He had enough time to really, truly wish – repent – he hadn't made
her nervous on purpose out on her practice range. Oh, the regret. And, please,
oh, please, don't be nervous now, Lid.
Then the wind died down, she loaded, pulled, and, like that, shot.
Sam was still, utterly rigid, except for the wince as the feathers
of the arrow literally kissed his mouth on their way past, the end of the
cigarette exploding into shreds of tobacco. Bits of it flew at his face. He was
left with a half inch of frayed cigarette clamped in his teeth for dear life –
he'd intended to let go to the arrow, but its flight had been too quick. He
took the wet piece out, then, smiling, filliped it up into an arc, showing
Liddy what remained. People were already cheering as he ran toward her.
He had to climb through them to get to her. She grabbed his hand
two people away and pulled him in.
When he got to her, he turned her around, grabbed her small waist,
and lifted, saying, "Pull your skirt up, darlin', or you'll turn me into blind
man's bluff."
She caught on right away. She was in the air over his head,
pulling up skirts, laughing, getting her legs out, as he, bending, hoisted her
up onto his shoulders. There, she grabbed his head, then kissed the top of it.
"I love you," she murmured.
He was supposed to say it back. He muttered, pretending the crowd
was too noisy. As if he'd said it, only she'd just missed it; she just didn't
hear him.
He couldn't declare himself. Even though the words were right
there in his throat. They sang inside his brain, the perfect name of a blissful
feeling. They were so true:
I love you,
Liddy
. He could think them. They tortured him.
I love you; don't make me say it.
Public declarations. There was a piece of him that always panicked
here, he guessed. Partly, he was conditioned from experience: He'd messed up so
many elaborate public vows. Partly, though, he'd messed them up because
dedications, he thought— No, he meant
declarations
.
Declarations worried him. Especially when they came with a lot of mixed
emotions as they had with Gwyn and Zoe.
There were no mixed emotions here. His feelings were as pure as a
man's got. He loved Liddy. He wanted her forever. He opened his mouth to tell
her. And got stuck; his mind went blank.
From above him, he heard it again. "I love you," she
said as, his hands on her ankles, he walked them toward the tent.
He answered, "You're going to marry me, right? You never
said. You're going to, aren't you?"
"Quick as hiccup," she told him and laughed, then called
down to him again, "I love you," this time with such gentleness. She
added, "Give me the words, Sam. I swear, I won't throw them down the hole
in the outhouse. I want them. I want you. I need you."
They came like sudden rain, a surprise as they left his mouth.
"I love you, Liddy," he called up to her there on his shoulders. It
was like a black sky's cracking open on parched land. He pried her hand from
where it clutched his chin and kissed her palm. "I love you." It
wasn't hard at all! "I love you, I love you. I want you for my wife. I
trust you with my life. Marry me. Have children with me. Live with me. Sleep
with me—"
"That's enough," she said and put her hand back, this
time over his mouth.
Several people walking beside them, Clive now among them, laughed.
Her parents, too. Sam realized he didn't know how long they'd been part of the
group, though probably from the beginning. He thought he remembered seeing them
come down from the stands to hug her after her win – criminy, he was hardly
aware of what was around for the woman on top of his shoulders. Though then he
grinned. Her father was smiling. Her mother was present, walking with them,
which was saying something. Which he figured meant his relationship to Liddy,
his and her affection for each other, had played out much more acceptably in
the odd little drama that had just taken place.
Near the tent, because he and she were too tall to get in under
the flap, he swung her down onto the ground again. He was proud when under the
tent the organizers and judges gave her another round of applause. The record.
The women's record goes to our new champion. The best archer in
England
. William Tell.
Annie Oakley, he thought.
He whispered in her ear at one point, "You know, you're going
to have to shoot with a terrible handicap after this." He leered. Boy, oh,
boy, was he eager suddenly to get her alone.
She raised her eyebrows toward him, then rolled her eyes and said,
"Ooh, a handicap." She did that provocative little glance thing, looking
away then back, with her barely-there little smile on her face.
He couldn't resist then. In front of everyone, he grabbed her,
pulled her to him, and kissed her so soundly he knocked her hat off.
It blew in the light breeze, rolling across people's heads and
fingertips, its flirtatious feather tickling the hands that tried to grab it.
