Chapter Nine
The countess had taken the Cunninghams and her own children to the lake for a picnic tea.
Stephanie had gone with them. The earl was to join them later, after seeing to some estate business that could not wait.
Owen had gone to visit Clarence Ware, a cousin and close friend from his childhood, who had come home with his wife to attend the fete next week.
General and Mrs. Haviland and their daughter had been invited to take tea with a retired military man, Colonel Wexford; his daughter, Ariel; and his sister, Miss Prudence Wexford.
Colonel Ware would presumably go with them.
Winifred had been on her way to the lake with the picnic party.
She had been looking forward to it, having seen the lake only from a distance so far.
She loved picnic teas. Food somehow tasted more appetizing when eaten outdoors.
She liked both the countess and Stephanie.
However, Andrew, as he sometimes did, chose not to keep up with the pace set by the others, all of whom were eager to be at the lake so they could swim or splash around in the water or ride in one of the boats.
He chose, rather, to explore every meandering rise and dip that made the terrain of the parkland so varied and attractive.
Mama had offered to remain behind with him for as long as he needed, but Winifred persuaded her to go on with the others.
Mama was greatly enjoying this visit—perhaps, Winifred thought, because it reminded her of the time when, as Lady Camille Westcott, she had been invited to numerous house parties.
Andrew often seemed overwhelmed by large numbers of people and boisterous activities.
Even though he did not hear sound, he was very aware of his surroundings.
He preferred sometimes to ignore the group and gaze at the ever-changing skies, at views, at flowers, and even at grass.
And they all understood—even the younger children—and treated him with great patience, though the delay he was causing today was a bit hard for them to bear.
“I will stay with him,” Winifred said. “Go on, Mama. We will be along later.”
She often wondered about Andrew’s inner world.
It would be too easy to look at him from the outside and pity the poverty of his existence.
But how could a person with hearing and speech know and make that judgment?
Perhaps his life was as rich as hers, though in a different way, incomprehensible to her.
Yes, she had devised a sort of sign language to allow some communication between them, but it was severely limited and dealt only with facts, not feelings or thoughts or dreams.
After the others had disappeared, taking all their energy and exuberance with them, Winifred felt suddenly and unexpectedly sad.
Papa had finished his initial interviews with the dowager countess and was ready to paint her portrait.
He expected to be finished sometime next week, though he and Mama had agreed to stay at Ravenswood for the fete on Saturday since it would be fun for all of them, especially the children.
More houseguests were expected, including more children.
On the Monday after, though, they would return to Bath.
They would have been here a little longer than two weeks.
Any dream Winifred had had that Owen would use this opportunity to court her and make her a marriage offer had faded, and she had told herself she was content with that.
There was the day of the fete itself, of course, most notably the evening ball, which sounded very romantic.
But she was not optimistic that the present state of affairs would change between them.
He was as friendly as he had ever been with her, as interested in the children, and as curious as ever to find out more about them, particularly Robbie and the morose, unruly behavior he had demonstrated when Mama and Papa had brought him into their family from the orphanage.
Owen had long had ideas of working with troubled and delinquent children, though various stints at volunteering his help at homes in London had opened his eyes to the fact that it was not easy or even, in most cases, possible.
Feeling compassion was not nearly enough.
He dreamed of a different life for them, as he told Winifred during that first week, perhaps on a farm that would give them access to the countryside and wildlife and fresh, clean air as well as vigorous hard work to help run the place and fun time for games.
He wanted to encourage them to talk about what troubled them and somehow help them learn to let it go.
Oh, he understood it would be no easy thing to do, that there would be no magical solution.
He knew that getting into the heads of such children to understand why they were as they were would often be impossible.
He knew they would need medical, specialized help as well as the patient assistance of other adults who felt as he did.
He knew there would be disappointments and outright failures along the way.
Love and the mere eagerness to help were not nearly sufficient to change the world.
But he dreamed anyway.
Winifred was excited by his ideas, especially his hope of settling down in a country home of his own, which apparently he felt he could afford.
How she would love to work alongside him there, though she knew all about how difficult and frustrating such work would be.
Of course, she would be unable to live on a country estate with him just as a friend.
So far, he had not hinted that he would even like her help.
And, if she was honest with herself, there had never been any suggestion of romance in their friendship, either in London or here.
A few evenings ago, the Earl of Stratton had suggested after dinner that Owen show her the poplar alley since she had seen it so far only from the window of her bedchamber.
They could stroll along it and perhaps sit for a while in the summerhouse at the end of it, he had said.
It might be a good idea, the countess had added, if they took a lantern with them in case darkness fell while they were still out there.
It was an obvious ruse on their part to give the two of them time alone together in a secluded, potentially romantic setting. Mama had smiled and nodded her encouragement. Owen had been totally oblivious. That was quite obvious to Winifred.
“A splendid idea,” he had said, beaming at her. “Winifred?”
“I would love to see it,” she had said. “It must be particularly lovely in the early evening and at sunset.”
“Would you care to join us, Miss Haviland? Nick?” he had asked.
So they had gone off together, the four of them.
At first, they had divided into their respective couples, some distance between them, but while they were strolling along the grassy alley between the two straight rows of poplars, they merged into a foursome and remained that way until they reached the summerhouse.
There they sat and conversed until Miss Haviland suggested that perhaps they should return to the house before darkness fell.
The alley had been quiet and secluded and all lushly green.
The summerhouse was cozily furnished and gave views back down the alley and about the park.
The alley and summerhouse must be among the most romantic spots in the whole park.
And the early sunset had shown promise of being truly breathtaking.
They had walked back in a group of four, talking cheerfully as though the word romance had never been invented.
But she would not think about that disappointing evening, Winifred decided now. It had merely confirmed what she had already known anyway. Thinking about it would only send her spirits plummeting even further.
She joined Andrew in one of his favorite activities when the terrain was suitable.
The parkland was neither uniformly grassy nor perfectly flat.
Rather, it undulated, slight rises making for energetic climbs and unexpected views, corresponding dips leading down to secluded hollows, some of them exquisitely cultivated as quiet nooks, with wrought iron seats, colorful flower beds, and the occasional lily pond or fishpond.
It was not the nooks that interested Andrew, however.
It was the downward slopes. He stopped and pointed at one particularly long one and looked eagerly at Winifred, his arms flapping.
She nodded and ran down with him, the two of them flying like birds and shrieking at the speed and laughing helplessly.
She always loved the strange sounds he made when he laughed.
They did it several more times until Winifred plopped down close to the top and indicated that she could not do it even once more.
Andrew continued alone while she sat watching, her arms wrapped about her raised knees—and felt the sadness wash over her again.
She could not stop thinking of the portrait gallery above the ballroom in the west wing of the house and the long line of the Ware ancestors, stretching back several generations.
She felt again the stabbing of raw longing they had caused her as she realized there was not a single portrait of any of her ancestors. Or at least, none that she knew of.
She had spent most of her life determinedly counting her blessings while suppressing all thought of her missing life before she became conscious of her existence at an orphanage in Bath.
It was a very good orphanage, it was true, but nevertheless it was home to a large number of other children like her, with no knowledge of just who they were or where they had come from.
The remaining children, fewer in number, were perhaps even worse off.
They knew, but they had been abandoned anyway. Unwanted. Unloved.