Somewhere along the way he had also learned the art of archery. He was famously good at it. Any arrow of his that did not pierce the bull’s-eye of the target was considered a shocking failure by all who ever watched him, and his arrows flew fast and true as he pulled them at seemingly lightning speed from the quiver he carried on his back. Owen, Clarissa’s youngest son, declared that he himself could hit the broad side of a barn on a good day, while Matthew Taylor could miss the center of the target by a fraction of an inch on a particularly bad day. Yet it never occurred to Owen to resent the village carpenter. He came closer to revering him.
Clarissa poured herself a cup of tea and cut a scone in half before spreading jam on both halves and heaping a sinful amount of cream on top. She bit into one half, careful to hold her mouth over the plate as she did so. Ah. Her eyes fluttered closed as she savored the taste. Was there any culinary delight to compare with scones, jam, and cream?
She sat back against the comfortable cushions of the sofa when she had finished both halves and let her eyes roam over the slightly misty countryside outside. She was home, and there was nowhere on earth she would rather be—though she had loved that sparsely furnished, low-ceilinged room above the smithy, with its view over the village green and its pervading aroma of wood coming from what she guessed must be his workroom beyond.
She waited eagerly for him to send word that he had a design for the new baby’s crib to present for her approval.
—
Ravenswood had been intended by its architect to strike something like awe into all who beheld it. The man had succeeded, Matthew thought, not for the first time, as he climbed the steep flight of steps to the great double front doors and rapped the brass knocker against its pad. It was amazing that one family could use all this space, though there was also, of course, the army of servants who catered to their needs and made any exertion on their part more or less superfluous.
Though that was an unkind thought. They were a busy family, all of them, and went to great pains to serve the community in every way they could. They were well liked and respected. It would be difficult to dislike or despise any of them. Well, the late Stratton perhaps, though even that was questionable. There had been some good in him, a fact Matthew admitted only very grudgingly. There had also been the one great evil, for which he would never forgive the man.
The doors opened—both of them—and Matthew explained to the butler that he had an appointment with her ladyship. It occurred to him that perhaps he ought to have presented himself at the kitchen door, but though he had chosen to live and work as a humble craftsman, he never abased himself. The butler, inclining his head in acknowledgment of his claim, led the way and announced him formally at the drawing room doors.
Clarissa rose from her chair and came toward him, smiling, one hand extended. She was alone. Matthew had learned since her visit to his rooms that she was the only one who had returned from London, that the other members of her family were not expected for at least another couple of months. He took her hand and held itfor a few moments before releasing it. Her eyes sparkled. She looked happy.
“Prudence Wexford described to me the sketches for the dining table you are going to make for her,” she said. “It all sounds very grand. However have you found time to design a crib too?”
“The table is going to be something of a monstrosity,” he said with a blunt lack of tact he rarely expressed aloud no matter who the customer or who the listener. “But she seems inordinately pleased with the drawings.”
“She is,” she said. “She even went so far as to say she can scarcely wait to unveil the table to all her neighbors and friends. I would not be at all surprised if she holds a special dinner party to celebrate when the table has been made and installed. I assume it was precisely her instructions you followed when you drew up the plans? For I do agree with your opinion. It sounds rather…busy. You are making her very happy, though, Matthew.”
“I aim to please,” he said, and smiled back at her.
He still felt embarrassed about what had happened when she called on him last week. Entering that carving for the contest at the fete two years ago had been done on a whim. He had been hesitant about exposing it to public scrutiny because it was so precious to him. More important, though, he had wondered if she would recognize herself in it. He had been unable to resist finding out. He had convinced himself that she probably did not even remember that brief moment in her youth, the day before all the excitement of receiving and accepting a marriage proposal from the Earl of Stratton. Even if she did remember, he had assured himself, she would hardly see herself in what he had carved in a burst of creative energy.
But it seemed she had remembered, and she had recognized herself. He wondered if she understood the significance of the factthat he kept it in his bedchamber rather than more prominently displayed in the living room or with most of the others in his workroom.
The whole thing had been a self-indulgence he rarely allowed himself. For that incident had happened more than thirty years ago, when he had lived upon raw emotion, something he would not go back to for any consideration in the world. Anyone who thought youth was the best time of one’s life was clearly an ass.
“Shall I show you the preliminary design for the crib?” he asked, raising his left hand, in which he held a large scroll of parchment paper. “It is only preliminary. You may change anything or everything about it.”
“Why do you not spread it on the table over here?” she said, leading the way and removing the bowl of flowers and the lace cloth upon which it stood so he would have plenty of space. She set the bowl on a sideboard and folded the cloth neatly beside it. She brought back with her two small, heavy-looking crystal candlesticks to hold down the outer edges of the drawing so it would not immediately snap back into its roll.
“Oh, just look at it,” she said in obvious delight as she leaned over the table.
The crib itself would be a solid, but not too heavy, structure of simple design, though he would contrive to have one of the longer sides movable so it could be lowered almost to the level of the mattress for easy lifting in and out of the baby. He had made a rough indication on the main drawing of what he intended for the headboard and footboard, on both the outside and the inside. The smiling elephant with curled trunk and ears like huge fans would dominate the inside of the footboard, while a laughing monkey would climb the post on one side and a giraffe would be featuredon the whole of the leg and post at the other side, munching upon the leaves of a tree whose branches spread out over the top of the board. A puppy, a kitten, and a baby rabbit would cuddle together and smile down at the baby from the headboard. Two of the legs and the bars would be twined with climbing plants and flowers and small birds and butterflies and ladybirds. He wanted to make it all shamelessly unrealistic. Even the flowers and the ladybirds smiled.
“Oh,” Clarissa said again after gazing in silence for several minutes. “How absolutely adorable, Matthew.”
“Everything will have smooth curves and no sharp edges,” he told her. “Nothing that could hurt a baby.”
She straightened up and looked at him with flushed cheeks and eyes that still sparkled. “It will be a masterpiece,” she said. “Ben and Jennifer are going to absolutely love it. Joy too.”
Joy, he recalled, was Ben Ellis’s daughter from a previous marriage.
“Is she happy about the new baby?” he asked.
She laughed. “Apparently she has not stopped bouncing since she was told,” she said. “Though I hope for all their sakes that is something of an exaggeration. She has longed for a brother or sister. She is five years old and will be a splendid older sister.”
He marveled anew at how Clarissa had accepted Ben into the family. It must have been incredibly difficult for her. Had Stratton claimed that the mother, recently deceased, was a former mistress, dismissed before he married Clarissa? Or had she known then, and had she always known, what sort of man she had wed?
It was really none of his business, though. She had seemed happy enough when he had returned from his long travels and settled in Boscombe. She had been as beautiful as ever, and as warmly charming. They had made a handsome couple, she and Stratton,and had seemed devoted to each other—until the end, or what Matthew thought of as the end, though Stratton had lived four or five years longer before his sudden death.
“You trust me to proceed, then, Clarissa?” he asked, indicating the plans.
He heard the echo of her name. Was it offensive for a village carpenter to call a dowager countess by her given name? Had he done it at all when she called in his rooms last week? He could not remember, though he was pretty sure he had not done so in all the years since her marriage. Yet she called him Matthew more often than she did Mr. Taylor.
