Remember When (Ravenswood #4)

Chapter Seven

Clarissa was glad she had made arrangements to visit her parents again after church the following day. It was her mother’s seventieth birthday. She needed to put some distance between herself and Ravenswood and her memories of yesterday. She needed to clear out her head.

The journey was a long one, however, and though she had the company of her maid in the carriage, Millicent was not a talker. Even among her fellow servants she apparently had a reputation for taciturnity. Whatever was one expected to do with one’s mind under such circumstances? One could not gaze mindlessly upon the scenery beyond the windows for all of ten miles—it was eight, George had once explained to her, if one were a crow, ten if one were a human traveling the carriage road, nine if one knew the occasional narrower, more heavily rutted shortcuts.

George and Kitty had sent with her from London a magnificently painted fan as a gift for Mama for her birthday. Clarissa’s gift was a cashmere shawl so soft it felt almost like silk.

Think about those birthday gifts, then, and about family.

Not that kiss!

She had been unable to shake off the memory of it for the rest of yesterday. It had kept her awake after she went to bed. It had figured prominently in her dreams. She still could not forget it today. She had tried in vain to dismiss it as a mere part of their exuberant reaction to their safe—though madly perilous—descent of the hill.

She could not convince herself.

It had been a kiss.

Goodness, they were both in their fifties—well, she was as close to being there as made no difference. And he had never kissed her before. Though he had confessed to having wanted to do so when he was eighteen. As she had confessed to wanting it too. But that was over thirty years ago. Over half her life ago.

She had not been kissed for a long time, not in that way anyway. Caleb had been dead for six years, and for the difficult four years before that their physical encounters had become fewer and less passionate. She would almost be willing to swear they had not kissed at all during those years.

Yesterday’s kiss, no matter how she tried to rationalize it, had shaken her to the core. And it had not even been just one kiss, which might the more easily have been dismissed as a mindless conclusion to the swinging about and the laughter. No, there had been two kisses. And she very much feared she had initiated the second if not the first. In fact, she knew she had.

And then, almost all the way home across the park, he had held her hand. It seemed a simple enough thing in itself since they had walked side by side, and it had been a long way. But…well, no. It had not been a simple thing. She could not recall ever walking hand in hand with Caleb. She could not remember holding hands with any other man either. She would take an offered arm, it was true. But never a hand, unless it was offered briefly to help her in and out of a carriage or something similar.

It had been a glorious, wonderful afternoon. The long walk had exhilarated her and made her feel young again. And they had fallen into easy conversation, just as they always had. She had thought they could be friends again. And she had been right. It had been lovely to walk and sit with a friend her own age, someone she had known a long time, one with whom she could relax and talk and laugh without conscious effort. The memory of his picnic tea set her to smiling again even now, and she glanced surreptitiously at Millicent on the seat across from her own. Her maid was staring woodenly out of the window, however. Those sandwiches! She had had to open her mouth very wide to bite into hers. And that tea-flavored or coffee-flavored not-quite-cold water! The tea itself so strong it might almost make one’s hair curl! No plates or cups or spoons or napkins. She had never enjoyed a picnic more.

And his story—that incredible account of how he had come to be an archer. She felt marvelously privileged that he had told her, when she knew he had not told anyone else. That story had explained one thing about him that had puzzled her for more than twenty years. How could the troubled, restless boy she remembered have become the man who was even-tempered and quietly content with his very simple way of life, who seemed at peace with himself and his world? It had always seemed to her too great a change to have come naturally with advancing age and maturity. She knew now that he had had a profound spiritual experience up in those mountains—the Himalayas, were they? It had not been the sort of experience that had set him on fire with religious zeal or a crusading spirit, but rather one that had brought him an inner tranquility that had continued to the present.

Clarissa wished that kiss had not happened, or the hand-holding. She had wanted, and still did, an uncomplicated summer friendship with Matthew Taylor, not a romance. The very idea of a romance between the two of them was absurd after all this time. They were middle-aged.

She wished the kiss had not happened, but it had. And she wanted more—more of his friendship, that was. She had invited him to drive to the lake with her on Tuesday. They were bound to be seen, he had warned her. But they had already been seen, strolling hand in hand, and those gardeners were not likely to keep such a story to themselves. But she and Matthew were neighbors. What was so reprehensible about their enjoying each other’s company once in a while?

She knew the answer—why such a friendship was remarkable, anyway, even if not reprehensible. The village carpenter and the dowager countess. Not merely walking together but walking hand in hand.

She would not give in to any sense of wrongdoing. That carpenter was also a gentleman. Besides, it was no one’s business whom she befriended. And it was not as though the friendship was going to consume her every waking hour. He was a man who worked for a living. And she had certain social obligations she would keep up, though she would also continue to cut them to the minimum in order to spend time alone—she still intended to give priority to that.

