Chapter 34

Muriel thought she heard the faint chime of the doorbell, so she poked her head into the hall. Nothing. She drifted forward and paused at the top of the stairs. The house was silent. James had the day free, but he and Thomas had gone out immediately after breakfast, their secretive smiles and overall air of mystery stopping the questions in her throat. She'd watched them stroll past the drawing room window, feeling a little pinch of hurt, until James gave a skip of spontaneous delight and swung around the lamppost, head thrown back and arm outflung, shouting to the rooftops. Some line of poetry.

Eros shook my mind.

The little pinch of hurt eased, and her eyes misted, and she'd hoped the happy lovers were embarked on a marvelously romantic spree. Pistachio ices, flower gardens, a French restaurant, the theater, a private ball. Thomas was due a bit of fêting. Over the past several days, while James worked long shifts at the hospital, and she retrieved the portfolios of specimens she'd lent to the Royal Botanic Society, Thomas had lain in wait, lurking in the entrance of a terrace across the street, never taking his eyes from James's doorstep.

I don't have anywhere to be, or anything to do,he'd explained. And finally I can put that to use.

When the blackmailer's boy had appeared, on the third day of his vigil, he'd followed him to Piccadilly, to the Burlington Arcade and the Albemarle Hotel, and finally to a flat on Tachbrook Street. He'd pushed inside, surprising the boy, and the flat's occupants as well, three men gathered around a table sorting pawn tickets and polishing watches. Caught red-handed in a thieves' den, they'd turned over James's correspondence and wasted no time pinning the blame on an absent accomplice, an unemployed valet, fled now to Canada.

Muriel listened for another sound, struck by a chilling thought. They'd celebrated too soon. The blackmailers were at the door, prepared to make more mischief. She heard a muffled thud and gripped the banister, blood running cold. A moment later, Fezziwig scampered up the steps.

The house was quiet again. She exhaled. She'd imagined the chime.

There was no one at the door.

She returned to the desk in the blue bedroom, picked up her pen, and reread the final paragraph of her lecture. In a month, she'd be delivering it, to a crowded hall, in a new city. No matter what happened after that, she would adapt, and on balance, she felt far more hope than fear. She could envision a sufficient existence for herself; more than sufficient—very pleasant. She'd develop a closer friendship with the Satterlees, and together they'd expand their botanical academy, opening its doors to women from all walks of life. Some would go on to study at universities, changing who did science and how. She'd take pride in her students' experiments in the laboratory, in their research, in their sense of possibility. On the days she didn't demonstrate or lecture, she'd travel to mountains, marshes, and meadows, to the forests and the seashore, familiarizing herself with the plants of New York.

Red columbine grew wild there. You could find it on wooded hills with clayey soil, and in the crevices of slate ledges, and at the rocky borders of streams. She would find it. She'd find many things.

She rolled the pen between her fingers.

A bell rang.

Not her imagination. Not the doorbell either.

Her eyes moved to the open window. The lightweight curtains billowed with a warm, rose-scented breeze. She walked over, batting away the sheer fabric, and she leaned out.

Her heart gave a queer knock.

Kit stood below in the courtyard garden, his top hat under his arm.

"I tried the door first," he said. "I was about to climb the trellis."

The world tunneled. No more buildings. No more lime trees. He stood very straight, the well-tailored lines of his plum-colored morning suit marking the limits of her vision. His handsome face was so clear it seemed to shift with his emotions, his eyes a mix of darkness and light.

"You can't climb the trellis." She fought for breath. "There's no trellis."

"I was about to scale the brick, in truth." A smile tugged his lips. "But that makes it sound like I'm here to commit a burglary."

She choked on a laugh. "You're not?"

"No."

"Why are you here?" She steadied herself with a fist on the window frame. His gaze slid to her fist, then back to her face. He stepped closer.

"To extend an invitation."

"An invitation," she echoed, brows drawing together. "To dinner?"

"I do have something in mind for this evening, yes. I rented a sociable, and I thought we'd ride to Hyde Park."

Her stomach folded over and cramped. A jaunt in the park. An evening's entertainment. Then he'd be off. What had she thought? That he'd come to London just for her?

"Thank you, but I am already engaged," she said hoarsely, the lie heating her cheeks.

His smile faded. Her heart beat painfully fast, and she longed to retract her words. It was cruel, though, his sudden appearance, after she had acclimated to a reality in which his kisses played no part. It felt like a test. How many goodbyes could she withstand without breaking completely?

"I should get back to my writing." Her knees had begun to tremble.

