“Why ever not?” she demanded.
“I don’t wish to,” he answered with a roll of his shoulders.
“You’re being stubborn, Whit. I don’t think that’s allowed under the terms of our agreement.”
“Of course it is. You’re just not allowed to criticize me for it.”
“That”—is probably true, she conceded, but only to herself—“is ridiculous,” was what she said to him.
“That might also be the case, but again, you’re not allowed to mention it.” He transferred the reins to one hand and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his blue eyes dancing. “In fact, now that I think of it, I can say or do near to anything now—as long as it’s not insulting to you—and you can’t disparage me in any way.”
“There’s always later.”
“Yes, but I’m a man who lives for the present.”
“You’re a braggart is what you are—and I mean that in the nicest way possible,” she was quick to assure him.
“I don’t think it is possible to call someone a ‘braggart’ without being insulting,” he scoffed.
“Of course it is. I’ve my own—and entirely uninsulting—definition for the word.”
He blinked at her. “That’s…”
“Yes? Go on, Whit,” she prompted with a silly grin. “Is it ridiculous? Absurd? Is it—”
“I’m at a loss for words,” he admitted with a laugh. “And it’s for the best, as it seems we’ve arrived.”
And so they had. Mirabelle craned her neck to see through the small line of trees that separated the road from the field beyond. The lake path they’d taken the day before may have been her favorite place to walk, but there wasn’t a spot on the Haldon grounds more ideally suited for a picnic. It had a wonderful feeling of seclusion about it, with the road hidden from view and the forest closing in on three other sides.
The occasional oak and maple had been allowed to thrive in the midst of the green and even now servants were spreading out blankets and depositing baskets of food under the shading branches.
The first guests were beginning to arrive, mostly the very young who had no doubt grown impatient with the adults’ leisurely pace and scampered ahead, but a few others were there as well—Kate and Evie among them.
“We abandoned poor Sophie to the wolves,” Evie informed them as Mirabelle and Whit made their way into the field. “But Alex wouldn’t let her walk any faster, and I couldn’t stand another second of Miss Willory’s tittering.”
“Do you know,” Kate said as they chose a blanket and sat, “that before I met her, I hadn’t known a person outside of a book could titter?”
“It’s a rare skill,” Mirabelle replied. “With any luck, we’ll never meet another who’s acquired it.”
Luck, as it happened, was on their side that morning. By the time Miss Willory arrived, the spaces on their two blankets had been filled. Perhaps not with their favorite guests, as the pompous Mrs. Jarles and silly Miss Sullivan numbered among them—the latter of whom received a very nasty look from the isolated Miss Willory—but it was a more pleasant group than might have been expected. Alex and Sophie failed to arrive in time to claim a space, but Miss Heins had.
The topic on everyone’s mind, of course, was Mirabelle’s unfortunate—and, in her opinion, embarrassing—tumble down the hill and subsequent—and even more embarrassing—rescue.
“It’s not like you to pay so little attention,” Kate commented. “It’s really more something I would do.”
“Perhaps the hermit McAlistair was hiding behind a tree and snuck up behind to give you a push,” Miss Sullivan breathed. “I shall be terrified to go into the woods alone again.”
Mirabelle couldn’t imagine the pampered Miss Sullivan ever having had the urge, or the occasion, to go into the woods alone, but knew better than to voice that opinion out loud.
“McAlistair is no threat to you,” Whit assured the group. “And as he hasn’t seen fit to show himself to guests for the past eight years, I can’t imagine why he would suddenly choose to do so now.”
“McAlistair isn’t even real,” Kate said with an eye roll. “Whit made him up years ago with the express purpose of frightening three poor unsuspecting little girls.”
Whit snorted at the image. “The two of you were already out of the nursery,” he pointed out to Mirabelle and Evie. “And you—” he continued, looking at Kate, “—may have been a little girl, but you were neither poor nor unsuspecting. You’ve refused to believe it from the start.”
“I was rather clever for my age,” Kate conceded.
“If Whit had wanted to f…frighten us,” Evie said softly, her discomfort with being the center of attention manifesting in a stammer, “it seems to me he’d have made McAlistair more…well, frightening.”
“Never say you believe in such rubbish, Miss Cole,” Mrs. Jarles admonished.