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“You and the marchioness,” Stephanie said. “And David. Who did these? Mr. Cunningham?”

“Jacob,” he said. “Aged ten. He has enjoyed sketching since he was a very little boy, but I believe it is only recently that his real talent has blossomed. He has the remarkable ability to make his subjects instantly identifiable. Camille found these with others from Christmas a couple of weeks or so ago and had Jacob’s permission to send them to us—on loan. They knew you were staying here and so included the one of you.”

Stephanie looked at the drawings again. “They are extraordinary,” she said. “They are not really portraits, are they, in the way his father paints them. They are more like cartoons, the preliminary sketches for a painting. But they are perfect in themselves. Thank you so much for showing them to me.”

“You are very fond of children, are you not?” he said.

“I am,” she said, handing the pages back to him. “I enjoy talking to and playing with them. I suppose I must still be a child at heart.”

“And children sense it and respond to it,” he said. “It is a real talent. I recall how you gathered a few of them together on the morning of Christmas Eve and took them off to an empty room, while the others all followed along behind as though drawn by a magnet, allowing the rest of us an hour’s peace in which to finish decorating and to relax before luncheon. And you and Winifred between you worked wonders with the children for the evening pageant. I do not know how you did it in so little time.”

“Nor do I,” she said, laughing. “But we had a great deal of help. And Robbie was brilliant.”

“Yes, he was,” he said, setting the drawings down on the desk and placing the paperweight on them again. “Viola and I are very happy you came here with your mother and stepfather and brother, Stephanie—even though you apparently guessed correctly that it was my son who suggested you as a possible guest.” His eyes twinkled.

It was mind-boggling, Stephanie thought, to realize that this genial man, so proud of his grandchildren, had once been the tormented, neglectful father she had just been hearing about.

“It was kind of you to invite me even if the idea did come from Bertrand,” she said. “I am enjoying myself.”

“He is very precious to me,” he said, looking directly at her, no twinkle in his eye now. “Has he told you anything about his life?”

“Yes, a little,” she said, looking down at her hands. “He told me some of his story while we were at the lake today.”

“Ah,” he said. “Then you know that I have not always behaved as though he was precious to me. Unfortunately, one can never go back to correct the mistakes of the past. One can only grasp with deep gratitude a chance to do better in the present and the future, if both the chance and the future are offered.”

Was that what was happening to her this summer?

“Yes,” she said. She met his eye and then the mood shifted. “But I believe I need to go up to my room to wash my hands before luncheon.”

He strode across the room to open the door for her.

“I shall write and tell Jacob that Lady Stephanie Ware as well as his grandmama and grandpapa and others are marvelously impressed with his talent,” he said.

“Please do. I am in total awe,” Stephanie said as she left the library.

She ran lightly up the stairs to her room and hoped the bell for luncheon would not ring too soon. Her head and her emotions had been pushed close to bursting this morning, and she needed some time alone to sort them all out.

But she was not sorry she had come. Life had somehow been more vivid to her in the days since her arrival than it had been…oh, perhaps ever.

Chapter Seventeen

“She talked of nothing else all morning,” Abigail Bennington said from beside Stephanie at the luncheon table.

“And that is not even much of an exaggeration,” Estelle said. “I hope you do have time to spare this afternoon, Stephanie.”

“It will be my pleasure,” Stephanie said. “Though I must warn you, Abby, that I have no real experience at dressing someone else’s hair. I can do my own when my maid is not available, but that is somewhat different.”

Abigail and Estelle had brought the news that Katy was beside herself with excitement because Lady Stephanie was going to dress her hair this afternoon and make her look like a lady.

“I hope you do not think I was being horribly impertinent when I offered,” Stephanie said. “I ought to have asked you first.”

Abigail laughed. “Not at all,” she said. “She developed a severe case of hero worship for you at Christmas, you know, and was excited when she heard you were coming here.”

How very peculiar, Stephanie thought, though she did not say so aloud. A little girl had chosen to hero-worship her?

“I remember just what it was like to be Katy’s age,” Lady Molenor said. “Matilda and Louise were older, and I thought I would never catch up to them.”

“And you never did, Mildred,” the dowager duchess said. “We are still ahead of you.”