While Sam had what he wanted. He petted Liddy's bare head, pulling
out one corkscrew curl from the pins that kept it contained.
Ah, Liddy. She liked to compete, and didn't he enjoy it, though he
couldn't imagine that it would have been her every suitors' favorite trait. He
liked how smart she was, and how she didn't hide it, which probably didn't go
down too well with some fellows either. It sure sat well with him, though. (Him
and Boddington, whom he secretly half forgave for being such a pain in the
backside, since not winning Liddy could make any sane man as crazy as a calf in
the chute.) She was unusual in a lot of ways: smart, warmhearted, and sassy as
a jay. He liked the way she struggled toward independence, an emotional
self-sufficiency, even though not many would appreciate the quality in a young
women, especially of the upper class, who was supposed to think and do what she
was told.
Best, seeing all this in her made Sam feel good about himself:
clear-sighted. Having the good sense to fall in love with her was the best
thing he'd ever done. It made him feel like a smart man.
While Lydia's mind, as Sam kissed her, swirled round and round the
word he'd said.
Handicap
. Ooh.
She thought of the handicap he'd given that day on her own archery
field: not much of one! Honest to God, counting to three when he'd offered to
five. Oh, he cheated. How he cheated! It made her warm to remember the two of
them out under the shade of the trees. Silly. Two grown people wrestling on the
ground – oh, it made her uncomfortable to think of it; it made her laugh into
his mouth. She was happy she'd gotten away with her knickers till … well, till
she hadn't. But she had them again, which made her grin. She wanted to thumb
her nose at him.
She wanted to play. Sam was so much fun.
Fun
. Had she truly
thought the word? Had all her angst and fighting with Sam been entertaining?
No. Some of it hadn't been. But, egad, some of it had! Or partly,
provided it didn't go off-tilt. When they, neither one, took it too seriously,
that's what it was: Fighting with Sam was fun. More than she could remember
having since … well, Sam and the moor.
She searched for her anger and hurt feelings, but they were gone.
She couldn't find them. Evaporated like cotton-wool fog.
The moor. She had consorted there with a different man altogether
from whom she'd thought. A more respectable man. Well, not respectable exactly.
Money didn't make one respectable. And certainly one couldn't call it
gentlemanly to take a handicap, beat her with it on a women's archery practice
field, and then ask for her drawers.
Which suddenly made Lydia think: Sam was
perfect
, actually. He was
almost
respectable: respectable enough. And more fun than she could explain to anyone
who thought
respectable
was the main
measure of a man. Or a woman either, for that matter. He was dependable,
capable, and vastly entertaining – three qualities that beat respectable any
day.
*
A
funny happening that Sam, Liddy, their children would still be talking about on
their sixty-seventh anniversary: Liddy put the wedding ring on her finger with
the engagement ring, just seeing what they'd look like together, and the idea
of getting married right then struck. She wanted to. Right there, on the
archery range. There were two reverends, one deacon, and a magistrate, any of
whom could do it. The special license didn't specify a location, so they were
off.
What a day. Clive was especially thrilled with the idea. He ran
around gathering the proper people, preventing the work crew from taking the
tent down, and organizing the official paperwork.
Lydia
's mother's
carriage had pulled out by then, but he even borrowed a horse so he could chase
it down.
"What sacrifice," he called to
Lydia
and Sam as he
galloped off.
Epilogue
We
belong to a young nation, already of giant strength, yet whose political
strength is but a forecast of power that is to come.
vice
presidential address, 1898
S
tanding at the back of the tent with her father, awaiting the
moment to walk toward Sam and the deacon,
Lydia
heard her
mother's voice.
"Darling!"
She looked in the direction from which it came, and there was the
viscountess working her way through
Lydia
's friends and
family from the edge of the tent toward the front, all the while waving to get
her attention.
Lydia
smiled,
watching.
"Excuse me. Viscountess Wendt here," her mother said
brusquely, shoving people out of the way. "Mother of the bride. Excuse me."
Constance Bedford-Browne halted briefly when her and her daughter's gazes met.
Over and between heads, she smiled – so sweetly,
Lydia
thought – then
the viscountess lifted her own hand to her own forehead. "Fix your
hair," she mouthed, pointing with her finger to demonstrate.
Lydia
laughed. She
felt her own smile rise up as if from the center of her chest, till happiness
shone out her face, such affection. She reached up and pushed her hair back.
