On a Cold Dark Sea(19)
Over tea on the afternoon they arrived, Esme and Charlie talked companionably, like old friends. She couldn’t help comparing him to Hiram, who spoke to every woman—including her—with the same aloof politeness. Charlie’s attention shone on Esme like a spotlight; he remembered comments she’d mentioned in passing and noticed when she tried out a new hairstyle. And the more interest Charlie showed in Esme, the more interesting she found him.
The next day, all the men but Charlie went shooting.
“I’m a terrible shot,” he said bluntly. “I’ll stay warm and dry indoors, thank you very much.”
The other female guests flitted around him like butterflies drawn to a rare, exotic flower. Charlie enjoyed the attention, entertaining them with stories of his pranks at Harvard, some of which Esme suspected were exaggerated for effect. Charlie caught her eye, acknowledging her doubts, and she took a triumphant pride in being able to understand him with a single look. After luncheon, Lady Tiddle led a tour of the home farm. They spoke to the estate manager for a few minutes, then went to admire the animals. Most of the ladies gathered at the henhouse to coo over a batch of newborn chicks, but Esme saw Charlie leaning over the side of a pen, alone. She walked over and saw he was watching a scrawny young goat, struggling to walk on spindly legs.
“Poor thing,” Esme said. “Look at him, trying so hard.”
“He reminds me of you.”
Esme’s chest tightened in hurt surprise. Before she could respond, Charlie was apologizing, looking genuinely repentant. Whatever he’d meant about the goat, it had slipped out unthinkingly, from the heart. Which made her all the more curious to know what he meant.
“I was watching this fellow,” Charlie said, “and he looks so fragile, like he’s going to topple over any minute, but he keeps on going. And you don’t look anything like a goat. You’re so much prettier”—a compliment Esme would remember and savor later—“but you have that same expression sometimes, when you think no one’s looking. Putting on a brave face, so no one sees how much you struggle.”
The observation was so unexpected, so true, that Esme didn’t know what to say. She stared at the goat and its trembling hooves. Saw herself laughing gaily at parties, while her stomach sank with dread at the thought of returning to the hotel and Hiram. She heard the other women’s voices and the clatter of their footsteps on the gravel path as they headed toward the barn. She and Charlie should join them. She would, very soon.
Not looking at Charlie made it easier to talk. “You’re right. I feel quite lost sometimes.”
“You’ll find your footing soon enough,” he said quietly. “Just like our young friend here. It’s myself I’m not sure about.”
“Yourself?” Esme asked. Charlie wore his confidence lightly, never boastful but accepting attention and praise as his natural due. “I shouldn’t think you have a thing to worry about.”
“Oh, my path’s perfectly clear,” he said, and she knew him well enough by then to catch the resignation in his jaunty tone. “Join the firm with Father, marry a woman picked out by my mother, give my life over to making money, and with any luck, I’ll spend the next fifty years smoking cigars at my club and shaking my head at the state of the world.”
“It sounds like a very bright future.”
“Not to me.”
Esme felt an invisible barrier dissolve. He’d shared this confidence because he trusted her. She suddenly felt ages older. Charlie was young enough to still have choices, unlike her.
“What would you do, if you could?” she asked gently. Esme could picture a thousand futures for Charlie. An explorer in a South American jungle. A bohemian artist sketching in a Parisian café.
“That’s the problem, I’m afraid. I don’t have the slightest idea.”
There was no easy answer to that. Esme was about to suggest they join the others—it seemed the most gracious way to end the conversation and save him further embarrassment—when it began to rain. The downpour was immediate and intense, pummeling them with raindrops sharp as splinters. Esme saw the other women dashing into the barn, a good quarter mile away. Then she felt Charlie’s hand on her upper arm as he pulled her into a nearby shed.
The rain beat down on the roof in a pulsing staccato, and drops of water slipped through the boards onto Charlie’s hair and Esme’s hat. Tools and farm equipment were stacked against the walls and piled on shelves, and there was a lingering odor of mud and rust. The wind had whipped up along with the storm, and Charlie slammed the door shut to stop the water blowing inside. As soon as they were alone, in that tight, hushed space, Esme thought of John and the tree and the secret kiss. Charlie was watching her the same way John had watched her, with a tentative smile. But this time, Esme was the one who stepped forward first, and she was the one who slid her hands around Charlie’s waist.
The first kiss was hesitant, a tremor before the earthquake. His lips asked a question—Are you sure?—and she answered. Yes. Esme had never known kisses could summon such urges. Desire passed with a shudder through her chest and stomach, and she wrapped herself around Charlie to bring her pounding heart closer to his. When Charlie’s lips moved along her neck and the base of her throat, they left a trail of heat on her skin. She felt reckless and possessed, thrilled by her own daring.