Page 46 of Across Time

I sigh heavily. Even though I can’t begin to imagine how this infatuation could turn out to be a good thing, I can’t bring myself to ruin it for her. “She’s busy.”

He shrugs. “It’s just Father Edouard. And we need to leave.”

He steps forward and shakes the priest’s hand, and then Father Edouard extends a hand to me. You must be Amelie, he says in French. Marie speaks of you often.

“Not often enough to tell you she only speaks English,” says Henri, and Father Edouard laughs.

“Apologies,” he says. “I forgot. But as Marie will tell you, I enjoy getting a chance to speak something other than French.” His English is as perfect as Henri’s, not even a hint of an accent.

“Are you British?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Just raised by a British mother. And Marie says you’re from Pennsylvania—I studied in Massachusetts for a while. That’s close, I believe?”

I smile. “It depends on your definition of close. Were you in—”

“I’m sorry,” Henri interrupts, “but I do need to get home. I think I may have left the paddock gate unlocked.”

Marie’s head tips, as confused as I am by his behavior. He’s never once left that gate unlocked, and the horses are too docile to run even if he had. “I need to help with the children’s classes,” she says. “I’ll walk home later.”

Henri practically pushes me out the door, his hand heavy on my back even as we reach the stairs.

“Stop pushing me!” I hiss. “You’re going to make me fall!”

His hand leaves my back, but he remains unhappy, some kind of weight on his shoulders that wasn’t there when we arrived. He’s silent on the walk to the car, his mind somewhere else.

He opens the door without even looking at me, grabs my crutches in the same manner.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I demand once he’s in the car.

His jaw flexes and he stares straight ahead. “I told you I was in a hurry to get home.”

“And what was that about anyway?” I ask. “You never leave the gate open.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, a touch of acid in his tone. “If it’s any consolation, you’ll apparently have plenty of time to throw yourself at the men in town during the village dance.”

“Throw myself? I didn’t say two words to anyone but you!” I cry. “You were the one…” making fun of me in French. “Flirting,” I finish.

His nostrils flare. "I saw the way you smiled at him. Don't deny it."

"The priest?" I ask. "You are insane. I was being polite.”

"You were more than merely polite, but I was talking about André," corrects Henri. "Is it your goal to win over a rich man for every decade? I suppose that’s one way to make sure you have a place to stay during your travels.”

I press my palm to my forehead. “Are you serious right now? I wasn’t flirting and if I was going to marry someone in another time, it sure as hell wouldn’t be this one!”

He ignores me. “You are not reading to Madame Perot again. I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

I have no desire to read to Madame Perot, obviously, but he is not going to be the one who decides that for me. “Sorry, Henri,” I reply crisply, “but where I'm from women aren't property that gets commanded around."

"No?" he asks. "Then why is it your boyfriend believes you should drop out of college and give up your dreams to move with him?"

"That's different," I reply. "He's not forbidding me to do anything and he's not commanding me either."

"No, he’s just acting like your goals and desires are not equal to his own,” Henri replies. “While I’m thinking about your safety.”

“Well, I’m thinking about the fact that I’m an adult and can make my own decisions,” I retort. “And reading to Madame, or spending time with André, are both decisions I don’t need your help with.”

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