It was just a shame that the mind could so often have a mind of its own—she smiled at the absurdity—and take one’s thoughts in a direction they did not wish to go. Her mind was more undisciplined than ever these days, thoughts tumbling all over one another in their eagerness to grab her attention and take her off on unwanted mental journeys.

Perhaps she needed to take up archery.

The journey to her parents’ home seemed more interminable even than usual. She was very glad when the carriage turned onto her father’s land and the house came into sight. Perhaps the visit would take her mind off yesterday. Indeed, it almost certainly would, she thought as she saw two carriages, a curricle, and a gig drawn up to one side of the house, minus their horses. There were other visitors, then. Someone must have organized a birthday party of sorts for her mother. How lovely!

Although the ten-mile journey was a long and tedious one, Clarissa had made the effort to visit regularly since her marriage. In all that time, however, she had only rarely encountered any of the neighbors she remembered, or the few who had come to live in the neighborhood more recently. It would be a pleasure to see some of them again.

The vicar was new here since her day, though Clarissa had met him a time or two. Captain Jakes and his wife and Miss Jennings, her sister, had lived as tenants on Matthew Taylor’s property for many years. Clarissa had met them before but had only a very slight acquaintance with them. And then there was Matthew’s brother and his wife, Reginald and Adelaide Taylor, and Philip, their elder son, with Emily, his wife.

Clarissa had not very much liked Reginald, more than ten years her senior, when she was growing up, though admittedly she had taken most of her information and opinions about him from Matthew, who had hardly been an impartial reporter. Reginald had been the good son, perfect and dutiful, an old sobersides—Matthew’s word for him—who frowned upon imperfection and indiscipline and frivolity. He had seen his younger brother as guilty of all three.

After kissing her father on the cheek and hugging her mother and wishing her a happy birthday, Clarissa shook hands with all their other visitors. She would have been happier if the Taylors were not of their number, though that was selfish of her, she admitted. They were, after all, the closest of her parents’ neighbors, and it was good of them to have come to pay their respects to her mother. Even so, she would just as soon have had no reminders of Matthew today. She smiled and set herself to being her usual sociable self, mindful to include everyone in the general conversation and careful to speak individually, however briefly, with each one.

The vicar and his wife were a genial couple who agreed with everyone on every topic, a fact that made meaningful conversation with them virtually impossible. But Clarissa did not doubt that their kindliness was a great comfort to their parishioners. Her parents adored them. Captain Jakes told Clarissa that he had been very happy living in the neighborhood for so long, but that he and his wife were experiencing a growing longing in their old age to be closer to the sea again. When their lease expired next year, they intended to move to Plymouth if they could find a suitable house there. Miss Jennings was also eager to make the move, he added, and his sister-in-law nodded and explained that she and her sister had both been born and raised in Plymouth.

“When I retired,” the captain said, “I thought I would never want to see either a ship or the sea ever again, and Mrs. Jakes felt the same way.”

“I most certainly did,” his wife said. “But one changes one’s mind as one grows old, Lady Stratton. One starts to long for home.”

“For the smell of the sea,” the captain said.

“And even of fish,” Mrs. Jakes said, and they both laughed.

“And for the company of old friends,” the sister added.

“I must ask you, Lady Stratton,” Philip Taylor said when Clarissa spoke with him and his wife. “Do you know my uncle?”

“Matthew Taylor?” she said. “Yes. He is a carpenter and lives in Boscombe, just a stone’s throw from Ravenswood. He and I are virtually the same age. We grew up as friends and neighbors here.”

“Yes,” Philip said. “That is what Papa says. I wish we knew him, especially as he lives relatively close. I believe he must be…interesting.”

“But you know that Papa-in-Law says you should stay away from him, Phil,” his wife said gently. “He says Mr. Matthew Taylor would not welcome your acquaintance.”

“How would Papa know that?” Philip asked. “He has not seen my uncle—his brother—for what must be thirty years or more. I was little more than a baby when he left. I do not even remember him. Should grudges be borne forever? And by people of our generation who had nothing to do with whatever happened to cause the estrangement? But I do apologize, Lady Stratton. I really ought not to have raised the issue with you at all, let alone gone on like this. As you may have inferred, it is a bit of a sensitive one in our family.”

Clarissa smiled at the couple and looked up at Adelaide Taylor, Philip’s mother, who was coming to join them.

“It is always a joy, Lady Stratton,” she said, “to see that Mr. and Mrs. Greenfield have retained such good health into their seventies. They have always been excellent neighbors. We are very fortunate.”

“I believe the feeling is mutual,” Clarissa said.

“Mr. George Greenfield married in London last year?” Adelaide said, making a question of it as though she did not know for sure. “I hope he is both well and happy.”

