He made no effort to hide his amusement. “I don’t think there is any room for discussion on that score.” There was nothing lecherous in his tone, but he flirted, I could have no doubt of it. His attentions distracted me, and I did not wish to be distracted. I wished to be the one who distracted, who made the rules, but now, so close to him, I found it hard to keep my thoughts clear.
“Does it hurt-your wound?” I kept my voice calm and even, no easy thing when my pulse pounded in my ears.
“It is painful sometimes,” he said, “but I will not let that keep me from doing what I like, and I am told it shall abate by-and-by.”
I smiled to best disguise my anxiety, and then, taking what I hoped was a surreptitious deep breath, I said, as airily as I could, “I shall not wait for by-and-by. Let us take a walk.”
I astonished him, I could see as much. He shifted a bit, and did a charming stammering thing, and then swallowed hard. “Miss Claybrook, I do not think it would be proper for me to take a private walk with a young lady.”
Perhaps I might have been stung by this rebuke. I might have attempted to retrench, to recast what I had said, but I felt no shame or remorse, and the absence of regret gave me courage. “Oh, rabbit proper. You’ll walk with me, won’t you?”
“I do not think your father will thank me for it,” he said. “Why do you not come in for some maple wine with my sister?”
I did not like this suggestion, and my tone revealed my irritation. “I haven’t come for your sister. I came for you.”
“Then you shall prosper,” he said, “in having the both of us.”
All at once, I found I was no longer performing. I did not act bold, I was bold, and I liked it. I put my hands on my hips. “Mr. Maycott, I have no interest in stilted conversation with your sister. I wish to talk to you, and I am sorry to see you are afraid to walk with a young lady.”
“I merely consider your interests,” he said, both surprised and amused, “even if you do not. Perhaps the impropriety of what you propose has not occurred to you.”
“I believe, sir, in making my own propriety. If you do not come with me, I shall tell the world you did, so there is nothing to be gained by demurring.”
He laughed, and his blue eyes mirrored the sky. “I see you have quite defeated me. Let us take a short walk along the road, then.”
“I should prefer privacy. The woods.”
“And I,” he said, holding up his cane, “prefer to depend upon well-packed earth.”
I could not argue with this requirement so I compromised, happy, so very happy, that I would now be walking with this beautiful man who had been, I must think, charmed and not appalled by my speech. We took a few steps, and Mr. Maycott began to comment on the fineness of the weather, on how even now he could not quite believe he was safe from the terror and tedium of war. Then, perhaps feeling awkward at his own seriousness, he changed to more agreeable topics. He spoke of how good it was to be home, of the simple pleasures of living upon his family’s land-and, he said, of resuming old acquaintance.
Of course I found all of this interesting, and I loved to hear him speak, and in particular I loved to hear him speak of his feelings. He was more open and direct about such things than any other man I’d known. And yet, I was impatient. I wanted to speak of the two of us, of this moment, of what I had done to make it possible. At last I said, “You do not seem shocked by my addressing you as I’ve done.”
“Would you rather I were shocked?” he asked.
“No, of course not. I am only surprised. Pleased, of course, but surprised.”
“There has been a Revolution,” said Andrew. “A king has been replaced by the people. It can hardly be surprising if other changes follow.”
He looked at me, calm and easy, and yet his eyes were distant, as he considered the implications of his own words. Later, I would come to see this as the moment I fell in love with him. He was so glorious to look at, so strong and well formed and elegant, and yet contemplative. He took me seriously, regarded my words as thoughtfully as I could want. I felt no one had ever before truly listened to me.
I searched for the right words. “Sir, I am in need of a sentimental encounter. I saw you in town, and I thought I should like it if you were to begin courting me.”
He had seemed beyond shocking, yet this shocked him. “Miss Claybrook-”
“Given our new familiarity, it would be better to call me Joan.”
“Miss Claybrook,” he repeated, “if I did not know better, I should think you had just arrived here from some distant island, or newly freed from captivity with the Indians. If I were not a man of honor, you would be placing yourself in grave danger.”
“Then I depend upon your being a man of honor. I do not suggest anything untoward, Andrew. Men court women with a great deal of regularity, and it is perfectly acceptable. It is possible that, once we spend some time together, we may discover that we do not like each other well enough, so that will be the end of it. I only propose we find out.”
“But this is not the way it is done. You are obviously a clever girl and know that.”
“What happened to the Revolution?” I asked.
He laughed. “Perhaps you have outsmarted me.”
“Oh, there is no perhaps about it, but I have no doubt you will have your revenge.”
He bowed. “You are too kind.”
“I am just kind enough.” I was thoroughly myself now. He and I were comfortable, and his beauty ceased to frighten me. It charmed me and thrilled me, but I began to feel at home in its presence. “The truth is, Andrew, that I hope someday to write a novel, and I thought it might provide for an interesting experience if I were to make bold with you.”
He blinked at me, like a sleepy cat. “You speak to me this way so you can turn our conversation into a novel? You do not really wish me to court you?”
“Oh, of course I do,” I said. “But my being so direct was, I admit, a sort of experimentation, for I require some experiences. I have had too few. Come, pray don’t be cross. I should not have spoken to you thus if I did not like you.”
“But what sort of novel?” It was not a question I had anticipated, and it delighted me.
“The one I like best is Mr. Fielding’s Amelia.”
“That’s a good one,” he said.
“You see? Already we are compatible. Not only do you read novels, which I’m told most men do not, or at least do not admit to, but your taste in novels is sound. Do you not think that courting me would be a good idea?”
“Miss Claybrook, I do not believe there is anything anyone could say that could possibly dissuade me from courting you.” With this he began to walk again upon the road, bringing his walking stick down more jauntily than before.
We spent some moments in comfortable silence. Then he said, “Would you be so good as to tell me about your novel?”
How like him, I thought-though I hardly knew him and had no business deciding what he was like or unlike-to get so quickly to the heart of it. “That’s precisely the difficulty. I haven’t a notion of what to write about.”
Andrew laughed.
Perhaps it was childish, but I felt wounded. “You think my difficulties amusing?”
“Not at all,” he said. “I only like the thoughtful way your brow wrinkles when you wrestle with them. But, pray, tell me why you have such trouble telling your story.”
Even as I had been studying his face, glorying in his handsomeness, it had not occurred to me that he would regard me the same way, and I felt myself blush. “If I am to write a novel, I wish for it to be an American novel, not a mere imitation of what is done in England. I don’t want to move Tom Jones or Clarissa Harlowe to New York and set them to running about with Indians or fur trappers. The book must be American in its essence, don’t you think?”