The Age of Water Lilies Read Online Free PDF Page B

where they paused for a moment to watch the osprey in its nest on the bridge’s high trestle, they let their horses trot along the road, side by side. Flora noticed how easily the man held his horse’s reins, resting his hand on the saddle, and how the hairs on his wrists were golden. The tiny smile came and went on his lips quick as bees. He was handsome, with a profile such as one might have seen on Greek coins. His sleeves were rolled up to just below his elbows and the golden hair continued up his arms. She had never really looked at a man’s arms before. Pale freckles dappled his skin. And when he turned his reins idly this way, then that, she glimpsed the underskin of his forearm, milky and clear. She looked away, hoping he hadn’t seen her. And then her face was suddenly hot, her neck quite damp with heat; a little shudder worked its way across her shoulders in the way she had always thought of as someone walking over her grave. Flora put one gloved hand to her cheek. She could not believe that Gus Alexander didn’t realize her agitation; how on earth would she explain herself? That she had grown quite warm at the sight of his wrists, the hair on them delicate as new grass? And how happy she was at that moment that she was not his sister.
    Glancing back to the settlement, she could see teams of horses at work in the fields being prepared for planting. A hawk circled above, watching for the mice that would scatter as the horses approached. Far away, she could hear the sound of the train approaching. It would stop at Pennies to leave the mail and other provisions for the hotel. It was something to look forward to—letters from home, a few newspapers now months old but containing news of her county, the text of a particularly well-received sermon given at Chippenham, the program of a choral evening at Trowbridge, an afternoon of recitations in a home on the Royal Crescent at Bath, the price of wholemeal loaves at the bakery in Bradford-on-Avon.
    Just before noon they reached Skeetchestn. They had followed the river and let their horses lope along its banks under sparse cottonwoods. Flora was easier now with the sight of bare arms and she didn’t feel so tongue-tied. It was nice to listen to Gus talk. He noticed things, pointing out a clump of vivid yellow flowers he said were called balsamroot, and the tracks of a rattlesnake in sand along the river. There were neat fields of tall grass for hay, shadowy turns in the river where it passed under the red rock cliffs, a long gravel bar where some cattle stood ankle-deep in water, swishing their tails back and forth in a vain attempt to keep away flies. Gus asked a man sitting on a big rock where they might find Mary and Agrippa’s house and he led them to a low cabin near some cottonwoods by the river. A little curl of smoke inched its way out of the stovepipe and a dog briefly barked, then returned to its cool nest by the trees. Mary came to the door. Three children clung to her legs and stared at the strangers.
    â€œMary, I know things are difficult right now, so I’ve brought you some small offerings. Can the children have a sweet?” Flora dismounted and handed her reins to Gus, who had indicated he would tie her horse before going off to talk to some men who were needed later in the week for ploughing.
    The children came out to stand before her, two boys and a dear girl, all under ten. She gave them each two barley sugars and they solemnly thanked her. Then Flora turned to Mary, who still stood in the doorway.
    â€œI’d like to help, Mary. Is there something I can do? Look, I’ve brought a chicken—the mean hen, the one whose neck George kept threatening to wring? He did, I’m glad to say, and I’ve roasted it for your family. Can I come in?”
    Mary nodded and stepped aside. It was a very small cabin but cozy too. It smelled strongly of bitter herbs; Flora saw a pot of them on the stove, steaming.