“Yes, thank you,” Clarissa said. “He married one of my closest friends, and it appears to be a perfect match. Your younger son and your daughter are no longer at home with you?”

Anthony, their second son, Mrs. Taylor explained, was a junior solicitor with a prestigious London firm, and was doing very well and expected promotion before the end of the year. Mabel, their daughter, had married a prosperous landowner from no farther than twelve miles away and had presented her husband with two healthy children, one girl and one boy, both of whom were adorable.

“Though I am quite sure you would say exactly the same of your grandchildren, Lady Stratton,” she said.

“But of course,” Clarissa said. “Grandchildren are a special breed.” She included Reginald in her remark as he came up to stand beside his wife.

“They are indeed,” he said. “We do not have the disciplining of them, only the loving of them.”

His words took Clarissa a bit by surprise.

The conversation became more general after that as they all moved to the dining room for a sumptuous banquet of a tea and the opening of birthday gifts. Clarissa was the first to leave afterward, at her parents’ insistence, since she had a long journey home.

It had been a thoroughly pleasant visit, she decided when she and Millicent were a few miles upon their way. However, her thoughts had not, after all, been diverted from Matthew. What would he do if Captain and Mrs. Jakes did indeed leave his home next year in order to return to Plymouth? Lease it to someone else? Go and live there himself? The latter seemed unlikely. He appeared happy with his simple life and his small, slightly shabby rooms above the smithy.

And what were Matthew’s thoughts about his brother and his nephews and niece? She had not asked him. She had the impression, though, that he had had nothing to do with them since he left home. Reginald’s elder son and his wife had seemed to confirm that impression today. But Philip Taylor wanted to know his uncle. Would it ever happen? Would Reginald allow it? And would Matthew rebuff any attempt Philip made to meet him anyway, even though the younger man had had nothing to do with the estrangement and could not even consciously remember his uncle?

Had the estrangement been the best thing for the brothers, Reginald and Matthew? Did it remain a good thing? Times and people changed.

But oh dear, this was absolutely none of her business, Clarissa decided, trying to take her thoughts in another direction. She had never interfered in Matthew’s troubled family life. She was not about to start now.

But thoughts were stubborn, unruly things, and hers eventually brought her right back to that kiss. To the wild happiness and exuberance of the whole afternoon outing, in fact, when she had felt almost like a girl again. Or at least like an adult without a care in the world, untrammeled by status, in particular the title of dowager. How she hated that word.

She pondered yet again the wisdom of pursuing their friendship. She thought of the final slope of the hill, which she had tried to descend at a sedate walk but had ended up hurtling down, shrieking and laughing—right into Matthew’s arms. She thought of what had followed.

Perhaps she ought to send word to him, canceling their plans for Tuesday.

But she knew she would not do it. It was possible that the nature of their friendship was one of the things she needed to explore if she was to learn what she had set out to learn about herself during these months alone.

Was friendship…No. Was romance something she could no longer welcome into her life? Because she was about to turn fifty and it would be unseemly? Because she was the Dowager Countess of Stratton and was expected to behave like a dowager? By whom? Her family? Her neighbors? Society at large? Was she going to allow her behavior and her very feelings to be dictated by others? For the rest of her life?

Oh, this introspection, which she had never really done before, was giving her a headache.

—

Matthew had gone to Colonel Wexford’s house on Sunday morning, when he knew the family would be at church. He had brought home with him several of the table legs and broken his usual rule about Sundays by working all day on them. He worked the following morning, afternoon, and evening in the colonel’s barn, knowing he would not be interrupted since Miss Wexford had gone shopping with her niece in a town several miles away. He started work very early again on Tuesday. He intended to continue through the luncheon hour so he could justify finishing in time to go to the lake for a picnic with Clarissa.

It was something about which he had been feeling uneasy since Saturday, it was true, for there was to be no attempt this time to keep their outing a secret. The servants’ quarters at Ravenswood were bound to be abuzz with the news that yet again their dowager countess and the village carpenter were going to spend time together.

However, he had said he would go, and go he would. And as luck would have it, they were not even to be saved by rain, which could often be relied upon to ruin the best-laid plans for an outing. The weather was not only fine; it was sunny and hot, more like summer than spring. It was hotter than Saturday had been. It was the perfect day, in fact, to sit by the lake and enjoy a picnic tea.

He did not work uninterrupted today, alas. The door of the barn opened at nine o’clock, three hours after he had started work, though it seemed less.

“Oh, Mr. Taylor, there you are,” Miss Wexford said, stepping inside. “One of the grooms told the cook, who told my maid, that you have been here for hours already. That must mean you came here without having your breakfast first. That will not do, you know. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, especially for a workingman. I have brought you a little something to eat with your tea.”

