He chuckled. “We all thought she had taken leave of her senses when she begged Devlin for permission to have it built on Ravenswood land,” he said. “I do not believe she even had it in mind tomarry Matthew at the time. She intended to live there alone. There was the whole of this vast house for her to kick around in, and she had a very spacious and luxurious apartment here for times when she wished to be private. I always thought it was a sort of house within a house. But she was adamant. She was turning fifty, she was going through some sort of crisis, and she wanted a place of her own. We were all dashed upset about it and worried about her. But she assured us that none of us had done anything to offend her—except try to smother her in loving care, I suspect. We so wanted to make her life comfortable, as she had made ours when we were children. We were always afraid she would be lonely while we rushed about on our own selfish business. It’s funny how sometimes we can love someone too much, isn’t it?”
“I suppose most of us want to be free as well as loved,” she said. “I suppose mothers want some freedom to be themselves again after all their children are grown. But will your mother mind if I arrive at her cottage unannounced?”
“I very much doubt it,” he said. “She loves to entertain close family and friends. I’ll dash off a note to her, though, if it will make you feel easier in your mind. You will enjoy yourself there, and I will enjoy seeing you enjoy yourself.”
It was one of those moments when she felt that there was something about her after all that made her special to him—just as there was something abouthim.
They set out an hour or so after luncheon, alone together miraculously. No one else had attached themselves and decided to come too. Everyone had something else to do.
Papa was in the gallery, working on his portrait. Mama had gone too, taking the twins and Awen Ware with her. Their real destination, though, was the glass sunroom above the gallery, wherethere was a basket of children’s books as well as masses of cushions to be jumped on or fought with or napped upon. Robbie and Nelson were out in the north wing, keeping guard with fierce intensity at the entrance to the stables to make sure Andrew was not disturbed as he carved his stone. The other children had gone with Stephanie and the earl and countess to play at Cartref with Mr. and Mrs. Rhys’s children. Sarah went too to play with their baby.
Colonel Ware had taken Miss Haviland for a drive out to the hills that bordered Ravenswood to the east. He had explained to her that there was a narrow but quite safe road along the top with views across Ravenswood on the one side and Cartref on the other. Inevitably General and Mrs. Haviland had gone with them—at the invitation of Miss Haviland herself, though that had not been the colonel’s intention, Winifred realized with one glance at his face before he masked his annoyance and smiled politely. What waswrongwith that woman?
The dowager countess was strolling in her flower garden when Winifred and Owen arrived at the cottage. She smiled warmly at their approach.
“I am delighted Owen has brought you to take tea with us, Miss Cunningham,” she said, reaching out a hand for Winifred’s. “I am happy too that it is a perfect day so you can see the cottage and garden at their best. I am quite sure nerves are fraying for miles around here, with everyone fearing that the weather will break any day now and we will be rained upon for the fete. By some miracle it has never happened before, but the naysayers will warn that there has to be a first time for everything.”
She had been leading the way inside the house as she talked and was seating them in the cozy living room as Mr. Taylor came downstairs to join them, his hair damp from a washing.
“Good to see you, Owen,” he said, shaking him by the hand. “We were delighted that you were bringing Miss Cunningham for tea. I will be more than happy to take the two of you into the village afterward to see my wood carvings. It is always flattering to be asked. Though you must promise to heap praises upon them, Miss Cunningham. I am very sensitive about such matters.” He shook her hand, smiling with a distinct twinkle in his eye. “I finished work early today and even did a quick tidy-up of the workshop for your benefit.”
“You always do before leaving there, Matthew,” the dowager said. “You hate bringing even one speck of sawdust into the cottage.”
“I live in fear that you will banish me back to live where I came from if I did, Clarissa,” he said.
The dowager explained to Winifred that he had lived in the small rooms next to his workshop above the smithy for years before marrying her, earning his living as a carpenter. Yet he had been born and raised a gentleman on the estate adjoining that of her own parents, ten miles or so from here. They had been very close friends during their growing years, until she married the Earl of Stratton and came to live and raise a family at Ravenswood. Mr. Taylor, meanwhile, disappeared off the face of the earth for several years, only to reappear to settle in those rooms in Boscombe. A few years ago they had rekindled their friendship.
And rather more than just friendship, Winifred thought. They were clearly very deeply in love.
Their housekeeper carried in a laden tea tray and set it down on the table between the fireplace and the sofa upon which the dowager countess sat with her husband.
How cozy this room must be in the winter, Winifred thought as their hostess poured the tea and her husband offered them daintysandwiches and cakes. Even now the room was warm and welcoming.
Mr. Taylor was a gentleman who had chosen to give up the trappings of gentility to live and work quietly and humbly in a country village. Yet he still owned some property where he had grown up, Owen had told Winifred. He had lived in their village for twenty years or so before marrying his old friend. There must be a whole story attached to those brief details, Winifred thought, intrigued. She would love to know it in its entirety. But she had to remember that genteel people did not blurt out impulsive and intrusive questions just because they wanted toknow.
“I am so glad your story ended happily,” she said.
“Notended, I hope, Miss Cunningham,” Mr. Taylor said.
“I beg your pardon,” Winifred said. “It was a poor choice of word.”
“Mr. Cunningham is hard at work on your portrait, Mama,” Owen said. “He thought at the start that it would be a difficult project because it did not offer enough challenge. You are too lovely for his artist’s taste.”
“Oh dear,” his mother said while Mr. Taylor patted the back of her hand.
“But he changed his mind during the days he spent talking with you,” Owen said. “He says you have multiple complexities of character.”
“That sounds more promising,” she said. “Your family runs a sort of artists’ colony close to Bath, Miss Cunningham?”
“Artists of all kinds,” she said. “Painters, sculptors, musicians, writers. And plays are performed there and concerts for both full orchestras and individual musicians. Lady Stephanie has told me about the choir in which she sings, with Sir Ifor Rhys as conductor.I am quite sure they would draw an audience at home. I must suggest to Mama and Papa that they be invited.”
“Splendid,” the dowager countess said. “They occasionally go to Wales to compete in aneisteddfod. I hope I have pronounced that correctly. Bath would be almost on their route.”
Mr. Taylor laughed. “Perhaps,” he said, “you should have that discussion with your parents, Miss Cunningham, before Clarissa spreads the word and it is all organized.”
“Oh, but they will be delighted,” Winifred assured him. “And we all have a say in what happens there. We have a close connection with an orphanage in Bath. It is where I grew up until the age of nine, when Mama and Papa married and adopted me. They were both teachers there at the time.”
She went on to give some details while they had their tea, hoping she was not shocking them. But theyseemedinterested and asked questions that kept her going.
