Remember When (Ravenswood #4)

Chapter Two

Over the next few days Clarissa kept herself pleasantly occupied. She called upon Sir Ifor and Lady Rhys, who had not yet left for their annual visit to Wales, and was able to take them firsthand news of Gwyneth, their daughter, and the grandchildren in London. She called too upon her friends Prudence Wexford and Lady Hardington, and met more neighbors and friends at church on Sunday. She spent almost the whole of one day visiting her parents. She was able to report to them that her brother George’s marriage to Kitty was continuing to bring them both considerable contentment.

But she spent most of her time alone, as she had planned to do. If she had wanted a busy social life, she might have had it. But if that was what she had wanted, she would have stayed in London for what remained of the Season. She might have stayed, for example, to discover if her beau remained attentive and if she wanted their relationship to develop further. She smiled to think of Lord Keilly, with his silver hair and rather austere courtliness, as her beau. She wondered what he would think if he knew she amused herself by describing him thus to herself.

But she really did not miss him. The whirl of the London Season had never held any great allure for her, even when she first participated in it as a young bride. She soon forgot it when she was back home, or remembered it as an alien world for which she did not yearn any more than she did for Lord Keilly. It was very unlikely she would ever marry him if he asked.

She roamed the vast house, absorbing the memories each room brought her—memories of Caleb and their children, more recently of their grandchildren too. She strolled the long gallery on the upper floor of the west wing, looking at all the portraits of Wares, going back generations and culminating in those that included her and her children. Devlin had commissioned a painting of himself and Gwyneth and their two children just last year. There were actually smiles on their faces, unusual for formal family portraiture. Bethan, still a plump, bald baby at the time, was standing with crooked legs on her father’s lap while he kept a close hold on her waist, and appeared to be waving one chubby hand at the painter and therefore at the viewer. Gareth was sitting more properly on his mother’s lap, but he seemed to be doing more than just smiling. He was surely laughing. Both Devlin and Gwyneth looked delighted with life.

Devlin had chosen the artist well.

She was so very well blessed in her family, Clarissa thought afterward as she sat in the turret room atop the front corner of the west wing. Some people referred to it irreverently as the onion room, or more poetically as the raindrop room, but everyone loved it, especially children, who were attracted by the illusion that it was perched on top of the world and used it mainly for cushion fights. How so many cushions had accumulated there Clarissa did not know, but they were bright and cozy, and it had never occurred to her—or to Gwyneth since she became countess, it seemed—to pare them down.

She sat now surrounded by them, holding one to her bosom. She had brought a book up with her, but she had known even before she picked it up that this was not the place where one typically read. There were glass windows above and all around the room with magnificent views in all directions. It was drizzling rain outside today, as it had been on and off since she came home, but that somehow made the room even more cozy. She could see the lake way off to her right, the sweeping front of Ravenswood Hall to her left, the river and Boscombe ahead. It was a picturesque village and enhanced rather than spoiled the rural loveliness of the view.

It was also where Matthew lived.

It was where he had lived and worked for more than twenty years. She had long ago grown comfortable with the fact. So had he, apparently. As far as she knew, he had never been tempted to go back to what she still thought of as his grandmother’s house, where he had lived during his brief marriage—he had wed a mere month after her own marriage to Caleb. His poor wife had died soon after giving birth to a stillborn child the following year, however. Within days of the funerals, according to Clarissa’s mother, he had disappeared and not returned for many years. During that time his grandmother had died and left everything to him. According to Clarissa’s father, her recently changed will must have come as a severe shock to Horace Taylor and Reginald, Matthew’s father and elder brother.

No one had seemed to know where Matthew had gone, though someone must have known, for the house and park had been leased out in his absence, something that must surely have been done at his direction. Captain Jakes, a retired naval officer, had lived there with his wife and, more recently, her unmarried sister too, ever since. Matthew had reappeared after ten or twelve years and settled in Boscombe of all places, as a carpenter. He was skilled at his work, and his services had soon been in high demand. But he had always enjoyed working with wood, Clarissa remembered. He had been talented but unskilled through his boyhood. His father had never encouraged Matthew to develop his one passion.

