She laughed. “You are ridiculous. It’s not anything anyone else wouldn’t have done.”
“That’s not true in the least. You’re a rarity, Clara.”
Again her face flushed hot. Needing to steer the conversation into safer waters—waters that did not have her aching to lean into his hand, to press her lips to his, to stretch her body alongside his until she didn’t know where she ended and he began—she pulled away from his touch and looked to the others. Phoebe, with a look of concentration, brought her battledore back and swung it up in an arc. It hit the shuttlecock with a whack, sending it back up into the blue sky as Oswin cheered her on.
“I expect shuttlecock is not typically something played much past childhood, anyway,” she said bracingly. “Current company excluded, of course. But then, one can expect playfulness during such a joyous occasion.”
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But surely there are other things you’ve had cause to join in on. Maybe croquet? Archery? Tennis?” At her blank look he rolled his eyes. “Very well, you’re not an outdoor person. Perhaps something indoors, such as theatrics, or billiards? Fencing?”
She was tempted to wave him off. He was being ridiculous.
But the realization that she had not indulged in most, if not all, of those things became mortifyingly clear. She was much more likely to take on the role of chaperone, looking on from the side, taking her joy in watching.
But had it truly been a joy? As a young girl she’d been high-spirited. But she’d conformed herself into what she thought others needed from her after her mother died. Mayhap that was why she had rebelled as a young woman. Not even sixteen, and so desperate to find her place in the world she had blindly believed the false words of a young man who had wanted nothing more from her than a distraction while his family vacationed on the Isle.
But she would not lethimin. He had no place in her thoughts.
As her silence stretched on, Quincy sat up. “Do you mean to tell me,” he said, slowly and distinctly, disbelief ripe in his voice, “that you have not tried a single one of those things?” At her nod he let loose a startled laugh. “Well, what do you do for fun?”
She rolled her eyes at that, grateful that he had turned the conversation back to innocuous things. “I’ve no room for fun.”
He reared back as if poked with a sharp stick. “No room for—what?—” He looked at her as if she had committed a mortal sin. “You cannot be serious.”
“When do I have time for fun?” she countered.
His expression altered so quickly she didn’t have time to process it. “You do now.” In one smooth move he stood and tugged her to her feet.
She was so startled she lost her balance, falling into his chest. “Oh,” she managed.
His eyes flared with heat, zeroing in on her mouth for a tense moment. But once again his features transformed. A wicked grin spread over his face as he started off toward the others, her hand still grasped tight in his.
It took her some seconds to realize what he was up to. When she finally did, she gaped at his back. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes,” he said over his shoulder. “You are not some elderly matron who must watch life go by, Clara. You are young, and vibrant, and deserve to have a bit of fun.”
They reached the flat meadow. “Ho, there. Do you have a couple extra racquets? Lady Clara and I have a mind to join you.”
A cheer went up from the assembled before Clara had time to refuse. In a moment the wooden handle of a battledore was being pressed into her hands and Phoebe was pulling her into the fray.
“Oh, this is brilliant,” she exclaimed, her face glowing. “I cannot recall you ever joining in, no matter how I begged.”
That took Clara aback. Phoebe had begged her to play with her? Just as she was about to laughingly denounce such a thing, however, she suddenly remembered her sister, small and delicate with braids flying behind her, running up to Clara, asking her to join in fishing, or races, or any number of activities she was currently interested in.
Each time Clara had refused. Before she could ask herself why, however, she knew with distressing certainty: she had believed her worth had lain in what she could doforher sister. And all along she had missed out on what she could have donewithher.
But she could not think of that devastating fact just now, not in front of so many others.
“Just keep the shuttlecocks from hitting the ground, Lady Clara,” Miss Coralie Gadfeld, the vicar’s niece, called out, her dark skin flushed from her efforts, onyx eyes sparkling. “It’s not difficult.”
“Not a bit,” Mr. Ronald Tunley, the sheepherder’s son, said with a grin. “And besides, no one can possibly be worse than Horace here.” He punched the arm of the man in question good-naturedly.
Mr. Horace Juniper, son of the local innkeeper, flushed a mottled red and sent a horrified glance Miss Coralie’s way, longing and embarrassment clear in his eyes. “At least I didn’t fall on my…behind,” he shot back, to which Mr. Tunley guffawed.
“Shall we start then?” Oswin called out cheerfully, the shuttlecock held aloft.
An enthusiastic chorus started up, and the feathered cork was dropped to connect with Oswin’s racquet. And chaos ensued.
Clara held back, watching the rest of them lunge and swing with abandon. She held the battledore before her chest like a shield, at once excited and nervous for the shuttlecock to come sailing her way. She searched for Quincy. He was in the midst of them all, laughing and calling encouragement. He’d laid his jacket aside, rolling up his sleeves, and the sight of his strong forearms made her knees weak.