The Art of Inheriting Secrets(100)

Standing there looking at everyone, at all of it, I felt a sense of pride. “Is this what you wanted, Mom?” I said under my breath.

Peter came up to me, dressed in clothes I’d never seen, a pair of khaki trousers and a striped shirt pressed crisply, the sleeves actual points above his elbows. A pretty woman of indeterminate age stood beside him. “You pulled it off, my lady!” he cried. His hair, which had always been under his cap, was a mix of auburn and gray, making his eyes quite spectacularly blue.

“Just for you, Mr. Jenkins,” I said and took his hand. “You were the first to tell me about the picnics.”

“Ah, now.” He turned to include the woman. “This is my wife, Pat. Patricia, that is. She’s a teacher, third grade.”

“So nice to meet you, Patricia. You must be a brave woman to teach third grade. They’re suddenly not little kids anymore, are they?”

“It’s true. I’m so honored to meet you. We saw you on Restoration Diva. It was thrilling!”

“Jocasta is supposed to be here today, if you want to meet her.”

“You don’t say!” Peter beamed. “You reckon I could take her picture?”

“I’m sure you can.”

Behind them, coming up the path from the village, were Mr. and Mrs. Malakar, and behind them was Samir, loping along with an attitude of peaceful enjoyment. A slight smile played on his lips, and he was dressed beautifully in the green linen shirt I found so lovely and black jeans and the pointy-toed shoes Londoners were wearing this year.

But the best of it was the moment he spied me. I clasped my hands, waiting, and I knew the exact instant he caught sight of me—his entire being lit up. His face brightened. His posture lengthened, and his body turned toward me, breaking away from everything, his focus pure and direct.

He smiled.

And I, standing there in the wavery shade of a chestnut tree, beamed the same bright, hungry light toward him. When he reached me, he took my hand and came very close. “I wish I could kiss you. It feels a thousand years since I’ve seen you.”

“Ditto,” I said breathily. “But I can say you are a sight for sore eyes.”

“As you are.” He let go of my hand, brushing the back of his knuckles over the back of mine. “I’ll leave you to it and see if Pavi needs me. Me and you tonight, yes?”

“Yes. I’ll introduce you to my cat.”

He laughed.

Mr. and Mrs. Malakar came up, and Mr. Malakar bowed slightly. “Lady Shaw, you are the very vision of your grandmother.”

“Thank you. Welcome.” I turned to Mrs. Malakar, who was a hair taller than her husband. Today she wore a simple, patterned cotton dress, sleeveless, her hair sleek and shiny. On her wrist was a carved silver cuff. “I’m glad to see you again, Mrs. Malakar. I hope you forgive my strangeness the other day.”

“Nothing to forgive. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I am going to find a beer,” Mr. Malakar said.

She nodded and stood there, waiting for him to depart. Nervousness shimmied up my spine.

When we were alone, just the two of us beneath the tall, elegant tree, she fixed her sober gaze on me. “You seem like a very nice woman, Lady Shaw.”

“Please,” I said, “call me Olivia.”

“I’m sorry; I can’t. You are Lady Shaw, whether you are comfortable with it or not.” She turned toward the picnic, all the villagers and the food trucks. With a hand as long and graceful as her son’s, she gestured toward the fields, the house. “You are the daughter of a long line, and despite your lack of training, you are, by all accounts, stepping up admirably to learn what you must do to honor your family. I respect that.”

“Thank you.” I squared my shoulders. “But?”

“Samir has already had a disaster of a marriage with a woman of a social class far above him. I would not like to see him repeat it.”

“With all due respect, Mrs. Malakar, he’s a grown man. He can make his own decisions.”

As if to illuminate our conversation, Samir appeared with two little girls, one on each hip. They had adorned their faces with paint, and ribbons rippled away from their hair. Mrs. Malakar said, “He’s going to be a very good father one day. As his father was. Is.”

One little girl patted his cheek, and he laughed. “He’s a kind man,” I agreed.

Mrs. Malakar folded her hands. “I will speak frankly. You are too old for him, Lady Shaw. Even if you were to marry immediately, you will only have, what . . . a year, two, maybe even five to have children?”

The words stung, and I felt color flood my cheeks. “It’s ridiculous to even think like that. We’ve only just met.”

“I think you know that is not true. Please don’t be selfish. I understand quite well why you care for him. He’s a good man and wise beyond his years. But true love is unselfish.”

I didn’t look at her as the heat spread from my cheeks to my ears and down to my throat, bringing with it a small roar that blocked out all sound. I willed myself to be dignified as she walked away, my eyes on Samir, playing with the two girls and a little cadre of boys who joined in.

Love is unselfish.

But I didn’t feel unselfish. I felt greedy and hungry. I wanted my hands on him, but I also wanted his voice in my ear, his thoughts tumbling into and tangling with my own. I wanted to walk the fields with him in the early morning and listen to his fingers on the keys as he wrote his stories. I wanted the tenderness of his breath and yes—a child with his face, his ready smile. All those things. I didn’t feel faint and accommodating. I felt Amazonian, empowered by the fierceness of my feelings.