Clarissa had smelled the smithy a few days ago as she climbed the stairs to Matthew’s rooms, where she had never been before. But when she had been inside, it was the wood she had smelled, and she had thought it a lovely, comforting scent. She had thought his small living room a cozy and inviting place. She had thought a person could be happy there, though the room was surely not much larger than this onion turret.

She had spoken to him for longer than she ever had before—since she was seventeen anyway. She had seen to it that she had a good reason for going, of course. But finally, before it was too late, she had mustered the courage to ask about the wood carving that had haunted her memory ever since he had entered it for the contest at the fete two years ago.

It was the most exquisite wood carving she had ever seen, though it could be no more than two feet high. Visually it was perfect. But it was far more than just something upon which to gaze with admiration. From the time she first set eyes upon it she had felt all its emotional force, its profundity, its essential ambiguity. Yet it had taken her a moment to recognize the figure standing against the tree as herself. He had been right, though, when she questioned him about it a few days ago. The woman he had carved was both young and old and everything in between. She yearned toward something, as we all yearn. She was hopeful for the future, nostalgic for the past, rooted in the present. She was Everywoman. And more even than that. She was Everyperson. She was the human experience.

How on earth had he managed to convey all that in one relatively small, exquisitely fashioned carving? It was, after all, just a piece of wood. But at the heart of it all, catching at Clarissa’s breath every time she had thought of it since, was her conviction that the woman against the tree was her.

If she could go back, she thought now as she hugged the cushion more tightly to her bosom, knowing all she knew now, would she decide differently? Probably not. Undoubtedly not, in fact. And on the whole she did not believe she had made a disastrous choice. Her adult life had brought her security and contentment and many moments of outright happiness. It had not been perfect, of course—good heavens, it had not been perfect!—but she had this home and a deep sense of belonging. She had neighbors and friends she valued. And she had her children and grandchildren, all of whom—and this included Ben and Joy—were an enormous blessing.

A maid had toiled up all the stairs to the turret room in order to bring her a tray laden with a pot of tea and freshly baked scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam. Clarissa often wondered how the staff seemed to know instinctively where she was at all times and even when she was ready for her afternoon tea—before she knew it herself, in fact.

“I am being spoiled,” she said as the maid set down the tray and curtsied before withdrawing. “Thank you.”

Matthew’s child—Clarissa had never discovered whether it was a girl or a boy—would have been Devlin’s age now or a month or two older. She wondered how much pain Matthew had lived through at the time and later, even perhaps to the present day. She wondered where he had been all those years he was gone, and what he had been doing, apart from perfecting his carpentry and carving skills, that was.

Somewhere along the way he had also learned the art of archery. He was famously good at it. Any arrow of his that did not pierce the bull’s-eye of the target was considered a shocking failure by all who ever watched him, and his arrows flew fast and true as he pulled them at seemingly lightning speed from the quiver he carried on his back. Owen, Clarissa’s youngest son, declared that he himself could hit the broad side of a barn on a good day, while Matthew Taylor could miss the center of the target by a fraction of an inch on a particularly bad day. Yet it never occurred to Owen to resent the village carpenter. He came closer to revering him.

Clarissa poured herself a cup of tea and cut a scone in half before spreading jam on both halves and heaping a sinful amount of cream on top. She bit into one half, careful to hold her mouth over the plate as she did so. Ah. Her eyes fluttered closed as she savored the taste. Was there any culinary delight to compare with scones, jam, and cream?

She sat back against the comfortable cushions of the sofa when she had finished both halves and let her eyes roam over the slightly misty countryside outside. She was home, and there was nowhere on earth she would rather be—though she had loved that sparsely furnished, low-ceilinged room above the smithy, with its view over the village green and its pervading aroma of wood coming from what she guessed must be his workroom beyond.

She waited eagerly for him to send word that he had a design for the new baby’s crib to present for her approval.

—

Ravenswood had been intended by its architect to strike something like awe into all who beheld it. The man had succeeded, Matthew thought, not for the first time, as he climbed the steep flight of steps to the great double front doors and rapped the brass knocker against its pad. It was amazing that one family could use all this space, though there was also, of course, the army of servants who catered to their needs and made any exertion on their part more or less superfluous.

