Nicholas went riding without her.
It was very hard to find time alone with her, even in the presence of others. While Owen and Winifred often sat in the drawing room after dinner, deep in conversation with each other, their heads almost touching, Grace always made sure she was part of a group. It might include Nicholas, but she gave him no more attention than she gave anyone else. It was perfect drawing room etiquette, of course. But this was not a London drawing room filled with fashionable guests. This was a relaxed family setting at Ravenswood. It was acourtshipsetting, as everyone understood.
When she did talk exclusively to him, as might happen if he was seated next to her at the dining table or in the drawing room, she always gave him her full attention and the full force of her charm and her smile. Her conversation was polished—and impersonal. Sometimes he got drawn in by her sheer beauty and believed that they were close after all, that she was merely being cautious because most of the people surrounding her were little more than strangers.
But he was frustrated and a bit worried.
He wondered about her avoidance of the children. Was it because of a basic shyness and unfamiliarity with them? She had no siblings, after all, and therefore no nieces or nephews. Or was it because of a definite aversion to children? Would she be different with her own? Or would she be the sort of mother who would visit them in the nursery at an appointed hour each day and leave their upbringing and education to nurses and governesses? That very real possibility filled him with misgiving.
And by God, he thought before the first week was out, he really did not know much about the woman he was now obliged to marry, did he? Except that she was perfect—in ways that had seemed to matter before he considered reality as opposed to the ideal. WhowasGrace Haviland? It frankly terrified him that he did not know the answer. Why had he not realized it before getting Devlin to invite her here and thus committing himself?
He knew why, though. He had given up seeking out the one woman who could make him happy and whom he could make happy. He had given up on love and intuition and the heart and chosen instead to go with the head. A head that had not been functioning as it ought. A head that had considered beauty and dignity and perfect good manners to be enough. He needed to discover if there was more to Grace than met the eye, however. Surely there was. Though what could he do if there was not? There was nothing. He was committed.
The children brought his own childhood back to him with an ache of nostalgia. He and his siblings had had the same sort of freedom as the Cunninghams had. He had often used his to walk over to Cartref, where he would play for hours on end with Gwyneth or, when they were no longer young children, they would climb trees and lie along the limbs while sharing their dreams of the future. But much of his time was spent at home. He and his older brothers—and Pippa—had constantly found scrapes to get into. The younger children had squabbled endlessly until Ben or Devlin would threaten to bash their heads together, a threat that was never put to the test. Both their parents had been remarkably indulgent. Mama had spent a great deal of time with them during the spring months while their father was in London, taking them on walks and picnics, rowing them all, a couple at a time, across the lake tothe small island and playing imaginative games with them there. Or swimming with them.
Those had been good days. Unfortunately, the disastrous way they had ended had caused Nicholas to block out the memories as he concentrated upon making a success of his career. He could not have those days back, of course. They were irretrievable for all sorts of reasons. But he could visit his family more often, and he could produce a family of his own. He could hope that Grace’s ideas of child-rearing would not clash too drastically with his.
He knew Winifred’s did not. Her claim to adore her family was no empty boast. She even paid attention to the two who often held themselves apart. She was always available to Andrew, communicating with him with the rudimentary sign language she had devised. She was always patient with Robbie, who tended to glower suspiciously at the world from beneath heavy hair, which had been allowed to grow too long. She would stand beside him, an arm loosely about his shoulders when he looked as if he might be about to erupt into a temper tantrum. He never turned his ire upon her.
Owen had the same open appreciation of children. If it was indeed courtship between the two of them, it boded well for the future. They seemed perfect for each other.
Ah, he could not keep himself from making the comparisons. He could not stop feeling a faint envy of his brother.
But what of Grace herself? She would almost certainly accept his marriage proposal. But why? Because her parents were pressing it on her? Because she was close to thirty and had decided it was time to put an end to her spinsterhood and the long years spent mourning the deaths of two fiancés? Had she loved either or both of them?
Did she love him?
He tried to tell himself that the answer did not really matter. But then he would look at Devlin and Gwyneth and at his mother and Matthew Taylor, even at Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham, and know that itdidmatter. The sooner he proposed marriage to Grace, the better it would be for him since it was something he could not avoid now.
But by God, hewishedthe visits of the Havilands and the Cunninghams had not coincided as they had.
