Would he lie to her again?
“…by the illness of my aunt…”
Yes, he would, and surely it was supposed to be a cousin?
“…but finally I am able to say to you the words you have no doubt been long expecting. Winifred, my very dear Winifred, I knew from the instant I saw you in the General Post Office, so in need of a gentleman’s support, that I wished to protect you and keep you safe for ever. Will you allow me to do so? Will you be my wife?”
Quite apart from the name, there was something in his manner that set her back up. Whatever made him imagine she needed protection? She had fought off the urchins by herself, after all, and although she had been very glad of his cane to finally drive them away, she felt she had managed well enough on her own. And then the presumption that she was complacently waiting for him to speak! It was true, of course, but it was not polite to say so. And not a word of love!
Had her circumstances been different, perhaps even now she would have given him a different answer… had she been younger, or had another suitor, or not cared about marriage quite so much. But she was twenty-four, Walter was lost to her and she could not give up, perhaps for ever, the chance of having a little Prudence of her own, or several little Prudences. One could never have too many children to cherish. Mr Lomax was not perfect, but what man was? And if she was not in love with him, at least there was nothing about him to give her a disgust ofhim. He was fastidious about his person, so she knew he would always be clean and sober.
It was as good an offer as she would ever get. So she bowed her head demurely, and thanked him, and told him that she would be honoured to be his wife.
“Excellent!” he said cheerfully. “Let us go and tell your family, shall we?”
A little bemused by the lack of lover-like impulses, for surely this was the moment for him to speak of love, she allowed herself to be steered into the hall and then into the drawing room. Most of the men had joined the ladies by this time, and every face turned expectantly to the door as they entered. The music stopped abruptly, and several conversations died away to nothing as they waited.
“Miss Strong has consented to be my wife,” Mr Lomax said loudly into the lull.
At once there was a hubbub, with congratulations hurled about, and Papa calling to Maynard to bring something up from the cellar for a toast. Mama and Lily and Hebe hugged Winnie and smiled and wept and laughed and wept again, and Winnie could not prevent herself from smiling and laughing too. She could not quite weep, however. A betrothal was hardly a weeping matter. The men patted her genially on the shoulder or kissed her cheek and pumped Mr Lomax’s hand, wishing them both joy.
Glasses were filled, toasts were drunk and Papa made a sad little speech which was more about how he would miss Winnie than anything else, and that did bring her perilously close to tears. Then Mr Lomax made a speech in return, telling them how well he intended to look after Winnie. Then Hebe sat down with a whoosh, complaining of the heat which was making her feel dizzy, and before Winnie knew it the whole party was stepping out onto the terrace to walk in the cooler air of the garden. Thesun was close to setting, but there was still enough light to see the paths clearly. Far away in the distance, thunder still rumbled gently, like the soft noise of a sleeping dog.
The gardens were large and criss-crossed by a multitude of paths, and within a very few minutes the multitude had dispersed and Winnie was alone with Mr Lomax. That was undoubtedly the purpose of this sudden walk, to allow the newly-betrothed couple a private interlude. Mr Lomax seemed unaware of this intention, however, for he talked without pause about nothing in particular. The flowers, mainly, for the evening air was heady with their scent. It was quite intoxicating, and a romantic man would surely have seized the moment. Disappointingly, Mr Lomax appeared not to be a romantic man. Not only did he not take the opportunity to play the lover, he did not even talk about subjects that might be supposed to interest Winnie, like their future life together, or when they might be married. Nothing but chatter about flowers, on which subject he appeared to know nothing.
Eventually, he ran out of things to say about the flowers. “It is getting dark,” he said. “I do not want you to be quite exhausted, my dear Winifred. Shall we turn back now?”
“I am not at all exhausted. Why do you call me Winifred? No one calls me that, except old Mrs Lennon, who hardly knows what day of the week it is. I much prefer Winnie.”
“Winifred is a very pretty name,” he said, sounding puzzled. “It is your Christian name, after all. Winnie sounds like a horse. Mother and I have agreed that we will call you Winifred.”
He had agreed it with his mother, had he? She did not like the sound of that. However, she did not quite like to quarrel with him on the very day of their betrothal, so she merely made a mental note to raise the subject on another occasion. After twenty-four years as Winnie, she was not sure she could standtwenty-four years as Winifred. She felt a little like Walter, losing his name after ten years as Lord Birtwell.
She turned and prepared to return to the house, but he stood irresolute, gazing at her, his fists clenching and unclenching.
“What is it, sir? Are you quite well?”
Before she could grasp what he was about, he had grabbed her by the shoulders, and pressed his lips hard against hers. Taken by surprise, she instinctively leaned away from him, only to find a tree behind her, impeding her. The more she tried to move away from him, the harder he pushed her against the tree, so that she was pinioned there, the gnarled bark pressing painfully into her back, his lips forced against hers.
Abruptly, she was free. He laughed, then offered her his arm. “Shall we return to the house, my dear?”
Quivering with indignation, she acceded.
29: A Good Kisser
Winnie retired to bed that night in a very disordered frame of mind. Such a big day in her life and yet she felt… odd. Very odd. She could not help remembering Hebe’s betrothal day, when William had turned up in a brand new coat, looking very solemn. He and Hebe had stayed in the book room for a whole hour, and in the end Mama had had to go in and drag them out, looking slightly rumpled but grinning ecstatically and holding hands.‘Oh, Winnie, kissing is so wonderful!’Hebe had said later.
She wished she could agree, but she had not enjoyed being kissed by Mr Lomax at all. Nor did she like being called Winifred. Then there was the odd conversation over the celebratory drinks. Someone, Mama perhaps, had asked where the present Mrs Lomax would live.
“She will retire to the dower house, ma’am,” Mr Lomax had said. “In fact she has already put the arrangements in train, and will be settled there by the end of the month.”
“That will be a great wrench for her, no doubt, to leave her marital home, no matter how pleasant the reason for it,” Mama had said. “I hope she will not be too far away from you, for she will want to see you often.”
“There is no difficulty in that direction,” Mr Lomax had said smugly. “The dower house is connected to the main house… it is the west wing, in fact. It is all most conveniently arranged, for my mother will not need her own cook, and my wife will benefit by all my mother’s experience of managing the household.”
Even Mama had been taken aback by that. Winnie made another mental note, to remove Mrs Lomax to a greater distance than the west wing, and how that was to be done, she could not imagine.
So many little worries, to take the shine off her happiness. Shewashappy, was she not? She thought she was, and she certainly ought to be, but she was beginning to wonder just what it would be like to be married to this man. No, this was foolishness. He loved her, after all… did he not? He had an affection for her, so he would want to do everything in his power to make her happy… surely he would.