Though that was an unkind thought. They were a busy family, all of them, and went to great pains to serve the community in every way they could. They were well liked and respected. It would be difficult to dislike or despise any of them. Well, the late Stratton perhaps, though even that was questionable. There had been some good in him, a fact Matthew admitted only very grudgingly. There had also been the one great evil, for which he would never forgive the man.

The doors opened—both of them—and Matthew explained to the butler that he had an appointment with her ladyship. It occurred to him that perhaps he ought to have presented himself at the kitchen door, but though he had chosen to live and work as a humble craftsman, he never abased himself. The butler, inclining his head in acknowledgment of his claim, led the way and announced him formally at the drawing room doors.

Clarissa rose from her chair and came toward him, smiling, one hand extended. She was alone. Matthew had learned since her visit to his rooms that she was the only one who had returned from London, that the other members of her family were not expected for at least another couple of months. He took her hand and held it for a few moments before releasing it. Her eyes sparkled. She looked happy.

“Prudence Wexford described to me the sketches for the dining table you are going to make for her,” she said. “It all sounds very grand. However have you found time to design a crib too?”

“The table is going to be something of a monstrosity,” he said with a blunt lack of tact he rarely expressed aloud no matter who the customer or who the listener. “But she seems inordinately pleased with the drawings.”

“She is,” she said. “She even went so far as to say she can scarcely wait to unveil the table to all her neighbors and friends. I would not be at all surprised if she holds a special dinner party to celebrate when the table has been made and installed. I assume it was precisely her instructions you followed when you drew up the plans? For I do agree with your opinion. It sounds rather…busy. You are making her very happy, though, Matthew.”

“I aim to please,” he said, and smiled back at her.

He still felt embarrassed about what had happened when she called on him last week. Entering that carving for the contest at the fete two years ago had been done on a whim. He had been hesitant about exposing it to public scrutiny because it was so precious to him. More important, though, he had wondered if she would recognize herself in it. He had been unable to resist finding out. He had convinced himself that she probably did not even remember that brief moment in her youth, the day before all the excitement of receiving and accepting a marriage proposal from the Earl of Stratton. Even if she did remember, he had assured himself, she would hardly see herself in what he had carved in a burst of creative energy.

But it seemed she had remembered, and she had recognized herself. He wondered if she understood the significance of the fact that he kept it in his bedchamber rather than more prominently displayed in the living room or with most of the others in his workroom.

The whole thing had been a self-indulgence he rarely allowed himself. For that incident had happened more than thirty years ago, when he had lived upon raw emotion, something he would not go back to for any consideration in the world. Anyone who thought youth was the best time of one’s life was clearly an ass.

“Shall I show you the preliminary design for the crib?” he asked, raising his left hand, in which he held a large scroll of parchment paper. “It is only preliminary. You may change anything or everything about it.”

“Why do you not spread it on the table over here?” she said, leading the way and removing the bowl of flowers and the lace cloth upon which it stood so he would have plenty of space. She set the bowl on a sideboard and folded the cloth neatly beside it. She brought back with her two small, heavy-looking crystal candlesticks to hold down the outer edges of the drawing so it would not immediately snap back into its roll.

“Oh, just look at it,” she said in obvious delight as she leaned over the table.

The crib itself would be a solid, but not too heavy, structure of simple design, though he would contrive to have one of the longer sides movable so it could be lowered almost to the level of the mattress for easy lifting in and out of the baby. He had made a rough indication on the main drawing of what he intended for the headboard and footboard, on both the outside and the inside. The smiling elephant with curled trunk and ears like huge fans would dominate the inside of the footboard, while a laughing monkey would climb the post on one side and a giraffe would be featured on the whole of the leg and post at the other side, munching upon the leaves of a tree whose branches spread out over the top of the board. A puppy, a kitten, and a baby rabbit would cuddle together and smile down at the baby from the headboard. Two of the legs and the bars would be twined with climbing plants and flowers and small birds and butterflies and ladybirds. He wanted to make it all shamelessly unrealistic. Even the flowers and the ladybirds smiled.

“Oh,” Clarissa said again after gazing in silence for several minutes. “How absolutely adorable, Matthew.”

“Everything will have smooth curves and no sharp edges,” he told her. “Nothing that could hurt a baby.”

She straightened up and looked at him with flushed cheeks and eyes that still sparkled. “It will be a masterpiece,” she said. “Ben and Jennifer are going to absolutely love it. Joy too.”