"Your lecture?" he asked, his interest plain, and she stopped breathing, overwhelmed by a vision. The two of them lounging in each other's arms in the park, on the soft meadow grass, surrounded by corn marigolds, talking until the sun went down.

"Is it going well?"

She only nodded. She'd learned something from him, with him, about love, about how she loved, and she knew that she couldn't dip in and out of it. Love for her had too strong a current.

"I'd like to hear it," he said. "Which means I should let you finish it."

Hearit. Not read it, months from now, enclosed in a letter. A slip of the tongue. Easily made because he didn't register the difference. To him, the difference didn't matter. The distance didn't matter.

She felt the worst pinch yet.

She drew back, and as she did so, she saw the sociable. It was parked behind him, wide and unwieldy. The tall wheels framed two seats and sets of pedals.

The question burst out. "How on earth did you ride that alone?"

"Awkwardly." He was still looking up at her. "Overconfidently. I didn't expect I'd ride alone for long."

He was mocking himself, and she supposed he deserved it, but she felt even shakier as she pictured him riding away.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Don't be." He shook his head.

"I just…can't." Now she was shaking like a leaf, and he noticed, his eyes darkening.

"It's my fault," he said. "A wiser, humbler man would have arrived on foot." He paused, studying her intently. "You told me once I was insufferably arrogant."

"Once?" She let out her breath and managed a smile.

"You also told me I could create whatever kind of home I wanted."

For a moment, she couldn't think. She couldn't speak. She stared, unable to swallow around the lump in her throat.

"I believe that," she croaked.

He took a breath. "I want to create a home with you."

The lump in her throat tripled in size. Her pulse drummed so loudly in her ears that she didn't trust she'd heard him correctly. Hadn't her ears been playing tricks on her?

But no, the doorbell had rung. He'd rung it. And the next chime had been the bicycle bell. There was nothing wrong with her ears.

"Penny," he said, "I invite you into my life. That's why I'm here. A holiday isn't enough. A summer isn't enough. I want us to pedal this ridiculously large tricycle to Hyde Park, and then to New York, and then to the moon, or Jupiter, or both. I want miles and miles, and hours and hours, at your side. I want to sit in the front row of your lecture—not to admire my own paintings, however superlative—to admire you. Your intellect and courage. You don't need me there, I know. But if you'd feel even remotely emboldened by my presence, I swear nothing can keep me away. I want to join your battles, whether it's to help negotiate a truce or to head up a charge. I want to bring you comfort, like a heath plant. Heath plants are perennials, or at least I think they're perennials. Are they perennials? Never mind. In any case, I want to love you perennially. I'm an awful flirt. I've been known to make eyes at Augustinian nuns, and friends' grandmothers, and when I was presented at court, I made eyes at the queen. I fed on sighs and glances and furtive touch. I've never asked for anyone's whole heart. Until now. Penny, I am here to ask for yours. I am here to offer you mine. It's not rotten kelp, but it's not without flaws either. I don't have to tell you. You see them. You see all of me. I was afraid you wouldn't, and then I was doubly afraid when I realized you did. Accepting your love means accepting myself. In the past, I've loved as an escape. This is new. Loving you is terrifying and exhilarating and all I most desire. So, please. Say something. Anything. I can survive rejection. What I couldn't have survived was your leaving London in any doubt about how I feel."

She clung to the window frame. His expression grew increasingly uncertain as her silence stretched.

"You're not in any doubt?" he asked. "I was jesting about the nuns. Mostly. Reverend Mother Cecelia had a miraculous—"

She spun. She went sprinting across the room, pounding through the hall, down the stairs, her skirt hiked to her waist. Pretty speeches weren't her forte. She needed to throw herself into his arms, to press her heart to his, to breathe him into her lungs.

The front door resisted.

She twisted and tugged the bronze doorknob, uncomprehending.

Jammed. The latch was always sticky, but Thomas had gone at it yesterday afternoon, taking it apart and cleaning off the rust. She could still smell the vinegar.

It had to open.

She attacked the door like a fury. Her love was on the other side. Or rather, he was in the courtyard, looking up at an empty window as the minutes ticked by, thinking…

Dear God, what must he be thinking?

She stumbled back, dizzy from her efforts, breathing in erratic bursts. When she regained the window, she was so lightheaded, she had to blink away the floating spots before she could confirm what her sinking heart already suspected.

He was gone.

Kit had claimed he would survive rejection, but as he supplied the motive power needed to propel the sociable down the street, he wondered if he'd exaggerated his resiliency.

He had declared himself. He had offered himself. She had not been swayed. He had seen the last he'd see of her: a beautiful, stunned face high above him.