Her mother nodded, beaming as she shouldered herself a prime place
in front. Then leaning to see between heads, she mouthed the words, "You
look lovely, dear."
The music – her cousin's cello – began with mother and daughter
smiling broadly at each other. Then, as
Lydia
took her
father's arm, still staring at her mother, the viscountess's mouth mimed the
words, "We love you."
Lydia
's eyes grew so
full – her heart so full – she could barely see. She looked away: And there was
Sam standing at the end of the tent, shifting from foot to foot, staring at
her. She began toward him, between the rows of chairs, through the crowd of
gathered friends, a few strangers, to the sound to Chopin's waltz in C sharp,
tears streaming down her cheeks, her face beaming.
Happiness, It was only the beginning. The odd wedding was followed
by the best honeymoon with a better mate than
Lydia
had ever
imagined for herself – literally, since Sam was nothing like the man she had
grown up thinking she would marry. They returned from the honeymoon – a sojourn
of various inns on the Dartmoor – to London and a very lovely season, after
which came the beginning of a new family: On May 10 in the first year of the
new millennium, Savannah Jane Cody was born, the namesake of her American
grandmother, long gone but remembered fondly.
*
That
summer, before they left for
Japan
– without a
word of Japanese, Sam had been named to a diplomatic position there – they went
to a picnic at the house Sam's grandmother had rented nearby in
Harrogate
. The occasion
was the visit of Sam's aunt, uncle, two cousins, and half-brother, come to
England
to meet the
bride and see the new baby.
They'd eaten something called "barbecued ribs" that Sam
had cooked on a grill over an open fire. He liked them – he'd eaten them till
he couldn't move. He sat in the grass now, on the other side of the picnic
table under the shade of a huge maple. He looked half asleep. He looked
himself: wearing blue denim trousers so faded and soft they looked at least as
old as he was – at the knee they had a small hole, showing his underwear, a faded
red.
Lydia
smiled and
took him in: his boots, their reddish leather, polished with black polish till
the red barely showed, his black Stetson, the silver beads gleaming, his soft
flannel shirt, plaid. He had
Savannah
wrapped in his
tan corduroy jacket – she was nestled in his arms, also half asleep. Very
un-English, very Sam. Very hers.
"I'm through," he'd said a week ago. "They're
taking the draft of the treaty over to D.C., where the secretary of state and
the British ambassador'll hammer out the last." He'd grinned. "Me and
whoever's in my company, though, have to stay in
London
to hold down
the fort till they send the next fellow over. Meanwhile, though, I'm dressing
like I want. I hope you don't mind."
Not at all. He dressed like his family. Or some of them. His aunt
wore elegant dresses. One uncle, though, was quite western in his sartorial
preferences. His cousins, from
Boston
, were dapper.
His Gramma Sadie looked surprisingly English in attire – when the others of his
family months ago had left on the ocean liner that Sam had been taken off,
she'd taken herself off with him. "If Sam and John stay, I stay." His
half-brother, John, lived in
Europe
. He'd been on
the continent for eight years, studying for most of it under the tutelage of
some fellow in
Austria
; he hadn't
settled down yet, but was considering a medical practice in
England
.
Gramma Sadie was tall, almost as tall as Sam. "You think
she's high up the mountain, you should've seen Gramps. He was six-seven and
big, a regular Paul Bunyan."
John, the doctor, was quiet, soft-spoken, though not with the
ladies. When they'd taken him to town, he'd surprised her by flirting
mercilessly. He came out with the ladies, tending to be rather – oh, sweetly
arrogant. He knew how handsome he was, what a catch he would be, and played it
like a game of tag – at twenty-eight he hadn't slowed down yet for any girl to
catch him. He was handsome in a different way from Sam, more a Bostonian,
though all American, and very dedicated to his profession.
Lydia
doubted, at
least for the moment, that any woman would compete very well against it.
"You have a lovely family," she told Sam over the
checkered tablecloth. Then, "How are you doing?" She had to stand up
to look.
On the other side of the table, he'd slid down into the grass,
laid out, Savannah a little bundle asleep on his chest, his hand relaxed over
the lump of her thick-nappied bottom, his hat over his face.
From under it, he said, "I'm homesteading cloud nine, Lid. If
I get any happier, I'll have to hire someone to help me enjoy it."