“You’re in fine form today, Anne.”
Anne smiled at Edward as she took up the powder horn and began to reload her flintlock pistol. They were just outside of town at the home of Anne’s friend, Mrs. Wriothesley, who served as the Ladies’ Society’s treasurer. Mrs. Wriothesley had issued an open invitation for Anne and her brothers to make use of their shooting range, and they had gotten into the habit of practicing together each Wednesday morning.
“Thank you,” Anne replied.
“Not bad,” Harrington allowed.
“Not bad?” Edward said. “She’s hit every target. What more would you have her do?”
“Sure, she’s hit every target,” Harrington agreed. “But the real test is not whether you can hit a painted bull’s-eye. The real test is whether you can make the shot when everything is on the line.”
Anne groaned. “Not this again.”
“Yes,” Harrington said. “This. Again.”
“Do we have to do it this week?” Anne asked as she rammed the ball into place, perhaps a bit more forcefully than was strictly necessary.
“We will do it this week, and the week after, and the week after that, until you get it,” Harrington replied.
“I wish Michael were here,” she grumbled.
“Believe me, so does Michael,” Harrington returned. “Although it wouldn’t help you get out of my exercise, because he would agree with me.”
“You think so, do you?”
“I do. If Morsley didn’t know that being able to make a shot under pressure can mean the difference between life and death before, he certainly found out after getting charged by that bear.” Harrington gave a low whistle. “I’m almost jealous it wasn’t me. What a chance to test yourself!”
Anne snapped the ramrod back into place, even more annoyed because her brothers had heard this story while she had not. For all that Michael was supposed to be her best friend, it was Edward and Harrington who’d gotten to spend half the night catching up with him, while she was stuck dancing with Augustus Mapplethorpe, whose breath smelled of pickled cod.
“Go on, then,” Harrington said.
Deep down she knew her brother had the right of it. Harrington was by far the best shot in the family. Truth be told, Harrington was one of the finest shots in all of England, and Anne was grateful that he took the time to help her.
Usually.
“Fine,” she said with a sigh, taking up her position before the target.
She settled into her shooting stance, and Harrington came to stand just behind her. “Close your eyes,” he said. “Now, picture it—you’re at your lodging house. And that new family, the one you were telling us about—where the husband used to beat his wife, and she only left him after he started hitting her daughter?”
“The Hoves,” Anne said.
“The Hoves,” Harrington said. “Imagine yourself there in the dining hall for the midday meal when who should show up but Mr. Hove. He’s discovered where his wife and children have gone, and he’s not the least bit happy about it.”
Anne swallowed. The scenario was all too plausible.
“He has a knife,” Harrington continued, “and he grabs his wife by the hair and jerks her to her feet. He presses the knife to her throat. You are just across the room with your pistol. You have a clean shot. You’re the only one who can save her.”
“My footmen—” Anne began.
“He would slit her throat before they could take two steps. You are the only one who can save her.”
Anne’s heart raced, and her hands were shaking.
“Picture her standing there, the knife at her throat,” Harrington said relentlessly. “Picture the fear in her eyes, the desperation. Picture her looking at her children for what she believes will be the last time. Picture it. And take the shot!”
Anne opened her eyes. She checked her stance. She focused on the target...
... and she watched her shot fly a good foot and a half outside, and too high to boot.
She had missed.
As she always did.
Her shoulders sagged.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Edward said.
“Be hard on yourself,” Harrington said. “You do hard work, in hard neighborhoods, amongst hard men. You cannot afford to do otherwise.”
Anne sighed. “I understand. “
“I would not hold you to such a high standard,” Harrington continued, “if I wasn’t confident you could do it. Your form is perfect, Anne. You’ve always been an excellent shot. But something’s happened in the last few years. You don’t believe in yourself. If you can just—”
“What time is it?” Anne asked.
Edward consulted his pocket watch. “Half eleven.”
“I must get back,” Anne said.
They packed their weapons away and started toward the stables.
“You must be glad to have Morsley back,” Edward said.
“Of course,” Anne replied. “His return was a wonderful surprise.”
“And his timing is… fortuitous,” Edward added.
Anne peered up at him, brow furrowed. “Fortuitous? How so?”
“It’s just that, well, you’re looking for a husband, and he is unwed,” Edward said. “You two get on so well together. Have you never considered that you might...”
Anne laughed. “Oh, no! That is to say, certainly Michael has every quality I would seek in a husband.” She looked down. “But I know he doesn’t think of me in that way.”
She caught Edward and Harrington exchanging a look. Edward cleared his throat. “What makes you say that?”
“Oh,” Anne said, feeling heat rising to her cheeks, “it’s nothing.”
There were a few beats of silence, then Harrington said, “It doesn’t look like nothing.”
Anne waved him off. “Just something he once said.”
“And that would be?” Edward pressed.
Anne cringed. How could she describe that horrifically awkward encounter? She had never told anyone about it. But it appeared her brothers were not about to let it go. “It was the last day of summer,” she began haltingly. “I remember you were heading off to Oxford, Harrington, so Michael and I would have been fifteen. We were having a picnic over by Cranfield Castle, and… um... my bonnet started to blow away, and we both reached for it, and we somehow ended up in an... an awkward position.”
