“Yes, of course,” she said.
“Of course,” he agreed.
“I thought perhaps,” their mother said, frowning and looking rather intently at Gwyneth, “he might have had a word with Dad before he left. But some men are dreadful slowtops. Perhaps next summer...”
“No, Mam,” Gwyneth said, smiling and fearing the expression looked like a grimace on her face. “No.”
And she picked up the sides of her skirt and hurried inside after her father, leaving her mother staring at Idris.
Gwyneth waited for two days. She knew it was something she could not possibly do. Just last week she had told herself she would never do it even if she could. But it was also something she could notnotdo, and if that was not a head spinner, she did not know what was. If she did not do it, no one else would.Hewould not. And she was tired of always waiting and of always trying to make a life and a future for herself that could never bring her happiness or even lasting contentment. It wasso hardbeing a woman. But perhaps what she ought to realize was that it was probably not easy being a man either. It was not easy being Devlin. She understood that.
It was her mother’s lace-making day again and her father’s dayfor youth choir practice. She was going to ride over to Ravenswood, Gwyneth told them at luncheon when her father asked if she wanted to come listen to the choir and perhaps play the pianoforte while he conducted. She was going to have a word with the countess to see if there was anything she could do to help with the preparations for the assembly on Friday. It was a very slim excuse and would possibly be recognized as an outright lie. Everyone knew—it had been one of the main topics of conversation for the past week—that the countess was to have nothing to do with the organizing of the assembly even though it was to be held in the ballroom at the hall.
“Well, it will be pleasant for you to have a visit, cariad,” her mother said. “You have been in low spirits since Aled left.”
And so here she was, Gwyneth thought as she rode up the slight slope toward Ravenswood Hall. She had left a few minutes after her mother and father, having declared that she would rather ride on such a lovely day than go with them in the carriage. The groom who sometimes accompanied her when she rode beyond her father’s land had frowned when she told him she did not need him today, but he had known better than to argue. And this might be for nothing after all, she thought as she rode around to the back of the hall in order to leave her horse at the stables. She had no idea if Devlin was at home.
He was, though. He was leaning against the wooden fence that surrounded the paddock beside the stables, one booted foot propped on the bottom rung, his arms folded along the top rung. He was dressed with shocking informality in breeches and shirt and unbuttoned waistcoat. His hair was windblown and a bit in need of a cut. He was looking really quite gorgeous.
Beside him was Ben Ellis, also leaning on the fence. On his back he was carrying that contraption she had heard about.Cameron Holland and Sally, his sister, had made it between them out of an old knapsack Ben had had on the Peninsula and taken down to the smithy a week or so ago. Cameron had made a sort of metal frame to hold the bag open and firm, and Sally had cut and bound two holes at the bottom of the front of it and had folded and bound the top of it over the metal to make it warmer and more comfortable to the touch. And they had tried it out. Ben’s daughter now rode everywhere with him, snug and safe inside the bag on his back, high enough to see past him and set her hands on his shoulders. There she was now, hugging his sides with her legs, bouncing and squealing as she pointed into the paddock and delivered one of her high-pitched monologues in gibberish—though one frequently repeated word was recognizable.
“Papapapapapa.”
She was pointing at Owen Ware, who was dressed like Devlin and riding the horse that had been badly injured earlier in the summer when it had stepped into a particularly large rabbit hole. Owen himself had been thrown and had suffered a sprained ankle and numerous scrapes and bruises. The horse had to be put down—or so the steward and all the most senior grooms had agreed. Until, that was, Owen, in great wrath, had threatened to shoot himself if anyone shot his horse.
“If a bad sprain is a death sentence for him,” he was rumored to have said, “then it must be for me too. But before I shoot myself, I’ll get in a bit of practice by first shooting whoever kills my horse.”
The horse had lived, though his sprain had been far worse than Owen’s. Gwyneth had heard that the horse was being exercised again and Owen was going to get up on his back one day soon and gradually set him through his paces again. This was the day, it seemed. He was taking the horse from a walk to a cautious trot.
All of this Gwyneth took in with a single glance. The nextmoment Ben turned and Joy stared at Gwyneth over his shoulder. Devlin looked overhisshoulder before lowering his foot to the ground and turning too. He would have come toward her, but a groom was already lifting her down from her sidesaddle and then leading her horse away into the stables.
“Good afternoon, Gwyneth,” Ben called, and Joy pointed and smiled. “Ah, excuse me.” Owen had ridden up to the fence farther along and was patting and running a hand along his horse’s neck. Ben went to confer with him.
“Gwyneth,” Devlin said. “Allow me to escort you inside to my mother. Is she expecting you? But it does not matter. Sheisat home and will be happy to see you. I must apologize for my appearance.”
“I came to see you,” she told him, walking toward him before he could move away from the fence.
He leaned back against it and crossed his arms defensively over his chest and his legs at the ankles. He frowned. “I am honored,” he said.
“Has anyone from the committee talked with you yet?” she asked him.
“Committee?” he said. “Ah. Yes. I did have a delegation of four wait upon me this morning. Two men and two women, who claimed to be representatives of a larger committee. They were all looking mulish and determined, as though they expected to have a fight on their hands. About paying the expenses for the assembly. Is that what you were referring to?”
“Yes,” she said. “They called upon everyone. They came to Cartref, but they did not ask only Mam and Dad and Idris and me. They talked with all the servants and grooms and gardeners. As well as the farm workers, I believe. They said the verdict so far had been almost unanimous.”
“Everyone actually wants to pay to attend,” he said. “They wantto purchase their tickets from Jim Berry at the inn, as they always do.”
“I hope you agreed,” she said.
“I did.” He gazed at her for a moment. “I am beginning to understand that my father was something of a benevolent tyrant—one of those delightful contradictions in terms. Apparently he took over every traditional social event of the neighborhood after my grandfather’s time and insisted upon organizing and financing everything.”
“He was very good,” Gwyneth said.
“Which is exactly what the committee said,” Devlin told her. “And his goodness obviously exasperated a large number of people.”
“Mam and Dad have been talking about it,” she said. “Apparently there used to be all sorts of committees here. They organized everything of a community nature and delegated tasks. No one had to be forced—people actually liked to volunteer. There even used to be a summer fete on the village green and the connecting streets. The maypole would be set beside the duck pond. Everyone was involved in planning and running the whole thing. Everyone shared the expenses.”
“Until my father decided that Ravenswood would be a far more spacious and scenic venue,” he said. “And that my mother would organize it all and he would pay for it.”
