The daylight was gradually turning to dusk. There were the beginnings of sunset in the west, with pale pinks and lemons lighting the sky. The colors would multiply and become more intense and fiery within the next half hour or so, and the sky a darker blue and star-studded. The hour for romance.
Nicholas found himself wondering if Owen and Winifred Cunningham were finding romance at the sight of the sunset both on the horizon and reflected in the water of the river.
For one unguarded moment he felt the ache of envy.
Chapter Fourteen
The river path bordered the meadow until it reached the line of trees and then was shaded by their overhanging branches. Winifred and Owen strolled side by side along it, deep in conversation about Owen’s dream. It was not a one-sided conversation, however. It never was with Owen. Winifred talked just as much as he, and he listened and commented and argued and commended just as she listened to him. They were always in perfect accord when they talked. He was always absorbed when the subject was dear to him, but he was neverself-absorbed.
Winifred loved that about him.
When they were eventually under the shade of the trees, sheltered from the view of anyone at the house or in the park, open countryside across from them, the village of Boscombe behind them to the left, they sat on the riverbank and Winifred gazed at the water. It turned glassy in appearance as the sun sank toward the horizon and the pale colors of early sunset promised more glory to come.
If she had tried to imagine the most romantic of all settings, she could not have done any better than this. At first, she felt a pang of longing, knowing that Owen was not feeling it at all. She guessed he was quite oblivious to their surroundings as he talked on. And she loved his focus. But she knew in that moment, without any shadow of doubt, that he would never have romantic feelings toward her. She waited for heartache to strike, but she felt only a pang of regret. It had been such a beautiful dream, she and Owen as partners in every imaginable way. As Mama and Papa were in what they had set out to do when they married and began adopting children who needed their love and opened their home to artists of various kinds in search of a gathering place. Mama and Papa were able to give it in such abundance because they loved each other. Deeply and—Winifred guessed—passionately.
She would never know that sort of love herself. Her mind flashed unwillingly to riding with Colonel Ware this afternoon and crossing to the island on the lake in a small boat and enjoying his memories of his childhood there and listening with deep sympathy to the story of his loss of innocence, when the true nature of the father he had worshiped and emulated all through his boyhood had been so cruelly revealed. And walking in the forest with him, her hand in his, being silly and laughing with him. Being kissed.
It was strange how the mind could be occupied with two quite distinct threads of thought without losing the ability to concentrate upon both. She continued the conversation with Owen, listening to him, talking in her turn, even while she was aware of her personal pain. For the memories of this afternoon must be put aside. They must be forgotten, though she knew how difficult, perhaps impossible, it was to forget what ought not to be remembered.
She would go home next Monday—she could hardly waitnow—and immerse herself in her busy,happylife, and all this would soon be like a dream, just as being in London had already become like a dream before she came here. If time was not a healer, at least it was a soother.
“I say,” Owen said. “That is quite the sunset, is it not?”
“Sunset twice over,” she said. “In the sky, and reflected on the river. A double blessing.”
He took her hand in his and squeezed it. “Sometimes,” he said, “I wonder why I live in London at all when there is all this beyond its borders.” He made a wide sweeping gesture with his free arm. “I am glad for you that you do not live actually in Bath but in the hills above it.”
“It is beautiful there,” she said.
“I believe it,” he said. “I would like to see it one day.”
They gazed at the scene around them in silence for a while, and she knew that one thing remained intact anyway. She had a deep affection for Owen Ware, and she knew he returned it.
“Perhaps you will come and visit sometime,” she said. “Perhaps meet the children from the orphanage. We usually have at least one picnic for them during the summer. They are there all day, playing and feasting. Sometimes they plan a concert for us.”
He turned his head to gaze at her. “I am going to have to stop dreaming, am I not?” he said. “I am going to have to startdoing. What are dreams without action, after all? I need to purchase some land in the country—a farm. I have some ideas on that. And then I am going to have to start employing suitable candidates, both male and female, to run it. Do you think?”
“There will be an enormous amount of work involved,” she said. “But yes, I think you are ready, Owen.”
She saw his bright, happy expression in the gathering dusk.
“Perhaps you will be part of it,” he said. “Though it is not the life one ought to offer a lady, is it? Will you? Will you marry me so it will all be proper? I believe you are fond of me, as I am of you. I believe we would deal splendidly together.”
Oh no,Winifred thought.Not now.
She did not know quite what to say. Should she allow herself to get caught up in his enthusiasm? Or say an out-and-out no? Maybe ask for time to consider? He was very obviously sincere. Theywerefond of each other, and they shared a dream, but she had learned during her acquaintance with him that sometimes he could be carried onward by an impulsive enthusiasm. The sunset had tipped his affections her way.
He seemed to be having the same thought.
“Oh, I say,” he said. “I am doing this all wrong. Blurting out a proposal as though the idea had only now popped into my head. I have always known you are special. But I ought to have prepared the way. I ought at the very least to have talked with your father before asking you. And I ought to have led up to the actual offer with some sort of ardent speech.”
Despite herself, Winifred laughed.
“But it is your spontaneity that I have always loved most about you, Owen,” she said. “I want to ask you something, though. And I want you to think carefully before you answer. I want it to be an honest one. We have always been honest and open with each other. Do you love me? I mean, are youin lovewith me?”
He transferred his gaze to the river and said nothing for a while.
“They are words,” he said. “I know they mean something special to many people, but quite honestly I do not know exactly what they do mean. Love, yes. But beingin love? You know I love you, Winifred. Surely you know that.”
