Page 26 of Bane Bloom

His eyes came back to my face. “Is that what you’re here for, then? Diversion?”

This rankled, and my annoyance was plain as I replied, “I very much doubt the apothecaries will hold one row on the lake against me.”

He let out a sigh that spoke volumes. “Come on, then.”

I picked my way over to the rowboat, its stern resting on the beach while its bow floated in the water.

“Do you know boats, Miss Gray?”

“We live on the Thames,” I replied. “I’ve ridden in wherries.” A very few times, many years ago, before new bridges and ferries drove the wherrymen out of business.

“Wherries,” he grumbled. His disdain was puzzling, as this boat wasn’t all that different from a wherry. Perhaps it was just that hiring someone to row you around was citified.

Misgivings about this venture began to assert themselves when he reached a hand out to me and said, “Climb in.”

Wherry boats had a protruding bow section—which would be braced by a man standing in the water—that you could step onto from a landing. Thomas was no wherryman, and there was no landing. I grasped his hand, tugged my skirt up with the other hand, and lifted one foot over the side. As I shifted my weight, the front of the boat wobbled, and I gripped his hand harder.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Go on and sit in the stern.”

I lifted the other foot in, still gripping his hand, and sank down on the bench as the boat continued to wobble. Sweat dampened my forehead.

He handed me the oars, and I clutched them awkwardly as he stepped us out farther.

“Now, set those down and hold on to the sides while I get in,” he said. “And lean to your right.”

Eyebrows lifting, I said, “Won’t it tip?”

“No,” he said with a slow shake of his head, like he was talking to a child, “not unless your weight shifts suddenly.”

I swallowed and gripped the sides. “I’ve never learned to swim.”

“All the more reason, then.”

I studied him a moment, and though he looked as put out as ever, I strongly suspected he was trying not to smile. I was too anxious to take offense. In fact, I was almost certain this had been a huge mistake.

Still holding on tight, I leaned as he lifted a leg and somehow, despite his Viking heft, maneuvered himself expertly onto the bench in the center of the boat—facing me, his back to the bow.

He reached for the oars and placed them in the locks. Squeezing the grips, he dug the paddles hard into the water, and we glided smoothly away from the beach.

No going back now.

The paddles moved silkily, without splashing. I might not have known much about boats, but I did understand that this graceful movement was due to the rower’s practiced hand. And I found it nearly impossible to look away. The flexing of his shoulders, chest, and arms, with the rhythmic push and pull . . . it was so mesmerizing I’d stopped breathing.

Finally I did look away, because even with the perpetual narrowing of his eyes, I knew he wouldn’t miss me staring at him.

As I turned my attention to the scenery now, my body loosened and my breaths lengthened with every stroke of the oars. Even if my work here never got me further down the path to some sustainable career, I would always be grateful for this chance to experience the dramatic beauty of this country. How I wished Papa could see it. Landscapes were his first love, and what he always painted when he wasn’t working on commissioned portraits. Either scenes on the riverfront, or in the countryside around Battersea. He’d always lived within a mile of the place he was born, and I was sure he’d never seen anything like this.

“Are you diverted, Miss Gray?” Thomas said dryly, clearly baiting me.

But I answered honestly anyway. “Quite. It’s very beautiful here. Thank you for letting me come.”

In the sunlight, the lake surface reflected the greens of the surrounding hills and trees. I could see the paddles as they moved through the clear water, but I could not see to the bottom.

“How deep is this lake?” I asked, then felt my stomach plunge as I recalled the possibility that Mr. Carroll might be resting somewhere below.

“None but the fish really know, do they? Maybe a hundred feet. Crummock Water is deeper.”

I shivered, murmuring, “Heavens, there might be anything down there.”