Then again, they also avoid the panic of being caught in a sudden, torrential rain with little cover.
Today I was alone in the poet’s garden, staking out the southern border with flags tied to sticks when the heavens opened. Almost immediately, the rain soaked through my shirt and plastered it to my back and chest. I pulled my canvas hat lower on my brow as I did my best to gather up my bundle of sticks. But when a crack of lightning pierced the sky and rattled my very teeth, I dropped everything to hike up my skirts and run for my cottage.
I cut through the ramble, mud weighing down my hemline. A gust of wind tore my hat from my head before picking up my limp hair and thrusting it back in my face.
Around the corner of the cottage, I spotted a figure huddled under the little front porch.
“Mr. Goddard?” I asked, peering through the haze.
He looked at me from under his soaked hat, his grin sheepish. “Good day, Miss Smith. Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?”
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
He lifted a leather bag. “I come bearing gifts.” His smile fell. “But you must come out of the rain.”
He tried to step out to cede the covered space to me, but I waved him away. “I’m already soaked through. There’s no point in you getting wet, too.”
I took the cottage key out of my pocket and unlocked the door. “Given the circumstances, I think we would both do well to dry our boots,” I said over my shoulder.
Mr. Goddard hesitated, but when I began to ease off my boots, he gingerly put his leather bag down and did the same. As he finished, I went to the woodstove to coax the dying embers back to life. When I turned back, I saw that he’d lined his boots up perfectly with mine against the wall. The sight of it rooted me to the spot. Surely I’d seen Adam’s boots lined up next to mine countless times before, but this felt different.
“I could make us tea while you change.”
I gave a start. “I do apologize. I’m forgetting my manners.”
“I should apologize. I’ve barreled into your home without warning. Perhaps I should—”
“No. Please stay. And I will make the tea. This is my house, for a time, even if it sits on Mr. Melcourt’s grounds.” I moved for the door to the small kitchen.
He caught me gently by the elbow, bringing me to a pause in front of him. “Miss Smith, please, allow me. I can assure you, I’m not such a helpless bachelor.”
The warmth of his hand through the wet fabric sent a shiver up my arm. I nodded because I didn’t think I could say anything without my voice trembling.
In the privacy of my bedroom, I peeled off my wet things and hung them on the iron bed frame before dressing again. Everything felt deliciously dry and soft against my skin, from my chemise and stockings to my shirt and skirt. There was no saving my hair—not that it had been much to look at, jammed up under a hat for hours. Instead, I dragged a comb through it and tied it back with a ribbon to keep it off my face. When I finished, I felt like a girl of eighteen again, fresh and hopeful.
The kettle was whistling in the kitchen when I returned. The fire was beginning to chase off the damp of the day, but rather than sit by it, I went to the large table in the center of the room. Across it lay plans, catalogs, and correspondence.
I put on my spectacles and flipped through the plans for the gardens until I reached the detail of the poet’s garden and began noting down an adjustment. A soft clearing of the throat brought me back. Mr. Goddard was standing in front of me, grasping a tea-laden tray with both hands.
“Where shall I put this?” he asked.
I quickly cleared a spot for him. Carefully, he set the tea tray down and drew up a chair.
Automatically, I began to set up cups and handle the strainer. “Do you take milk?”
“Yes, and a lump of sugar, even though Helen thinks it’s terribly childish of me,” he said.
I dropped the lump in for him and passed the cup over. “You should take your tea however you choose.”
“That advice doesn’t surprise me one bit coming from you,” he said, settling back in his chair and crossing his ankle at the knee to rest the teacup on it.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You strike me as the sort of woman who does whatever she’s set her mind to without waiting for anyone else’s opinion.”
I flushed. “That’s not true. The very nature of my work means that I have to take a good number of people’s opinions into account.”
“You forget, Miss Smith, that I’ve watched you charm my sister and her husband.”