Chapter Fifteen #2
Andrew Cunningham had finished creating an exquisitely realistic sheep, solid and woolly and placidly maternal, with a spindly legged lamb at her side, leaning against her but looking outward with an eager, barely contained energy that would soon send it gamboling away from her to explore its new world.
It was not just a skilled carving. It pulsed with life and had movement and joy, though all were illusions, of course.
In reality, it was just a block of stone.
Mr. Cunningham and Matthew had somehow persuaded Andrew—Winifred with her signed messages had helped a great deal—to enter it in the contest at the fete.
The contest was, strictly speaking, for wood carvings, but that was only because no one had ever tried to enter a stone carving.
“And that came from the ugly old stone we lugged home from ten miles away?” Nicholas said to Winifred when they were both out in the stables to view the newly finished work of art with her parents and Robbie, Matthew and his brother, Bertrand and Owen.
He had studiously avoided her since the afternoon of their ride, just as she had avoided him.
But she was looking so happy for her brother that he could not continue to keep his distance from her.
“Now I know what your mother means when she says Andrew sees something in stone, something full of energy that he absolutely must release. It is quite exquisite, though somehow that seems to be not quite praise enough. Language can be very limiting.”
“I do indeed say that,” Mrs. Cunningham said. “I always find it astonishing. I am so very proud of my son.”
“I believe Matthew may have competition this year,” Owen said. “Andrew may tip him off his throne.”
“I would not stop sulking this side of Christmas,” Matthew said.
“It was not ten miles,” Winifred said to Nicholas. “You do like to exaggerate.”
“What?” he said. “You mean it was eleven? It is no wonder my back has been protesting ever since.”
She laughed.
Mr. Cunningham was hugging his deaf son, the suggestion of tears in his eyes.
—
The summer fetes had halted abruptly after the year of what most people in the neighborhood thought of as the great catastrophe.
When it resumed a few years later, it had been on the initiative of an organizing committee of volunteers drawn from among the villagers and people of the surrounding countryside, who sorely missed the annual frolics.
One of the first decisions of the new committee was to move a number of the events to the village itself—the vending booths, the maypole dancing, the children’s races, to name a few.
Nicholas liked the changes, for the burden upon his mother had been enormous.
However, it was because of those changes that he hesitated over his original plan to have Devlin announce his betrothal at the evening ball.
It would be inappropriate to put the focus upon the Ware family when it was the community that had planned the whole thing—music, decorations, and refreshments.
It would feel very like stealing their thunder to intrude upon their community ball.
He had decided instead that the traditional family dinner on the eve of the fete, when the house would be full of guests, both family and close friends, would be by far the more appropriate setting for the announcement. All of which meant that Friday was going to be a busy day for him.
It began after he asked General Haviland for a private word in the library after breakfast. The general put him through his paces, just as though he had not been working toward this very moment with Mrs. Haviland for the past year or more and just as though he knew nothing of Colonel Ware’s circumstances and ability to give his daughter the sort of life she had been raised to expect.
It ended as Nicholas expected, of course.
Permission was granted, and all that remained for him to do was pay his addresses to Grace herself.
He had indeed cut off all possibility of retreat now, he thought as he left the library with a jovial General Haviland and escaped for a while to the stables, where Devlin and Ben, quite like old times, were making sure all was ready for the archery and log-hewing contests.
Both welcomed him. Neither made any mention of the meeting in the library, though they must have been fully aware of it.
Everyone had plans for the afternoon, some to entertain the children, others to help however they could with preparations for the events that would take place at Ravenswood.
Aunt Kitty was helping Mama set up the needlework displays in the courtyard, though she did explain to Winifred, who went to help too, that they might as well stand back and admire and not interfere.
Her sister-in-law was very fussy about what went where on that table.
The baked items would not arrive until early on Saturday morning.
Mr. Cunningham, who had finished the portrait, was helping Gwyneth set up the wood-carving display on the terrace, though the word wood was going to have to be dropped this year.
Young Andrew Cunningham’s stone sheep stood prominently on the table with Matthew Taylor’s pensive shepherd, Uncle George’s cockerel greeting the morning and looking for all the world as though it were waking all sleepers within a wide radius, and numerous others.
Bertrand had gone out to the poplar alley with Owen to supervise the setting up of the targets and the marking of the line from which each archer would shoot.
Nicholas found Grace in the drawing room with Mrs. Haviland, Miss Delmont, and his grandparents.
He made general conversation for a few minutes, but he could tell instantly that all of them knew full well why he was there.
Mrs. Haviland in particular was tense with waiting.
Grace herself, dressed in a manner more suited to a London drawing room than an informal house party in the country, sat very upright on her chair, her hands clasped in her lap, her face looking rather as though it had been carved of marble.
“Grace,” he said, getting to his feet and bowing to her.
“With your mother’s permission, may I take you for a stroll along the river path below the meadow?
It is very picturesque. Much of it is shaded by trees and is cooler in the heat of the afternoon than the more open paths and carriageways in the rest of the park. ”
He was babbling a bit.
“Do go, Grace,” Mrs. Haviland said. “I will stay and give Mr. and Mrs. Greenfield and Miss Delmont my company.”
“Thank you, Colonel Ware,” Grace said, getting to her feet. “Some fresh air will be welcome.”
They walked arm in arm across the terrace, down the driveway toward the bridge, and then onto the river path—just as Owen and Winifred Cunningham had done a few evenings ago.
Nicholas still did not know if anything significant had happened during that walk.
But he was beginning to doubt that Owen could have asked her to marry him.
She would almost certainly have said yes if he had, and he was bound to have said something to someone by now.
Had he at least held her hand once they were out of sight, kissed her, moved one step closer to making a declaration?
