Chapter Eighteen
Winifred spent some time with her mother and Sarah, looking at the display of items for the baking contest along the western side of the courtyard and the needlework items on the eastern side.
The dowager countess had arranged everything there in what itself was a sort of work of art.
Everything had been carefully placed so that one color and shade blended into that of its neighbor along the whole length of the tables.
And the needlework itself was nothing short of exquisite.
There were many other people, mostly women, looking at the displays too, trying to guess which items would win prizes.
“There is certainly no shortage of talent in the neighborhood,” Mama said.
“I do not envy the judges,” Sarah said. “How will they choose a winner? I think they all deserve a prize.”
“I would have to agree,” Winifred said.
They looked at the woodwork entries—and the stonework one—displayed on a long table out on the terrace and were left with the same impression.
All were deserving of a prize. Andrew was there too with Papa, running his fingers lightly over a few of the wood carvings, though onlookers were not supposed to touch.
But touch seemed important to the artist in Andrew, and he was being treated with kindly indulgence by everyone who understood his affliction—if one chose to call his deafness that.
Perhaps it was merely a special ability, which was what Papa always said.
And everyone knew that he was the one with the stonework entry.
How lovely it would be if he won a prize. But the competition was stiff, and they must not expect him to be given special treatment in the judging.
Blankets had been spread on the grass for the convenience of families.
There were chairs in clusters for the older people, though a salon indoors had also been opened for any who wished to escape from the noise and bustle and heat of the sun for a while.
Jennifer Ellis was in there currently, with young Belinda fast asleep on her lap.
Ben’s aunt kept her company. There were tables on the terrace with jugs of lemonade and urns of tea as well as plates of freshly baked biscuits of all kinds.
Children were running about on the lawns, released from the formality of the races as they played games of their own devising.
These involved a great deal of noise and shrieking.
Winifred watched them for a while from the edge of the terrace, but she was eager to go out to the poplar alley, where the archery contest was due to begin soon.
A number of other people were already on their way there.
Winifred was eager to see Owen compete, and Mr. Taylor, whose shooting was apparently the stuff of legends in the neighborhood.
Especially, though, she wanted to watch Robbie, though she felt horribly anxious for him.
She hoped he would not do terribly and disappoint himself.
She hoped he would not feel humiliated if that happened.
Oh, please let him acquit himself at least respectably.
She knew, though, that Owen would find some way of cheering him up.
For some reason Robbie had become attached to Owen, a fact that perhaps boded well for Owen’s most fervent dream of working with troubled young people and perhaps employing Robbie to help him.
Winifred turned away from the activity outside the house and hurried to the alley. She did not want to miss a single shot. She joined a group that included her parents, Andrew, Ben Ellis, and Lucas, Duke of Wilby. Colonel Ware joined them just before the contest began.
It was all very exciting, Winifred thought.
There were twenty-five contestants, varying, she discovered during the course of the contest, between those who were both experienced and skilled and those who were new to the sport or quite lacking in the basic skills necessary to improve with practice.
But all were entertaining to watch. Each was given four minutes in which to shoot six arrows.
The Earl of Stratton was keeping the time.
Several of the contestants began their set reasonably well, but as they became aware of their time speeding by, their aim became more erratic.
“However do they hit the target at all?” Winifred asked of no one in particular.
It looked like an impossibility to her. The target seemed to be too far away from the line behind which each archer had to stand.
But most contestants succeeded in sinking their arrows into it, though very few reached the inner rings, which carried the highest scores.
“With a good eye and a steady arm,” Colonel Ware said.
“And lots of practice,” Mr. Ellis added.
“It looks as though many of these archers practice for a day or two before the fete,” the Duke of Wilby said, chuckling, “and do not give it a thought for the rest of the year. However, I admire the fact that they are willing to compete at all. It is a difficult sport.”
Winifred held her breath when it was Owen’s turn.
Please don’t let him utterly disgrace himself, she prayed to some unnamed deity.
