Mr. Taylor got to his feet at last. “I will take you to see some of my wood carvings, Miss Cunningham,” he said, “since you specifically requested it. Are you coming too, Owen? Clarissa?”
“But of course,” Owen said, reaching out a hand for Winifred’s and squeezing it as he helped her to her feet. “It is why we came.”
“I believe Iwillcome, Matthew,” the dowager said. “Though I told you earlier I would not.”
They set off along the path to the drive, where they turned left onto the bridge and so across the river to the village green. The smithy was on the far side of it, on the same side as the church and the inn and village shop. They ascended steep outside stairs to the rooms above the smithy, once the home of the blacksmith and his family, now a carpenter’s workshop. How lovely it must be, Winifred thought, to live in or close to a picturesque rural village, whereeveryone knew and watched out for everyone else. Though there would also be the reverse side of that coin too, she supposed. Everyone probably knew everyone else and all their business too.
She was enchanted when they stepped inside the rooms, not least by the sounds and smells coming from the smithy below and the smell of wood up here. The rooms of the old living quarters, still kept intact and largely dust-free, were small but cozy. The window in the living room offered a picturesque view over the street and across the green and the river to Ravenswood land, though the hall itself was invisible from here.
But they had come to see the carvings, which Mr. Taylor kept on a high shelf in the large inner workroom. He had moved most of them down onto the worktable, though, for ease of viewing today. She was touched that he had prepared for her visit, as though she were someone important.
She feasted her eyes on the carvings. Some were small and exquisitely detailed. A few were larger and bolder: a field worker leaning on his hoe, squinting into the middle distance, a battered straw hat pushed to the back of his head, presumably because of the perspiration one could almost see on his brow; an elderly lady sleeping in her rocking chair, eyeglasses slipped down her nose, her mouth half open; a couple of children, their heads almost touching, intent upon the open book they held between them on their crossed legs; a baby curled into a plump ball and quite clearly rocking with laughter as it tried to suck a big toe. And more.
But it was a small pug-nosed puppy, standing firmly on all four feet, looking alive and ready to take on the world, that she stroked with one light finger while she smiled at it in delight.Yes, little dog, confront the world. Never cower from it.
“You are an artist after my father’s own heart,” she told Mr.Taylor. “Your work pulses with life and feeling. I do look forward to seeing your contest entry at the fete.”
“Thank you,” he said while Owen squeezed her hand again.
“I’ll buy that puppy for Winifred,” he told Mr. Taylor. “So she will remember today.”
“You do not need tobuyit, Owen,” Mr. Taylor said. “I was about to give it to her as a gift.”
But Winifred, eyes wide with surprise and wonder, noticed the look he exchanged with his wife, and her almost imperceptible shake of the head as she glanced sideways at Winifred.
“However,” Mr. Taylor said, “I will not deprive you of the pleasure of purchasing the gift and giving it yourself, Owen.”
“Oh,” Winifred said. “I will always treasure it.”
Both men smiled at her while the dowager countess nodded. And Winifred realized something with a bit of a shock. Owen’s mother thought there was aromancedeveloping between her son and Winifred. And she was giving it her tacit blessing.
Wasthere? A romance developing, that was. And did she really want there to be? It was so hard to read Owen’s mind. Or to understand her own.
But as they walked back to the hall later, having left the older couple in the workshop, Winifred felt that it was a long time since she had spent such a happy day. How lovely it must be to belong to this place and this family.
Perhaps…
Oh, perhapsnothing.
“They like you, Winifred,” Owen said, covering her hand on his arm with his own. “But how could they not?”
“Thank you so very much for my gift,” she said, clutching the puppy, which had been carefully wrapped, in her free hand. “I wasthinking of purchasing it myself, you know, partly as a thank-you to Mr. Taylor for taking me there and partly because I really wanted her.”
“Her?”Owen said, sounding amused. “The puppy is female, is it?”
“Certainly,” she said. “Female and proud of it.”
He laughed.
—
Nicholas meanwhile had arrived back from the drive over the hills he had intended to take in his curricle. But with four people, he had been forced to take the barouche instead. A narrow roadway ran along the crest of the hills, connecting the southern path through the park with the northern. It had been a perfect day, the sky blue above them and nothing to obstruct the stunning views in all directions. General and Mrs. Haviland had been fully appreciative of every vista that opened up before them and to either side. The general had even stepped down from the barouche with Nicholas for a few minutes to walk to the edge of the rise and peer over the steep sides, almost sheer in a few places. Grace had assured her mother that she was neither afraid of the heights nor made queasy by the ups and downs of the road. She had smiled at Nicholas when they arrived back at the house and thanked him for giving them such a pleasant afternoon.
Nicholas had dismissed the coachman and returned the barouche to the carriage house himself. He had unhitched the horses and brushed them down and fed and watered them while dealing with his frustrations until he could let them go. It was perfectly unexceptionable for a man who was conducting a serious courtship under the indulgent eyes of his own family and hers to take her offonce in a while for a private drive in an open vehicle on his family’s land. Why, in the name of all that was sacred, did she constantly avoid letting it happen? Did she not want to be alone with him? Get to know him better? Perhaps indulge in a chaste kiss with him?
He stopped beside Robbie Cunningham on his way out of the stable block. The boy and his dog were standing guard over an oblivious Andrew, who was chipping happily away at that hideous rock. The dog—Nelson—thumped its tail on the floor and panted a sort of welcome. The boy glowered.
“He is quite safe,” he said as though Nicholas had declared otherwise. “I am watching him.”