Perhaps he had. Perhaps he intended to have his own betrothal announced this weekend.
But Nicholas did not want to be thinking about his brother. Even less did he want to be thinking about Winifred. That perfect evening for romance was then; this perfect afternoon for a marriage proposal was now. Two different couples.
While they strolled below the meadow, in sight of anyone in an upper window of Ravenswood who was looking out or anyone in Boscombe who cared to glance this way, they were largely silent, just occasionally remarking on the beauty of their surroundings.
He could feel her hand tense on his arm, though she gave the general impression of being perfectly at ease.
She was so well trained to behave as she ought and push any personal feelings deep.
Then at last they were in the shade and privacy of the trees.
The air was instantly cooler, the glare of the sun less intense.
The river turned from sparkling silver to deep green.
And instead of the bleating of sheep and the sound of the breeze in the long grass of the meadow, there was birdsong and the gentle rustling of leaves overhead.
And the sweet smells of clover and water.
“Perfect,” he murmured.
“It is,” she said.
“Grace,” he said. “You must know I think you are perfect too. You must know that I spoke to your father this morning. You have been expecting this. However, before I proceed to it, I must ask you one more time. Your happiness is important to me. I am ready to devote the rest of my life to cultivating that happiness to the best of my ability. But all the effort in the world will not suffice if you are not happy now, if you are doing only what is expected of you—by your parents, by your hosts and fellow guests here, by society. By me. Are you willing to give me an answer that comes from the deepest part of yourself, regardless of anyone else? Do you want me? Do you love me?”
He had tried to practice the speech. It came out all stilted and formal when he had wanted a relaxed atmosphere between them, in which she would perhaps share her real self and her real feelings with him.
It took her a while to answer.
“I hope I will always do what is expected of me,” she said. “It is how I have been raised. Your appeals to emotion now and a few evenings ago up in the glass room are foreign to my nature, Colonel Ware. I can only say that I have a deep regard for you. And a firm trust in you.”
It was hopeless. He could only rely upon the softening effects of intimacy after they were married. He knew she would never give him a moment’s trouble. She was indeed perfect.
“Will you do me the great honor of marrying me, then?” he asked her, stopping on the path and turning toward her.
He had taken her hand in his and was gazing deeply into her eyes, but he had not gone down on one knee.
He did not want anything theatrical about this moment. He wanted, God help him, sincerity.
She raised her eyes to his and opened her mouth to speak. And closed it again after a few moments. He squeezed her hand and raised it to his lips. And watched, appalled, as two tears spilled over from her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.
“I cannot do it to you,” she said. “I care for you enough, Colonel Ware, to know that I would be doing you a terrible disservice by marrying you. You need someone who will love you according to your definition of the word. Any of that sort of emotion I ever knew dried up many years ago after I had loved passionately twice and lost both men. I have a great deal to give to a marriage now, but I could never be the sort of wife you deserve. Oh, what can I do? Everyone is expecting…”
No, Nicholas thought. All emotion had not dried up in her. It had only been suppressed for a long time, but it was bubbling to the surface now. He felt her distress. He held up a staying hand and she left her sentence unfinished.
“We will not worry about that,” he said.
“I will merely tell everyone that we had a good discussion here this afternoon and came to the mutual and amicable conclusion that we would not suit after all. We will not be lying. I hope we have reached an amicable decision and that we will remain friends. I really do like you exceedingly well, Grace. And I do consider you perfect. You are a thoroughly gracious lady.”
She surprised him again then by laughing. But he could see that a great tension had left her and that for the moment, at least, she had let all her defenses slip in order to be herself.
“Thank you,” she said. “But I will take the blame with Mama and Papa. I will not have them thinking that somehow you did not come up to snuff. You have to work daily with Papa at the Horse Guards, after all.”
He wondered if she would have accepted his proposal if he had proceeded directly to it without any preamble.
He believed she almost undoubtedly would.
But he also believed it would have gone against her real wishes.
So he could not feel guilty for probing her inner feelings both today and a few evenings ago.
He had probably done her a favor while virtually forcing her to look inward. If she could do it more often, think for herself, feel for herself, perhaps real happiness lay in wait for her somewhere. Though not with him. He very genuinely hoped for her happiness. She was dear to him.
“Shall we stroll a little farther?” he said. “I rarely walk here, but when I do, I wonder why I do not come more often. It is easily one of the most beautiful and certainly the most soothing parts of the park.”
“It is lovely,” she said. “But I think I would prefer to go back to the house, Colonel Ware. Mama and Papa will be waiting.”
“Yes,” he said. “Would you like me to face them with you? Or instead of you?”
“No,” she said. “That will not be necessary.”
She had already put herself back together, he saw as they turned back and walked a little more briskly along the path than when they had come. She took his arm when he offered it, but neither of them spoke.
There would be no announcement at dinner tonight, then, he realized suddenly.
Or tomorrow. He was free. It was a bit of a dizzying thought.
He had not felt free for months. For the first while he had persuaded himself that he was doing the right thing, that he had needed the nudge General and Mrs. Haviland had undoubtedly been giving him.
Then he had felt trapped, though he had still convinced himself that all would change once he was married.
More recently he had felt a sort of hopeless panic while still trying to persuade himself that he was doing the right thing, that he wanted and needed to be married and begin setting up a family of his own.
Now all those dreams had died again, or at least any hope of fulfilling them soon. He was going to have to start all over again without allowing himself to get trapped until he was quite sure he had made the right choice—right for him and right for the woman.
But for the moment he was free. And he did not know quite what it was going to mean to him over the coming days and weeks and months.
At the moment his predominant feelings were guilt—yes, it could not be totally dismissed—and distress for having upset Grace, who did not deserve unhappiness.