The Allens’ house is nestled on the edge of the Cove, shafts of evening sunlight dancing over its roof tiles. It's much grander than either of them had expected -- the columned porch and manicured gardens hardly sit neatly with Kit’s memory of Fred Allen’s calloused hands and humble premises. The already-present knot of nerves in his stomach tightens with the slow realisation that this was no longer likely to be a small party, or at least not one small enough for his comfort.
Meg must have felt him tense, as she squeezes his arm in reassurance.
“It’s alright, you can let me do the talking,” she laughs. The setting sunlight halos her in gold, dancing off the pale pink silk of her dress. It’s enough to release the tightness in Kit’s jaw -- more than that, it’s enough to make him want to stop right there and kiss her on Fred Allen’s doorstep, party be damned.
“How can I not, my love,” he says instead. “You do it so well.”
Stepping through the front door, they find that the inside of the house matches the outside in style, with song and chatter filtering from doorways into a tastefully papered hallway. Every piece of furniture that catches Kit’s eye is well-made and beautifully polished. The whitewashed boards and rough-wood surfaces of Maple Farm pale in comparison, but Kit would take them, diligently dusted by the same hands that brush his, over all the mahogany in the world.
The tug of Meg’s arm in his pulls him through the doorway to the parlour, where most of the chatter had been drifting from. The room is warmed by its occupants, arrayed in their finery and mingling with soft rustles of silk.
They are quickly intercepted by Fred Allen, looking every part the gentleman in a crisp, dark suit. On his arm is a pretty young woman, eyes sparkling in the lamplight.
“I don’t think I’ve managed to introduce you to my wife,” he says, gesturing to the woman beside him. “Henrietta, this is Mr Calloway, and his wife, Meg.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Henrietta smiles. She’s another thing about Fred that has surprised Kit. The house, the gardens, and now the beautiful young wife, arrayed in the latest fashion, all chip away at the image of the man he had built in his head.
It’s soon clear to both men that their wives have found a kindred spirit in each other, so with a shared rueful glance they step away into their own conversation.
“You have a lovely home,” Kit says, after a moment of silence compels him to speak. So much for Meg doing all the talking, he thinks.
“Thank you -- I can’t really take much credit for it though, aside from buying the place, it was all Henrietta.” Fred pauses, looking somewhat sheepish. “You must forgive me if I’ve given you somewhat of a, er, false impression, shall we say?”
“Not at all.” Even such a small lie has heat creeping into Kit’s ears. He never has been any good at it. Until now, he reminds himself, wishing that particular thought hadn’t sprung to mind.
“You’re too polite, son, I can tell you weren’t expecting all this. Truth be told, I wouldn’t have agreed to the thing if Henrietta wasn’t so excited about it. It’s her house, after all, her money. I’m not ashamed of it, but I wanted the Lermond’s Cove Company to be something I built with my own two hands, and with my own money to boot.”
“I’d say that’s a fair thing for a man to want.”
“Ha, that’s why I like you, son. You’re a man after my own heart,” says Fred.
Son. No-one’s called Kit that in a while, but somehow it feels right coming from Fred, worn and comfortable as an old pair of work-boots. It certainly makes Kit like him all the more.
“If I’m completely honest with you, Fred, I would have said no if it wasn’t for Meg.” Kit looks over to where Meg and Henrietta are still deep in conversation, heads tipped together. There are plenty of other people around, all talking animatedly, but somehow they all pale in comparison.
“What a pair we make,” Fred chuckles. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Nor I.” Kit hasn’t said a truer thing all night.
