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James was still the person she knew best, the person who mattered most to her. She’d wanted an assistant, but she’d also wanted to feel, for these weeks, as though she were home. Home wasn’t Hampshire, not anymore, but it wasn’t Hong Kong either. It wasn’t any place. It was this, if it was anything—squabbling with James, a stone in her boot, and a sudden lump in her throat.
“I’m happy we’re here,” she said. “You’re happy we’re here too.”
“Humph.” He grunted but didn’t deny it. How could he? Some aspect of his London life was whittling him down, visibly.
James was a brain surgeon. Perhaps it was the long shifts in the operating theater? Horrors encountered during experimental investigations into neural tissue? Patients lost? Competition with colleagues?
Questions she’d held herself back from asking formed suddenly on her tongue. Before she’d settled on the right one, he creased his forehead and brushed past her.
“Upsy-daisy,” he muttered, and started for the slope, picking his way slowly. Within moments, she’d outpaced him and was charting their course, showing admirable self-restraint as she passed an unusual sedge.
“Do you know there’s no hospital in St. Ives?” James called up from below. “Mr. Trevaskis told me.”
“That’s why you were up until dawn?” she called back. “You cornered the hotel manager and interviewed him regarding the local medical facilities?”
“Lack of facilities. There’s a general practitioner, but that’s hardly sufficient. Down by the harbor, people live cramped as the pilchards in their barrels. Visitors have no idea. And then there are the mining accidents up on the cliffs.”
The way became steeper, and she had to concentrate, proceeding upward via a series of ledges.
She was panting slightly as she responded. “You have enough people to worry about in London. This is a holiday. No operating on the fishermen.”
“Your trunk is stuffed with microscopes, chisels, and pickle jars. And you’re sniping at me because I brought my surgical bag. The hypocrisy.”
“The lies. You brought your surgical bag! You swore you wouldn’t.”
“You swore you wouldn’t devote thirty-six hours a day to botany.”
“I’m not.” She huffed hard enough to blow a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Obviously. That would be impossible.”
“You would if you could, which is my point. Muriel.” His tone made her stop short and face him.
“This doesn’t feel like a holiday,” he said. “If you’re botanizing, I’m operating. Fair’s fair.”
She crossed her arms. “You do manage to aggravate me thirty-six hours of the day. Somehow that is possible.”
“Botanize all you want.” He looked suddenly sincere. “But promise me you will engage in one impulsive, thrilling, holiday-worthy activity before we leave St. Ives.”
She opened her mouth.
“That doesn’t involve plants,” he added.
She scowled at him and began to climb again, increasing her pace.
“I see where this is going.” She threw the words over her shoulder. “And you’re not convincing me.”
“Mr. Trevaskis is a bachelor. Rather handsome, wouldn’t you say?”
“He’s all yours.”
“You are the soul of generosity.”
She heard a rock clatter down the slope as James started after her.
“Luckily, bachelors are abundant,” he continued. “The beach is crawling with them.”
“I’m not here to collect bachelors.”
“Pity.”
