“Anything you wear seems to suit you,” Owen said gallantly.
Plain and ordinary, in other words, she thought.
“I was about to ask you myself, Winnie,” Adrian said as he came to stand in front of them, a cup and saucer in his hand, a shortbread biscuit balanced on the latter. “That will teach me to delay until it is almost time to take my leave.”
Winifred laughed. “Perhaps the two of you should fight a duel over me,” she said. “Or perhaps I will settle the matter without violence and accept your offer, Owen, since it was the first to be made. Thank you. I will look forward to it.”
Her sprigged muslin dress would do, she thought, and her straw bonnet, which was sadly lacking in all adornment except for the blue silk ribbon that circled the brim and tied in a bow to one side of her chin. At least it was no more than one year old. She doubted she would be banished as a social impostor from that particular area of Hyde Park. Most people would remember her from last evening. Besides, she would be with the Honorable Owen Ware.
“Enjoy yourselves,” Adrian said before strolling away to see if Great-Aunt Matilda would be ready to leave soon.
An hour later Winifred had changed her dress and settled her bonnet over her freshly brushed hair and tied the ribbons just so. Owen was already waiting in the hallway when she came downstairs. He nodded his approval.
“You will do very nicely, Winifred,” he said. “Shall we go?”
Her father and Aunt Anna had come down behind her to see her on her way, but it was Owen who handed her up to the high seat of his curricle and made sure her skirt was arranged about her ankles and in no danger of catching on the carriage wheels. She waved to the two on the pavement as he gave the horses the signal to start, and the vehicle moved smoothly away from Archer House and on out of the square.
“I had a letter from my eldest brother—the Earl of Stratton, that is—this morning,” he said. “He was interested to learn that you are the daughter of the famous Joel Cunningham, portrait artist. He is considering asking your father to paint a new portrait of our mother. Do you believe it is something he will be willing to do?At Ravenswood, probably, rather than here. My mother has an aversion to London and comes here only when she absolutely must. It could be a project for the summer—if your father is free and agreeable, of course. I know he is a very busy man and chooses the subjects for his portraits with great care. He was telling me about it last evening at the ball. It seemed a bit of a coincidence that Devlin’s letter came today.”
“I cannot answer for Papa,” Winifred said. “Though I will ask him if you wish.”
“I am quite sure Devlin and Gwyneth would be happy for you to accompany him too,” he said. “Ravenswood is lovely in the summer. At any time, in fact. They would probably welcome your mother too.”
“And all my brothers and sisters?” Winifred asked him, laughing. “I am sure the earl and countess will be aghast when they learn of the broad invitation you are throwing out. I will not hold you to it, but I will talk to Papa.”
He fell silent then while he maneuvered the curricle through the gates into the park and along a broad carriageway, which was crowded at this time of day. Denser throngs of people, horses, and carriages up ahead indicated the hallowed circuit, where the fashionable crowd paraded. The sounds of raised voices and laughter filled the air.
A few weeks of the summer at Ravenswood Hall in Hampshire, Winifred thought. It was a seductive prospect, especially if Owen intended to be there too. Not that Papa’s accepting the commission was a foregone conclusion, of course. He was looking forward to being back home in Bath for the summer. And she was not at all sure Owen’s brother and sister-in-law would be agreeable to the idea of having nine other people, apart from her and Papa, staying attheir home, palatial as it was reputed to be. Or that Mama would be agreeable, or that leaving home would be possible for her.
—
“Tell me about your family,” she said. She knew very little of the Wares except that his eldest brother was an earl and another brother was a cavalry colonel. “Tell me about yourmother.”
It was not a question he was able to answer in any detail, for his curricle soon joined the crowd at the circuit and began the slow progress around it. The object, of course, was not to get anywhere, except about an elliptical route, but rather to hail friends and acquaintances and, more often than not, stop for a chat with them while those vehicles behind were brought to a temporary halt. Winifred wished she had brought a parasol, as so many ladies around her had. They gave their owners something to do with their hands. She did not know what to do with hers.
They did their share of greeting and waving and holding short conversations. Owen appeared to be well known, and Winifred recognized a number of people who had been at the ball last evening. It was not so surprising, she supposed. The cream of society had been there and were here now. The same people probably went everywhere during the weeks of the Season. One wondered what they found to talk about every time—though gossip was probably endlessly new.
She was beginning to relax and even enjoy herself when her eyes alit upon a smart curricle that had just arrived on the scene. Colonel Ware was driving it, looking handsome in his uniform, though it was not the spectacular dress uniform he had worn at Trooping the Colour. He looked just as gorgeous. Perhaps more so, as one couldsee his face today beneath the brim of his shako. At his side sat Miss Haviland, who looked every bit as beautiful as she had last evening, clad in deep rose pink, an elaborately trimmed bonnet covering most of her very dark hair, which nonetheless looked sleek and shining as well as elegant.
They were a stunningly handsome couple.
The two brothers stopped to exchange pleasantries, while the two ladies nodded politely to each other. It seemed doubly absurd to Winifred that General Haviland had treated her last evening as though she were his daughter’s rival for Colonel Ware’s affections. Or perhaps he had simply been offended that the colonel had chosen to sit with anyone other than Miss Haviland.
“Miss Cunningham,” Colonel Ware said, inclining his head to her.
“Colonel Ware,” she said. “I must thank you for the bouquet you sent me today. It is lovely.”
It struck her that it was perhaps not a tactful thing to say in the hearing of Miss Haviland, but the woman must understand that it had been merely a courtesy on his part.
“I am delighted you like it,” he said.
“I do,” she said, and a few moments later, they parted company.
“Miss Haviland is very lovely,” she said as they drove back toward the park gates.
“She is indeed,” Owen agreed. “She was twice betrothed as a younger woman, each time to a high-ranking military officer. But in each case the man was killed in battle, one in Spain, one at Waterloo.”
“Oh,” Winifred said. “How tragic for her.”
