He laughed as well. “I am glad you enjoyed it. More wine?” He held out the bottle.
“I should not. I will have to stumble home somehow, and I still have my shopping to do.”
He filled my glass. “I will walk you home. I will walk you anywhere you need to go. I will help you with your shopping, so you can afford one more glass. Please—it is sweet, like you.”
His face was so handsome, his voice mellifluous, and the wine was the sweetest I had ever tasted. “Maybe half a glass.”
But I did not protest when he filled the sparkling goblet all the way.
The rest of the afternoon was a happy blur. I lay upon the blanket with my head in Karl’s lap, which may have been improper, but I felt slightly ill—and no one saw us anyway. As the sun sank lower in the sky, Karl helped me with my shopping and carried my groceries home. We paused a little farther from my house than we had the week before. My head was clearing a bit, but my stomach was empty, and I wished I had eaten more.
Above the rushing water, Karl said, “Will it really be a week before I can see you again?”
I sighed. I looked into his blue eyes, and my heart just broke. Why must I be a poor miller’s daughter and not a rich girl with nothing to do but flirt? I placed one hand upon his arm. Then, boldly, I placed the other one there too.
“I know. It will be so long.”
I looked up, willing him to come closer.
He did, placing both hands upon my elbows and drawing me near.
And, in that moment, I knew he was going to kiss me, and I was powerless to prevent it, powerless from the wine, but also from the wanting. I had not the will to stop him. I needed to feel his lips upon mine, his body crushed against me. I stood on tiptoe, smelling the wine on his breath, hearing the birds above me, the dove’s mournful call, the chatter of the river, then only our breathing as he pulled me toward him and his tongue explored mine.
It seemed an eternity, and perhaps it was. Perhaps everything in my life would be measured as either before or after that kiss. It changed everything. I was no longer some dull miller’s daughter, destined to bear children and milk cows. I was the girl Karl had chosen, and even as I went about my boring chores and read by candlelight, I would know that. I would remember it.
Finally, we broke apart, and he said, “Do you have to go?”
“I . . . I think so.” The words were a gasp, my last breath.
Karl picked up my packages and handed them to me. “Same time next week?”
I nodded. “And same place.”
He started to turn away. “We will pick up where we left off.”
“I will bring the picnic.”
He smiled. “And I will bring the wine.”
Then he was gone.
I spent the week baking, rolls, apfel strudel with a crust light as air, and so many fancy cookies. I was a good baker and wanted to show off. Father ate well that week for, of course, I had to make duplicates of each item, so he would not know I was meeting an admirer. I did not know why I thought my father would disapprove of my meeting Karl. Yet I knew he would. Perhaps it was because of the joy I took in the meetings. I knew I would marry someday, but I would be expected to marry someone of my father’s choosing, someone with a proper trade like a farrier or a wheelwright. Or perhaps I would simply stay here and take care of my father as he aged, then move in with one of my sisters, an old maid. That was not what I wanted, not anymore.
I knew, also, that Father would see that Karl was a rich man’s son. He would question his interest in me.
I questioned it myself. I saw the question in others’ eyes when we met the following week at the market. I saw it in the eyes of the bookseller’s assistant, who did not ask about my reading, but rather fake-swept another part of the stall when I arrived. Karl wore a coat and waistcoat of deep-blue brocade, trimmed in gold braid, far too fine for a girl like me. Everyone could see that.
But when Karl looked at me, his eyes widened then narrowed, as if he had been exposed to too much sun. He rushed toward me, whispering, “My ladybird, it has been torture without you. A week might be a lifetime!”
I felt the same, but I was surprised that he did, and my cheeks spread into a smile so wide it almost hurt. “Shall we go?”
“We shall, my mouse.” He offered his arm. I took it, and we walked—nay, promenaded—between the shelves of books. I thought I heard the young assistant cluck his tongue as we passed. Perhaps he was envious of the love we shared. Who would not be, after all? Especially one as homely as him?