She took Nicholas by surprise. She was really very young—and rather lovely. She could not be much older than he was, perhaps no older at all. But of course, Winifred Cunningham was heradopteddaughter. It was possible there were no more than thirteen or fourteen years between them in age. The thought was a bit jolting. Even Joel Cunningham, to whom he had been introduced at the Netherby ball, was probably no older than forty.
Nicholas looked about at the family after bowing over Mrs. Cunningham’s hand and shaking her husband’s. They looked like a happy group of youngsters. He hated to see children so rigidly disciplined that they would not move a muscle or open their mouths when outside the nursery.
He liked children generally. It really was high time he had some of his own. He hoped Grace was not of the school of thought that decreed children belonged in the nursery and should speak only when spoken to when they were out of it.
Devlin was introducing Mama to Mr. Cunningham. Nicholas had assured her she would like the man. He had seemed a decent sort during the brief conversation they had had at the ball.
A large dog of shaggy appearance and no obvious breed had just been released from the baggage coach. It shook itself furiously and galloped toward the oldest boy before throwing itself against his legs in an ecstasy of joy at their reunion. The boy rubbed its head with both hands and pulled its ears, and it panted happily up at him before trotting about the gathered masses, identifying friends and sniffing at strangers. It paused before Nicholas and tried to sniff his crotch.
“Nelson!” the boy and Miss Winifred Cunningham said inunison, the former with stern authority, the latter in an agony of embarrassment.
“Sit!” Nicholas commanded and was a bit surprised when the dog obeyed. “He is a family pet, is he?”
“He is mine,” the boy said, a certain degree of hostility in his voice. “And he does not do that for anyone but me.”
“I am delighted he made one exception for me today, then,” Nicholas said. “How do you do, Miss Cunningham?” He shook her hand. “I trust you had a comfortable journey?”
The dog trotted to the edge of the terrace to gaze longingly across the lawn to the sheep in the meadow. Another word of command from the boy convinced him to abandon any idea of galloping off to terrorize them.
“Yes, thank you, Colonel Ware,” Miss Cunningham said.
She stood very still, her hands clasped before her, looking anything but comfortable now. She was expecting him to bark them all into military order, perhaps? She really did not like him, did she? Perhaps because he had ridiculed her claim to be opposed to all warfare.
“Before everyone disappears inside,” he said, “perhaps you would be so good as to identify them all.”
“Certainly,” she said. “Though you will not remember them afterward. You have already met Mama and Papa. Emma and Susan are clinging to Mama’s skirts, one on each side. They are twins, identical twins, as no doubt you can see.”
“And which is which?” he asked. They were remarkably alike. They even wore identical clothing.
“Susan is on Mama’s left and Emma on her right,” she said. “It is scarcely necessary to be able to tell them apart, however. They areinseparable and tend to be known collectively as Emnsue. And lest you think Mama is not sensible enough at least to dress them differently, I must explain that dressing them the same was not her choice. They have always insisted upon it, even down to the color and width of the bows in their hair.”
They were maybe three or four years old.
“Samuel is the one climbing into Papa’s arms,” she said, “though he has been told repeatedly that he is getting too old to keep on doing that. He is six.”
“But why grow up before one must?” he said.
“Alice, the one with the curls, is holding Sarah’s hand and looking toward the meadow,” she said. “She is eight. Sarah was adopted with me when Mama and Papa married. She was just a baby at the time.”
The older girl, Sarah, was perhaps twelve or thirteen years old and showed all the promise of great beauty.
“Andrew is the one standing apart and gazing at the stonework on the house,” she said. “Mama and Papa adopted him when no one else would. He was born deaf and thus is unable to speak or read and write or communicate with others. He is very special.”
Very special tohermaybe,Nicholas thought, while others might find it more comfortable to avoid a boy who could neither hear nor speak—nor read or write. Miss Cunningham’s look softened on her brother, however, and he half smiled back at her as he turned away from the house. Perhaps that old cliché about love needing no language had some truth to it. Owen had been attracted to her because she cared, as he did, for people who might need a helping hand. But how could one help such a child?
“And the one with the dog is Robbie,” she said. “He came to us because the orphanage could not do anything with him. He was…difficult. No one wanted to keep him. Two families who took him brought him back within a week. Mama and Papa adopted him without a trial period. He had to belongsomewhere, Mama explained to us. Why not with us? Why not, indeed? We all adore him.”
The boy was about fourteen or fifteen, a dark-haired lad with a dour, morose look about him. He was the sort of boy who often ended up as a recruit in a foot regiment, being whipped into shape by a sergeant, sometimes literally. Such boys often ended up as sullen, ruthless killers.
Miss Cunningham would disapprove.
So, incidentally, did he, though often it was a preferable fate to ending up in one of Britain’s jails or kicking away their lives at the end of a rope.
And that was the family. As well as Winifred Cunningham herself, of course, the eldest. Disciplined, as neatly and plainly dressed as she had always been in London, without any obvious attempts at feminine appeal. Except that he had thought of her numerous times in the past month, especially after he had learned that she would be coming here for a few weeks of the summer with her father and the rest of the family.
He had already committed himself by then to coming too. He had given Gwyneth and Devlin the nod, and they had invited General Haviland and his wife and daughter to Ravenswood. He was still plagued by doubt about the expectations he must have aroused, but soon it would be too late to change his mind. It was already too late, in fact. They were due to arrive tomorrow, and they would hardly be coming if Grace intended to say no.
Devlin and Gwyneth were making a move to lead everyone inside. Devlin offered his arm to Mrs. Cunningham while Gwyneth took Cunningham’s. Owen gave his arm to Mama.
