Page 135 of A Shore Thing

“You start one,” said Gwen.

He didn’t hesitate. He drew a woman’s head, her hair windblown into snaky locks. She had strong features and fine dark eyes, and he would have gazed into them if Nelly hadn’t clucked with her tongue.

He folded the paper and passed it on.

When the collective sketches were unfolded, on the platform in Truro, they all laughed at the impossible creatures, neither fish nor fowl, though many included appendages of both.

Kit claimed the drawing of Muriel for himself. She had butterfly wings and octopus arms. The mouth he’d sketched smiled up at him, as though she marveled, and approved.

31

It was evening before he went to Titcombe Hall, where a merry crowd had been milling on the lawn since midafternoon—the predicted arrival time for the touring cyclists.

“Oh my,” murmured Lucy, walking beside him up the drive. “I didn’t imagine quite so many people.”

“They’re staring at me,” said Nelly, putting her hand on his forearm.

“They’re staring at me.” Kit plastered a smile on his face.

“You’re both stupendously vain.” Lucy glanced over her shoulder at Gwen, trailing after them in a cobalt-blue gown with a Watteau back. “They’re staring at Gwen.”

“They’re staring at me,” repeated Kit. “Because I’m arriving on foot, instead of by bicycle.”

“With three beautiful women.” Nelly gave his arm a tug, steering them onto the grass. “Some of these chaps look impressed.”

Some of them did. Kit spotted O’Brien as the man bowed his head in deference, hair flopping on his forehead. He stood with his regular clique: Craik, Landon, and a few other of Svensson’s toadies. They were clustered around a statue of Venus on a plinth, guffawing as Craik painted her hair yellow and someone lewder pinked the tips of her breasts.

“I say, Griffith!” Landon jogged forward. “You’ve tripled the ladies and lost the bikes! Not a bad trade.”

“Bikes are on their way.” He didn’t stop walking. More and more heads were turning toward him.

The populous edges of the lawn had a fairground atmosphere. Children shrieked, and couples wandered the hedges. Young men were setting off rockets. Two boys—fishermen’s sons who often ran errands for the artists—had turned up on a pony, now cropping lilies in a flower bed.

Closer to the house, the gaiety was that of a garden party. Well-heeled guests gossiped in groups of basket chairs. Badminton was underway, and servants circulated with silver trays of lemonade and claret cup.

“Libations!” Nelly swerved from his side.

Lucy followed.

Kit took another step, looking after them, and ran smack into a wall of tweed.

Deighton Senior.

“Pathetic!” The man glared at him with vicious glee.

“Forfeit, did you?” Arthur Hawkings appeared, notepad in hand.

“Not at all.” Kit watched Hawkings’s pencil move. “I expect Mrs. Pendrake will pedal up the drive in less than an hour.”

“We expected the Mutton Wheelers hours ago.” The pencil kept scratching. “What happened?”

“Waterspout on the moor.” Kit found himself talking in note form, for the reporter’s benefit. “Fell behind schedule.”

“What happened to you?” Hawkings looked up. “Why didn’t you ride with them?”

Kit’s eyes locked with Deighton Senior’s.

Nothing to do with your son, he considered saying. He’s a better man than you are.