Two Loves

Chapter 16

ADA

When I was a child, I used to love riddles. My grandfather was a never-dwindling source for questions as "If you have me, you want to share me. If you share me, you haven't got me. What am I?", and every time I got the right answer - after long or short thinking - I would not only get an approving laugh and candy, but also the satisfying feeling of being able to untie almost every knot with the power of thought.

And I still love riddles. As soon as something seems impossible, or secret, it has the fascination of something that only waits to be solved.

But as I watch Cym sitting opposite to me, completely stiffened, with dark circles under her eyes, her tensed shoulders drooping over her knees and unable to look me in the eyes, I am reminded of the other side of riddles: If you cannot solve them, they are goddamn frustrating.

"Stop staring at me" she mutters under her breath while she concentratedly stares out of the window. "It's embarrassing enough that you have to see me like that."

"Like what?"

"Miserable, and tired, and stinking. You shoved me in here like a run-away cat."

I sigh. "Stop acting as if accepting help is a shame, Cymbeline" I answer. "You are too smart for that."

Without a word, she turns her head away from the window and stares at her shoes. The knuckles of her hands stand out white, so clenched are her fists. Strands of her hair, messy and uncombed, fall into her eyes. One lock hangs at the spot where her nose and her forehead meet, forming a perfect semi-circle, and suddenly, a wave of sympathy and warmth, the incredible urge to care, rolls over me. I reach out, carefully, and lay two fingers under her chin.

"Look at me."

Cymbeline doesn't move. Only when I shift closer, she slowly tilts her gaze upwards. Her eyes are full of defiance- of anger that is directed to the inside, not the outside. But they are still the same cloudy, Brontë-thunderstorm gray I first noticed when she bowed over me in the church, and the corners of her mouth even twitch up unwillingly when I give her a little smile.

"You don't have to manage everything on your own, you know? I'll be there to take care of you."

The fabric of my dress rustle when I slide even nearer to her and take her hands in mine. Our knees are touching. She still doesn't say a word.

"And if I have to shove you into my carriage just to ensure that you get enough sleep -" I say and press a kiss on her bruised knuckles - "I'm going to do that over" kiss, "and over" kiss "and over again."

She chuckles. "Love, you're becoming pathetic."

"Maybe you should stop making it necessary if you don't like it."

Cymbeline blows one ostrich feather out of her way and leans her fore-head against mine. "Nah" she whispers. "Keep going."

Parker, the coach-man, doesn't even raise an eyebrow when he opens the door for the both of us. Coachmen are really remarkable servants - they simultaneously know the most and the least about their employers, but never talk about it. If one could drive ones one vehicle, one would never have to worry who knows where one is going or who is with one. But so, he just politely nods, when I wish him good-bye and proceeds to act as if Cymbeline was a hand-bag. A handbag that stretches and elevates her eyebrows in surprise when she sees the house we arrived at. As if there was something spectacular about an ordinary mansion...we hardly have any garden, and the front lawn is not mowed. Our country house near Cork is much bigger than this.

Instead of walking straight through the front door, Cym follows me behind a hedge, where we take a side-entrance. I don't want to be unpolite, but when I already sneak my lover into my parent's house while they are away, we don't have to take the front gate. One never knows which house-maid is watching.