Chapter 8: Rain in the Glasshouse

We ran down the gravel path with the rain hammering on our heads.

He still had my hand.

I had lost a shoe by the second hedge.

He stopped, picked it up out of the mud, and carried it the rest of the way.

The glasshouse stood against the south wall of the garden.

It was long and low, with a roof of small green panes and a brick wall at the back where the stove ran.

He shoved the door with his shoulder and we fell inside.

It was warm in there.

It smelled of wet earth and tomato leaves and a vine hung with tiny hard grapes.

Rain roared on the glass over our heads.

I stood in a puddle of my own making, dripping, my hair coming down, and I started to laugh.

He looked at me.

His coat was somewhere in the peas, his shirt was clear as paper, and his hair was plastered flat to the scar.

He was laughing too.

"Your shoe, madam," he said, and held it out.

I took it.

I did not put it on.

I dropped it on the flagstones, and walked up to him, and took his wet face in both hands.

"Third refusal," I said.

"Yes, I remember."

"It's not a refusal of this."

"No?"

"No," I said, and kissed him.

He made a low, startled sound.

Then his arms came around me and I was lifted, shoes and all, and carried three steps backward until my shoulders met the brick.

It was warm from the stove.

It was a good, dry, living heat, and it went through the wet cloth of my dress into my skin.

"The gardener," I said, against his mouth.

"In the village. It's market day, and it's raining."

"Anyone at the house?"

"They'd have to find us first."

He kissed my chin, my throat.

"It's still light."

"I know."

"I want to see you in the light."

I had not thought of that.

I'd only ever been seen by candle, and in the dark, and quickly.

I put my hands on the buttons of his shirt and my fingers were clumsy.

"Then you have to do the same," I said.

He peeled the shirt over his head and let it fall.

He was broad and pale, with a scar along his ribs and a scatter of freckles across his shoulders.

I put my palm flat on his chest and felt him breathing.

"You're beautiful," I said, surprised into saying it.

"I'm a farmer with a title."

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