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“There’s no controlling the weather,” said Muriel. She’d raked her hair into a messy braid and somehow exuded command. Now that Kit considered it, she had been commanding the Mutton Wheelers for much of the day. The experience seemed to have shifted the balance of power. Butterfield and Kemble were both nodding along to what she said.

“I control myself.” Deighton dropped his hands to the table and gripped the edge. “And my club. We will complete the run tomorrow, even if there’s a tempest.”

“Tomorrow, then.” Muriel raised her glass of ale.

Deighton snarled. “You should take the train to St. Ives. We’re going to be riding excessive miles, through excessive mud. And this time, I won’t turn back for you.”

“Understood.” Muriel sipped. “I’ll take my chances.”

“I’d put my money on Mrs. Pendrake,” said Butterfield, with an admiring shake of his head. “When I saw her go charging down that cliff…”

“What are you saying?” Kemble started. “You can’t put your money on her. That means putting your money against us.”

“Does it have to mean that?” Butterfield smoothed his mustache. “It’s not the end of the world if she completes the run. The Rover is a well-designed machine. We wouldn’t be the only club switching over.”

Kemble was gawking. “We’d have to let women in the club.”

Butterfield shrugged. “Frankly, I don’t see the problem.”

“In the club means also in the clubhouse. It’s squalid!” Kemble paused. “I suppose the women might make it less squalid. They could tidy. Maybe even embroider our emblem on chair covers.” He seemed to be warming to the idea.

“We could call them the Wheelettes.” Egg perked up as well. “Or the Muttonettes.”

Kit wondered if Deighton was about to flip the table. His knuckles were white and veins bulged in his forehead.

But at that moment, the bar flooded—not with water—with people, more and more, all disheveled, with slightly dazed expressions. The innkeeper’s wife answered Deighton’s questions as she stacked the emptied plates, and overheard snatches of conversation supplied the rest. These weary souls were marooned rail passengers. Sections of the line connecting Bodmin with Wadebridge were underwater, and a tree had come down and blocked the train bound for Truro. Some of the passengers had waited hours for seats in the plodding, insufficient three-horse omnibus that had started from Bodmin to collect them. Others had trudged through fields and along roads thick with mud.

Chairs were in high demand, so Kit, Muriel, and the wheelmen rose. Rooms were going to be in high demand as well. They’d already taken theirs, but as the wheelmen trooped upstairs, Muriel hung back with a significant look.

“We should share,” she whispered. “For the common good.” She flagged down the innkeeper’s wife as she bustled by.

“I think there was a mistake.” Muriel smiled at her, but her eyes slid back to Kit. “My husband and I only need one room.”

My husband and I…

That phrase on Muriel’s lips instantly conjured all the warm fantasies he usually tried to fight. He and Muriel traveling the world together, or even better, staying at home, their home, mostly windows to let in light for all the plants and to facilitate his painting. Late nights. Late, lazy mornings.

He gave his head a rueful shake, dispelling the visions.

Even so…My husband and I. It lingered like a sweet taste.

He let it. There was only so much sweetness a man could resist.

27

The long day had strained Muriel beyond her limit. She stripped off her filthy gown, washed, changed, and crawled into the bed, eyelids sliding down with the weight of sandbags. Through her torpor, she was vaguely aware that Kit was padding around the dark room. She rolled onto her side and watched him through her lashes. He was tossing his necktie on a chair, crossing in front of the fire, backlit, face in shadow. Her lashes fluttered down. When she lifted them, he was standing at an angle to the fire, shirt gaping at the neck, golden light on his bare throat and collarbones. He looked honey-painted, and beautiful, and the air seemed to shimmer around him. He was watching her.

“I like…” Her whisper trailed off. She started awake and met his gaze. “Your eyes,” she finished.

“My brown eyes.” He teased her with a smile.

“They’re not brown.” She wiggled into her pillow. “They’re…eternity.”

“You’re asleep,” he observed. “I don’t think eternity is a color. If it was, I’d have bought the pigment.”

“They’re silvery, like stars, and stars are in the heavens, and the heavens are eternity.” Her lids drifted back down. “And when you look at me, I feel like I’m at the center of the galaxy.” She heard herself suddenly, realized with vague alarm that this speech was more incautious than her leap down the escarpment. “Don’t worry, though,” she murmured, maybe to herself, maybe to him. “I know it’s not personal. It’s just a property of your irises.”

She heard his soft tread and felt the mattress dip as he sat.