Under the Wide and Starry Sky by Nancy Horan Page B

other, for her straight nose and dark hair were similar and her skin the same pale caramel shade. She was sitting sideways, with her feet propped on a slat of Bob’s chair, and between draws on her cigarette, she leaned near to his ear to speak. Bob’s usual sardonic expression was nowhere in evidence.
    Louis watched for several minutes before stepping toward one of the open French doors. He stopped and turned to the garden. In the dim moonlight, he made his way to a small fountain, where he splashed water on his face and neck and raked wet fingers through his hair. Then he knelt, opened his knapsack, and recovered from its bottom a rolled-up black velvet jacket. Shaking the coat, he pulled it on and smoothed it as best he could. From a pocket in its lining, he produced an embroidered felt smoking cap and placed it on his head. Once more Louis’s hand went into the bag, this time coming up with a red sash that he tied around his waist. As a last touch, he tucked his white linen pants into his high boots.
    He walked quickly to the house, pausing to consider each of the two doors. Rejecting both, he chose the open window. With the grace of a high jumper, he threw one long leg and then the other over the windowsill and hurtled himself into the dining room.

CHAPTER 11
    Noise exploded in his ears—whoops, cackles, clapping, the sound of chairs scraping the floor as one friend after another entered the fray of bear hugs and backslaps.
    When the chaos subsided, Bob stepped forward and spoke to those still seated. “Ladies and gentlemen—those of you who don’t know our newly arrived guest—may I present to you my cousin Robert Louis Stevenson, Louis to his friends. And to the lads in this room who know him best, the Great Exhilarator!”
    â€œHurrah!” they shouted. “Exhilarate us, Lou!”
    Someone passed a glass to Louis. “To guid-fallowship,” he said, lifting his voice along with the wine, “to guid health, and the wale o’ guid fortune to yer bonny sels!”
    He threw back his head and let go a giddy laugh when the wine hit his tongue. Pure gladness coated his mouth, slid down through his chest, lit up his arms and legs. My God, how joyful a picture the dining room made. It looked as warm as a Flemish painting, all golden and peopled by dear friends and ragged, lovely strangers. They smoked pipes and cigarettes, a company of exiles with paint-speckled forearms that united them into a band and declared their intentions.
    Will Low, the sweet-tempered American painter Louis had met the previous summer, gestured to the end of the table where he was chatting with a young boy, the only child in the room.
    â€œWhat took you so long?” The boy looked up at him through pale lashes. “Everybody’s been waiting.”
    Louis crouched down near his chair. “And what might your name be?”
    â€œSam,” he said. “Sammy. But these people call me Pettifish.” His shoulders went up in a question. “I don’t know why.”
    Louis laughed. “Is it short for
petite
fish? I’ll wager it is. You know, my father had a name like that for me—called me Smout. It’s a Scottish word for a small fry.”
    â€œWhy do grown-ups always name us after fish?”
    â€œAh, that
is
a good question. I haven’t the faintest idea. But I’ll tell you how I ended it. Charged him a penny every time he said the wretched word. You might consider that.”
    â€œSam’s here with his sister, Belle,” Will explained, nodding toward the pretty, dark-haired girl next to Baxter. “And at the end of the table,” he continued, “that lovely lady … “
    â€œâ€¦Â is my mother,” the boy said.
    Louis stood up to have a better view. “You don’t say. I thought they were sisters.”
    The child rolled his eyes. “Everyone says that.”
    So these are the Americans
. Could they