Chapter Nine
The countess had taken the Cunninghams and her own children to the lake for a picnic tea. Stephanie had gone with them. The earl was to join them later, after seeing to some estate business that could not wait. Owen had gone to visit Clarence Ware, a cousin and close friend from his childhood, who had come home with his wife to attend the fete next week. General and Mrs. Haviland and their daughter had been invited to take tea with a retired military man, Colonel Wexford; his daughter, Ariel; and his sister, Miss Prudence Wexford. Colonel Ware would presumably go with them.
Winifred had been on her way to the lake with the picnic party. She had been looking forward to it, having seen the lake only from a distance so far. She loved picnic teas. Food somehow tasted more appetizing when eaten outdoors. She liked both the countess and Stephanie. However, Andrew, as he sometimes did, chose not to keep up with the pace set by the others, all of whom were eager to be at the lake so they could swim or splash around in the water orride in one of the boats. He chose, rather, to explore every meandering rise and dip that made the terrain of the parkland so varied and attractive. Mama had offered to remain behind with him for as long as he needed, but Winifred persuaded her to go on with the others. Mama was greatly enjoying this visit—perhaps, Winifred thought, because it reminded her of the time when, as Lady Camille Westcott, she had been invited to numerous house parties.
Andrew often seemed overwhelmed by large numbers of people and boisterous activities. Even though he did not hear sound, he was very aware of his surroundings. He preferred sometimes to ignore the group and gaze at the ever-changing skies, at views, at flowers, and even at grass. And they all understood—even the younger children—and treated him with great patience, though the delay he was causing today was a bit hard for them to bear.
“I will stay with him,” Winifred said. “Go on, Mama. We will be along later.”
She often wondered about Andrew’s inner world. It would be too easy to look at him from the outside and pity the poverty of his existence. But how could a person with hearing and speechknowand make that judgment? Perhaps his life was as rich as hers, though in a different way, incomprehensible to her. Yes, she had devised a sort of sign language to allow some communication between them, but it was severely limited and dealt only with facts, not feelings or thoughts or dreams.
After the others had disappeared, taking all their energy and exuberance with them, Winifred felt suddenly and unexpectedly sad. Papa had finished his initial interviews with the dowager countess and was ready to paint her portrait. He expected to be finished sometime next week, though he and Mama had agreed to stay at Ravenswood for the fete on Saturday since it would be funfor all of them, especially the children. More houseguests were expected, including more children. On the Monday after, though, they would return to Bath.
They would have been here a little longer than two weeks. Any dream Winifred had had that Owen would use this opportunity to court her and make her a marriage offer had faded, and she had told herself she was content with that. There was the day of the fete itself, of course, most notably the evening ball, which sounded very romantic. But she was not optimistic that the present state of affairs would change between them. He was as friendly as he had ever been with her, as interested in the children, and as curious as ever to find out more about them, particularly Robbie and the morose, unruly behavior he had demonstrated when Mama and Papa had brought him into their family from the orphanage.
Owen had long had ideas of working with troubled and delinquent children, though various stints at volunteering his help at homes in London had opened his eyes to the fact that it was not easy or even, in most cases, possible. Feeling compassion was not nearly enough. He dreamed of a different life for them, as he told Winifred during that first week, perhaps on a farm that would give them access to the countryside and wildlife and fresh, clean air as well as vigorous hard work to help run the place and fun time for games. He wanted to encourage them to talk about what troubled them and somehow help them learn to let it go. Oh, he understood it would be no easy thing to do, that there would be no magical solution. He knew that getting into the heads of such children to understandwhythey were as they were would often be impossible. He knew they would need medical, specialized help as well as the patient assistance of other adults who felt as he did. He knew there would be disappointments and outright failures along theway. Love and the mere eagerness to help were not nearly sufficient to change the world.
But he dreamed anyway.
Winifred was excited by his ideas, especially his hope of settling down in a country home of his own, which apparently he felt he could afford. How she would love to work alongside him there, though she knew all about how difficult and frustrating such work would be. Of course, she would be unable to live on a country estate with him just as a friend.
So far, he had not hinted that he would even like her help. And, if she was honest with herself, there had never been any suggestion of romance in their friendship, either in London or here. A few evenings ago, the Earl of Stratton had suggested after dinner that Owen show her the poplar alley since she had seen it so far only from the window of her bedchamber. They could stroll along it and perhaps sit for a while in the summerhouse at the end of it, he had said. It might be a good idea, the countess had added, if they took a lantern with them in case darkness fell while they were still out there.
It was an obvious ruse on their part to give the two of them time alone together in a secluded, potentially romantic setting. Mama had smiled and nodded her encouragement. Owen had been totally oblivious. That was quite obvious to Winifred.
“A splendid idea,” he had said, beaming at her. “Winifred?”
