The tunnels are as glorious as I envisioned, and I am somewhat annoyed that I could not find them sooner. I understand the villagers’ deceit. I imagine it is quite a trial to have holidayers popping about asking after the tunnels they read of. So I do not blame the villagers, though I do still blame the one utter jackanapes who smirked and suggested I wouldn’t fit in the tunnels anyway. I do fit—with room enough that Nicolas could squeeze past me.
I wish I did not dwell on such things. I don’t, in my everyday life. My body does everything I ask of it, and so I do not see any reason to change it. I have been plump since birth, and the one time—as a silly young woman—that I surrendered to pressure and became slender, I was both miserable and unwell. So I have accepted my shape, not with resignation but with pride, and I want to laugh off insults, yet some seem to lie like traps waiting to spring.
The point is that the tunnel is quite wide enough, and I will dismiss that man’s petty jibe with one of my own, that judging by his own physical condition, he would not have been able to endure this endless crawl. For me, it is a delightful experience, complete with nuances such as a lewd drawing on a bracing post, sheep’s teeth set into a macabre signature and a spot where two people traded joking insults, searing them onto driftwood set in the ceiling. From one wall, I even pull the remains of an ancient, hammered amulet, which I pocket.
While I find the amulet on my own, the rest is pointed out by Nicolas, who acts as tour guide. That might be his considerate side, easing a difficult journey, but I think it is also his nature, like mine, our own curiosity thrilled to find one who shares it. I am the eager pupil, asking endless questions, which he happily answers.
We’ve been crawling for a half hour when he finally twists around to face me.
“We are approaching the home of a friend, whom I must tell of the goods we hid so he may retrieve them. It is his family’s home. I am never entirely comfortable with that. It is one thing for a man and his wife to choose to shelter me, but another for his children to be expected to do the same. Yet if I were to ask that they not be involved, he would be insulted, as if I were saying his children cannot be trusted.”
“I understand.”
He nods. “I wanted to be clear so I do not seem cavalier.”
“I could not imagine such a thing, but yes, thank you for explaining.”
“I would also like to ask you to remain here, so that I may speak to them and say I have a friend and allow them to decide whether they are comfortable hosting you as well.”
“Of course.”
“If they choose not, I will return with food, and we will depart as soon as we have eaten. Is there anything else you require?”
“I would say a hot bath, but I will settle for a dip in the ocean when it is possible.”
He smiles. “I will ensure it is possible soon, as I am in need of the same. One last question. Is it all right if I tell them you are a woman, or would you prefer to remain a man?”
“If I were a young woman, would that affect how they view me, being alone with you?”
“It is the country, crécerelle. There are none of those silly city rules here, at least not among people like this. I shall tell them you are a young woman related to Lord Thorne, and that will explain everything. They would not expect the usual behavior from you then.”
“Good. Then that shall be my story.”
Nicolas’s compatriotsinvite me into their home. They work the sea, with a small fishing boat, and I am reminded again of how fortunate I have been in my birth and my life. Oh, I do not lack for reminders. I receive them whenever I accompany Portia on her medical rounds, visiting the homes of those who do not care whether their “doctor” is a man or a woman, with a school degree or the equivalent informal studies. Yet poverty is not something I will ever inure myself to, nor should I want to. I visit those homes, and the next time I am tempted by a gorgeous pen or a rare book of history, I do not stop myself from buying it, but I find a charitable use for the equivalent of my indulgence.
Like many of the families I have visited, while this one lacks so much that I take for granted, they do not lack the most important parts of a home: love and kindness. That is not to put a pretty face on the poverty I see. There are ten people—parents, five children, two grandparents and an aunt—living in a building smaller than the tiny London townhouse I share with Portia. At least they have outdoor space here, moors to roam and a sea to explore, unlike the city tenement families I am accustomed to.
The Miller family invites us in and plies us with food. That is to say that they quickly prepare fish and heat leftovers from the day before. This is not the home of the nineteenth-century middle or upper class where one can ask the cook to make a meal... and the poor woman is left scrambling to prepare supper in an hour rather than the usual half day.
Nicolas dives into his meal with the air of a starving man, which means I do not need to play the dainty lady. We eat our fill while the children pepper him with questions and stare at me. When he is done, he grabs two of the youngest, saying he is going to make them pirates. It is obviously an old and beloved game, and the children shriek and fight him off with wooden swords.
When one child accidentally lands on me, she scurries off, whispering apologies. I take up her discarded sword and execute a few moves, which brings her out again, and Nicolas and I find ourselves giving a mock demonstration, to the delight of the children and their elders. Finally, those elders shoo the children off, and Nicolas imparts instructions for the retrieval of the hidden goods. After that, we sneak out the side door and down a path to the ocean, where we might rest a while and make our plans.
We find a spot on the cliff, hidden by grasses, and we lower ourselves to the ground. Nicolas puts an arm around my waist and slides closer as we look out on the sea.
“You are good with children,” I say.
Do I imagine that he tenses, just a little? If so, he covers it with a laugh. “My sisters say it is because I have never grown up myself. I have nieces and nephews, and while I miss my parents and brothers and sisters, the children will be what brings me home. I do not wish to return in five years, a stranger to them.”
A brief pause, and then he says, carefully, “I must also admit that, as fond as I am of children, I am not certain I envision having any myself. The sort of life I lead is far more conducive to unclehood than fatherhood, which is why I am exceedingly careful on that account. I am not saying I would never change my mind, only it is not in my near future. Although some—like my family—find that hard to understand when I am, as you say, good with children.”
“I am good with horses,” I say. “I am also very fond of them. That does not mean I intend to change my life so that I might have one of my own.”
“Precisely.”
I lean back. “I adore my nephew, and I cannot wait to meet his new little sister or brother. I hope Rosalind has a whole brood of children for me to torment and spoil. Portia wants children, too, and so I will have plenty in my life without needing to have any myself.”
The arm around me relaxes as he moves closer still, tight against my side. “You understand, then.”