—
Joel Cunningham had indeed been inclined to refuse the invitation to Ravenswood to paint the dowager Countess of Stratton’s portrait. The commission would take a few weeks of the summer atjust the time he always tried to be at home and did not schedule any events there. He and Camille sometimes took the children to visit other family members—usually Camille’s brother Harry and his wife and children, or her mother, the Marchioness of Dorchester, both of whom had homes large enough to accommodate them all. At other times they stayed at home to enjoy picnics and day excursions and generally relax in the slower pace of life before all the usual activities began again.
This invitation was intriguing, however, not to mention startling, since it had eventually included his whole family. Ravenswood was reputed to be a vast mansion with a correspondingly large park surrounding it. The children, even those who were old enough to protest that designation, would enjoy themselves enormously, he suspected. So would Camille. And there would be the added carrot of a summer fete to dangle before them.
Even so, he would possibly have refused without even consulting Camille if he had not had a sudden thought. Owen Ware made frequent visits to the small gallery—which also served as Joel’s studio while he was in London—and sat, sometimes for hours, on the hard, backless bench facing the few paintings on display, talking with Winnie. He had taken her with him to watch Trooping the Colour from privileged seats. They had danced at the duchess’s ball. He had taken her driving in his curricle the following day, the same day she refused a marriage offer from that thin, seemingly humorless young clergyman, who nevertheless had a secure, useful future to offer her. She and Owen Ware had visited a few larger galleries together and a few charitable projects favored by young Ware, who seemed to have a strong social conscience, just as Winnie did.
Had he been blind? Had a romance been blossoming between the two young people under his very nose without his realizing it?Camille would cluck her tongue and toss her glance toward the ceiling if she knew he could be so stupid. She frequently accused him of living half his life with his head in the clouds and the other half seeing nothing but the canvas before him. Perhaps she had a point.
Young Ware was a handsome young man, of course, and ever cheerful and gregarious. He was attractive to the ladies, as had been evident at the ball. He was a younger brother of the Earl of Stratton but must have independent means since he kept bachelor rooms in London and showed no signs of poverty or debt or the need to find gainful employment. Joel estimated his age to be in the late twenties, a few years younger than his military brother. Would it be surprising if Winnie was dazzled by his attentions?
Was Ware able to see past the deliberate severity of her appearance and the forthright honesty of her conversation? Was he considering making a match with her? Was it possible she would accept if he offered marriage? Was it possible the young man had devised a scheme for luring her to Ravenswood, where he could pursue his acquaintance with her at his leisure and decide if he wished to move the friendship to a different level? Was that why he, Joel, had been invited to paint the dowager countess’s portrait and why his family had been invited to go with him to Ravenswood when it had seemed he would not accept for himself alone?
He was desperately fond of his eldest daughter and would have given her the moon and the stars if they had been available to him. He felt that way about all his children. Did he have a right now to refuse the commission without consulting Camille so he could discover her thoughts on the matter? He missed her dreadfully when they were forced apart, usually by his work. He always thought of her as the other half of himself. The better half, to use the old cliché. By far the more sensible half.
He wrote to her, only to discover that the Countess of Stratton had already sent a very warm and genuine invitation to the whole family to be their guests at Ravenswood. Camille thought they ought to accept. It would be such a wonderful change for the children to see new places and meet new people. Apparently, there were to be other guests there too.
Winnie seemed pleased when he told her. There was even an unusual blush of color in her cheeks and a brightness in her eye.
“It will be good for the children,” she said, unconsciously echoing her mother. “The park there is huge, according to Owen’s description. There is a large lake. And boats. It will be good for Mama too.”
“And for you?” he said.
She hesitated. “Yes,” she said. “For me as well.”
So they were going. Bag and baggage. Utter madness. Eleven of them. All for one portrait.
Orwasthat all?
—
One month later, Winifred was less sure the visit to Ravenswood Park was a good idea. Mama had always said that when the family went anywhere all together, they were like a traveling circus. Today Winifred had to agree with her. They were squashed into two carriages, all eleven of them, with another trundling along behind, laden with all their baggage and Nelson, Robbie’s large dog, who was not at all happy about being separated from his master and promptly threw up his breakfast all over the floor after a scant two miles. The only good thing about it was that he was not packed into one of the other carriages. Robbie looked a bit green after cleaning up.
