Free Forever and Ever by Patricia Gaffney Page B
Authors: Patricia Gaffney
wasn’t really sure she understood at all.
“I kept it with me all the time. I even slept with it. No one in my family knew about it; it was a secret. Magic,” he said again in a whisper, and Sophie felt a little shiver, not unpleasant, on the skin of her arms. “I had four brothers. One day they caught me.”
“Reading your book,” she guessed.
“Worse. Talking to a tree. Something else Bartholomew could do.”
“Oh, dear. Were they younger or older, these brothers?”
“Older, all of them. They . . . made fun of me.”
“Yes.”
“In self-defense, I made a mistake: I told them about my book. Everything, in detail.” He ran a hand over his jaw, and they were standing so close, she could hear the prickly rasp of his whiskers. “The more I talked, the worse it got. I
believed
Bartholomew could fly through time and space, and have long conversations with Jupiter—that was his dog. When my brothers laughed at me, it was worse than humiliating. It was . . .” He trailed off, and his hand lifted and fell in a gesture of futility.
“A betrayal,” Sophie murmured.
“Yes. Because I knew finally that they were right and I was wrong. Dogs can’t talk and boys can’t fly. And I was a fool.”
She clasped her hands behind her back, peering into his face. Even though he was tall, thick-muscled, and broad-shouldered, disconcertingly male, it was easy to see the eight-year-old boy in his strong, hard-boned face, the shadow of disillusionment in his clear gray eyes. And even though she suspected the story he’d just told her had an unflattering moral, she felt a deep sympathy for the child whose brothers’ mockery had spoiled his sweetest dream.
“I wasn’t making fun of you tonight,” he said quietly. “But that book of yours is as big a lie as
The Life and Times of Bartholomew Bailey.
Dogs can’t talk, Miss Deene, and ladies who look down on other people because of their ‘stations’ aren’t heroic. They’re stupid and arrogant.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I think I do.”
“No, no, and—I could never
make
you understand.”
“Because I’m a poor, uneducated copper miner?”
She ignored that. “You’re making a comparison that isn’t fair, a false analogy. An analogy is a—”
“I know what an analogy is,” he snapped.
She flushed—but she wanted to ask
how
he knew, and if he knew, then how could he be a poor, uneducated copper miner? She shook her head quickly, frustratedly; this was hopeless. She was in an argument she couldn’t win, even though she was still sure she was right, and it was beginning to seem as if every encounter she had with Mr. Pendarvis put her in this disagreeable position. “It’s very late,” she said shortly. “I must go home.”
He put out his hand. “I’ll drive you.”
She blinked at him. “What? Oh, no. Certainly not.”
“You shouldn’t be out this late by yourself. I’ll drive you.”
“I always drive myself.”
“After dark?”
“Yes. Anyway, you’d have no way to get home afterward; my house is almost two miles from here.”
“I’ll walk.”
“No, it’s out of the question. Thank you very much, but no.”
Some kind of smile turned up the corners of his lips; even in the dimness, she didn’t think it was a pleasant smile. “Is it my uncouth manner that offends you, Miss Deene? Can you smell the stink of mud and ore on my clothes?” He leaned in closer. “Or is it that you’re just scared of me?”
What she could smell was clean soap on his skin, the sharp tang of apple on his breath. Was he going to touch her? She wanted to step back, put a safe distance between them. But she stood still and made herself look straight into his eyes. “I believe we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot somehow, Mr. Pendarvis. I’ve never deliberately offended you. But I am completely capable of driving home by myself, and I would refuse an offer of assistance from anyone, regardless of his . . . station,” she said
“I kept it with me all the time. I even slept with it. No one in my family knew about it; it was a secret. Magic,” he said again in a whisper, and Sophie felt a little shiver, not unpleasant, on the skin of her arms. “I had four brothers. One day they caught me.”
“Reading your book,” she guessed.
“Worse. Talking to a tree. Something else Bartholomew could do.”
“Oh, dear. Were they younger or older, these brothers?”
“Older, all of them. They . . . made fun of me.”
“Yes.”
“In self-defense, I made a mistake: I told them about my book. Everything, in detail.” He ran a hand over his jaw, and they were standing so close, she could hear the prickly rasp of his whiskers. “The more I talked, the worse it got. I
believed
Bartholomew could fly through time and space, and have long conversations with Jupiter—that was his dog. When my brothers laughed at me, it was worse than humiliating. It was . . .” He trailed off, and his hand lifted and fell in a gesture of futility.
“A betrayal,” Sophie murmured.
“Yes. Because I knew finally that they were right and I was wrong. Dogs can’t talk and boys can’t fly. And I was a fool.”
She clasped her hands behind her back, peering into his face. Even though he was tall, thick-muscled, and broad-shouldered, disconcertingly male, it was easy to see the eight-year-old boy in his strong, hard-boned face, the shadow of disillusionment in his clear gray eyes. And even though she suspected the story he’d just told her had an unflattering moral, she felt a deep sympathy for the child whose brothers’ mockery had spoiled his sweetest dream.
“I wasn’t making fun of you tonight,” he said quietly. “But that book of yours is as big a lie as
The Life and Times of Bartholomew Bailey.
Dogs can’t talk, Miss Deene, and ladies who look down on other people because of their ‘stations’ aren’t heroic. They’re stupid and arrogant.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I think I do.”
“No, no, and—I could never
make
you understand.”
“Because I’m a poor, uneducated copper miner?”
She ignored that. “You’re making a comparison that isn’t fair, a false analogy. An analogy is a—”
“I know what an analogy is,” he snapped.
She flushed—but she wanted to ask
how
he knew, and if he knew, then how could he be a poor, uneducated copper miner? She shook her head quickly, frustratedly; this was hopeless. She was in an argument she couldn’t win, even though she was still sure she was right, and it was beginning to seem as if every encounter she had with Mr. Pendarvis put her in this disagreeable position. “It’s very late,” she said shortly. “I must go home.”
He put out his hand. “I’ll drive you.”
She blinked at him. “What? Oh, no. Certainly not.”
“You shouldn’t be out this late by yourself. I’ll drive you.”
“I always drive myself.”
“After dark?”
“Yes. Anyway, you’d have no way to get home afterward; my house is almost two miles from here.”
“I’ll walk.”
“No, it’s out of the question. Thank you very much, but no.”
Some kind of smile turned up the corners of his lips; even in the dimness, she didn’t think it was a pleasant smile. “Is it my uncouth manner that offends you, Miss Deene? Can you smell the stink of mud and ore on my clothes?” He leaned in closer. “Or is it that you’re just scared of me?”
What she could smell was clean soap on his skin, the sharp tang of apple on his breath. Was he going to touch her? She wanted to step back, put a safe distance between them. But she stood still and made herself look straight into his eyes. “I believe we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot somehow, Mr. Pendarvis. I’ve never deliberately offended you. But I am completely capable of driving home by myself, and I would refuse an offer of assistance from anyone, regardless of his . . . station,” she said