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“Good old Steph,” Owen said.

The mixture of sensible conversation and foolish banter with which they passed the time continued until they returned to the house.

Chapter Eighteen

It had been an inspired idea of his father and Viola’s, Bertrand thought over the coming days, to invite guests spanning several generations to spend a few weeks of the summer at Redcliffe. There was not a moment when anyone had reason to feel either bored or neglected. And neighbors for miles around were variously involved. Everyone looked forward to the assembly with heightened interest, knowing there would be outside guests this time, including no fewer than four young, single gentlemen and two young, single ladies as well as the widowed Dowager Duchess of Netherby and Mr. André Lamarr, who had never been married. But not all villagers were either young or single. They would enjoy the conversation of the marquess’s older guests and the chance to take a turn about the dance floor with one or two of them.

Visits were paid, and visits were received. Children were invited to come and play with the Bennington children and David, and the invitations were returned. A family with several children around Katy’s age who had just come home from a visit to distant relatives soon absorbed her into their midst and included her in whatever they did, with the indulgent blessing of their mother, who declared there was nothing more sure to cure boredom for her offspring during the summer break from the schoolroom than a new friend. The vicarage became a particularly busy place as the youngest Miss Linford, nursing a sore heel, held court to a succession of young persons who came to inquire after her health while she smiled bravely and prettily and declared that she would dance at the assembly even if the pain was excruciating. A chorus of voices assured her that their owners would happily sit with her and keep her company if she was unable to dance. Matthew Taylor discovered an old Welshman, friend of the retired vicar, who had a collection of wooden Welsh love spoons he had carved. Matthew, an avid wood carver himself, spent a whole afternoon with the old man, examining his handiwork closely and enjoying the stories he told.

The aunts tackled Mr. Cartwright, a crotchety man of advanced years who refused to be left alone or with anyone but his two middle-aged daughters. The aunts had met and liked the daughters when they were here a number of years ago. They somehow persuaded Mr. Cartwright to allow Aunt Matilda’s maid, who had been with her since she was a girl and was known fondly to the sisters as the battle-ax, to sit with him for an afternoon so they could take their friends for a stroll in the garden at Redcliffe and tea in the pavilion.

“Perhaps he will marry her,” Aunt Matilda commented, “and live another twenty years. He is supposedly an invalid, but I would wager there is nothing whatsoever wrong with that man except bad temper and an assumption of male superiority. I have no patience with him or his like.”

It was a stroll a number of the others joined. Geoffrey Cobb, the gentleman farmer, who happened to be calling at the house with his sister at the time, professed himself to be happy to join the walk with Maria on his arm. She had taken his eye at the garden party, Bertrand had noticed. Owen walked with Ann, who wanted to know all about the employment agency he had mentioned at the garden party. Abby and Gil joined the walkers too, their three children being otherwise engaged, as did Bertrand and Stephanie.

“I hope you are enjoying your stay,” Bertrand said as they set out in a westerly direction. She always looked as though she was enjoying herself. She was a big favorite with the aunts, whose company she seemed genuinely to like. But she spoke to and spent time with everyone, including—of course—the children.

“I am enjoying it very much indeed,” she said.

“Even though the company includes one superior being who saps your confidence and makes you generally uncomfortable?” he said.

He feared for a few moments that he had gone too far and had offended her—or reminded her of her discomfort with him.

“Sometimes,” she said, frowning slightly in thought, “it is difficult to command one’s interior world. It can be very inflexible even when one knows very well it is somewhat distorted. I know with my rational mind that there is no such thing as human perfection. Even the king is a mere person born to his role. Any loss of self-confidence or discomfort I experience in the presence of such apparently perfect persons is entirely self-inflicted. I do not like it.”

“I am forgiven, then, for being perfect?” he said.

“No,” she said. “I would not forgive that, for it would never be true, and anyone who thought he was perfect would be guilty of self-aggrandizement.”

“Dash it all,” he said. “So I am not perfect after all? Do I have a crooked nose?”

She looked at him at last and lost the frown. She chuckled. “I have not found any imperfection yet,” she said. “But there has to be at least one. Of course, you do make light of a serious subject, and that suggests a certain levity of mind.”

He winced. “Is it curable?” he asked.

“I hope not,” she said. “It might force me to admit that you really are perfect, and I would hate that. I would lose all confidence in myself and feel impossibly uncomfortable whenever I was forced to be within a mile of you.”

He gazed at her in amazed wonder even as he chuckled with her. Was this possible? They were teasing each other, joking with each other?

The whole party was approaching the walled garden, chatting happily as they went. The Misses Cartwright, one walking between Matilda and Dirkson, the other between Mildred and Molenor, looked ecstatic to be free of their house and their father for a few hours.

“We can remain with the group,” Bertrand said. “You have not seen the hothouses yet, have you? Or we can go somewhere else on our own—as we did last time.”

“To your stone by the brook again?” she said.

“There are a few wooded hills about a mile west of here,” he said. “They are not very high, but they nevertheless afford some rather lovely views over the surrounding country. They are at their breathtaking best when the bluebells are in bloom, but we have missed those for this year. They are very picturesque anyway. The hills form the western boundary of the park.”

“Let us go there, then,” she said.

No one suggested coming with them, Bertrand was relieved to find, as they made their way to the door in the western wall of the gardens and slipped through it.

He offered his arm, and she took it as they walked in what seemed to him to be a companionable silence over the rolling land that stretched to the edge of the park. It was more meadow than shaved lawn here, wildflowers growing rather liberally in the grass. He had always loved it. Weeds, his aunt had called the wildflowers. The prolific gifts of nature, he had called them. It was an area some distance from the house and used more for riding than walking. But he had always been a walker. So had Estelle. They had often walked for miles in the park or countryside, both here and at Elm Court, talking so much that it was a bit of a shock when they realized they were far from home.

“We are almost there,” he said at last. “I hope I have not exhausted you.”

“No.” She laughed. “I love walking. And I do believe this might be my favorite part of the park if I lived here. Or maybe the formal gardens would, or the lake, or the brook behind the summerhouse, or…This was all very carefully planned, was it not?”

“Yes,” he said. “There is something to suit all moods here. It must be one of the loveliest estates in all England.”