“Yes,” she said softly.
“But more than that I cannot say in all honesty,” he said. “I am sorry. Perhaps I ought to fake it because maybe I am in love with you and have just never quite understood that phrase. Or—”
“No,” she said. “Thank you for not pretending, Owen. And the thing is, you see, that I feel exactly as you do. I love you dearly. You are the best friend I have ever had. But I do not believe I amin lovewith you. And it is not a mere trick of words, you know. My mother and father are in love with each other. I believe your mother and Mr. Taylor are too, and other couples I could name. It is unmistakable when you see it.”
“Yes,” he said. “It is. I am sorry, Winifred. Sorry I have embarrassed you, that is. I—”
“You have not embarrassed me,” she said. “You have helped clarify something in my mind. And your marriage proposal is a feather in my cap, you know. I have now hadtwooffers of marriage since the ball at Archer House. It will be something to boast of during my old age.”
She laughed and Owen smiled at her.
“To your grandchildren,” he said.
“Perhaps,” she said. “So, is it true that Bertrand is coming here in time for the fete?”
“It is,” he said. “Devlin and Gwyneth love to fill the house for the fete, and this week all the family will be here. You will enjoy yourself, Winifred.”
“I know I will,” she said, smiling fondly at him.
Well, this had been a night to remember, she thought as he helped her to her feet, offered his arm, and led her back in the direction of the drive and the house above it. It was deep dusk, almost dark, but it would not be a black night. The sky was alreadystudded with moon and stars. This might well have been one of the happiest evenings of her life, she thought. Instead, it had brought a certain melancholy, but also a sense of rightness. There had never been any aura of romance about her relationship with Owen Ware, only kinship of mind and a genuineliking.
She was happy that the matter had been cleared up once and for all.
Perhaps—oh, perhaps—she would fall in love one day with a man who would fall in love with her. And if not, well, she would make happiness out of what she had. And she would always remember that day, the happiest of her life, when Mama had offered her the possibility of a permanent home and security and unconditional love.
She thought of Colonel Ware advising her always to remember that day when she slid into one of her rare moods of depression.
And she thought of him kissing her this afternoon and calling herWin, a low, caressing tone in his voice. She would always remember it without allowing her heart to break. He and Miss Haviland were obviously made for each other, and she would be happy for them when they were betrothed, perhaps this week.
She really would.
—
Winifred found it strangely freeing to wake up the following morning to the realization that what she had hoped for with varying degrees of intensity, and denial, for the past few months—in London, at home in Bath, and here—was just not going to happen.By her own choice.Owen had offered and she had refused. She could have lain in bed and let her mood spiral downward into depression. It was finally over, that dream. Instead, she bounded out of bed, threw back the curtains at the window, drewa deep breath of the fresh morning air through the open window, and felt herself fill with excitement for the coming days. The Earl and Countess of Stratton’s new guests would be arriving, starting this afternoon with the earl’s elder half brother—the late earl’sby-blow, whom Colonel Ware credited with saving his life in the Peninsula, or at least his leg.
But her excitement extended beyond the arrival of new guests and the fete on Saturday. Her mind was exhilarated too about the future in general. She could do whatever she wished with it. What an unbelievable gift the future was.
First on the agenda was to be a walk into the village after breakfast. Last night she had agreed to accompany Stephanie to a choir practice at the church. She had liked Sir Ifor Rhys the first time she met him at Cartref. She had been enthralled by the music he produced from the great pipe organ when she attended church on Sunday. Now she looked forward to hearing what he could do with a choir. According to Stephanie, he could make stones sing if he wished. This morning Winifred would hear two of his choirs—the children’s, which would sing at the ceremony that would open the fete, and the adults’, which would sing at a midday organ and choral recital on the same day.
Listening turned out to be pure pleasure. Winifred thought of how much both choirs would be appreciated if they performed a concert at home in Bath. Stephanie had a solo part with the adult choir. She had a pure soprano voice. Winifred would have loved to hear more of it.
“You are an enormously talented singer,” she said as they walked home together later.
“Thank you.” Stephanie blushed. “But I take no particular credit.”
“Sir Ifor is clearly a talented musician himself, and he recognizes talent in others,” Winifred said. “He would not have singled you out to sing solo before a crowd of people at the fete if he did not see talent in you. No doubt he has helped nurture you. But even if he were not here, you know, you would still have the voice. And you would surely have chosen to use it and share it, even if only among family and friends. But I will not embarrass you further. It seems to be a role sometimes thrust upon me at our arts center, though, that of chief encourager. That is the name one group gave me, anyway. I only hope it was meant as a compliment. I have noticed, though, that many people belittle their own talents and never develop them to the full simply because they lack belief in themselves or are afraid of appearing boastful. So they deny themselves the happiness of knowing who they really are. Oh dear. Sometimes I do run on and on. You may tell me to be quiet anytime you wish.”
But Stephanie was laughing as she linked an arm through Winifred’s.
“Very well,” she said. “I believe you. I am the best soprano in the world, and Boscombe and its surrounds are privileged beyond belief that I will condescend to sing to them.”
Winifred joined in her laughter.
“What a happy week this is going to be,” she said. “It must be lovely for you to have all the rest of your family coming home for the occasion. Are you especially close to your sister?”
“I am now,” Stephanie said. “It was not always so. Pippa is almost six years older than I. It was too wide an age gap to bring us close when we were growing up. But it is surprising how that gap seemed to narrow as we grew older. I sometimes spend time with her at Greystone Court when she cannot come here. I was there for several months while she was expecting Pamela. The twins wereterribly energetic—at least, Emily was. Christopher has always been the more placid twin. Lucas—my brother-in-law—is fond of saying Christopher would not even fight for his rights when he was born. Emily is half an hour older than he. I was able to take some of their care off Pippa’s hands while I was there, though they have always had an excellent nurse, and Lucas is a very attentive husband and father. He does not make an excuse of his busy duties as Duke of Wilby.”
“Family is terribly important, is it not?” Winifred said, smiling. “I missed my own very much when I spent a few weeks in London with my father earlier this spring. It is lovely to have them all here. It was extraordinarily generous of the earl to invite us all.”
