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A likable Griffith was far more dangerous.

“I brought specimens.” She addressed him briskly. “They’re dry, but they’ll take on their natural shape and color if you put them in a basin of water. You can hang them to dry again, on a line, and return them to the basin whenever you wish to resume painting. The olive seaweeds are durable, a good place to start.”

Griffith glanced at the hamper without seeming to see it, then back at her.

“I’ve never so much as flicked a cat’s whiskers,” he said. “Is there anything else I can clear up for you?”

She swallowed, a hundred inchoate questions muddying her thoughts. Why did he infatuate her? Was it a rakish trick, something he was doing to her, with full awareness? Something he did to all women? Was that what he’d meant by freedom? An open offer, the promise of pleasure with no strings attached? Was it worth it, the pleasure?

How did it feel?

“Nothing of which I’m aware,” she said, and stretched her lips into a smile.

The woodpecker was tapping again.

“Well.” She clapped her hands. “On to the cycling lesson.”

—

An hour later, they were all three behind the engine house, Griffith on his feet, James in a wrought iron chair, and Muriel splayed like a starfish beneath a two-wheeled death machine.

Cycling was not intuitive.

She let her head roll to the side and considered the cheerful patch of oxeye daisies she’d just missed crushing.

“Much better this time,” called Griffith. “Could you tell?”

James piped up. “I couldn’t. More sherry?”

Muriel began to drag herself out from underneath the Rover, a complicated negotiation. Her skirt was tangled in the front wheel’s spiderweb of spokes. As her legs slid free, she realized that her stocking had been torn by a pedal and that her flesh was gouged.

She sat up and waved Griffith away. She didn’t want him hoisting her again, like she was a sack of potatoes.

“This makes me think we should stick to horses.” James gestured to Griffith with his flask.

Griffith went to him and dropped into the adjacent chair, taking the flask and swigging deep.

“For one thing, horses can stand on their own,” continued James. “They’re also noble, intelligent creatures, beautiful to behold and capable of developing a rapport with their riders. Their legs do the work, instead of your own, which is another advantage.”

Muriel stood painfully, straightening her rumpled skirt. She heaved up the Rover. It certainly couldn’t stand on its own. And she couldn’t keep the blasted thing upright, not once her feet were in the air.

“Horses have to be fed and stabled.” Griffith passed back the flask and crossed his arms. He’d shucked his jacket and wore only his vest and shirtsleeves. Muriel’s eyes went straight for the swell of his biceps. A moment too late, she realized James had noticed the direction of her gaze. She snapped her eyes back to the Rover and concentrated on pushing it across the lawn.

“Bicycles were a novelty,” said Griffith. “A toy for sportsmen. But the technology is advancing rapidly, and the price is falling, and low-mounts like the Rover mean women can cycle too, and they will, more and more of them. They’ll cycle as fast as they please, wherever they please.”

Muriel tried not to scowl. So far, she could only wobble slowly forward and accelerate sidelong, when she pitched to the right or the left.

“I mentioned that some of my medical colleagues fear that cycling strains the heart.” James sounded sardonic. “It occurs to me the risk isn’t to the cyclists but rather the pedestrians unprepared for the sight of so many female ankles.”

Griffith snorted. “They’ll get used to it.”

Muriel glanced down. Even when she wasn’t pedaling, her shortened skirt hit just below midcalf, revealing her lace-up walking boots and a bit of stocking besides. Shortened skirts made people stare, even nearer the shore. That couple she’d surprised—George and Margaret. They’d called her a shocking-looking woman.

“Or they won’t get used to it,” she declared, tipping up her chin. “But that won’t stop us.”

It had popped out before she could think. There was something rousing about Griffith’s vision of shrinking distances and increased mobility, women going about their business on their own terms, facilitated by bicycles, which seemed suddenly marvelous.

The bicycle. A marvelous contraption—if it didn’t kill you.