The Light Over London(20)

“You’ve never lived in a village. Give me your arm. That’s safe enough.”

He held out his arm for her like a gentleman but leaned in close enough that she was wrapped in the warm reassurance of intimacy. “All right, but I plan on stealing a kiss from you the moment we’re out of sight.”

Louise swallowed. “Only if I let you.”

A pause stretched between them, and Louise felt a flash of worry that she’d gone too far. She’d meant to walk the fine line between cautious and flirtatious, but she was hardly an expert. Her cousin or any number of girls would’ve known what to do, how to walk and talk with a man who’d kissed them. They wouldn’t feel awkward, as though their limbs were somehow moving without their permission, their entire bodies outside of their control.

Her worried gaze flicked up to Paul’s, but then he threw his head back and laughed long and hard, pulling her closer into his side.

“I do like you, Louise Keene,” he said, as though it was a confession and a revelation all at once. “You say exactly what’s on your mind.”

Did she though? Her brow furrowed as she examined that thought from all sides. She’d never been the sort of girl to speak up, rarely drawing attention to herself whether at school or home. Yet with him she wanted to ask herself, Why not?

“Where are we going?” she asked as they turned toward the shore.

“A spot one of the other pilots in my unit told me about. He said it was a secret and I’ll never have seen anything like it.”

She allowed him to lead her on, even though the likelihood of him showing her something new in Haybourne was slim. They wound their way down the cliff path to the rickety wooden steps someone had installed years ago to get down to the little white sand beach that lay below.

“Nearly there,” said Paul.

“I used to bathe on this beach when I was a little girl,” she said, her hand hovering over the rough wood banister. She wished she’d worn gloves to protect herself from splinters.

“Did you have a pail and a spade to build sandcastles?” he asked with a laugh.

“Yes, and my mother made me wear a wool cardigan over my bathing costume some days when the wind was too high.”

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Louise’s short leather heels sank into the sand, and she looked around at the beach, just the same as it had been her entire life save for a few new pieces of driftwood that had been tossed up during the last storm.

“Is this it?” she asked.

He clucked his tongue. “I can’t expect to impress a Haybourne girl by taking her to the very spot she used to go bathing.”

He pulled something out of his pocket. It was a little compass, smaller than the divot at the center of his palm.

“How sweet,” she said, touching the brass instrument with one finger.

“You call it sweet, I call it lifesaving.” He handed it to her, the needle trembling a little as it swung north. “It’s an escape compass. Fliers like me carry them on our missions in case we’re shot down behind enemy lines and need to navigate our way over unfamiliar territory. But this one is . . . more than that.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Every time I go up, I know it could be the last time. And every time I land, I’m grateful. I’ve carried this on every mission, and I never fly without it. Maybe it’s what’s keeping me safe.”

“Paul . . .”

“That must sound silly to you,” he said.

“It doesn’t.”

He raised his head, a lock of hair falling over his forehead. “Are we always to talk of sad things, you and I? What’s the line from Romeo and Juliet?”

“?‘A glooming peace this morning with it brings. The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head. Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things,’?” she recited.

“I think, Louise Keene, that if my masters at Rugby had had you in a class, they wouldn’t have paid any attention to us boys.”

Louise blushed at the compliment. “But you went on to Cambridge.”

“Trust me when I tell you that has no bearing on the intelligence of a man.” He tugged on her arm. “This way.”

They made their progress across the beach slowly, Louise stopping once to empty her shoes of sand, letting each bare foot hover for fear of ripping her precious stockings. Paul offered to carry her, but she declined, telling him he was going to have to work harder than that to sweep her off her feet. He laughed, and she felt braver for having said it.

When they reached the spot where the bottom of the cliff met the easternmost stretch of sand, she realized where he was taking her.

“The Smugglers’ Cave,” she said.

“You guessed.”

“We’re nearly out of sand to walk on,” she said with a smile.

“I was told we’ll have a couple hours before the tide comes in and blocks off the pathway back to the beach. Have you been before?” he asked.

“Not in a very long time. A boy from the neighborhood tried to lead us all on an expedition to reclaim smugglers’ gold and we nearly were stuck because the tide started rushing in. Da and Mr. Itzler had to come round with a rowboat and get the last of us out.”

It had been Edward, Mr. Itzler’s son, leading their little band, with Kate and Mary Hawkley in the front and Dea Wells and Gary trailing behind with Louise. They’d had a grand time, each of them armed with sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper packed by their mothers. Edward even had a torch, and the more intrepid children had ventured from the first cavern through a tunnel to another. Louise, however, had hung back with Dea, content to stay in the light spilling through the mouth of the cave.