Chapter 7
More than a week passed before Anne saw Sydnam Butler again—except for a brief glimpse one afternoon when she was returning to the house after a stroll outdoors with David.
He was standing on the terrace some distance beyond the front doors, in conversation with the Duke of Bewcastle.
His grace inclined his head in their direction and Mr. Butler, on whose blind side they had been approaching, swiveled right about to see them and also made them a little bow before turning back to his conversation.
She also heard that Lord Alleyne, Lord Rannulf, and Lady Hallmere had gone riding with him one afternoon, and was amazed to learn that he could ride.
But she ought not to have been surprised, she admitted to herself.
He was a man who fought his disabilities in almost every way imaginable—except his disability to paint.
She wondered if there was any possibility that he could fight that battle too and win.
But probably not. Some things were simply impossible.
It was not an unpleasant week despite the fact that she was not allowed to remain in the nursery area as a sort of governess but was drawn into the very thick of the daily activities with everyone else, adults and children alike.
They all spent a great deal of time out of doors—walking, playing cricket and other ball games, swimming, boating, building sand castles on the beach, climbing trees, playing hide-and-seek among them, climbing the lower reaches of the cliffs, having picnics.
The Earl of Rosthorn explained to her one day that most of their lives were necessarily busy through much of the year—he and Joshua and the duke, for example, were members of the House of Lords—and kept them from their children and even their spouses for long hours at a time.
When they did have free time, then, as they did now in the summer, they spent it together as families and played hard.
David was happier than Anne had ever seen him.
And she was surprised to discover that he could be as boisterous and demanding and mischievous as any of the others.
Indeed, if the trio of Davy, Alexander, and David had a leader, it was usually David.
Becky, Davy’s sister, adored him. So did all the younger children, with whom he always had the patience to play.
He adored Joshua—and Lord Rannulf and Lord Alleyne and all the other gentlemen too, to an only slightly lesser degree.
He was in awe of the Duke of Bewcastle, it was true, but Anne spied him one day practicing lifting an imaginary quizzing glass to his eye while examining his aloof, haughty expression in the looking glass in his room, and it was perfectly obvious whom he was trying to imitate.
For his sake she wished the holiday need never end.
On her own account Anne was content to let the month run its course.
Lady Aidan and Mrs. Pritchard, her aunt, became Anne’s particular friends, as did the duchess, who as a former teacher herself liked to talk to Anne about school.
And Miss Thompson, the duchess’s bookish sister, also drew Anne into lengthy discussions of books and educational theory and proved herself to be both an intelligent and an interesting—even humorous—conversationalist. Indeed, there was no one who was not amiable to her.
Even the duke engaged her in conversation for a full half hour one evening after discovering that she had read a book he had just finished.
But contrarily she felt her aloneness far more acutely here at Glandwr than she had ever felt it at Claudia’s school in Bath.
For one thing she felt like an impostor, even though everyone here must know exactly who and what she was.
For another, all the other younger people had partners, with the exception of Miss Thompson, who seemed content in her spinsterhood.
One night, when Anne was standing at her bedchamber window, brushing her hair and gazing out onto the moonlit garden and the sea beyond, she became aware of a couple strolling across the lawn away from the house in the direction of the cliffs, his arm about her shoulders, hers about his waist, and realized with something of a shock that they were the duke and duchess.
The stabbing of envy she felt was quite involuntary and quite acute. And her aloneness was exposed for what it was at that moment—raw loneliness for a man in her life.
She thought briefly of Mr. Butler, but she dismissed the memory of him.
She had liked him, and she thought he had liked her.
But she had touched him up there on the rocks between the beaches without at all knowing she was about to do so.
She had felt the instant stiffening of his body and seen the look of shock on his face—and she had felt an answering shock and incipient panic in herself when she saw her fingertips resting against his cheek and felt the warmth of his sun-heated skin.
