He laughed again. “I would not even if I could,” he said. “She is so terribly excited about this table, Clarissa. I will humor her. I do not believe there has been a great deal of excitement in her life. More than that, I do not believe she has ever done much purely for herself. She has been an excellent sister and housekeeper to the colonel and a good aunt to his daughter. She has never had her own family or home. I suspect her only personal possessions are what she has in her own room. She has been well loved and appreciated and cared for in return, but I am not sure those things have been enough to satisfy her…soul.”
“And a new dining table will do that?” she asked.
“One she has commissioned and will pay for herself in defiance of her brother’s assumption that the expense will be his,” he said. “One she has more or less designed for herself. Yes, curiously, I believe her soul is being nourished.”
“Matthew,” she said, pausing to look at him while she opened her parasol, having felt the slightly uncomfortable warmth of the sun against the back of her neck. “You are a very perceptive and very kind man.”
Even she would not have described him as kind when he was a boy. He had been too needy, too disturbed by frustration and rage.
He looked at the parasol as she raised it over her head. “I likeyour granddaughter’s taste,” he said. “And I am glad her parents allowed her to indulge it.”
“So am I,” she said. “Do you by chance remember the very garish and cheap jewelry with which both Joy and Jennifer bedecked themselves at the fete two years ago?”
They were on a not particularly steep section of the narrow roadway that went up over the crest of the hills from the low land near the river before descending at the far end and winding its way back west on the northern side of the park. It was easy enough to ride up or to go in a light carriage. Clarissa had done it numerous times, though not recently. She had never done it on foot. It felt very steep indeed today after the already long walk from the house. The roadway ahead looked like an endless, undulating ribbon of pure torture.
“Give me your hand,” Matthew said.
She did, and the climb seemed much easier with the steady support of his strong workman’s hand as it closed tightly about hers. She felt ashamed at having to accept his assistance when he was carrying that heavy bag over his other shoulder.
“We will sit and rest at the top, and we will doubtless agree that the long walk and the climb were well worth the effort. Not too far now,” he said with a smile.
“Hmm,” Clarissa said. It was hard to catch her breath and impossible to say more. But her eyes already told her he was right. She had seen the view before, of course, but never as a result of her own exertions. Somehow it made a difference. And the sun was shining down from a sky that was still as clear of clouds as it had been when she woke up. It was a perfect late spring day, the air not quite as hot as it would be in a few weeks’ time. There was a welcome coolness to the breeze.
When they finally stood at the very crest of the highest hill, they turned slowly in all directions. Sir Ifor Rhys’s neatly cultivated farmland stretched away to the east of the hills, the large manor house that was Cartref in the distance. The pretty cottage in which Idris Rhys, Sir Ifor’s son and Gwyneth’s brother, lived with his wife and family was a short distance beyond the main house. There was a pretty, though not large, park surrounding the buildings.
And on the other side of the hills there was Ravenswood, with its vast park, closely packed trees to the south and north of it and others dotted pleasingly across it, and the river winding past with the main road on the other side, along which a heavily laden stagecoach was swaying. And, slightly back from the road, the village of Boscombe, with its picturesque houses and village green and church with a tall spire and the stone bridge that connected the village to Ravenswood. The mansion itself looked vast and imposing from here, its four wings surrounding cloisters and gardens at its center.
“You were right,” Matthew said, setting down his bag. “These are not particularly high hills, but the view from the top is spectacular. Shall we sit for a while?”
He did not wait for her answer but opened the bag and drew out a light blanket, which he spread on the scrubby grass before gesturing for her to sit on it. He followed her down and gazed over the park, one leg stretched straight ahead of him, the other bent at the knee with one arm draped over.
It was a relaxed, informal pose. The very size of the blanket dictated that they sit rather close to each other. They were not touching, but she could both feel and smell the heat coming from him. She was very aware of him, of his masculinity, and wondered how he could be so relaxed. She felt taut with something that was not quite discomfort.
He glanced over his shoulder at her, a lazy smile on his face. His hat was tipped slightly forward to shade his eyes from the sun.
“Are you as parched as I am?” he asked her. “I am too lazy to take the drinks from my bag. There is a flask of water and one of tea. I could not remember if you take milk and sugar. I packed a little of both separately.”
She delved into his bag and pulled out both flasks. It was water she wanted more than anything. She could not find any cups.
“I decided to travel as lightly as possible,” he told her. “No cups and no plates, I am afraid. We will have to drink directly out of the flasks.”
Oh my! How very ungenteel. She smiled with inward amusement.
She drank from the water flask first before wiping off the top with a clean handkerchief—there were no napkins either in the bag—and handing it to him. The water tasted faintly of whatever had been in the flask before it—tea? Coffee? It did not matter. It tasted as good as the finest wine to Clarissa.
There were two packages of food, both wrapped securely in clean cloths. One held two sandwiches made of thick slices of bread with an almost equally thick layer of very yellow cheese in between. The sandwiches were quite inelegant and the bread a little stale, as were the large slices of seed cake he told her Mrs. Holland had brought for him a few days ago. But to Clarissa it seemed like the most delicious feast she had eaten in a long while. Perhaps ever.
The problem with bringing milk and sugar for the tea but no cups and no spoon, of course, was that they were virtually impossible to use. And Clarissa did remember that as a boy he had drunk his tea black. That was how she drank hers from the flask today—lukewarm, very black, and so strong that a spoon, if there had beenone, would surely have stood upright in it without touching the sides. But it was like the perfect ending to a perfect picnic.
“Thank you,” she said as she shook out the crumbs and folded the cloths before putting them back into the bag with the empty flasks. “That was delicious.”
“Liar.” His eyes laughed lazily into hers.
“Oh, not so, Matthew,” she said in protest. “It was the best picnic ever. The best meal ever.”
But she laughed with him at the extravagance of her words, true though she was convinced they were.
“Are you ready to leave?” he asked her.
