Page 9 of My Favorite Mistake
Once they reached the drive to Daryngton Hall, Fanny turned to face him. She closed the yellow parasol with a sigh, then held it out to him with both hands. “You’ll be wanting this back.”
He reached out, but instead of taking it, he wrapped his big, warm, tanned hands over her own. His voice was soft. “No. No, I won’t.”
Fanny felt heat rising to her cheeks at his touch. She tried to withdraw her hands, but he held her fingers wrapped around the parasol’s shaft. “But you have to give it to the gal you fancy.”
“I already did.” His voice was so soft, Fanny almost thought she had imagined it. She peered into his eyes, and they held the same inscrutable expression he’d made on the beach. She still couldn’t quite read them, but she could find no trace of insincerity. There was an earnestness to them.
A vulnerability.
Vulnerability? FromNick Cradduck?
Fanny shook her head. She didn’t know what was going on, but something didn’t add up. “You already did? Are you saying thatI’mthe gal you fancy?”
He gazed at her steadily. “Yes.”
Suddenly her hands were shaking. She forced a laugh in an attempt to cover up how flustered she was. “Nice try, Nick Cradduck. You expect me to believe that you bought that parasol, which cost a full guinea, forme? A girl you’d never spoken a word to? Whose name you didn’t even know?”
He released her hands, stepping back quickly, still refusing to take the parasol. “I… I… “ He stared at the ground, running his fingers through his hair, and damned if his hands weren’t shaking, too.
He looked up at her, his eyes earnest. “When can I see you again?”
She crossed her arms. “After you’ve told me what the hell is going on, that’s when.”
“Tomorrow? I’ll be at Sunday services. Or I can come here. Just tell me when you can slip away, and—”
“I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I’m not interested, ya hear?” She shoved the parasol at him, trying to force him to take it, but he stepped back, clasping his hands behind his back to avoid her.
She could see that this was no use. “Nick, what is going on?” He said nothing, so she continued, “You can’t expect me to believe you bought something so expensive for a girl you didn’t even know. Is it some sort of trap? If I take this up to the house, is the magistrate going to come knocking on the door, accusing me of having stolen it?”
“No! Of course not! I bought it for you.”
“Well, I’m not going to meet with you tomorrow, or any other day, unless you explain yourself.”
He rubbed at one eye with the heel of his hand. She could see him wavering. “I’ll tell you everything. I promise I will. Just… don’t make me tell you today.”
She looked him up and down “And what’s wrong with today?”
He gave a laugh as dark and silky as his hair. “You’ll think I’m daft if I tell you today. You won’t believe me, and it’ll ruineverything.” He turned to face her, his eyes miserable. “If I tell you a month from now, after you’ve had enough time to get to know me, after you’ve seen that I’m genuine, it will be completely different. Then it won’t sound daft. It’ll sound romantic.”
By now Fanny’s heart was racing like the start of the Royal Ascot. Because it almost sounded as if the most handsome man she’d ever seen, the man who had made her laugh more in a day than she’d laughed in the last month, the man whose company she had enjoyed more than she could ever recall enjoying anyone’s company, was on the point of making a declaration. “Tell me. Tell me right now.”
Nick sighed, and when he looked up at her, his lips were pinched, his eyes wary. “My grandmother is Romani.” He paused, studying her reaction. Seeing that she didn’t give a fig, he continued, “Out of all of her grandchildren, she’s always said I’m the only one who has a touch of the sight.”
Fanny frowned. “The sight? What do you mean, the sight?”
“I just get a strong feeling about things sometimes. Mostly it’s to do with horses. It’s like…” He gestured, struggling to find the right words. “I look at a horse, and I know what’s bothering him. What he needs. What to do to calm him. It’s what makes me such a good trainer.” He swallowed. “But sometimes I get a feeling about… other things.”
“Other things? What sorts of other things?”
“I—” He broke off with a sound of frustration. “You’re not going to believe me. But… When I was eight years old, my mum was planning to go to Canterbury. She sometimes runs a stall selling oysters on market day in different towns. A local farmer, Mr. Browning, had offered her a ride in his cart. And I just… I had this feeling. I knew something terrible was going to happen. And I pitched a fit about it, to tell you the truth. Clinging to her leg, crying for her not to go. She was going to go anyways, but then my grandmother—I’ll never forget it, she was sitting in her rocking chair in the corner, knitting like she always does—she looked up and said, ‘You should listen to the boy. He has the sight.’ And then she went right back to her knitting. But that was what convinced my mum to stay home that day.”
Fanny was afraid to know the answer, but she had to ask. “What happened?”
“The cart overturned. A rabid dog came charging out of a hedge and startled the horses.” He swallowed. “Mr. Browning was thrown clean. He dislocated his shoulder, but he’s fine now. But he landed right next to this huge rock. I’m convinced—”
He broke off, so Fanny prompted, “You’re convinced?”
“If my mum had been sitting beside him, she’d have hit her head on that rock and died. I’m sure of it. Don’t ask me how I know it. I just do.”
