Gwyneth was out riding. She had been feeling restless and in need of air and exercise—and solitude. She was riding sidesaddle, her riding habit both smart and fashionable. Her hair was dressed neatly beneath a matching riding hat. She had refused the company of a groom, having assured him that she did not intend leaving her father’s land. She was up on the highest point of the hills on its western border, looking down upon the river and the village of Boscombe and miles of land beyond it. And, on this side of the river, Ravenswood’s park and the hall itself in the middle distance.
She had drawn her horse to a halt. For a carriage drawn by four horses had just crossed the bridge from the village and was passing through the gates on its way to the hall. It was impossible from this far away to see if it was a carriage she would recognize. But no one coming from a mere few miles away to pay a visit would be usingfourhorses. If, on the other hand, that vehicle had left London this morning, this was about the time it would be arriving.
Word had spread to every corner of the village and thesurrounding countryside, as even lesser news and gossip invariably did, that the Earl of Stratton was coming home today. He had written to the countess, advising her to expect him. It was doubtful that the countess herself had spread the word except to inform her immediate family and the servants who would be involved in preparing for his arrival. But that had been more than enough. Many of the Ravenswood servants, though possibly warned of dire consequences if they gossiped, would not have been able to resist whispering the exciting news to a relative in the village or to one of the Misses Miller at the shop or to Mr. Holland at the smithy or to a fellow servant at another house. One would have a better chance of containing a wildfire in a hurricane than gossip in the English countryside.
He was coming home. Forever had not lasted forever after all.
The carriage was drawing to a halt on the terrace before the house, but it was impossible to see who would alight from it or even how many persons. There had been some discussion about whether Ben Ellis was likely to return with his brother, or even Major Nicholas Ware. Nobody knew, however. It was known only that the Earl of Stratton was coming.
Gwyneth, watching intently though she could see very little, told herself that she had arrived at this particular place at this particular time purely by chance. Why would it be otherwise? Once upon a time she had fixed both her twelve-year-old eyes and her girlhood dreams upon a seeming impossibility—a boy several years older than she, her brother’s best friend, a boy with a title and the prospect of a far more illustrious one. A boy beyond her reach,notbecause of the titles, but because he wasolder, and his serious demeanor made him seem older still, and he did not know she existed. She had been quite lovesick over him for years, even while she had enjoyed a close friendship with his younger brother. And then forone day—justoneout of all the days she had lived in her twenty-four years and a few months—that infatuation had blossomed into a glorious, unlikely romance, complete with a kiss on a darkened hillside and a mutual declaration of eternal love. And a proposal of marriage.
The very next day, he was gone.
Such a grand, sad tragedy.One day.A long time ago. There was no reason for the news of his impending return to have brought her up here on the chance that she would witness it. And what was she seeing anyway? A carriage and horses thatmighthave brought him from London. So what? What did it have to do with her?
Perhaps Nicholas had come with him. She tried to pin her thoughts upon that possibility, for Nick had once been her dearest friend, and she had wept bitterly the day he left Ravenswood to join his regiment. She had died a number of little deaths over the following years as this corner of the world had received news of deadly battles fought and won or lost weeks, even months, before. Sometimes word of wounds Nicholas had sustained and somehow survived had seeped out of the hall by the usual means. It had been heartsickening to know that every bit of news was old by the time she heard it. To know that perhaps he had been wounded again. Or worse. He might be dead and no one here knew it yet.
There was never any news ofhim.Except that he became Earl of Stratton upon his father’s death two years ago, so he must at least have been still alive then. Now he was coming home. He had survived the wars.
The carriage was moving off from the front of the hall and Gwyneth’s horse snorted and pawed the ground, eager to be moving again. She held it still. Whoever had descended from the carriage had gone inside, and she was none the wiser.
She thought of him as the Earl of Stratton. Nick’s elder brother,who had succeeded to the title two years ago. She did not think of him by any other name. A girlhood infatuation, a one-day flaring of exuberant, passionate romance when she was eighteen and on the cusp of womanhood—what, after all, had it left behind that was of any significance except a few memories she might draw out and dust off when she was old and gray and rocking in her chair before the fire and smile over a little sadly for the pain she had allowed herself to suffer just because shewasyoung? At present the memories were safely packed away somewhere deep inside herself where they caused no pain at all.
She had moved on from that brief, seemingly unbearable agony, that girl who had been herself. She had gone to Wales with her family a couple of weeks after and been caught up within the warm affection of the larger family there with all their friends, who lived boisterous, passionate, laughter-filled and music-centered lives—or so it had always seemed to her, though doubtless they experienced their own upsets and tragedies and disappointments. They had been a balm to her shattered dreams that year, and she had almost got herself betrothed to a pleasant young man she had known most of her life.
Almost but not quite. She had found herself saying no to his stammered marriage proposal when she had fully expected to say yes. Then she had watched his expression change,notto one of anguish, but to one of... relief? It had suggested to her that he had offered out of pity more than romantic love. Her mother had had much the same look on her face when Gwyneth had told her. She had been wise to refuse, her mother had said, for accepting would not have been entirely fair to the young man.
