There. Shehadbeen uncharitable.
“She has been looking unusually happy today,” she said. “I suppose you helped her see the truth.”
“I hope so,” he said. “I was obligated to her, you know, and would have married her if our conversation had gone differently. I had recently concluded that not having found love by the age of thirty-four, I never would find it and ought to settle for sober common sense instead.”
“She is very beautiful,” she said.
“Yes, she is,” he said. “But not in the way you are beautiful, Win. The sight of her does not smite me to the heart.”
“And the sight of me does?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Then you must be half blind,” she said.
He laughed. “I do love you,” he said.
—
Nicholas let Winifred go alone into the ballroom and waited outside for a while. He strolled down to the southern corner of the house and breathed in the cool night air. There was no sign of life at the front here. No one was leaving yet, and no one had left the ballroom for a romantic stroll outside. Not in this direction anyway. Sounds of a sprightly country dance came from inside the ballroom.
He wondered if panic would strike, either tonight or tomorrow, when he must have a talk with Joel Cunningham, not to mention his own family. It did not seem to him that anyone suspected, though he could be wrong. What had seemed private and secret to him might be as plain as day to the people who knew him best. He just hoped none of the Havilands suspected.
He wouldnotpanic. He was as sure of his feelings for Winifred as he had ever been about anything. And despite the numerous and seemingly insurmountable obstacles, he did not doubt her love for him.
And yet, just a short while ago he had thought her plain and a bit drab and a whole lot naïve. And startlingly forthright. Unfeminine.Real.Attractive.
Yes, he had been attracted from the start. Even when she was forbidden to him in two ways—by his commitment to Grace and by Owen’s possible commitment to her.
Now he was betrothed to her.
The country dance was coming to an end as he stepped into the doorway. The dancers were looking flushed and breathless. Couples drifted apart and either collapsed onto vacant chairs or looked about for their next partners. Bertrand had been dancing with Eluned, Owen with Ariel Wexford, his mother with Uncle Charles Ware, Grace with Clarence. Winifred stood with Andrew, his arm drawn through hers. He had been tapping his foot before the dance ended, Nicholas noticed. He must feel the rhythm and see it in the dance even though he could not hear it. He looked happy.
It occurred to Nicholas that he was going to be marrying a family, not just Winifred. It was no normal family, if there was such a thing. Was he going to mind? If, for example, she wanted to have one or more of her siblings stay with them for a prolonged visit? The silent Robbie and his dog? The deaf Andrew? The timid, clinging twins? The gigglers, Sam and Alice? The pretty Sarah? Who was left? Jacob—thenormalJacob. Was there such a thing as normality? He wouldnotmind if any of them came to stay, he realized. Indeed, he would welcome the people who were so central to her life. And he would take her to visitthemwhenever he was able, if it was what she wanted. He suspected she would be homesick.
He would work hard to see that the house in which he would settle her became home to her very soon after their marriage. Somehow, he expected that she would work with him to achieve that goal. And perhaps by this time next year there would be a child on the way.
“Woolgathering, Nick?” Devlin asked, coming to join him. “The day has been a great success, has it not?”
“Perfection,” Nicholas said. “There is nothing anywhere to match the Ravenswood/Boscombe summer fete.”
“Not that we are biased in any way,” Devlin said, grinning at him. “I just hope Gwyneth is not tiring herself out too much.”
“To my knowledge she has always been indefatigable,” Nicholas said.
“Except in the early months of a confinement,” Devlin said.
Nicholas looked sharply at him. “Really?” he said.
“Really,” Devlin said, gazing fondly at his wife, who had joined her parents on the sidelines and was smiling and fanning her face as they talked. “But will she listen when I tell her to slow down? I merely get accused of being a tyrant for my pains.”
It was exactly sixteen years ago that they had discovered their passion for each other, and one day before a bitter, six-year separation. Gwyneth had been almost betrothed to a talented Welsh musician when Devlin came home from the wars, a hardened, embittered man. Sometimes miracles did happen, though.
“She still thinks she needs to give me a spare as well as the heir,” Devlin said. “Heaven forbid that you remain my heir after Gareth. Not that she ever puts it that way, or even thinks it, I hasten to add.”
Nicholas grinned at him. “Well, congratulations anyway,” he said.
“We were hoping,” Devlin said, “that you were going to be well on the way to being married yourself this week. Happily ever after and all that. It was just not to be, was it?”
