All would be well. Everyone was so pleased for her, imagining her happily settled at last. Papa had whispered to her, “If you are even one tenth as happy as your mother has made me, you will be very happy indeed, daughter.” Even Walter had smiled and wished her joy, and said, “I hope he knows how lucky he is.”
That had made her a little bit cross, because he could have had that luck himself, if he had wanted it. If he had thought she was any sort of prize worth winning, why did he not offer for her when he had the chance? But her reasonable side asserted itself, and told her that it was just a form of words, just one of those things one says to a betrothed couple.
Oddly, after all the drama of the day, she fell asleep instantly, but then woke very early, when it was barely light. Knowing shecould not sleep again, she dressed in an old gown that could be fastened without Martha’s aid, and sat down to write a long letter to Aunt Sofia, to tell her all that had happened.
Well, perhaps not quite all. Not that unpleasant kiss, for one thing. Not the dower house, either, nor her unsolicited change of name. She threw down her pen in disgust. This was not how it should be! She should be overflowing with joy, holding nothing back.
Perhaps a longer than usual walk would lift her spirits. She pulled on her half-boots, grabbed her cloak, and went downstairs. Outside, the air was still muggy, the threatened thunderstorm having come to nothing. She set off this time for a full circuit of the perimeter. It was only three miles but it would serve… no, if she went down the drive first, she could complete one and a half circuits before going to the tree house, a full five miles. That would blow away a few cobwebs.
It was invigorating, walking with a brisk stride again. She had got so used to walking at Mr Lomax’s dawdling pace that she had almost forgotten how good it felt to stretch her legs. It was not much help to her mind, however. She was still faced with the same dispiriting problems.
She came to the tree house. To her surprise, Walter was there, slumped on one of the two swings.
He looked up, saw her, smiled rather wanly. “Could you not sleep, Mouse? Excitement kept you awake?”
“Nothing like that,” she said rather glumly, sitting on the other swing. “Just… wondering if I am doing the right thing.”
“Oh.” He sat up a little straighter. “Nothing but nerves, I suppose. Perfectly natural, after so momentous a day.”
“Perhaps.”
“Although… you seemed very happy last night, when he finally proposed.”
“Yes. I was. But then… we went for that walk in the garden.”
“And… something happened?”
She nodded. Briefly, she wondered how much she should tell him, but she had never kept secrets from him, except the one Very Big Secret. He had always been her friend, her confidant, her dispenser of male wisdom. So she spoke the words.
“He kissed me, and it was horrid.”
“That is not right. Kissing should never be horrid!”
“Well, that is what I thought, too,” she said, pleased to have this suspicion confirmed. “Papa kisses Mama sometimes, when he thinks no one is looking, and she giggles and seems to like it very much. And Hebe said kissing is wonderful. So I think there must be something wrong with me, because I didnotlike it, not at all.”
“Winnie! Have you never been kissed before?”
“No, never. A lady does not allow herself to be kissed until she is betrothed, so how could I be? I suppose I shall get used to it. I shall have to, because once we are married I imagine a certain amount of kissing will be involved. Perhaps I shall grow to like it. Do you think I might?”
“You might. Perhaps it was just the shock of it. Or perhaps he is just a bad kisser.”
“Oh, are there good kissers and bad kissers? I did not know.”
“There are. I do not like to boast, but I am accounted a good kisser, but then I was well taught.”
“You were taught to kiss? By whom? Oh, your mistress, I suppose.”
“Winnie! You are not supposed to know anything about such matters.”
“Well, I do. Her name was Maria and she lived at Pickering. I heard Mama and Papa talking about it, rather loudly. They sounded upset, although I cannot imagine why. So what is the difference between good kissing and bad kissing?”
He chuckled. “Winnie, you are incorrigible!”
“Well, I want to know! Did Bea like it when you kissed her?”
“Hmm — how odd. I cannot remember ever kissing her at all.”
“Why ever not, when you were betrothed for months?”