Was there a god of archery in any culture?
She hardly dared watch. But moments after he shot his first arrow, there was a roar from the spectators.
It had hit the very center of the target.
“There is a God,” Colonel Ware said. “He has never come even close before.”
Alas, two of his remaining arrows hit the outer rings of the target while the remaining three fell harmlessly to the grass, not even close.
He looked delighted with himself afterward as he grinned at his family and friends.
“A pure fluke,” he said.
And then it was Robbie’s turn. Mama was clutching Papa’s arm, Winifred noticed, and Andrew was watching intently.
She held her breath as the earl gave the signal to start and Robbie raised the bow into position.
He shot all his arrows with a minute to spare and hit the target with all but one of them.
None stuck within the inner rings, but he looked eagerly at Owen anyway when he had finished, and he smiled.
Oh, it was so rare to see Robbie smile.
Mama and Papa were both hugging him. So was Andrew. And so was Winifred.
“Oh, well done,” she cried.
But an expectant hush had fallen all about them.
Mr. Taylor had taken his place at the shooting line.
He was the final contestant. He fixed his eyes on the target and half closed them.
Winifred could see that his concentration was total.
She guessed he was quite unaware of all the people waiting with bated breath for him to shoot his arrows.
He did not even move when the Earl of Stratton gave him the signal to start.
He stood quite still for at least half a minute longer and then raised his bow unhurriedly.
His quiver of arrows was slung over one shoulder.
And then he shot—six arrows, one after the other, with no discernible pause between.
The near silence of the crowd held for a few moments after the last arrow had left his bow. And then they roared as one as it became clear that every single arrow had found its way to the very heart of the target.
“Good God,” Papa said irreverently. “Is it possible?”
“No,” Colonel Ware said. “It is not. But we have all seen it done anyway. I wonder what his secret is.”
Winifred turned toward him and smiled.
The dowager countess was hurrying toward her husband to be caught up in a tight hug.
Ah, what a wonderful time this was, Winifred thought.
Robbie had placed fourteenth out of the field of twenty-five.
How extraordinary when he had only just discovered the sport.
Owen placed twenty-second, his best ever result.
He boasted of it, laughing, as his brother and his cousin, who had placed two positions lower, slapped him on the back.
“Did you see that first arrow of mine, Winifred?” he asked.
“I did indeed,” she said. “It was a magnificent shot.”
“I am thinking of having that arrow cast in bronze,” he said, “to mount on the wall of my bedchamber to remind me of my greatest moment.”
The whole group laughed.
He was such a good sport, she thought. She walked back to the house between him and Colonel Ware.
“Are you going to watch the log hewing, Winifred?” Owen asked. “Lots of women do. It is coming up next.”
“But of course,” she said. “I do not want to miss a single thing.”
“I wonder,” Colonel Ware said, “if you would reserve the first waltz of the ball for me, Winifred. I thought I would get my word in before Owen.”
“There is to be more than one waltz,” Owen said. “There always is. Everyone loves the dance even though there are a few diehards who still consider it a bit scandalous. Anyway, Nick, you know very well that this is always an informal ball. One does not have to reserve sets in advance.”
“Except when one wants to be certain of a particular partner for a particular dance,” Colonel Ware said. “Win?”
She was having difficulty catching her breath, which was very silly of her. It was just a dance, after all.
“I will squeeze your name onto my very full dance card,” she said.
He had danced with her at Aunt Anna’s ball perhaps because he had felt obliged since it was her come-out ball, and perhaps because he had wanted to grill her over her eligibility to be courted by his brother.
It had not been a waltz. It had not gone well, that dance and the supper that followed it.
She had made an idiot of herself by saying she was a hater of all warfare and telling him her first impression had been that he was a cruel man.
And he had firmly defended himself for being a killer, as all military men who had seen battle were.
That seemed like a million years ago.
She looked at him now, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. What was his motive this time?
“I am flattered,” he said.
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