Cupids Read Free

special attention? I comfort myself with the notion that through some convoluted womanly path she might be demonstrating how fit she would be as a wife and mother. The thought corresponds with something I have read: that women shine not so much in the direction of the object of their affection but rather upon some other. This, I have also learned, is so her beauty can be fully appreciated by he who looks on, unfettered by the rigours of conversation. And, in the present situation, such an onlooker, of course, would be me. It is a pity, then, that she has chosen Bartholomew as her substitute. How could she know him to be so utterly different than he appears? Nevertheless, I draw some encouragement.
    â€œMr. Guy is a fine man and a true leader, Lady Eliza,” Bartholomew says, as though reading my thoughts and cutting deftly against expectation. I see through the blur in the corner of my eye Bartholomew’s arm rise as though about to descend upon my shoulders. Thankfully the young rogue thinks twice about this patronizing gesture and merely holds his hand suspended above me as though introducing this “fine man and true leader” to the world.
    â€œIndeed he is,” replies Eliza, “and lucky he is to have a lieutenant who possesses such a loquacious tongue.”
    Bartholomew dips his head in a mock-formal bow. Eliza’s eyes glisten, and my unease begins to stir again.
    â€œHave I told you, dear lady, of the sturdy trees we have found inland?” Against my will the voice that comes from me is like a gnarled walnut shell. It has no place amid the citrus freshness of Eliza’s presence. I don’t know why I should feel suddenly so aged — I have hardly ten years on her. Could it be that my mind and body have been formed by work, business, and care, and that Eliza is the gossamer of pure idleness? In any case, my subject is to demonstrate how, in time, hard work leads to opulence and finery. I must press home my suit. “We have begun the manufacture of our own casks in which to store all manner of provisions we have gathered from land and from sea. Our beasts are enclosed by stone walls and they thrive and multiply. Soon, I hope, our farms will yield as much grain as those in Devon and Wiltshire.”
    â€œReally, Mr. Guy,” she replies. There is no scorn in her tone, but her expression resembles one who has just sucked upon something bitter and is trying not to betray her displeasure. “You should tell dear Papa of this. He is so interested in the commercial side of the colony.”
    I feel as though I’ve been reproved, caught in the act of passing a grubby sovereign to her under the table. My blunder exposed, I scramble for a footing. “Your father is a shrewd investor and he has chosen his venture well. Newfoundland is certainly a place of magic.” I let the statement hang in the air. Her attention — serious, for once — is upon me. “We have indeed spied mermaids, dear lady Eliza, near enough to confirm the sighting, but too far to make an accurate report of the creature’s full dimensions.”
    The sparkle doesn’t exactly return, but something else does — a quiver in the lips, shyness about the eyes — something altogether more encouraging.
    â€œYou fascinate me, Mr. Guy, as does the bravery of your expedition, your being from England for more than a whole year.” Her voice is soft, almost sombre. Something moves below my belt, and for the moment, at least, Bartholomew is scarcely present. “But tell me, does a distant glimpse of a mermaid compensate you for being so long from home? Do you not miss civilization?”
    The rustle and clink of Mrs. Egret’s knitting is the only sound in the room. I feel something momentous, a great cloud bringing either ruin or glory, gathering over my shoulders. “There is a small part of Bristol, dear Lady, which I carry with me, a place for which I will endure the