Joan lifted her other hand, the one not still holding his, and began to silently count.
He was careful not to adjust the pressure or move the hand still holding hers, lest she realize they were still attached, in however innocent a way. He wasn’t yet ready to let go.
“Twenty,” Joan answered.
“One pebble, twenty ripples. That is an exponential effect. Something small may initiate the reaction, but its effect continues outward, far beyond what the pebble could do on its own.”
“So, you’re saying that assisting one person could in turn create lasting change.”
“Yes. Not that we should be small-minded and only help one person in our entire lives.” He chuckled.
“Agreed.”
“But it gives us perspective that our efforts go beyond. Have you ever heard a sermon on the sower and seeds?”
“I believe so,” Joan replied.
“At the end of the parable, the seeds that fell on good soil produced fifty, seventy-five, and a hundredfold.”
“It replicated itself, as seeds do.”
“Yes, and are we so different? Our one seed of change can create a harvest later.” He met her look, willing for her to see herself as more than one woman. But with the potential he knew whenever he saw her.
“Thank you.” Joan’s words were a mere whisper. Her forehead twitched as if reacting to the thoughts filtering through her mind. “I… That is…” She gave her head a little shake. “I am grateful for this conversation, for your perspective.”
“It’s my pleasure.” And he meant it.
The sound of voices met his ears, and with a swift tug, Joan pulled her fingers free from his grasp and took a step backward, but it was too quick a movement. Her foot slid against the wet lawn.
Rowles reacted as quickly as possible, reaching out for her hand, arm, anything within reach. But it was too late.
And with a mighty crash, she slipped onto her backside. Her legs kicked out from beneath her and smacked into his, effectively knocking him off-balance.
With his abrupt submersion, the icy water instantly saturated his coat and breeches, stealing his breath. As he drifted down beneath the surface, the surge of water up his nose brought with it the taste of stale pond and rotting vegetation.
When he pushed to his feet and rose above the pond’s surface, utterly soaked, it was to a scene he’d not soon forget.
Joan, hand over her mouth in mortified shock. Her maid bumbling over, withdrawing a hanky. And Morgan, arms folded and watching without even trying to contain his laughter.
As Rowles sloshed to the edge of the pond, he cast an irritated glance to his friend, who didn’t so much as offer his hand. Well, Rowles mused. This was not how he’d expected the morning to go. But as he glanced at Joan, who still seemed utterly flustered, he decided that it might not have gone as he expected. But it had gone better.
Even if his Hessian boots were likely ruined, again.
Twelve
Joan was not one given to hysterics. No, she prided herself on being rational and even-tempered, not fainting easily or given to rash outbursts—but when the duke rose from the water with a strand of pond grass lying across his head, she came dangerously close to losing her composure.
Because it was her fault.
The sound of his boots squishing in the mud—her doing.
The scent of stale water—a result of her clumsiness.
And damn her brother, who stood there and laughed.
Never in her life had she been more mortified, more at a loss for what to do, or more willing to murder her own flesh and blood. She was not the violent sort, but she most certainly had a moment as Morgan circled the dripping duke once he rose from the water like some merman.
“I wasn’t aware that swimming was a great passion of yours,” Morgan noted, hand on chin, smug expression fixed to his face.