“Well,” he said, “he is the most handsome baby in the world, of course.” There was laughter in his voice.
“I am familiar with the conviction that there can be no more beautiful a baby than the one that has just been born,” she said. “I was here when Devlin and Gwyneth’s children were born, and I spent time with Pippa when Pamela was born. Oh, the wonder of it. I love being an aunt. Do you love being an uncle?”
“I do,” he said as they crossed the bridge out of the village. “Will you reserve a set for me at tonight’s ball, Stephanie? Preferably a waltz?”
Oh, sheadoredwaltzing. But really? With Bertrand Lamarr, Viscount Watley? What had prompted him to ask her of all people? She had not been impolite to him since his arrival, but she had not encouraged him either.
And then, just as she was opening her mouth to say a polite yes, it happened—the overpowering urge to wipe the amiable expression from his face. Suddenly, it looked not amiable but…complacent.
“Thank you, but no,” she said.
He looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Ah,” he said. “You have promised the waltz to someone else, have you? Perhaps, then, some other—”
“No.” She cut him off. “I do not wish to dance with you, Viscount Watley. I wish you would leave me alone. I wish you would not assume that you can have whatever you want whenever you want it. I do not wish to dance with you, this evening or ever.”
She listened to herself, appalled. When had he ever shown any sign of arrogance or entitlement? When had she ever been rude to anyone? Courtesy at all costs had been drilled into her from childhood on.
“Besides,” she said, “this is a country ball. No one has to reserve a set ahead of time.”
His face was blank of all expression. But there was surely a bit of a flush in his cheeks.
“I beg your pardon.” He made her a stiff bow. “I did not realize I had been pestering you and that my attentions, such as they have been, are unwelcome to you. It will not happen again.”
He turned on his heel and left her standing in the middle of the bridge.
Chapter Eighteen
Winifred spent some time with her mother and Sarah, looking at the display of items for the baking contest along the western side of the courtyard and the needlework items on the eastern side. The dowager countess had arranged everything there in what itself was a sort of work of art. Everything had been carefully placed so that one color and shade blended into that of its neighbor along the whole length of the tables. And the needlework itself was nothing short of exquisite.
There were many other people, mostly women, looking at the displays too, trying to guess which items would win prizes.
“There is certainly no shortage of talent in the neighborhood,” Mama said.
“I do not envy the judges,” Sarah said. “How will they choose a winner? I think theyalldeserve a prize.”
“I would have to agree,” Winifred said.
They looked at the woodwork entries—and the stonework one—displayed on a long table out on the terrace and were left withthe same impression. All were deserving of a prize. Andrew was there too with Papa, running his fingers lightly over a few of the wood carvings, though onlookers were not supposed to touch. But touch seemed important to the artist in Andrew, and he was being treated with kindly indulgence by everyone who understood his affliction—if one chose to call his deafness that. Perhaps it was merely a special ability, which was what Papa always said. And everyone knew that he was the one with the stonework entry.
How lovely it would be if he won a prize. But the competition was stiff, and they must not expect him to be given special treatment in the judging.
Blankets had been spread on the grass for the convenience of families. There were chairs in clusters for the older people, though a salon indoors had also been opened for any who wished to escape from the noise and bustle and heat of the sun for a while. Jennifer Ellis was in there currently, with young Belinda fast asleep on her lap. Ben’s aunt kept her company. There were tables on the terrace with jugs of lemonade and urns of tea as well as plates of freshly baked biscuits of all kinds.
Children were running about on the lawns, released from the formality of the races as they played games of their own devising. These involved a great deal of noise and shrieking. Winifred watched them for a while from the edge of the terrace, but she was eager to go out to the poplar alley, where the archery contest was due to begin soon. A number of other people were already on their way there. Winifred was eager to see Owen compete, and Mr. Taylor, whose shooting was apparently the stuff of legends in the neighborhood. Especially, though, she wanted to watch Robbie, though she felt horribly anxious for him. She hoped he would not do terribly anddisappoint himself. She hoped he would not feel humiliated if that happened. Oh,pleaselet him acquit himself at least respectably. She knew, though, that Owen would find some way of cheering him up. For some reason Robbie had become attached to Owen, a fact that perhaps boded well for Owen’s most fervent dream of working with troubled young people and perhaps employing Robbie to help him.
Winifred turned away from the activity outside the house and hurried to the alley. She did not want to miss a single shot. She joined a group that included her parents, Andrew, Ben Ellis, and Lucas, Duke of Wilby. Colonel Ware joined them just before the contest began.
It was all very exciting, Winifred thought. There were twenty-five contestants, varying, she discovered during the course of the contest, between those who were both experienced and skilled and those who were new to the sport or quite lacking in the basic skills necessary to improve with practice. But all were entertaining to watch. Each was given four minutes in which to shoot six arrows. The Earl of Stratton was keeping the time. Several of the contestants began their set reasonably well, but as they became aware of their time speeding by, their aim became more erratic.
“However do they hit the target at all?” Winifred asked of no one in particular. It looked like an impossibility to her. The target seemed to be too far away from the line behind which each archer had to stand. But most contestants succeeded in sinking their arrows into it, though very few reached the inner rings, which carried the highest scores.
“With a good eye and a steady arm,” Colonel Ware said.
“And lots of practice,” Mr. Ellis added.
“It looks as though many of these archers practice for a day ortwo before the fete,” the Duke of Wilby said, chuckling, “and do not give it a thought for the rest of the year. However, I admire the fact that they are willing to compete at all. It is a difficult sport.”
Winifred held her breath when it was Owen’s turn.Please don’t let him utterly disgrace himself,she prayed to some unnamed deity. Was there a god of archery in any culture? She hardly dared watch. But moments after he shot his first arrow, there was a roar from the spectators. It had hit the very center of the target.
