McAlistair grunted by way of answer. It wasn’t until he was halfway up the stairs and heard Evie close her door that he realized Mr. Hunter was right. Evie was content with the apologies offered. If not, her door would have shut not with the soft click he heard, but with a resounding bang. He remembered well the slam he had earned that first day at Haldon. It had echoed through half the house.
No pretty speech required of him, then. He reached her door and paused, torn between jumping at the reprieve her forgiving nature had already granted, and forgoing it in favor of giving her the apology she deserved…preferably one as eloquent as Mr. Hunter’s.
In the end, he turned away without knocking. He had no business troubling her with his conscience and even less trying to compete with Mr. Hunter.
Evie wasn’t his to fight for. And if it came down to a war of words, he couldn’t hope to best Mr. Hunter. The man had a gilded tongue. The bastard.
Twenty-two
For the first time in her life, Evie greeted the early morning sun with a smile. The tension of the previous evening was forgotten in her enthusiasm for the adventure to come. Today she was going sailing.
She washed and dressed with more speed than she would have imagined possible before nine in the morning (particularly without help), and left her bedroom with a spring in her step, intending to pound on every door in the house until she found McAlistair.
As it happened, not so much as a single rap was required. McAlistair stepped out from the room across the hall just as she was closing her door. Before she’d had a chance to so much as open her mouth, Mr. Hunter emerged from the room to her left—at the exact same time Mrs. Summers exited the room on her right.
She looked from one to the next to the other. She’d been neatly surrounded. “Should I surrender?”
“Surrender what, dear?”
Because there was nothing she could do about the silliness and because it didn’t really concern her—except in that it was, in fact, tremendously silly—she shook her head, stifled a laugh, and reached up to plant a kiss on Mrs. Summers’ cheek.
Then she badgered McAlistair into leaving the house with her before he, or anyone else, could remember he’d been appointed the new cook.
In Evie’s admittedly layman’s opinion, it was a perfect day for sailing. The sun was out, the sea appeared calm, and a lovely breeze was coming off the water.
Rather than heading to the dock farther down the shore, McAlistair took her to a very small boat sitting on the sandy beach. It was covered by a canvas tarp strapped down with rope, but a few inches of wood showed at the bottom. Wood, Evie couldn’t help noticing, that was weathered, worn, scraped, and gouged.
McAlistair briefly but thoroughly scanned the shoreline and patch of woods at the side of the lawn—just as he had before they’d left the back of the house—and then crouched to untie the rope.
Confused, she frowned at him. “What are you doing?”
He glanced up. “I thought you wanted to go out on Mr. Hunter’s boat.”
“I did. I do. That hardly explains what you’re doing with—”
She broke off as he pulled back the tarp to reveal what one might consider—if one wasn’t at all finicky about the subject—a bow and stern—separated by no more than eight feet—two small benches, a pair of oars, and very little else.
“That’s Mr. Hunter’s boat?”
McAlistair pulled out the oars and handed them to her to hold. “One of them.”
“But it hasn’t any sails.” She wasn’t entirely certain it had a bottom.
“Never said I’d take you sailing. Said I’d take you on a boat.”
“Yes, but that’s a rowboat. I thought—”
“The larger boats take a crew.”
“Oh.” In all fairness, she couldn’t fault him for that, and really, common sense should have told her as much. But it was rather disappointing. She’d been looking forward to the chance to try out her sea legs. By the looks of the tiny boat before them, that particular experiment would have to wait. Just the simple act of standing up would likely capsize them.
She noticed several patches in the wood. “Is it seaworthy?”
He looped the loose rope and tossed it aside. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
“That’s not at all reassuring.”
“Thinking of changing your mind? We could go back inside, play cards or—”
“No.” Good heavens, no. She detested cards. “I’m sure it’s perfectly safe. Probably. Why else would Mr. Hunter keep it?”
McAlistair shrugged, which again did very little to reassure her.
She tapped her toes against the bottom. “It looks as if it might leak.”
Actually, it rather looked as if it might take on gallons of water at a time, but she preferred the appearance of caution over cowardice. “Should we take something along just in case it does take on water? A pail perhaps?” Or a lifeboat?
“We’ll be fine.” He gathered up the tarp and set it with the rope. “And it’s she, not it.”
She felt her brows rise. “You can’t be serious.”
“All boats are she.”
“No matter how small?” And pathetic?
“Yes.”
She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “So, if it floats—and to be honest, I have my doubts where this boat is concerned—one refers to the vessel as a female.”