Joy, he recalled, was Ben Ellis’s daughter from a previous marriage.

“Is she happy about the new baby?” he asked.

She laughed. “Apparently she has not stopped bouncing since she was told,” she said. “Though I hope for all their sakes that is something of an exaggeration. She has longed for a brother or sister. She is five years old and will be a splendid older sister.”

He marveled anew at how Clarissa had accepted Ben into the family. It must have been incredibly difficult for her. Had Stratton claimed that the mother, recently deceased, was a former mistress, dismissed before he married Clarissa? Or had she known then, and had she always known, what sort of man she had wed?

It was really none of his business, though. She had seemed happy enough when he had returned from his long travels and settled in Boscombe. She had been as beautiful as ever, and as warmly charming. They had made a handsome couple, she and Stratton, and had seemed devoted to each other—until the end, or what Matthew thought of as the end, though Stratton had lived four or five years longer before his sudden death.

“You trust me to proceed, then, Clarissa?” he asked, indicating the plans.

He heard the echo of her name. Was it offensive for a village carpenter to call a dowager countess by her given name? Had he done it at all when she called in his rooms last week? He could not remember, though he was pretty sure he had not done so in all the years since her marriage. Yet she called him Matthew more often than she did Mr. Taylor.

“Absolutely,” she said. “I would have no idea how to arrange all these flowers and creatures into one harmonious whole. I know you will do it to perfection.”

He removed the candlesticks from the edges of his drawing and rolled it up neatly again while she replaced everything as it had been when he arrived.

“There is no hurry, of course,” she said. “Though I would love to see the finished product tomorrow. Prudence’s need is greater than mine. She would love nothing better than to have her table yesterday. And doubtless you have other work too.”

“I never take on more than I can comfortably handle,” he said.

“May I come and see the crib after you start on it?” she asked. “I would love to see it develop from pieces of blank wood into a child’s paradise. However, I do know that many artists of all kinds—painters, writers, musicians—do not like any outside interference in their creations until they are complete.”

He was one of those artists—if artist was not too pretentious a word to apply to himself. But it was not for that reason he hesitated. She really ought not to come to his rooms again. Not that it would seem indiscreet to her. For all her amiability with him and her use of his first name, she must see him merely as a tradesman. But for him…? And for other villagers, who would hardly be able to avoid seeing her coming and going? Well. Perhaps when the time came, he would suggest that she bring a maid with her.

“Perhaps,” he said vaguely.

“It is time for morning coffee,” she said. “Will you join me, Matthew? Oh, but not in here. It is such a lovely day after all the clouds and drizzle we have been enduring. I will have it taken onto the terrace outside the ballroom. There will be a sunny corner there by now. Will you come?”

What the devil would her servants think and talk of among themselves? Would they assume it was merely business they were discussing over their coffee? And would they be right? Did it matter?

He had decided many years ago that the rigid British class system no longer meant anything to him, that all people mattered equally, that he could not care less whether people knew or remembered that by accident of birth he was a gentleman. That designation had never served him well anyway. It was not that he resented the facts of his birth. He truly did not care. He mingled socially with everyone alike. And he spent a great deal of his time—most of it, in fact—alone with his own company. He liked it that way. A solitary man who was nevertheless sociable.

“I will welcome both the coffee and the fresh air and sunshine,” he said, and she smiled happily and turned to pull on the bell rope.

The butler must have been hovering close to the drawing room doors. He appeared within moments, and Clarissa requested that a tray of coffee for two be taken outside.

“Come,” she said, crossing the room to the door and allowing him to open it for her. “I decided to return home early from London, though my children and friends tried to persuade me to stay until the end of the Season and then join them in their various plans for the summer. Jennifer and Ben also invited me to spend the summer at Penallen. I wanted to be alone, however. Solitude is such a rare and precious luxury. But I will welcome some company. Is that very muddleheaded of me?”

“Life is made up of opposite extremes,” he said. “A contented life comes from finding a balance of those extremes, though it is not always easily achieved.”

“What a wise understanding of life,” she said, turning toward the west wing and the ballroom. “And have you found balance in your own life, Matthew?”

“I believe so,” he said. “With the understanding that I cannot always control events, of course.”

He fell into step beside her.