Whitechapel Gods
Page 38
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ve developed some kind of damned weakness from the whole affair and it’s taking ages to go away.” He reached up and removed his hat, revealing long and shaggy hair, and his face, his eyes.
The laundry scattered over the grasses and its basket rolled down the hill into the fields. Missy shrank back against the wall.
Hat tucked under his arm, he smiled at her, so understanding and aware. Her legs shook. Her hands trembled on the handle of the picnic basket.
“Oliver?”
“Alive, if not well,” he said, absently rubbing the stretched white scar that crossed his neck, just above the collar line. “I’m glad to see you.”
She couldn’t say anything. Glad to see her?
He waited a minute, then went on. “I’ve spent a long time thinking it over, Michelle,” he said. “I don’t pretend to understand the least bit of what happened, but I don’t feel that it was your fault.”
She stammered a few nonsense syllables, looked away, looked back, looked at the basket. Fresh biscuits, a silver knife and butter dish, two plates of white china.
“You can’t be here,” she said.
“I’m trespassing, this is true,” he said with a shrug. “Dress correctly and act correctly and people simply assume what they will. That I learned from you.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“I know. The last favour of a god, perhaps? I hesitate to try to explain it.” He gestured to the basket. “Besides, I’m here for the picnic.”
Tears on her cheeks, dripping onto the buns.
“Oliver, you can’t be here. Why would you even think of finding me? You must hate me.”
When she looked up he was a step closer, half out of the shade, tears on his own cheeks.
“Quite the opposite, really,” he mumbled, then cleared his throat. “Michelle, it’s not my custom to hold people’s pasts against them. I’ve always known who you are. I don’t much care who you were. I have a gift that way. And, well…since we’re being truthful today…I just wanted to see you again.”
Missy wiped her eyes.
“Oliver, I thought you were…that I was…”
He caught her as she collapsed. She buried herself in the soft cotton jacket, and cried into his shoulder for a very long time. He gathered her up in one arm and stroked her hair, saying nothing, and held her while her every nameless shame bloomed to life and passed out of her and shrivelled to nothing.
When she was done, his shoulder and lapel were a mess of tears and snot. He discreetly passed her a handkerchief, and cursing audibly, she wiped her nose and cheeks clean. She parted from him and breathed, and for an instant the wind felt cold, the sun distant. She made automatic apologies and snits at herself and handed his kerchief back to him at full arm’s length.
He took it and absently mopped his shoulder.
“I found Phin’s old ship, still crewed by the same captain. In a week or so he’ll be sailing down the African coast and around to India. He has a passenger cabin, and he’s willing to take us along.” Hesitation in his eyes. A little boy. A caring man. “But I suppose we can talk about that later.”
Missy shook head to toe, hopes and daydreams and possibilities crowding her imagination. She didn’t speak, couldn’t move, not daring to break the moment and risk the fragile hope it brought.
“First, a picnic.” Oliver offered her his hand. “Will you do me the honour, my lady?”
Her eyes lingered on the waiting palm.
She reached out and took it.
About the Author
S. M. Peters is not an ex-spy, ex-lawyer, ex-physicist, ex–Navy SEAL, or ex–Wall Street executive. He will soon be a schoolteacher, though at the time this book is published, he will still be working hard for no money. He lives in the village of Brentwood Bay on Vancouver Island, British Columbia. He is happily married and has two cats and a rabbit.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
The First Day
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
The Second Day
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
The Final Night
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
About the Author