit was sitting in the grass by her easel, painting small rocks.

"Go to London," she repeated. "Look at you. You're languishing. We've been painting en plein air every day since she left, and every day your complexion looks more like moldy cheese. It's pitiable."

"We agreed not to talk about this."

"We didn't agree on anything of the kind. You've been avoiding the subject."

"Fine. I'm happy to continue with avoidance."

"You're not happy. That's why I'm telling you to go to London." She dropped down beside him. The amber-toned sunlight held the first hint of autumn. Beyond the cliffs, the sea was silver with fish. The pilchards were running.

"I'm happy," he said, not entirely dishonestly. He had his Sisters again. Lucy was leaving for Stratton Grange, and Nelly and Gwen had gone south to Newlyn, but that was immaterial. He had Sisters. He had art.

"She's on Gower Street," said Lucy. "I have the address from Ponsonby."

"You're persistent as the croup," he told her. "And I don't see how you'd trust an address from Ponsonby."

"It's James Raleigh's address." Lucy smiled, wryly. "So he has a vested interest."

"What, then?" Kit set down his rock and his brush and hugged his knees. "I should ride up on a white horse and plight my troth?"

"I was picturing a bicycle." She gave a tiny shrug.

He pictured it too, then shook his head. "I don't think you understand."

"I understand what I saw between the two of you." A smug note crept into her voice. "And this avoidance. It's not like you to clam up." She paused. "You're afraid of letting something out."

"Funny." He flung back, crossing his arms behind his head. "She said I was afraid too." He frowned at the sky. "I am dauntless when it comes to affairs of the heart."

"Affairs." Lucy's voice was pointed.

He propped himself on an elbow to glare. "Are you judging me? Of course you're judging me. You and Weston are so sickeningly sweet on each other, you think all people should mate for life, like swans."

"Do swans really mate for life? Or are they a symbol of love because pairs of them touch their heads together and form hearts with their necks?"

Prescott would know. Kit only scowled.

"Oh dear." Lucy's eyes began to dance. "You're a swan! You presented yourself as a strutting peacock, but you're a hopelessly devoted swan. You're afraid of letting out a telltale honk! Or hiss." She hissed loudly, stretching out her neck.

"That was the worst swan imitation I've heard in my life," Kit informed her, without being sure he'd ever heard another.

She pursed her lips, curled her fingers, and made a heart with her hands.

"Stop it," he growled. "I've no wish to be tied down."

He wouldn't feel tied down with Muriel, though. He knew that already. He'd grow. She'd grow. They'd grow together.

He was in love with her. It wasn't his usual casual besottedness. God have mercy, Lucy was right. He was in swan with her.

He'd been aware, hadn't he? This whole time? It felt cataclysmic to articulate it, even to himself. Volcanic pressure built in his chest. Any moment, the smoke would pour out of his ears.

Lucy's lips were trembling.

"Honk," she whispered.

He'd best remind himself of the facts.

"Whatever you saw between us," he said, "it's over. She's headed for New York."

"And it wouldn't make the remotest bit of sense for you to go to New York." Lucy rolled her eyes. "What ever would you do in a grand metropolis famed for art and culture, with galleries and museums lining the streets, and your first patron already on the hook?"

He ran his fingers through his hair, fidgeting.

Lucy held his gaze until he stilled. The irony faded from her face. Her expression was serious. "You're sure to meet absolutely brilliant American artists. And they'll meet you, for the first time. You can start fresh, as you please, how you please. With one stipulation. You must write, every single day, because I'll miss you fiercely." She blinked, eyelashes suddenly spiky with moisture. "We all will. But we'll live vicariously through your adventures, and we'll celebrate your conquests." Her smile was watery and wistful. "Kit Griffith, our New York cousin."

"We didn't decide on cousin," Kit muttered. "And I haven't decided I'm going to New York." His brow knotted. "Perhaps it makes sense." It did make sense. Far more sense, for him, than a lifetime rusticating in St. Ives. A pain in his gut twisted his lips. "But not if she doesn't want me."

In that case, nothing made sense.

The back of his neck felt hot.

"She thought we were in love," he said, and Lucy looked genuinely surprised.

"You and I?"

He nodded. "And she brought us together regardless."

"Admirable, generous woman," said Lucy, with feeling. "And perfect for you. You'd torment a jealous one."

He flinched. "You assume I'd be unfaithful?"

"No, not if you swore fidelity. But you're an incorrigible flirt."

"I'm a flirt," he confirmed, grim with self-knowledge. "You're right. I'd flirt with a hatstand. It's harmless."

Lucy shrugged.

He squared his jaw. "I'd always put her first, before anyone else, before anything."

"Before all the hatstands," murmured Lucy. "Lovely."

He ignored her. "I wouldn't rest until she was certain of me." His neck felt hotter.

Lucy sighed, thoughtful, then nodded. "I'm glad to hear it. She put your happiness before her own, after all."

His pulse picked up. "That's your interpretation?"

"Of course. She brought us together, thinking we were in love. That proves she loves you enough to want love for you, even if she loses by it."

"Or it proves she doesn't love me. She never said she did." His voice was getting gravelly. "On the contrary, she said I'd arranged my life to prevent anyone from loving me." He cleared his throat. "So, I can't see that she would. Love me. She's too intelligent. She knows me too well."

"Kit."

"Is that how I look at Ponsonby? How awful for him."

"Kit." Lucy's expression smoothed, but her voice was still tinged with patronizing amusement. "Just…let her."

"What?"

"Let her love you. Confess your love to her. And then, let her love you."

He was watching Lucy's lips move, because all at once, he found words hard to parse. Listening didn't supply him with enough information.

"She might not."

Lucy's smile was gentle. After a long moment, he realized she wasn't planning to offer him surety.

His heart was pumping lava.

Muriel might. She might not. One thing was certain. She couldn't if he didn't open himself up enough to give her the chance.

"So," said Lucy at last, picking up her sketchbook, "will you go to London?"

He reached into his pocket and closed his fingers around a cool metal disc. He pulled it out.

Lucy's smile reversed into an appalled frown. "If you have to flip a coin, don't. Forget I encouraged you, and God save women from indecisive rogues. Muriel deserves better."

He looked at the copper penny in his palm. He'd been carrying it since Bernhard pressed it upon him that anxious morning at Titcombe Hall.

He hadn't intended to flip it.

Perhaps he'd thought to kiss it, for a little extra luck.

"I'll go tomorrow," he said, and closed his hand.