The Summer Wives: Epic page-turning romance perfect for the beach. Beatriz Williams

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      “I’d like that very much.”

      Joseph lifted himself upright from his elbows, so we sat side by side. His arm brushed against mine, warmer than I expected. “What’s with Peaches?” he said.

      “Oh gosh. Nothing, really. Isobel started calling me that today, just for fun.”

      “But why Peaches?”

      “Ask Isobel, why don’t you. She’s the one who made it up.”

      He pointed his thumb. “Her? She’s not going to remember a thing tomorrow.”

      “Then I guess you’re just dumb out of luck, aren’t you?”

      He flung himself back on the sand, folding his hands behind his head, and for an instant I thought I’d angered him. Then I glanced over my shoulder and saw his chest was shaking, and a grin split his face from cheekbone to cheekbone.

      “You’re a peach, Peaches,” he said. “A real peach.”

      “I don’t see what’s wrong with Miranda.”

      “Nothing’s wrong with Miranda. It’s a heck of a name. Suits you just fine in the winter months, I’ll bet, sitting indoors with your books and your cocoa. Or dressing up for some party in your gown and long gloves. Miranda.” He said it slowly, stretching out the vowels. “In Latin, it means ‘worthy of admiration.’ That’s what Shakespeare was talking about, in that line I threw at you this morning.”

      “I know.”

      “Aw, of course you do. Sorry.”

      “My father used to tell me things like that, when I was little.”

      “Did he? I like your dad. In my head, I’ve been calling him Prospero. But I guess that’s not his real name, is it?”

      “No. It was Thomas. Thomas Schuyler.”

      “Thomas Schuyler. Warrior, teacher of art, father of Miranda. And maybe a bit of a Shakespeare nut, too. Right?”

      I stretched out my legs and listened carefully to the rhythmic wash of the waves as they uncurled onto the beach. The air was so warm and so silvery, like a primordial dream, like we sat on a beach at the beginning of the world, and we were the only people in it. I said, out to sea: “We used to read plays out loud to each other.”

      “Did you? Now that’s grand. Do you remember any of it?”

      “Of course I do.”

      “Like what?”

      “I don’t know. A lot of things.”

      “Can you do Once more unto the breach?”

      “That’s a man’s part.”

      “So what? You’ve got it in you, I’ll bet. Thomas Schuyler didn’t raise a sissy.”

      I straightened and crossed my legs, Indian-style. The tulle floated out over my knees, and as I gazed out over the gilded water, I thought, if I strained my eyes, I might actually see all the way to France. Harfleur. Did it still exist? Had anything happened there in the last five hundred years since the siege, or had it fallen into obscurity? Had my father maybe glimpsed it, in his last days? We’d received no letters from France. Any messages, any postcards he’d had time to write had disappeared along with his body, and yet I felt sure that if my father had seen Harfleur with his own eyes, he would have written to tell me.

      “It’s been a while,” I said. “Since he left for the war.”

      “Say, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I mean, if it hurts too much or something.”

      “No. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

      “All right. Whatever you want. I’m listening, that’s all.”

      I lowered my voice and said,

       Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,

       Or close the wall up with our English dead!

       In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man

       As modest stillness and humility,

       But when the blast of war blows in our ears,

       Then imitate the actions of the tiger:

       Stiffen the sinews, conjure up the blood,

       Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage.

      “Go on,” said Joseph softly, from the sand.

      I scrambled to my feet and shook out the grit from my dress. I had told Joseph the truth; I hadn’t spoken those words since childhood, and yet—in the way of certain memories—they rose passionately from my throat. They burst from my mouth in my father’s hard, warlike delivery. The blood hurtled into my fingers to grip an imaginary sword.

       On, on, you noblest English,

       Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof,

       Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,

       Have in these parts from morn till even fought

       And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:

       Dishonor not your mothers. Now attest

       That those whom you called fathers did beget you.

       Be copy now to men of grosser blood,

       And teach them how to war …

      I didn’t recognize myself. I was not Miranda but someone else, a man, a king, a warrior, a voice roaring. I heard its faint echo from the rocks.

       The game’s afoot.

       Follow your spirit, and upon this charge

       Cry “God for Harry, England, and Saint George!”

      And there was silence, and my original soul sank back into my skin. Miranda resumed herself. My arm dropped to my side. I went down on my knees, one by one, shaking a little. Against my hot skin, the sand felt cool. Each grain made its individual impression on my nerves.

      “That was something,” said Joseph.

      I shook my head and laughed.

      “I mean it. You’re something, you know that? You’re something СКАЧАТЬ