Winifred bounded out of bed on the morning of the fete and threw back the curtains, which had been designed to protect a light sleeper from the bright rays of the rising sun. As far as she could see to left and right and straight ahead, there was not a cloud in the sky. She opened her window wider and felt the cool morning air on her bare arms. Her ears were already being assailed by birdsong. She could see the Earl of Stratton and Mr. Ellis making their way out to the poplar alley, no doubt to check that all was ready for the archery contest this afternoon.
Owen had told her at dinner last evening that he had been seriously considering withdrawing from the contest since all the practice he had been doing had not improved his aim by one inch. But Mr. Clarence Ware, his cousin, had talked him into carrying on.
“It is because he did not want to place last in the contest himself,” Owen had said while grinning at her.
Winifred had laughed. “I think he probably does not want you defeating yourself without even trying,” she said.
“Do you mean that a miracle may happen overnight?” he asked her.
“One never knows,” she said, and he had first grimaced and then laughed.
“Anyway,” she said, “do youenjoycompeting?”
“Well, I do,” he had admitted. “I suppose that with every shot there is hope for that miracle. You do know that your brother is competing, I suppose? He is a novice, but he is already vastly better than I am.”
“Robbie?” she said. “Yes. Mr. Taylor gave him a couple of lessons and told him he showed promise and would improve immeasurably with practice and lots of it. Years of it probably if he wants to bereallygood.”
She wondered if Mr. Taylor realized how much those words had meant to Robbie, who would have reacted with surly cynicism to indiscriminate praise.Years of practicewould have made sense to a boy who never seemed to look for or expect easy answers.
“The whole Cunningham family will be out there to cheer him on,” she said. “And to cheer for you too, of course.”
They had laughed together.
It had been a relief over the last few days to discover that Owen was as friendly as ever and that she felt as comfortable in his company as she had before the evening down by the river. She even felt happier with him because she no longer looked upon him as a possible suitor. Just as a friend. Friendship was as precious in its own way as courtship.
She dashed into the small dressing room attached to her bedchamber to wash in tepid water—someone must have brought it in earlier when it was hot. She pulled on the dress she had selected for the day and brushed her hair and twisted it into its usual knot ather neck. She was impatient to be downstairs to start the day. She did not want to miss a moment of it.
She did pause, though, as she remembered last night’s dinner. It had been a splendid affair, the dining room crowded, everyone in high spirits. The climax had been the unveiling of Papa’s portrait of the Dowager Countess of Stratton, which had stood on an easel, a canvas cover over it, throughout the meal. There had been a collective gasp when the cover was removed, and Winifred had been convinced, as she always was when she saw each new portrait, that it was her father’s best. Papa had succeeded in making the dowager look both brightly intelligent and quietly dignified. He had made her look beautiful, but not falsely youthful. Perhaps best of all—and this was his signature skill—he had given the viewer an inside glimpse of her soul, if that was the right word. He had made her look like someone who cared deeply for everyone and everything in her world. A genuine kindness beamed from her eyes and somehow pervaded her whole face and form.
Yet nothing in the portrait was inaccurate or exaggerated or downplayed. There on full display in her portrait was Mrs. Taylor, the Dowager Countess of Stratton, just as she was. The picture made one understand—was it too fanciful?—just why she had needed to build that cottage by the river and why she was so happy there. Even why she had been content to marry the village carpenter.
All that just from looking at her portrait.
It had been a proud moment for Papa, though he had reacted to the spontaneous applause and the chorus of praise that had followed it with his customary modesty. Mama had beamed at him and looked young and beautiful herself. Sometimes Winifred forgot that Mama was barely fourteen years older than she was.
It had been a happy evening. But…There had been noannouncement of the betrothal of Colonel Ware to Miss Haviland, though Winifred had braced herself to expect it. Word had spread quickly enough during the morning that Colonel Ware had gone to the library with General Haviland and then in the afternoon that he had taken Miss Haviland to walk by the river. That same romantic path whereshehad walked a few evenings ago with Owen. But no announcement had been made at dinner. That meant another day of suspense while she waited for an announcement to be made at tonight’s ball. She had so wanted something definite last evening. She had wanted to be fully and finallyfreeto enjoy today.
She shook her head to rid it of such thoughts. She was going to enjoy it anyway.
—
Stephanie had gone into the village ahead of everyone else, having promised Sir Ifor that she would help organize the children’s choir in time for the opening of the fete. Everyone else went together a short while later in a large, disorganized group. Children darted everywhere, making a great deal of noise. Only two of them rode—Belinda Ellis on her father’s shoulder, one chubby arm wrapped around the back of his head, and her brother, Robert, astride Nicholas’s shoulders, pretending his uncle was a horse and drumming his heels against Nicholas’s chest.
Matthew Taylor was emerging from the path to the cottage with his brother, their wives just behind them, and joined the larger group while loud, cheerful greetings were exchanged. Almost at the same moment they all had to jump aside to give room to the open barouche, which was taking Mr. and Mrs. Greenfield Senior, Miss Delmont, and Jennifer Ellis into the village. Mrs. Greenfield waved to them with exaggerated gentility, as though she were royalty,amid general laughter. Belinda wanted to ride with her mother and had to be lifted from Ben’s shoulder into the barouche.
Nicholas strode along in the middle of the pack, obliging Robert with the occasional neigh and bucking movements while he grasped the boy’s ankles more firmly and Robert shrieked and laughed and gripped his hair.
General and Mrs. Haviland had behaved with perfect good breeding since yesterday afternoon. Whatever Grace had said to them must have convinced them that Nicholas had indeed proposed marriage to her and she had refused. He did not know what reason she had given. But since then, they had treated him as though nothing had happened to rock their world. And Grace had looked…happy? She was too well bred, of course, and too much the lady to show any feeling openly. But it had seemed to Nicholas at last night’s grand dinner and now again this morning that there was a certain lightness to her step and brightness in her customary smiles. She was walking now with Gwyneth and Owen, beautiful and fashionably dressed as though for a stroll in Hyde Park. And…happy. Surely he was not mistaken. Even as his eyes rested upon her, she laughed at something Owen was saying and then smiled at Robbie Cunningham, minus his dog, who had come up on Owen’s other side.
Winifred Cunningham had one arm drawn through Bertrand Lamarr’s and the other through Andrew’s. She smiled frequently at Andrew while chattering happily with Watley.
Nicholas had watched his younger brother closely during the past few days, but Owen had given no hint of what was going on with his romance—ornon-romance. Nicholas had been half expecting an announcement at dinner last evening, but though Owen and Winifred had sat together, there had been nothing. Maybe tonight at the ball? Or maybe not at all?
Would she return home with her family on Monday and that would be that? End of story? Nicholas would be sorry about that. It was unlikely he would ever see her or hear of her again.
But he would always remember…
And he would always wonder what had happened to her.