The last part was a lie, but she could hardly tell them the truth—that she and Michael had been teasing each other, and for reasons Anne still could not understand to this day, she had reached out and started tickling him. And then he had started tickling her back, and they had started rolling around on the picnic blanket and somehow Michael had wound up lying on top of her.
No, clearly she couldn’t tell her brothers that.
They reached the stables. A groom was already leading Anne’s mare out, so she headed toward the mounting block.
Edward’s brow was wrinkled. “So, you both reached for your bonnet. Did you bump heads or—”
“Yes!” Anne lied.
“And what happened next?” Edward asked.
It felt like her cheeks were on fire. “He apologized and made sure I understood that he had not meant for it to happen. That he was not interested in me in that way. And that he never would be,” she added in a small voice.
She swallowed thickly, recalling her mortification. Looking back, she could not fathom what had possessed her to touch him in such an inappropriate manner. Of course, having grown up together, Anne had felt comfortable with Michael in a way she could never have imagined being with another boy. How many times had they boosted each other over a fence, or pulled each other into a tree? Gracious, after Michael’s mother died when they were nine, he’d spent hours just lying there with his head in her lap. They had even tickled each other before, but it had been altogether different when they were both seven. At fifteen, she should’ve known better.
But it was the strangest thing—although tickling him was entirely out of character for her, at the time it had felt so... natural. Even when they started rolling around, and he wound up on top of her, she... hadn’t minded.
Be honest, Anne. You thought he was going to kiss you.
She’d even closed her eyes.
But instead of kissing her, Michael had scrambled off her. She could still picture him sitting on the blanket, knees to his chest, his back to her.
That was when he said it.
“I’m so sorry, Anne.”
She pushed herself up to sitting. “It’s all right, Michael.”
“I did not mean for that to happen,” he continued, still refusing to look at her.
“I—I see.” She started to redo her braid, which had come undone in their tussle.
“I hope you know that I would never—”
She ducked her head. She could have sworn he was at least thinking about kissing her. “N—never?”
He slashed his hand for emphasis. “Absolutely never.”
“Oh.” Anne was glad he was facing the other way because her face felt like it might crumple.
“Not in a million years—”
Now she was just annoyed. “Thank you, Michael! I understand. There is no need to keep explaining.”
He lumbered to his feet. “Excuse me,” he said, stumbling into a nearby copse of trees.
He returned five minutes later, looking sheepish. Anne found it difficult to meet his eyes. He sat beside her on the blanket.
“Anne, I—I’m so sorry.”
“You mentioned that,” she muttered.
“You’re not mad at me, are you?”
She sighed. She was embarrassed, and, if she was being honest, disappointed.
It was normal for a girl to feel excited about receiving her first kiss. That was probably all it was.
But it wasn’t Michael’s fault if he didn’t want to kiss her.
She looked up at him and did her best to smile. “No, Michael. I’m not mad at you.”
“Good.” She could still recall his expression in the split second before he dropped his gaze to the blanket. His eyes, emerald-bright in the afternoon sun, held anxiety, relief, and… something else she had never been able to pinpoint. He added in a rush, “Because I hope you know that you mean everything to me.”
She did know that.
They were best friends, after all.
“I do,” she said. “And you mean everything to me, too.”
They packed up the picnic, and Michael escorted Anne back home.
They never spoke of it again.
With time, Anne had come to see that Michael was right—they were friends. Nothing more than that. That moment on the blanket had been nothing but a passing midsummer madness. It didn’t matter that Michael felt nothing for her beyond friendship, because that was precisely what she felt for him, too.
Of course it was.
When Michael returned for Christmas break, it had occurred to someone that they were no longer eight years old, and that Anne needed to be chaperoned. And so that horrible picnic was the last time they’d been alone together.
Which was fine. She certainly wasn’t planning on tickling him again.
Anne blinked. Edward was speaking. “He said that?”
“He did,” Anne said.
Edward held Anne’s mare while she mounted, then they started toward the main road. “Did you ever consider,” Edward said, “that he might have said something reflexively to diffuse an awkward situation, but perhaps he did not mean it?”
Anne glanced over her shoulder at her brother. Why wouldn’t he let it go? “No. He was clear about it. Inescapably so.”
“I understand,” Edward said. “But sometimes a man will, uh, prevaricate. Perhaps he didn’t know what to say and he…”
Anne turned in the saddle to look at him. “Am I truly having this conversation with my brothers?”
“It’s a perfectly reasonable thing to ask,” Edward said. He glared at Harrington. “Help me out, will you?”
“Oh, no. You’re doing so well.” Harrington chortled.
They had reached the turnpike. The day was beautiful, with a crisp blue sky dusted with puffy white clouds. Anne had always loved to ride, although she found so few chances to do so these days. And her brothers were the best company.
Usually.
“I think,” Edward said, “you should at least consider—"
Anne had had enough. “If you want to continue this conversation, you’ll have to catch me first. And fortunately for me, neither of you can do that.”
As she urged her mare into a gallop, she could hear her brothers behind her, laughing as they gave chase.