He steered to the curb. The pain in his chest bid him hold still, and he obeyed. He closed his eyes, the carriages and pedestrians making a dull roar all around.

He sensed that someone had come up to him and was hovering, too close. His skin prickled and his eyelids gave an unwilling flutter.

Go away.

He couldn't endure an exchange with a stranger, with anyone. There was a hole in his middle, and if he moved, if he spoke, he might get sucked through and disappear completely.

Go away, he thought. Everyone, go away. London, go away. Go away, go away.

"Kit."

He opened his eyes. Muriel appeared, dark brows tensed, chin upraised. He'd seen that determined expression before, but never fixed on him in exactly that manner, as though he were the prize to be won.

Awe parted his lips. He didn't feel small, but rather overwhelmingly aware that he was a part of something vast, something infinite. This unfamiliar awareness—it was humility. Had to be. He felt humble, even as hope and pride swelled his heart.

"Penny," he said. She was gorgeously disarranged, locks of bright hair streaming over her shoulders. Her myrtle-green tea gown had an en coeur neckline that trained his attention on the rapid rise and fall of her breasts.

He swallowed. "You ran."

The breath she drew was wheezing and accusatory. "I'd have ridden with you instead if you'd waited."

"I did wait." He peered into her deep brown eyes, trying to read her thoughts. "I waited until your removal from the window became an undeniable answer."

"I removed myself from the window to go out the front door. But I couldn't get it open. One of Thomas's projects around the house was unsticking the lock. He seems to have made it more stuck."

Thomas Everett Ponsonby.

Kit laughed, and it soothed his raw edges. He hadn't imagined laughing again so soon. He hadn't imagined her, wedging herself between the sociable's tiny front wheel and the enormous wheel to his left, her skirt brushing his knees.

"You opened it eventually," he murmured. She'd opened the door in time. She'd run to him. She was here. He was here. So were dozens of passersby, but he didn't care. Let them crane their necks and gawk.

"I didn't exactly open it," she said.

He blinked. "Then how…?"

"Drawing room window." Her cheeks flushed. "You were already riding away." She pressed closer, and her scent encircled him. "I couldn't let you go."

He pulled her down onto his lap. His elbow thwacked the wheel's rim and the hard seat dug into his thighs, but the moment her body touched his, the emptiness inside him filled with a warm light. It was akin to the feeling that sent him to the easel, a bright incitement to make life bigger, to bring something new and beautiful into being.

Her eyes were shining. "I think we're each meant to take our own seat."

"My love," he said, "I don't anticipate us doing what we're meant to do very often."

He kissed her. At some point in the lengthy process, his hat toppled, and at another point, he heard a scandalized gasp, and then a few titillated jeers. He lifted his head reluctantly. A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk. He treated them to a devil-may-care grin and gathered Muriel more fully against him, feet fumbling for the pedals. The wheels groaned and began to roll, and they left the gaping throng behind.

Muriel saw two options—slip off Kit's legs, or strangle him to stay put, which couldn't improve his already compromised steering.

They were listing across the street on a long diagonal, and a cab had to corner sharply around them, the driver cursing a blue streak.

"Stop!" Bizarrely, she was laughing. She confronted a very high likelihood of spilling onto the pavement, getting crushed under the wheels of an omnibus or trampled by horses, but the gory prospect couldn't dim her incandescent joy.

She strangled him, arms winding tight around his neck. Her face pressed into his jacket, which smelled deliciously of his soap and his skin, and she was still laughing as she heard the approaching thunder of a larger carriage.

"This isn't funny," she said, and smothered her maniacal giggle in soft wool. "Stop, please. I'm begging you."

"I'm trying," Kit muttered. "Difficult to work the brake from this angle."

She could feel them turning, and before long, the traffic sounds faded. They slowed enough that when they hit the curb, the jarring impact didn't dislodge her. She extracted herself from the tangle of man and metal, brushing at her skirts as she staggered onto the sidewalk. She didn't recognize the street, narrow and quiet and tree-lined.

Kit followed her onto the sidewalk, pulling off his gloves.

He took her hands, and she shivered at the contact. He possessed the world's most electrifying palms. Suddenly, she couldn't feel her feet. She had the sensation she was floating. It took acute mental effort to ground through her heels.

"I have questions," she said.

"About Reverend Mother Cecelia?" A grin shaped his mouth. "So do I." His eyes were gleaming like quicksilver. He liked to ruffle her, and she gave him a ruffled look, lest he discontinue the practice.