He stepped forward to take the cloth-covered tray from her hands and guessed from the weight of it that she must have brought him a banquet. He really did not want to have his work interrupted, but it was a kind gesture on her part. He set down the tray and removed the cloth.

“Thank you, Miss Wexford,” he said. “This is very generous of you.”

“I will not keep you,” she said, “as I am sure you want to eat quickly and get back to work. May I have a little look while you eat?”

Without waiting for an answer, she almost skipped over to the tabletop upon which he was working, and was soon exclaiming with admiration and delight though it was not even half finished.

She had brought him a large china mug of tea. Milk had already been added to it, and probably sugar too. He took neither in his tea. There were two biscuits propped on the saucer. On a separate plate were two thick slices of lavishly buttered toast together with a heap of thinly carved cold beef. There was a pot of what looked like raspberry jam and another of mustard beside the plate. A large jug of steaming custard stood next to a bowl containing a great wedge of apple tart.

I have brought you a little something…

He shook his head and nearly laughed out loud.

“It is going to be even more magnificent than it appears in my fondest dreams,” Miss Wexford said, her tone rapturous, her hands clasped tightly to her bosom. “You are indeed a genius, Mr. Taylor, and I shall tell everyone so who asks. Not that everyone does not know it already.”

Matthew tried to make a dent in the food while she talked and was surprised to find that really it was not difficult. He had not realized he was hungry, and the food was delicious, strange as it seemed to be eating apple tart and thick custard for breakfast.

He took one sip of the tea, grimaced, and set down the cup. He would wait until she left and find somewhere to pour it so she would not see and be hurt.

“I will not disturb you any longer,” she said, turning from his worktable and glancing at the tray. “I hope I brought you enough, Mr. Taylor. I know you are a workingman and must therefore have a larger appetite than Andrew and I have or even Ariel. The beef and the tart and custard are from dinner last evening, but they were kept in a cool pantry overnight and are still quite fresh. Heating the custard again has thickened it considerably, but I actually like it that way.”

“So do I,” he said.

“I see you have left your tea and biscuits until last,” she said. “I will not take the tray with me, then.”

“I will return it to the kitchen before I leave,” he said.

She turned to go, hesitated, and turned back. “Mr. Taylor,” she said. “May I offer you a word of friendly advice?”

He raised his eyebrows.

“In a neighborhood like ours,” she said, “there are certain… expectations. People can get upset, rightly or wrongly, when they are not strictly observed, and gossiping tongues can begin to wag. It is not always wise to take the risk of that happening.”

It looked for a moment as though she was going to say more, but instead she turned away, hurried out of the barn, and closed the door quietly behind her.

It would be easy to pretend not to understand. She had not been at all specific, after all. But Matthew had understood clearly enough and felt a bit of a sinking feeling in his stomach. Quite predictably, then, there was already gossip. Because he had been walking in the Ravenswood park on a Saturday afternoon with the Dowager Countess of Stratton. Not just walking, but also holding hands with her.

The talk could only grow after this afternoon.

He did not care for his own sake. Well, yes, he did. He was a quiet and private man, who hated drawing attention to himself. The closest he ever came to doing so voluntarily was on the day of the summer fete, which had now become a biennial event instead of a yearly one. He could never resist entering the archery contest, and except for last year he had not resisted also putting an entry into the wood-carving contest, even knowing that he would probably win both contests and have to face the excruciating embarrassment of receiving his prize ribbons from Stratton while the other fete-goers applauded and slapped him on the back and shook his hand.

He did not relish the prospect of being the subject of local gossip.

He cared far more deeply, though, about how such gossip would affect Clarissa. She was generally known as a woman of great dignity and decorum, someone who had never set a foot wrong since her marriage to the late earl despite the provocation of his adulterous behavior. She was deeply respected by all and loved by many.

It would be a great scandal if now, alone at Ravenswood without the support of her family around her, her name became coupled with his. There must be some, of course, who would remember that he was a gentleman by birth and the owner of a manor house and sizable park and farm ten miles away. But even those who did remember would say his virtual rejection of his birthright for the past twenty-some years, his chosen profession—if it could be called that—and his choice of abode and friends disqualified him from being accorded the deference a gentleman might expect. Certainly those facts set him universes apart from the Dowager Countess of Stratton.

It simply would not do, Matthew decided, trying to bring his mind into focus on the inlaid mosaic he was creating for the tabletop out of wood of various shades. He would go this afternoon since he had said he would. But that must be it. With her permission, he would let it be known that he was working on a project for the dowager, designing and making a gift she wished to give the child whom Ben Ellis and his wife were expecting. Such a story would probably not put an immediate end to the gossip, but if there was nothing further to feed it, then eventually everyone would shrug and assume that their meetings must have been for the principal purpose of planning the project. There would be those, of course, who would not quickly let go of the damning detail of the hand-holding. But if there was no more…

Matthew returned to his work.