“Who are you looking for?” I asked under my breath.
“Just making sure everything is as it should be,” she replied, but I saw her eyes rest on Charles. He was speaking with a young woman I knew to be a recent widow.
“Excuse me,” she said, and raised her eyebrows towards George as she brushed past me.
I nodded, then drained my glass. Fortification for completing the task before me. Eying my empty drink, George stepped forward and offered his hand. “Shall we?”
He took my arm and steered me in the direction of the lake. As we walked along the well-lit path that wound through the flower gardens and acacia trees from the house to the lake, he talked about his speaking engagements. It seemed that all the best men’s clubs in London were perpetually begging him to enlighten their members regarding the state of the empire. Then, when I stopped to examine a rose, he took the opportunity to lean close to me.
“You look ravishing tonight, Miss Harding.” I felt his lips brush my ear. “Good enough to get a man thinking thoughts he ought not to. Do you know you torture me?”
I focused on the flower in front of me, unsure how to react. Part of me wanted to wave him away, but another part wanted to hear more. I felt a small fluttering thrill to think I could have this effect on a man. It would make marriage to him so much more palatable if he was truly captivated by me.
“Look here.” George pointed through the twilight to the shoreline. “A rowboat. How about we take a romantic ride over to the island and see what the party looks like from that vantage point. A fine treat for us both, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I would love to do just that.” I smiled, pleased that we shared a certain sensibility. Perhaps he had just been trying to impress me with his self-importance. He was probably feeling a bit nervous, as I was. Maybe we would find we had much in common as we got to know each other better. “I’ve never actually been to the island before,” I said as we neared the dock. “Hari only has the boats brought out for parties.”
“Charles and I used to row out there when we were children and swim all day.”
The thought of Charles as a young, carefree boy made me laugh. As an adult he was always so serious, so bent on his future in politics.
With surprising dexterity, George helped me step off the short dock and into the boat, then settled himself easily onto the opposite seat. He pushed away from shore and started to row with determination. When he began to perspire, he asked my permission to remove his jacket.
“Certainly,” then catching sight of a cluster of lily pads, I said, “Oh, look, let’s row over there. I can pick a flower for my hair. The yellow ones are especially lovely, don’t you think?”
“My vision is already filled with a picture of loveliness,” he said, gazing intently at me. “A mere water lily can’t compete.”
I smiled sweetly at his attempt at gallantry. I imagined us ten years on, a couple who had grown very fond of each other. We would have pet names, and I could see us stepping out in matching tweed outfits for our daily strolls. Comfortable, if unexceptional.
George did not stop to pick a flower but continued to make a beeline for the island. As the boat rammed the dock, I lurched forward in my seat and fought a wave of nausea. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, and when I opened them, I saw that George was already up and out of the boat, securing it to the dock.
“Come along, my dear,” he said.
“Just a minute.” I struggled to untuck my feet from my long skirts and clamber up beside him. As I was brushing my gown, I felt his hand on the small of my back.
“Look up,” he said softly.
“Oh! It’s gorgeous.” From where we stood together on the dock, the lights and sounds of Harriet’s party were truly a thing of beauty. The starry sky above the haloed lights, the soft lilting notes of the string quartet occasionally interrupted by happy shouts of laughter, were even more appealing with distance and perspective.
It was enchanting, and rather romantic, and I moved to lean into him, thinking this was the moment he might propose. But he was twisting away, scanning the topography of the island.
“There it is.” He gestured to a tiny cottage tucked away in the trees. “The old summer bathing house. Its front porch has a large swing chair just big enough for two. Let’s give it a try.”
“But what about the party?” I asked.
“We’ll go back. Don’t worry,” he said, giving me a sheepish look. “I’m afraid I’m not as young as I used to be. I just need a moment to rest before rowing again.”
I hesitated for a moment, then remembered Harriet’s and Charles’s admonishments to not let them down. The swing chair sounded like the perfect spot.
As we moved inland through the looming trees, the yellow light from the lanterns along the shore faded into a muted grey and the tinkling music and giddy laughter from the party dulled into flat noise. It was difficult to see in the increasing darkness, but George guided me over the ground brush. We stumbled a little as we went, and a thornbush snagged my bare forearm, leaving itchy pricks in my skin. When we finally mounted the wooden steps of the porch, I felt a surge of relief. There was a charming old