She had not needed her mother to tell her that, though. She had liked him too well to use him to soothe a bruised, perhaps even broken, heart. The whole family had hugged and fussed over her farmore often than usual that summer and dreamed up all sorts of treats for her amusement and otherwise showed her how much they loved her.
It had been soothing and devastating.
They had gone to London the following spring. Her father had leased a house in a fashionable part of Mayfair, and he and Gwyneth’s mother had used connections she had not even realized they had to secure introductions to influential people. Gwyneth had even been taken to one of the queen’s drawing rooms to make her curtsy to Her Majesty. After that she had been caught up in a dizzying round of social entertainments—balls and routs, theater performances and Venetian breakfasts, strolls and rides in Hyde Park and drives to Kew Gardens, dinners and one dazzling evening at Vauxhall Gardens, listening to music, dancing, and watching the fireworks. She and her mother had been sent vouchers to Almack’s, a coveted mark of distinction indeed. She had received two very eligible marriage offers, one from a baron, and had given serious consideration to both before declining. Since then she had attended several house parties to which she had been invited by friends she had made in London. She had attended part of another Season two years ago with one of those friends and had received and rejected another marriage offer.
She was very much in danger, she had begun to think after that particular occasion, of ending up on the shelf, a spinster with nothing to do but care for her mother and father, if they should ever grow old enough and infirm enough to need her care. There was no sign of either affliction yet. Worse, she might end up alone inherold age and dependent upon Idris to give her a home with him. That would be a dreadful fate, for Idris, at the age of twenty-nine, was in a serious courtship of Eluned Howell, daughter of one of their father’s closest friends in Wales. Gwyneth loved her dearly, butshe didnotfancy being an unmarried sister-in-law in her household. No doubt Eluned would not fancy it either.
Gwyneth did not believe she was going to end up alone, however. For Idris had stayed on in Wales after she and her parents came home from there a few weeks ago, and he had just let them know that he was coming in a few days’ time and was bringing Aled Morgan with him. Gwyneth had met Aled last year when she was competing in the harp contest at one of theeisteddfodau, or arts festivals, for which Wales was famous. She had won the contest. Her father had undertaken the Herculean task of taking the youth choir there too, and Gwyneth had accompanied them with her harp. They had placed third, one position higher than they had two years before. Aled Morgan had not been an entrant in any competition himself, but he was a well-known musician and conductor. He had conducted orchestras and choral works in London and Edinburgh as well as in Bristol and Cardiff and Swansea. The prince regent had shaken his hand after one performance—though it was not Aled himself who had told Gwyneth that. He was not a boastful man.
He was a pleasant, mild-mannered man in his middle thirties, passionately involved with music. He had gone out of his way to commend Gwyneth on her harp playing. He had persuaded her to play just for him one evening—the large festival tent had been empty, but people milled outside and so made her being alone with him inside not quite improper. He had watched her intently while she played and afterward had kissed the back of her hand and told her he hoped they would be friends. She had seen him again this summer, and he had made it very clear that he wished to move their acquaintance to another level. Now he was coming to Cartref at her father’s invitation, to see and listen to the organ at the church. He was also coming because of her, Gwyneth believed. She fullyexpected that he would propose marriage to her while he was here—he had hinted as much when he took his leave of her the evening before she came home with her mother and father.
And this was a proposal she would accept. It was high time she was married. She was twenty-four. More important than any unease she felt over her advancing age, however, was the fact that she was very fond of Aled. They had a great deal in common and never lacked for topics to draw them into deep, animated conversation. He would be a kind husband, she was sure, and an intelligent and constantly interesting companion. He would treat her as an equal. He professed to admire her as much as she admired him. He had a wealth of friends in all parts of the country. She would have a stimulating and varied life with him. He was not a vastly wealthy man, she believed, but he could undoubtedly offer her a comfortable and secure life.
She was not going to wait any longer for love—romantic love, that was. It was for the very young and was, moreover, extremely precarious and ultimately painful. Poor young people, who had to discover the truth of that for themselves! It was so much more sensible to marry for affection and shared interests. And really, affection was a form of love, but more stable and longer lasting than romantic passion. She felt a warm affection for Aled.
She had been staring at Ravenswood for a long time, she realized. Long after there was anything to see. Her poor horse had even given up dropping hints about moving on and was nibbling forlornly at the scrubby grass beside the track.
She turned toward home and the pleasant prospect of seeing Aled again within the next day or two. It was just a pity that the Earl of Stratton had chosen almost the same time to come back to Ravenswood to offer an unwelcome distraction. But he had to comesometime, she supposed, and now was probably as good a time asany, now that the wars were over, the harvest was in, and the winter had not yet descended upon them.
It did not really matter to her anyway. While the neighborhood for miles around buzzed with the news that he was back, she would have something and someone else to hold her attention.
Shesolooked forward to Aled’s coming here, to her own home and her own neighborhood this time. She wanted to be seen with him. He was a distinguished, good-looking man. She wanted her neighbors and friends to see that she had indeed and at long last moved on in life, that the return of the Earl of Stratton meant nothing whatsoever to her.
It would be lovely if she did not have to see him at all, though she supposed that was not a realistic wish. Well, then. When shedidsee him, she hoped she would have Aled by her side.
It had been one day. Justone.More than six years ago.
—
Their approach had been noted.
