She took a deep breath. “If you say so.”
They crossed a hopfield, lined with neat rows of poles and ambitious green tendrils just starting to climb them. Minerva could see the cottage in the distance. Several men were scaling ladders and carting up bundles of fresh, golden longstraw to layer on the roof. They looked like ants swarming over a dish heaped with yellow custard.
“Here.” Colin removed his cravat and wound it around the pistol before shoving both into his coat pocket. Then he removed the coat altogether and handed it to her. “Look after this.”
With that, he joined the men at their labor. Minerva found herself quickly drafted into the women’s portion, sorting and bundling the straw as it was forked from the wagon. She supposed if she could be a convincing missionary or assassin, she ought to be able to do this. After all, she was used to working long hours with her rock hammer.
An hour later, her back was aching and her exposed forearms had acquired a thousand tiny abrasions. Her head felt swollen with the thick, sweet scent of the straw. She wasn’t particularly good at the work, and she could sense that she was coasting by on the other women’s forbearance. But she wouldn’t give up.
She stood tall for a minute to stretch her back. Shading her eyes with one hand, she scanned for Colin among the men. There he was, near the top of the roof, fearlessly straddling two rafters. Without a moment’s hesitation or a hint of imbalance, he walked across ten feet of narrow, sloping beam to accept a fresh bundle of straw. Of course, he’d taken to this easily—the same way he took to everything.
She watched him for a few minutes. Placing the straw in a thick layer, then pinning it down with twists of split hazel. He lifted a flat-head tool that looked something between a currycomb and a mallet. With swift, strong arcs of his arm, he pounded the thatch into place. He paused to wipe his brow and toss a comment to his fellow laborers. From the way they all laughed, she supposed it must have been a good joke.
Minerva found herself caught between admiration and envy. She seemed doomed to move through life feeling the perpetual outsider, whereas Colin could fit in anywhere. But for the first time, she saw his charm in a different light. Not as lubricant, of either a social or sexual variety, but simply as an expression of his true self.
He caught sight of her and lifted a hand in greeting. “Tallyho!”
She couldn’t help but smile and shake her head, whispering, “You’re cracked.”
Cracked indeed.
Cracked open, more like. Come out of his shell.
How funny. He was forever chiding Minerva, telling her to emerge from her protective cage. But didn’t everyone have a shell? Hard, external armor protecting the soft, vulnerable creature beneath?
Perhaps, she thought, people were more like ammonites than one would suppose. Perhaps they too built shells on a consistent, unchanging factor—some quality or circumstance established in their youth. Each chamber in the shell just an enlargement of the previous. Growing year after year, until they spiraled around and locked themselves in place.
Colin’s shell had been formed by tragedy. His parents’ death had defined the shape of that first protective chamber. He’d owned it, grown to fill the shape of it, enlarged it with room after mournful, troubled room. But what if the person inside those many hollow, echoing chambers wasn’t a tragedy at all? Just a man who genuinely enjoyed life and loved people, but happened to have two dead parents and a stubborn case of insomnia?
And who was she, beneath all her layers? A bookish, awkward girl who couldn’t be bothered to care for anything but fossils and rocks? Or a bold, adventurous woman who’d risked everything—not on the hopes of achieving professional acclaim, but on the slim chance of love. Of finding that one person who could understand her, appreciate her, and let her understand and appreciate him.
She couldn’t lie. In Spindle Cove, she’d entertained vain fancies that Sir Alisdair Kent might be that man. But now, looking back, she had to own another difficult truth. Whenever she’d imagined herself with Sir Alisdair—gazing deep into eyes that reflected acceptance, desire, affection, and trust—those eyes had looked a great deal like Bristol diamonds. And they were anchored by a strong jaw and single, reluctant dimple.
She was so confused. In the immediate future, she wanted—needed—to share Francine’s footprint with the scientific community. Beyond that, Minerva didn’t know what she wanted anymore. And even if she could discern what future she wanted . . .
How would she bear it if that future didn’t want her?