Her head came up when she was no farther than a foot or two away from him, and she looked at him, startled.
It seemed to him that she was pale, though perhaps it was only the absence of sunlight that gave the impression.
“I came to take my leave of everyone,” he said.
Her son smiled up at him, though he looked as if he had been crying.
“I am going to ask Mr. Upton about those oil paints,” he said.
Sydnam smiled back at him.
“David,” Anne said, without taking her eyes off Sydnam, “make your bow to Mr. Butler if you please, and then climb inside the carriage where you will be dry.”
“Good-bye, David,” Sydnam said, “and thank you for letting me see one of your paintings.”
“Good-bye, sir.” The boy bobbed his head in a quick gesture of respect and half dived into the carriage out of the rain.
And so they were left alone together for the last time, he and Anne Jewell—with people beyond the open door into the house on one side and people inside the row of carriages on the other side. The setting could hardly have been more public.
But he ignored everything except the woman standing before him.
Anne. Whom he liked exceedingly well. Whom perhaps he loved.
No—whom hedidlove.
She was leaving. He would never see her again even though his body felt its knowledge of hers like a dull ache.
And his heart? Well, it felt now rather as if it had acquired lead weights to drag it downward.
“You will remember your promise?” he asked, offering her his hand.
“Yes.”
She was looking at his chin. But she set her left hand in his. He bent his head over it and raised it to his lips for a few moments. He was terribly aware then that they had an audience—which quite possibly had assiduously turned its collective attention elsewhere since undoubtedly it had collectively arranged for this final, brief tête-à-tête.
She looked up into his face as he raised his head and released her hand, and he could see the drizzle beaded on her cheeks and eyelashes. A frown creased her brow.
“Good-bye,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.
“Good-bye.” Somehow he smiled at her.
She turned and scrambled up the steps into the carriage with the children before he could offer to assist her, and her attention was taken by Freyja’s young daughter, who opened her arms to be picked up.
The coachman put up the steps and slammed the door shut before climbing to his perch, and the carriage rocked into motion and turned almost immediately to follow Hallmere’s down the driveway.
She did not look out.
Sydnam was scarcely aware that several other people had stepped out of the house to wave.
He felt lonelier than he ever remembered feeling.
Just this time yesterday he had been looking with satisfaction at the sunshine and anticipating a whole afternoon alone with her at Ty Gwyn.
Just yesterday.
Now she was gone.
A hand came to rest on his right shoulder, and he looked up into Bewcastle’s austere, impassive face.
