Chapter Seventeen
Nicholas wanted to go too. He would enjoy watching the children race. With Winifred. But her leaving so abruptly was clearly a dismissal. For whatever reason, she needed to be away from him for a while. At least, he hoped it was just for a while.
He sat back down and absorbed the sights and sounds all around him.
He looked for people he knew, and found them everywhere—the Misses Miller, longtime owners of the village shop, a central hub for local gossip; Oscar Holland, the retired blacksmith, though rumor had it he still came to the smithy almost daily to tell his son all he was doing wrong, criticism Cam good-naturedly ignored; Alan Roberts, the schoolteacher, who was married to the former Sally Holland, the dressmaker’s daughter; Prudence Wexford, Colonel Wexford’s sister, and Ariel, his daughter, who had been a pretty girl and was now a handsome woman and betrothed to Dr. Isherwood; James Rutledge, son of Baron Hardington, a boyhood friend; Jim Berry, longtime landlord of the inn, who stood in the doorway of his establishment for a few minutes in his long white apron, taking a break from his busy day in the kitchen with Mrs. Berry.
There were numerous others. The sight of them filled Nicholas with nostalgia.
A number of people stopped to greet and chat with him. James Rutledge sat with him and was joined by Owen and Bradley Danver, the vicar’s son. The four of them reminisced about their boyhood and laughed over some of the memories.
Nicholas continued to look about even as he joined in the chatter.
His grandparents were seated outside the church with a few other older folk, including Miss Delmont; Amy Holland, Oscar’s wife; and Mrs. Barnes, who had once been their nurse at Ravenswood.
Mrs. Haviland, arm in arm with Lady Rhys, was moving along in front of the stalls, examining the merchandise.
General Haviland stood a short distance away from the inn with Colonel Wexford and Charles Ware, Nicholas’s uncle, each of them with a tankard of ale in his hand.
Grace was with Clarence and Charity Ware and Bertrand Lamarr, watching the preparations for the maypole dancing.
Ben and Jennifer in her wheeled chair were about to join them. Grace turned to smile at Jennifer.
And Winifred was with her mother and young Sarah and a cluster of other adults, helping out with the children’s races and cheering on the contenders, children from Ravenswood and strangers alike.
She was smiling and animated and looking pretty.
He saw her now, in fact, with quite different eyes than the ones through which he had looked when he first met her.
“Come and join us,” Owen said, pulling another chair close to their table.
He was addressing Robbie, who tended to hover close to him, Nicholas had noticed.
“Have you all met Robbie Cunningham, a budding star at archery? I would wager he will be able to give Matthew Taylor a run for his money in a year or two if he keeps at it. Let me introduce you to Bradley Danver and James Rutledge, Robbie.”
The boy sat down, his face a wary, glowering mask as Owen smiled cheerfully at him. “I will never be so good,” he said. “Mr. Taylor is a genius.”
“And who is to say you are not?” Owen said. “I bet at your age he had never even held a bow. In fact, I know he had not. He told us so one day.”
“Pleased to meet you, lad,” James said, clapping a hand on Robbie’s shoulder. “You must be the painter’s boy. I look forward to watching you shoot this afternoon. You are entered, are you?”
Robbie looked warily at him and nodded curtly. He clearly did not like to be the focus of attention.
“I do believe the Cunningham twins have just won the three-legged race,” Nicholas said as the shrieks of excitement from the children rose to a crescendo. “It is hardly surprising, I suppose. They move as one even when their legs are not tied.”
Mrs. Cunningham was sweeping Emma up into her arms while Winifred hugged Susan.
“They are special,” Robbie said. “They are my sisters.”
“Lucky girls,” Bradley said. “But how do you tell them apart, Robbie?”
“When you love someone, you do not get them mixed up,” Robbie said defensively, as though he thought someone was arguing the point.
“I think the maypole dancing is ready to start as soon as the races are over,” Owen said.
Ah, the harsh lessons in life children had to learn, Nicholas thought as one very young child wailed inconsolably when he did not win his race.