But for one mindless moment before that she had felt a yearning so intense that it had been like a stabbing of near-pain down through her body, setting her throat to aching and her breasts to tightening and her womb to throbbing and her inner thighs to pulsing with raw sensitivity.
She had recognized her feelings for the sexual desire they were, of course.
And only one short moment later part of her had recoiled. The other side of his face, so close to where her fingers had rested, was purplish and nerveless. He had no eye. He had no arm. Who knew what other disfigurements lay beneath his clothing?
She dismissed him from her mind—but even so she found herself thinking occasionally about how he had acquired those dreadful wounds. It happend at night, sometimes keeping her awake, sometimes weaving its ways into her dreams.
Finally, though, they did meet once more.
The duke and duchess had invited guests from the neighborhood to dine one evening, and when Anne went down to the drawing room, clad again in her best green silk, her hair elaborately piled and curled by an enthusiastic Glenys, one of the first people she saw on the far side of the room, in conversation with Lord and Lady Aidan, was Mr. Butler.
Her heart leapt with a gladness that seemed quite in excess of the circumstances. The last time they met he had recoiled from her—and she from him.
Mrs. Pritchard invited Anne to sit down beside her, and Anne was glad to do so, since she had not met any of the neighbors and was extremely nervous about doing so. She would have avoided coming down this evening altogether if the duchess had not pointedly invited her.
Introductions were not to be avoided, of course, after the guests began arriving.
There were a few English landowners with their wives and older children, a couple of the duke’s tenants with their wives, the vicar and his wife and son and daughter, and the Welsh minister and the village schoolmaster, both of whom spoke English with such pronounced Welsh accents that Anne had to listen carefully in order to understand them.
Though she had had some practice—Mrs. Pritchard spoke with almost as thick an accent.
And then dinner was announced—and it was Mr. Butler who had been appointed to lead Anne in and to seat her at his left side.
She smiled uncertainly at him as she took his offered arm, and he smiled back at her.
She felt curiously like crying—and curiously like laughing with joy.
She had missed him. She had told him more of her inner self than she had told even Claudia or Susanna or Frances. He had confided some of his deepest self in her. But he had been content to let more than a week go by without making any attempt to see her again.
What had she expected?
That he would court her?
He had said during their walk together that humans can be remarkably resilient creatures.
Anne saw the truth of that statement as she observed the way he used his fork in his left hand to cut his food and convey it to his mouth with deft movements that bordered on elegance and the way in which he turned his head without any apparent awkwardness to look at Lady Hallmere on his blind side while he conversed with her.
He spoke with Lady Hallmere through much of the meal—but perhaps only because Anne had given her attention to Mr. Jones, the village schoolmaster, almost as soon as he sat beside her. He was interested to know that she too was a teacher. Most teachers in Wales, he explained to her, were male.
She felt strangely self-conscious with Mr. Butler—perhaps because their conversations with each other had bordered upon intimacy. How many near-strangers admitted to each other that they were lonely, that there had been no one of the opposite sex in their lives for years and years?
Inevitably, though, as good manners dictated, Lady Hallmere turned toward one of the English landowners on her other side and Mr. Jones turned toward Mrs. Lofter on his.
“Miss Jewell,” Mr. Butler asked politely, “are you and your son enjoying your stay at Glandwr?”
“Enormously,” she said. “Thank you.”
“And has he done more painting?”
“Yes,” she said. “Twice, both times with Lady Rosthorn.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” he said. “Did you know there is to be entertainment this evening?”
“Yes,” she said. “Lady Rannulf is going to act. Apparently she is very good at it. And Joshua and Lady Hallmere are going to sing a duet even though Lady Hallmere was very belligerent when everyone was trying to persuade her. It was only when Joshua commented that no one was going to be allowed to bully his wife when he was there to protect her that she bristled with indignation at him and agreed to do it. She did not see the winks he exchanged with her brothers.”
Mr. Butler laughed and she joined him.