She found one of the quiet flower arbors over a rise of land and went to sit on the seat at the center of it. There was always a seat, though she knew these little arbors were intended primarily for the viewing pleasure of anyone who rode in the park or traveled about the perimeter in a light carriage. She was surrounded by quiet, fragrant peace. She breathed slowly in and out with conscious contentment. How privileged she was to have her home at the heart of all this beauty and tranquility.
How could she possibly be feeling restless?
She looked forward to tomorrow with the eagerness of a child awaiting a treat. Perhaps it was a mistake to try to recapture the friendship she and Matthew had enjoyed during their youth. Perhaps some things were best left to memory and not tampered with. But she had so enjoyed watching him shoot his arrows in the alley yesterday and then talking with him in the summerhouse, reminiscing.
Tomorrow she was going to get him to talk more about the missing years. She wanted to know when and why he had taken up archery and become such a master at it.
—
So often when one looked forward to an outdoor activity too eagerly one ended up horribly disappointed when the weather did not cooperate. Clarissa knew a moment’s dread the following morning when her maid woke her as usual with a cup of chocolateand crossed to the window of her bedchamber to pull back the heavy curtains. But she need not have worried. She could see clear blue sky out there even before she sat up to hug her knees and confirm her first impression that there was not a cloud in sight. She could hear birds singing their hearts out from the trees down by the river. She breathed in fresh air and the smell of recently scythed grass from the open window.
It was going to be a lovely day, perfect for a long walk.
“I will have breakfast up here in my sitting room, Millicent,” she told her maid. “Afterward I will need my green walking dress and bonnet. A parasol too. The floral one, I believe. And my stout walking shoes.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Her maid cast a look of mild surprise her way, though she did not question her mistress’s choices. She knew that Clarissa thought those shoes the most unattractive footwear ever invented and kept them to wear only in heavy rain or when she knew there would be mud she could not avoid. That clearly was not the case today. And the parasol! It was garish, to say the least. It had been a Christmas gift from Joy, who had chosen it herself, according to Jennifer as she smiled sympathetically at her always quietly elegant mother-in-law.
The shoes had one virtue, however. They were marvelously comfortable, and Clarissa guessed she was going to need that comfort today. As for the parasol, well, she was feeling in a giddy mood and she knew she would enjoy telling Matthew where it had come from and how Joy had bounced up and down with excitement as her grandmother unwrapped the parcel on Christmas morning.
How ever had she agreed to trudge all the way out to the hills and back—and up over the hills, which would be no mean feat in itself? But he had always had a gift for persuading her to do thingsshe had no wish to do, like climbing trees. Or at least he could as long as they were not strictly forbidden activities. She had never gone swimming with him in the river, for example, because it was specifically not allowed. She guessed no one had thought it necessary to forbid tree climbing, since her fear of heights was well known.
Did Matthew believe she was still that girl of long ago? They had walked endlessly when they were very young, it was true. But neither of them was young any longer.
Yet she felt young a while later as she turned off the main driveway into the village, onto the narrower path that led east, and could see that he was waiting for her at the southern end of the poplar alley, where they had agreed to meet. Like her, he was early. He stood with his back against one of the trees, his arms crossed over his chest, one booted foot flat against the trunk. There was what looked like a canvas bag on the ground beside him. He watched her come, a smile on his face.
“Ever the elegant lady,” he said as she drew close, his eyes sweeping over her small-brimmed bonnet and her dark green walking dress and black shoes—which were anything but elegant.
“You have not seen my parasol unfurled yet,” she said. “When it is raised it looks like an overabundant flower garden in full, blinding, unlikely sunshine. It was surely intended for a very young woman to twirl about her head to draw admiring glances in a crowded park. It was not meant for an aging matron out on a sedate walk. But my granddaughter chose it specifically for me and told me so at great length on Christmas morning.”
“Is that how you see yourself, Clarissa?” he asked. “As an aging matron? There must surely be a full-length looking glass somewhere inside Ravenswood. But you probably see in it what you expect tosee or what you believe you ought to see since you are a dowager countess and have five adult children—six if you count Ben Ellis, as I daresay you do. I myself, however, see a woman of vibrant beauty, who has every right to twirl a garishly bright parasol above her head. Clearly your granddaughter sees you the same way.”
She laughed as he hoisted the canvas bag over one shoulder, and hoped she was not blushing. But yes, her title, amended to dowager countess after Devlin married Gwyneth, and the existence of grown children and growing grandchildren did make her feel—oh, not old exactly, but…unyouthful, if there was such a word.
He did not appear youthful either, but he did look like a man who took care of himself and was in the prime of life. He was lithe but looked strong despite the lines on his face and the gray in his hair. He was certainly not dressed for elegance—or to impress. His coat was not so form-fitting that he would need a valet to squeeze him into it. It fit him comfortably. It had seen better days—quite a while ago, surely. His shirt was plain and unadorned and clean. His boots, though freshly polished, were creased with age. His tall hat was not in the first stare of fashion—or the second or third. Clarissa guessed his ever-so-slightly shabby clothing had nothing to do with any inability to afford better, but rather had everything to do with a certain carelessness over material things.
He looked strangely appealing.
“What is in the bag?” she asked. “It looks heavy.”
“I thought,” he said, “that by the time we get to the crest of the highest hill we will be thirsty at the very least. Probably hungry too.”
“How thoughtless of me,” she said. “I did not remember to have a picnic luncheon sent out there in one of the wagons. Now I feel bad that you have to carry everything.”
“It is part of the fun of going on a walk with a friend,” he said. “Do you not remember, Clarissa, when we used to do it all the time? Usually with food and drink from your kitchen. Your parents were very kind and your cook extremely indulgent.”
They made their way at a fairly brisk pace toward the hills and the eastern boundary of the park. And they talked. At first about daily matters. She told him how exuberant with delight Stephanie was at being at Greystone with her sister and brother-in-law and twin niece and nephew and how it made her, Clarissa, wonder why she had gone to all the trouble of presenting her younger daughter in London this year. She told him of the letter from Gwyneth that had been delivered just this morning, informing her that Bethan, Gwyneth and Devlin’s daughter, had taken her first steps—five of them in a row, in fact, before she looked suddenly alarmed and plopped down on her padded bottom before laughing and clapping her hands but refusing any repeat performance.
He told her about moving his tools and equipment and piles of wood with Cam Holland’s help to Colonel Wexford’s last evening and setting up a temporary workshop in a barn there. He could do a lot of work on Miss Wexford’s table at home, particularly the numerous and intricately carved legs and feet. But his workshop would scarcely hold the table itself once he put it together, and what would he do with it when it was finished? How would he move it, vast and weighing a ton, out of his workshop and down the steep stairs to the pavement and out to the colonel’s? So he was going to work on it there, and it would be up to the colonel himself to mobilize an army of burly servants to get it from the barn to his dining room.
“Miss Wexford buzzed around us like a particularly persistent bee when we arrived,” he said. “She had a thousand suggestions anda million questions. She did promise before we left, however, that she would not disturb me once I start work there but will leave me alone to get on with it.”
“By which words you understood that she will be forever in your way, I suppose,” Clarissa said.
“I am afraid so,” he said with a laugh. “One cannot help liking the woman.”
“Can you not shut and lock the doors to the barn?” she asked.
