Liberty Silk Read Online Free PDF Page B

Love whose face is always smiling and contented, but who has moments of thoughtfulness and moments of wild unrestrained joy. It first saw the light opposite the Strozzi Palace amid an aroma of delicious tea and delectable cakes.
    Aware that Scotch was sketching her, Jessie continued to turn the pages of her poetry book, reading aloud a random selection of verses, and chatting idly.
    He was engrossed now, in his drawing. She could tell by the frown that appeared between his eyebrows. What went through his mind as he worked? What did he see, that other people did not? Sometimes she felt strangely vulnerable when Scotch painted her, as though he were privy to the innermost working of her mind.
    By the time he finally put his sketchbook away, their shadows had grown longer on the sand and Jessie thought she might have fallen asleep because she was sure she had dreamed something, something that for some reason she did not care to remember. Her face was burning despite the efforts she had taken to protect it from the glare of the sun, and she had the kind of lump in her throat that she’d often had when she was a little girl being scolded by her mother, trying hard not to cry.
    Scotch was looking at her with the oddest expression. He turned away to rearrange the contents of his knapsack, and there was something unfamiliar – something almost hostile – about his demeanour. When he turned back to her, Jessie was relieved to see that his smile was once more in place.
    ‘Say something silly,’ he said.
    ‘I can’t.’
    ‘Go on. Say something that will make me laugh. You know how good you are at that.’
    Jessie’s mind cast around randomly. ‘Um. I am your Dear Rib,’ she said.
    ‘What?’
    ‘It was Doctor Livingstone’s pet name for his wife. It comes from the Bible – you know, when God created Eve from one of Adam’s ribs. She must have been frightfully skinny.’
    Scotch laughed. ‘Oh, just look at you!’ he exulted, pushing her back onto the rug and rolling on top of her. ‘How beautiful you are – how beautiful is my beloved! But look out – there’s a fly on you, one of those nasty stinging ones.’ He slapped her thigh robustly.
    ‘I don’t believe there was any fly on me!’ she cried, rolling away from him. ‘I believe you made it up just so’s you could smack me.’
    ‘And there’s another one!’ crowed Scotch, slapping her bottom. ‘We can’t have flies on you. There can be
no
flies on my Dear Rib!’
    Jessie scrambled to her feet and made for the sea. He caught up with her and pulled her to him, holding her tight and kissing her over and over. Waist-high in water, they stood clinging to one another for many minutes. Then, releasing her from his embrace, he turned to face the horizon. His cheeks were wet: drops of water clung to his eyelashes.
    ‘I love you,’ he said, and suddenly everything was right in her world again. He
would
make a palace for her – this beautiful, talented, creative man – of green days and blue days, and days in all kinds of other colours. She’d wait another week or two to tell him about the baby, and then he would reconsider Pawpey’s proposal – of course he would. No newlywed in their right mind could turn down the offer of a house.
    Plunging into the tide, Jessie swam three or four strokes, then turned over and floated on her back, gazing at the canopy of blue above her.
    What colour would she paint the nursery? Pink, she hoped – palest pink with a stencilled frieze of daisies. She’d love a little girl to dress up and play doll’s house with, and to delight with fairies’ picnics at the bottom of the garden. But then, perhaps Scotch would prefer a boy.
    He had swum out to join her. Taking his hand, she rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. He was gazing out to sea, his expression unreadable. ‘What are you thinking, love?’ she asked.
    He looked down at her tenderly, and studied her, and she felt as though he were learning her face like a map; the