"Leave the woman her sacred mysteries," she sniffed. "It's nothing to do with nuns."

Shyness stole over her. Her voice dipped. "You're coming with me to New York."

"Was that a question?" He sounded amused. His hands traveled up her forearms and gripped her elbows. "I am coming with you to New York."

"What about your bicycle shop?"

"Sold to the Mutton Wheelers, with a few stipulations."

"Your parents?"

"They'll have three sons in the Americas. I don't know if I'll ever put it to them that way. But I'll write newsy letters about Wall Street and Fifth Avenue."

"Your Sisters?"

"They'll visit."

His arms came around her, and his lips found her throat. She tipped her head back, and her vision went pale blue with smoky London sky.

"Other questions?" His lips moved over her pulse.

She smoothed back his wild hair and slid her hands to his nape. "I love you."

He lifted his face. "I hope that's not a question."

He wasn't teasing. He was solemn, a vulnerable softness in his gaze.

She shook her head.

"You're sparkling," she whispered, in wonderment, before realizing that her eyes had filled with tears.

"There's so much I want to give you," he murmured. "Nights of exquisite pleasure. Early mornings of exquisite pleasure. Midafternoons, if you're not teaching, and I'm not in the studio, although—let's be frank—I'm not opposed to giving you exquisite pleasure in the studio. I like a well-furnished studio, upholstered chairs, lots of fringe. Where was I? Evenings of exquisite pleasure. Exquisite pleasure in the Catskills, surrounded by fairy rings of toadstools. Exquisite pleasure at the shore as we sample America's bathing machines."

She was laughing in his embrace, which made the tears slip down her cheeks. He kissed the damp skin below her eyes, and the salty corner of her mouth.

"I want to give you my name," he said. "Or we can invent one together. Kit and Muriel Pengriff. I think it has a certain dash."

She stared. "Pengriff."

"Griffindrake?"

"But you've begun to build a reputation as Kit Griffith."

"I can begin again. New beginnings keep me young."

"We can see." She swallowed hard. "We have time to decide." All of August had been a race against time, the sands running down, and then, just as she'd thought the end had come, there was so much more.

She trembled, and his grasp on her tightened.

"I have something to give you now," he said.

"Exquisite pleasure?" She glanced to the left and the right. The street was quiet, but it was a street in Bloomsbury and hardly deserted. On cue, a curtain twitched in a window.

"Don't tempt me." Kit growled it against her ear, and her skin heated everywhere.

She wiggled away, smiling, and he pulled a stone from his pocket.

"Our badge," he said. "Rather, the design for the badge. We won't wear painted rocks. I'm thinking sterling silver and enamel."

She took the stone. He'd painted a wheel, spokes threaded with daisies and buttercups. She traced the letters with her fingers. KP, the stone read.

He cleared his throat. "The final version will say FPTC, for the Flower Pedals Touring Club."

"I like this one," she said. "For Kit and Penny." Her heart overflowed, and he was sparkling again. The world was sparkling.

"We should pedal on," he said thickly. "They'll have started to worry."

She looked up at him, brow flexing.

"Raleigh and Ponsonby." He gave her an adorably sheepish smile. "They're waiting at the Serpentine with a celebratory picnic. Champagne. Strawberries. I think Raleigh's selected a poem or two, so prepare to be regaled."

"Oh," she said, and then: "Oh."

"I got to town yesterday," he admitted. "And did a bit of scheming."

His face blurred. She had a ticklish feeling in her throat.

"You were overconfident," she breathed.

"Not overconfident, as it turns out." His smile was widening.

She laughed and gave him a push. He caught her wrist, trapping her hand against his upper chest.

"Also, I was ready to fail," he said. "To look an utter fool. I was ready to risk everything for this, for you."

She stepped into him and kissed his wicked lips.

"They'll have eaten all the strawberries by now." He sighed against her mouth. "Next time I pledge my life and love to you, I'll go about it differently."

"Next time?"

"Tomorrow, probably. Every day after that."

She was laughing through her tears, and his eyes looked suspiciously bright as they climbed into the sociable.

"This really is much better with two," Kit remarked as they pedaled together down Tottenham Court Road. "I'm so delighted you seduced me."

She cringed a little at the memory, both happy and abashed. "Is that what happened?"

The wind was riffling her hair, cooling her wet face and tingling lips. He linked their elbows snugly.

"Yes," he said. "And it's happening still."

She shut her eyes briefly, and opened them to dazzling light, the beams of late-summer sun painting the crowns of the trees with gold. A fallen leaf went twirling by. They rolled on toward the park, and she was laughing again, joyful beyond words.