“Oh,” she said. “The day has barely started, but I know I will always remember it no matter what. Now I will be able to look at my daisy—my priceless daisy—whenever I do. Thank you, Colonel Ware.”
He set it in her palm and closed her fingers about it.
A humble, often overlooked, underrated flower that is nevertheless one of the prettiest and most enduring of all.
Did he mean thatshewas like that too?
She got abruptly to her feet. “I am going to watch the races,” she said. “I can see Mama and Papa over there. Some of the children must be participating.”
He stood too. But he did not attempt to escort her or follow her when she left the table.
…one of the prettiest and most enduring of all.
He could not possibly mean…
She clutched her brooch lest she drop it and lose it. She would take time to pin it to her dress as soon as she was able. She would be brokenhearted if she lost it.
She would always treasure it.
Chapter Seventeen
Nicholas wanted to go too. He would enjoy watching the children race.With Winifred.But her leaving so abruptly was clearly a dismissal. For whatever reason, she needed to be away from him for a while. At least, he hoped it was just for a while.
He sat back down and absorbed the sights and sounds all around him. He looked for people he knew, and found them everywhere—the Misses Miller, longtime owners of the village shop, a central hub for local gossip; Oscar Holland, the retired blacksmith, though rumor had it he still came to the smithy almost daily to tell his son all he was doing wrong, criticism Cam good-naturedly ignored; Alan Roberts, the schoolteacher, who was married to the former Sally Holland, the dressmaker’s daughter; Prudence Wexford, Colonel Wexford’s sister, and Ariel, his daughter, who had been a pretty girl and was now a handsome woman and betrothed to Dr. Isherwood; James Rutledge, son of Baron Hardington, a boyhood friend; Jim Berry, longtime landlord of the inn, who stood in the doorway of his establishment for a fewminutes in his long white apron, taking a break from his busy day in the kitchen with Mrs. Berry. There were numerous others. The sight of them filled Nicholas with nostalgia.
A number of people stopped to greet and chat with him. James Rutledge sat with him and was joined by Owen and Bradley Danver, the vicar’s son. The four of them reminisced about their boyhood and laughed over some of the memories.
Nicholas continued to look about even as he joined in the chatter. His grandparents were seated outside the church with a few other older folk, including Miss Delmont; Amy Holland, Oscar’s wife; and Mrs. Barnes, who had once been their nurse at Ravenswood. Mrs. Haviland, arm in arm with Lady Rhys, was moving along in front of the stalls, examining the merchandise. General Haviland stood a short distance away from the inn with Colonel Wexford and Charles Ware, Nicholas’s uncle, each of them with a tankard of ale in his hand. Grace was with Clarence and Charity Ware and Bertrand Lamarr, watching the preparations for the maypole dancing. Ben and Jennifer in her wheeled chair were about to join them. Grace turned to smile at Jennifer.
And Winifred was with her mother and young Sarah and a cluster of other adults, helping out with the children’s races and cheering on the contenders, children from Ravenswood and strangers alike. She was smiling and animated and looking pretty. He saw her now, in fact, with quite different eyes than the ones through which he had looked when he first met her.
“Come and join us,” Owen said, pulling another chair close to their table. He was addressing Robbie, who tended to hover close to him, Nicholas had noticed. “Have you all met Robbie Cunningham, a budding star at archery? I would wager he will be able to give Matthew Taylor a run for his money in a year or two if hekeeps at it. Let me introduce you to Bradley Danver and James Rutledge, Robbie.”
The boy sat down, his face a wary, glowering mask as Owen smiled cheerfully at him. “I will never be so good,” he said. “Mr. Taylor is a genius.”
“And who is to say you are not?” Owen said. “I bet at your age he had never even held a bow. In fact, I know he had not. He told us so one day.”
“Pleased to meet you, lad,” James said, clapping a hand on Robbie’s shoulder. “You must be the painter’s boy. I look forward to watching you shoot this afternoon. You are entered, are you?”
Robbie looked warily at him and nodded curtly. He clearly did not like to be the focus of attention.
“I do believe the Cunningham twins have just won the three-legged race,” Nicholas said as the shrieks of excitement from the children rose to a crescendo. “It is hardly surprising, I suppose. They move as one even when their legs are not tied.”
Mrs. Cunningham was sweeping Emma up into her arms while Winifred hugged Susan.
“They are special,” Robbie said. “They are my sisters.”
“Lucky girls,” Bradley said. “But how do you tell them apart, Robbie?”
“When you love someone, you do not get them mixed up,” Robbie said defensively, as though he thought someone was arguing the point.
“I think the maypole dancing is ready to start as soon as the races are over,” Owen said.
Ah, the harsh lessons in life children had to learn, Nicholas thought as one very young child wailed inconsolably when he did not win his race. But there was no point in sheltering them, perhapsby persuading them not to compete. At some time or other all must learn that life when lived to the full was an inevitable mingling of triumph and disappointment and everything in between. It was as well if one could experience both extremes once in a while when one was young and learn that neither was lasting. It was never a good idea to encourage children to hide from life.
Was that what he had been doing all his adult life? It was a strange thought to be having at this of all times.Wasit, though? The Ravenswood fetes had always had particular significance in his life, most of them dizzyingly happy, one at the very opposite extreme. Was it possible he had never got over the terrible discovery he had made about his father on that day? Had he guarded himself from future pain ever since by never feeling very deeply about anything—or anyone? Was that why he had neglected his home and family? Oh, he had not cut himself off entirely from them, it was true, and he had not stopped coming here. If someone had ever accused him of being neglectful, he would have denied the charge with some indignation.
But he was thirty-four years old and unmarried. That was not the way he had expected his life to unfold when he had looked ahead as an eighteen-year-old boy. He had expected to have a home and a wife and family to enrich his chosen life as a cavalry officer long before he reached the age of thirty. He had expected his wife to be someone he loved with all his heart, and his children to be a joy he would share with her.