Actually, it was ten of them who occupied the carriages. Papa had chosen to ride up on the box with the coachman, to a clamor of protest from Robbie and Jacob and Alice, who each thoughttheyshould go up there too. Mama had vetoed that idea in a hurry even though Robbie had recently turned fifteen and considered himself a man.
They were on their way to Ravenswood Park, Papa to paint a portrait of the Dowager Countess of Stratton, the rest of them to give him company and enjoy the hospitality of the earl and countess, who did not know what was facing them. If they were expecting rows of perfectly groomed and perfectly behaved children, who spoke only when spoken to, they were going to be shockingly disappointed.
And ifshehad been looking forward to seeing Owen again—in the hope of his being largely responsible for bringing Papa here and thus the whole of her family, meaning that he wished to pursue a relationship withher—then she was rapidly changing her mind. She had hoped, when she left London with Papa, that Owen felt for her as she felt for him—a definite romantic attraction, that was, as well as a friendship.She had hoped he might make her a marriage offer while she was at Ravenswood, and they could celebrate their betrothal there, both families together, and proceed to live happily ever after.
It seemed an absurd hope after she had returned home.
She had always told herself, of course, that she really did not mind remaining single all her life, that it would be infinitely better than making a loveless marriage with someone worthy but tedious. And she had meant it. But there had always been the dream too of meeting someone shecouldlove as well as find endlessly interesting. She had just never expected it to be more than a dream. Who wouldwant her, after all? She had nothing to recommend her. Only the Reverend Bowleses of this world would even think of offering for purely practical purposes—to bear and raise his perfect, pious family, to head the ladies’ church committees, to hand out charity baskets to the deserving poor, and to gaze adoringly up at him from a front pew as he delivered his sermons at divine services, while everyone else in the congregation fell asleep.
During the weeks she had spent in Bath, reality had set in. Owen Ware was the brother of anearl. He would demand—and his family would expect—something far more in a bride than Winifred could offer. She had mistaken friendship for something more romantic. Foolish of her! It was really quite embarrassing.
And now, when they were finally on their way to Ravenswood, it struck her that they might all be seen as vulgar, even though Mama was herself the daughter of an earl and had beenLadyCamille Westcott until the great catastrophe had stripped her of everything, including her lifelong devotion to behaving with pride and dignity and strict observance of all that was correct for a lady of her rank and standing. She had been a detestable snob, she admitted cheerfully now.
Winifred sometimes wished she could see her mother as she had been then. She was totally different now. She almost always looked slightly disheveled, with hair that refused to remain confined by pins, no matter how many she used, and clothes that were sometimes slightly rumpled and even grubby from the hands of children clinging to her skirts or climbing into her arms to nestle on her shoulder. She often went barefoot in the house, sometimes even outdoors. And she was happy and relaxed, rarely allowing her temper to be ruffled despite crying children or quarreling children or children who liked to shriek with excitement as they dashed about,playing. There was a nursery in the house, but it was one of the most perpetually empty rooms there.
Owen would take one look at them and flee. He would find some friend to visit for a few weeks until they had all gone back home. But had she not heard that Bertrand was going to Ravenswood for the fete? Owen would have to stay to entertain him.
Goodness only knew how the earl and countess would react to their arrival. Poor things. They would find themselves hoping Papa could complete this particular portrait in record time.
But she would soon find out. The carriages had just turned off the main highway to drive through the pretty village of Boscombe. They skirted the edge of a large village green, the church and an inn and a smithy as well as a shop on the far side of it to their left, while to their right flowed a wide river, and across the water a very picturesque thatched cottage with a bright red door set in an exquisitely colorful garden.
Winifred knew they were close. She guessed the cottage belonged to Owen’s mother. He had described how she had had it built just before she remarried even though the mansion at Ravenswood was vast.
Winifred heard the echo of that thought—the mansion at Ravenswood was vast—just as it came into sight on a slight rise farther back from the river. She swallowed awkwardly and ignored all the exclamations of awe and excitement from her siblings.Vastwas not an extreme enough word. Not evenmansionwas. It waspalatial, a gray stone structure three stories high, with large windows and a central arch and tall turrets at either corner. One of them was topped with what looked like a large glass onion. From her vantage point as the carriage rumbled across a stone bridge and proceededto climb the slope between two flowering meadows occupied by sheep, which had stopped their grazing to watch them pass, she could see that the side of the house was as long as the front. It must be square. Was there a central courtyard through that arch?
