Remember That Day (Ravenswood #5)

Chapter One

The streets of London were arrayed in full glory.

Flags fluttered from every building, and multicolored ribbons streamed from every railing, pillar, and post, and even human hands.

The pavements were crowded with people jostling one another for the best possible view of the parade that would march past, though that would not happen for a while yet.

No one showed any noticeable impatience at the long wait ahead of them, however.

The June sun beamed down from a clear blue sky, erasing all the anxieties of the past few days, when the gloom-and-doomers among them had predicted clouds, wind, rain, and even, in a few extreme cases, snow.

The air was warm without being oppressively so.

Who could have asked for a better day?

When King George IV ascended the throne, his love of pomp and circumstance had prompted him to revive the public celebration of his official birthday in June with the ceremony of Trooping the Colour.

Various British regiments, both infantry and cavalry, gorgeously clad in full dress uniform, would parade their colors before the king at Horse Guards Parade on Whitehall before processing along a predetermined route to the lively music of their bands and the delight of the cheering London populace that awaited them.

A privileged few had been invited to watch the full ceremony from the grandstands that had been erected for the occasion around the inner perimeter of Horse Guards Parade itself.

Incredibly—she still could not quite believe it was so—Winifred Cunningham was among them.

She—who had begun life as a nameless orphan, abandoned on the doorstep of an orphanage in Bath and finally adopted at the age of nine by parents who were themselves either orphaned or born illegitimate—was now seated with the elite of British society, waiting to behold the king and the full visual splendor of Trooping the Colour.

To be strictly accurate, she was not exactly seated.

She was standing beside one section of the grandstands, having complained that the man who had come to sit in front of her was wearing a hat at least a mile high and the ladies on either side of him had gone out of their way to outdo each other and every other lady present with the size of their bonnet brims, the lavish display of flowers and bows that adorned them, and the plumes that waved above them.

She had never seen anything more ridiculous in her life.

Or anything more frustrating, under present circumstances.

She would not be able to see a thing, she had complained to the companions on either side of her, laughter in her voice. That was not strictly accurate if she was willing to duck and stretch and bob and weave to find a gap through which she could peer. If they would only keep still!

So they were going to watch from ground level, Winifred and her two companions, unless some official came along to shoo them back up to their seats in the stands.

She had one hand drawn through the reassuringly steady arm of Bertrand Lamarr, Viscount Watley, her stepuncle, and the other through that of the Honorable Owen Ware, youngest brother of the Earl of Stratton and a friend of Bertrand’s from their university days.

Winifred’s adoptive mother was the daughter of the Marchioness of Dorchester, who had married the marquess, Bertrand’s father, a few years ago.

Bertrand and Estelle, his twin sister, were therefore her mother’s stepsiblings and her stepuncle and stepaunt.

Yet they were only seven years older than Winifred.

Yes, it was tricky. Unfortunately, it was not the only complicated thing about the Westcotts, Winifred’s mother’s family and therefore her own.

Bertrand was also gorgeous—tall, dark, and handsome, that age-old stereotype of the perfect man.

It would be hard to find any fault with his appearance.

He was charming and modest too, seemingly unaware of just how very attractive he was or of how many females of all ages sighed over him and daydreamed about him and set their caps at him.

Fortunately, Winifred was not one of them.

She was a very practical and sensible young lady and had always been aware that Bertrand was far outside her orbit in every imaginable way.

She liked him immensely, however. She felt comfortable in his company. But she was not attracted to him.

The same could not be said of her feelings for Owen Ware, who was tall and fair-haired and good-looking without being startlingly handsome.

He was invariably cheerful and amiable. He claimed to be rootless.

He was approaching the end of his twenties without any clear idea of what he was going to do with the rest of his life.

As a boy and the third son of a noble father—the third legitimate son, anyway—he had been designated for the church and had been duly packed off to university when he turned eighteen.

He had done well there, though he had had lots of fun too.

He was still toying with the idea of taking holy orders, but—to use his own words—he was somewhat put off by the religious stuff he would have to involve himself in when all he really wanted to do was serve people who needed a helping hand to get through hard times.

It was no unrealistic dream. He spent much of his time performing all sorts of volunteer work, most of it grueling and quite unglamorous and unsung.

Winifred, listening to some of his accounts, found herself wanting to experience them with him.

Her motive was not piety or a silly image of herself as a ministering angel to the poor and infirm and underprivileged.

She knew all the frustrations of trying to help people who rejected help, often with fierce hostility.

She had had practice. Her parents had adopted Sarah and her when they married, but they were only the first adoptees.

Her parents had adopted several more children after that, most of them with problems no one else was able or willing to take on.

They included a deaf boy, another with behavior problems that made him antisocial and often vicious to anyone who tried to be kind to him, and twin girls who suffered from massive insecurities resulting from having been separated for several months to live with couples who did not wish to take both, or perhaps were unable to for some reason.

Winifred had a special love for those siblings, though she had no illusions about the ease of solving their problems.

She fancied working with Owen and perhaps…

marrying him, presumptuous as such a private dream might be.

He was, after all, the son of an earl. He definitely liked her, though to be fair, he tended to like everyone.

They had talked endlessly, the two of them, since meeting a few weeks ago.

Winifred loved serious, meaningful conversation between equals.

Empty chitchat designed specifically for the delicate sensibilities of a lady soon irritated her or outright bored her.

Owen treated her like a person. Whether he was also attracted to her was another matter, of course.

“Better?” he asked her now.

“Standing down here instead of sitting up there?” she asked. “Yes, indeed. Thank you. Though just to be in this place at all on such an occasion, even stuck behind an enormous black hat, is…indescribable. I want to pinch myself.”

“It sounds painful,” Bertrand said. “Best not to do it, Winnie.”

“I will take your advice.” She twinkled up at him before turning back to Owen. “You must be so looking forward to seeing your brother in the parade.”

His elder brother was a cavalry colonel and would be leading one group of cavalry—what was the official word? Battalion? Regiment? Troop? Anyway, he would be leading them onto the parade ground. Winifred had never met him, but she was looking forward to seeing him today.

“Nick?” Owen said. “Yes. I wonder if I will even recognize him, though, all spruced up in his dress uniform as he will be, everything spotless and gleaming. He usually favors an old uniform, which looks rather as though he has been living in it for the past five years or so. As he probably has, though I hasten to add that his batman keeps it in pristine condition, and I am forever in envy of the shine on the boots he usually wears, old and worn though the leather is.”

Colonel the Honorable Nicholas Ware was a career officer. He had spent many years fighting in the thick of combat, most notably in the Battle of Waterloo eight years ago. But more recently he had worked at the Horse Guards in a largely administrative capacity.

“How fortunate it is that you happen to be in London today of all days,” Owen said.

“I would prefer to be in Bath,” she said. “Or, rather, in our home in the hills above Bath, where I can make myself useful with the children or with any classes or workshops or retreats that are happening there. I generally find London too…big. And too bewildering.” Not to mention dirty.

Her papa had inherited a large old mansion from the great-uncle he had discovered only very shortly before the latter’s death, having grown up in the orphanage where Winifred too had lived until the age of nine.

Papa, annoyed that the old man had chosen to keep his identity secret all those years, had not wanted to accept his inheritance, but at the time he was a struggling artist who also volunteered his services at the orphanage school, where Mama had recently taken employment.

Mama had persuaded him that the house would be perfect for his studio and for all sorts of events associated with the arts, and even for school concerts and dramas.

They had ended up marrying, and Mama had asked Winifred if she would like to go with them as their adopted daughter.

What a glorious day that had been. The best day ever!