But there was no point in sheltering them, perhaps by persuading them not to compete.
At some time or other all must learn that life when lived to the full was an inevitable mingling of triumph and disappointment and everything in between.
It was as well if one could experience both extremes once in a while when one was young and learn that neither was lasting.
It was never a good idea to encourage children to hide from life.
Was that what he had been doing all his adult life?
It was a strange thought to be having at this of all times.
Was it, though? The Ravenswood fetes had always had particular significance in his life, most of them dizzyingly happy, one at the very opposite extreme.
Was it possible he had never got over the terrible discovery he had made about his father on that day?
Had he guarded himself from future pain ever since by never feeling very deeply about anything—or anyone?
Was that why he had neglected his home and family?
Oh, he had not cut himself off entirely from them, it was true, and he had not stopped coming here.
If someone had ever accused him of being neglectful, he would have denied the charge with some indignation.
But he was thirty-four years old and unmarried.
That was not the way he had expected his life to unfold when he had looked ahead as an eighteen-year-old boy.
He had expected to have a home and a wife and family to enrich his chosen life as a cavalry officer long before he reached the age of thirty.
He had expected his wife to be someone he loved with all his heart, and his children to be a joy he would share with her.
It had certainly never occurred to him that he would eventually choose a bride with cool deliberation, as he had with Grace.
He had been enormously fortunate to be released from that commitment at the last possible moment.
And doubly fortunate to know that she had been equally relieved.
She actually looked happy today, something that had seemed to be absent from her demeanor all the time he had known her.
He hoped with all his heart that she would find love again, as she had as a very young woman, and trust it and discover the happiness that was surely hers by right.
He was free again to find love. There was no point in dwelling on the wasted years or upon his age. He was only thirty-four, and he had everything to give, and everything to expect in return.
The conversation flowed about him, unheeded for the moment.
He had fallen in love with Winifred Cunningham on the island that day of her first ever horseback ride.
The most unlikely woman in the world. Yet perhaps she was perfect for him.
Had he not longed to find someone who was real more than anything else—more than outwardly beautiful and accomplished and of impeccable lineage?
No one was more real than Winifred. Or more grounded in real life. Or more likable.
At the time, he had ruthlessly squashed his realization that he was in love with her, for neither of them had been free.
They both were now. But he must be careful.
He did not want to rush into anything he might regret.
Or rush her into anything she might regret.
He was not at all sure how she could fit into his life or how he could fit into hers.
She saw all soldiers as killers. And she was not wrong.
She did not like London, where he needed to be, at least for the foreseeable future.
She loved her rural life in the hills above Bath.
She was twenty-one years old. He was thirty-four. It was a significant age gap. He had always thought five years either side of his age was the limit he was prepared to go. Grace was just four years younger than he. Winifred was thirteen.
“The races are all done,” James said, getting to his feet. “I am headed for the maypole.”
A crowd was already forming there. The maypole dancing by Sid Johnson’s troupe had become increasingly popular over the years.
There were several reasons. The dancing was a musical and visual spectacle, the men dancers all clad in shirts of varying pastel shades, their female partners in similarly shaded dresses.
The ribbons were brightly multicolored. The fiddles were toe-tappingly good.
But perhaps most popular of all were the brief lessons the troupe gave afterward to whoever was brave enough to step forward before a large audience, possibly to make spectacles of themselves.
Young and old always took up the challenge, each to be partnered with one of the regular dancers while Sid called out clear instructions and the steps and patterns of the dance were kept simple.
Robert came running as the men approached and demanded a perch on Uncle Nick’s shoulders again so he would be able to see.
Most of the children wormed their way to the front.
Stephanie was there with Winifred, their arms linked.
Owen went to stand behind them and set a hand on a shoulder of each.
Bertrand came along with Uncle George and one of Matthew Taylor’s great-nephews.
The dancers were ready, each with a brightly colored ribbon in hand. A near hush fell on the crowd. The fiddles struck a decisive chord and launched into a lively tune. The dancers were off.