Chapter 13
The day of the picnic arrived, and Stephen found himself both anticipating and dreading it at the same time.
He doubted he had the courtly manners to eat dainties on his lap without spilling and help ladies with their parasols over rough ground, all the while keeping up a pleasant flow of polite conversation.
His ideal day out-of-doors would be spent fishing or hunting, stopping to drink water from a stream when he was thirsty, and when he felt hungry, to eat a pie wrapped in waxed paper begged from Mrs. John’s kitchen.
Stephen sighed, dressed himself in trousers and tweed, and decided to make the best of it.
The weather was fine and the wood not far off, so the party gathered in the hall to walk to Norcombe Wood together.
Stephen looked forward to the exercise, which would no doubt rouse their appetites.
Mrs. Hill, however, arranged for a horse and wagon to carry the hampers of food and drink, and a footman to serve it.
Together, the five of them walked beneath the entrance gate and strolled down the lane into the open countryside.
Daffodils bloomed among the trees, and birdsong punctuated the peaceful silence.
Newborn lambs cavorted in the meadows while bored-looking ewes chewed and bleated.
Stephen relished every sight. Perhaps no artist would be eager to paint this landscape, but to him it was a beautiful scene.
It was home. He was proud to think his family owned a great deal of the land stretching in all directions.
He hoped Sophie liked what she saw as well, that she would come to love this place as he did.
He glanced at her, noticing she wore an elegant lilac dress and white spencer, her gloved hands clasped behind her back.
Honeyed strands of hair escaped her bonnet and gleamed in the sunlight. He swallowed, and shifted his gaze.
Angela Blake also looked stylish in a green and buff dress and bonnet, her parasol wavering in the spring breeze.
He saw scant vestiges of the reedy girl with red plaits who had shadowed him and Wesley growing up, sometimes beating them at their own races and games.
Lieutenant Keith, Stephen noticed, remained near her side.
After about a mile, they crossed a stone bridge and turned into Norcombe Wood.
They halted at the edge of a clearing bordered by a stream—one of his favorite spots to fish.
In fact, there was a man on the bank now, casting a line into the water.
The figure turned, and Stephen recognized young Mr. Harrison.
“How delightful!” Kate beamed and called a greeting. Mr. Harrison waved in reply.
Miss Blake sent Stephen a sidelong glance, eyes innocently wide. “What a fortunate coincidence.”
Stephen doubted it.
Kate hurried ahead, and Angela called after her, “You must invite him to join us, Kate!”
Stephen did not miss the mischievous slant of her smile.
“Are you acquainted with Mr. Harrison?” Sophie asked, looking from him to Miss Blake and back again.
Stephen nodded, eyes narrowed. He knew Mr. Harrison, of course, but not well. With his mother’s disapproval in mind, he did not wish to encourage the man where his sister was concerned.
Sophie’s hand on his arm surprised him. She whispered, “You’re not going to send him away, are you?”
Stephen met her hesitant gaze with a wry grin. “I am not so ill-mannered, I assure you.”
“Good.”
She dropped her hand, the feathery warmth of her fingers disappearing. He should have reacted more quickly—laid his hand over hers—but it was too late.
The groom helped carry over the hampers and spread the picnic blankets, then returned to the horse and wagon while the footman remained behind to serve.
Keith offered to hold Miss Blake’s parasol while she sat down and arranged her skirts.
Then he dispatched a trespassing insect from the blanket as though a sworn enemy.
Stephen studied Angela’s reaction, trying to gauge if she minded the man’s attentions.
His former lieutenant could be overbearing at times, especially when drinking, but it was early in the day and he had yet to start.
Angela’s expression remained benign as she regarded Keith, apparently tolerating his attentions as one tolerates warm licks from an overeager pup.
Stephen sat near Sophie, feeling awkward, unsure what to do with his long legs. Sophie tucked hers beneath herself with enviable ease. Mr. Harrison looked awkward himself, standing there with his fishing rod and empty pail.
“No luck, Mr. Harrison?” Miss Blake asked with a smile.
He shook his head. “Not today.”
“He’d finally hooked one,” Kate apologized, “but it got away when we interrupted him.”
Mr. Harrison shrugged. “A small sacrifice for the pleasure of your company.”
Miss Blake patted a spot on the blanket between herself and Kate. “Do sit down.”
With a questioning look at Stephen, Mr. Harrison set aside his gear and complied. “Thank you for inviting me to join you.”
Kate motioned to the feast before them. “We have plenty to share.”
“As long as he sticks to the lemonade,” Mr. Keith muttered.
Their cook, Mrs. John, had outdone herself.
There was enough food for a party twice their size: a joint of cold ham, roast chickens, veal and pigeon pies, and preserved fruit.
There were also cheeses, bread, butter, lemonade, and the promised bottle of claret, which Carlton Keith helped himself to, though not as liberally as Stephen might have expected.
Looking at the overabundance of food before him, Stephen felt a stab of guilt. He ought to be with his men, drilling, living in stark conditions with them, not in the lap of luxury while they ate poorly and slept in crude tents.
The footman brought out raspberry jam tarts and ginger biscuits for dessert.
He noticed Sophie wrap two biscuits in a linen table napkin, and surreptitiously slip them into her reticule.
For her later enjoyment, he supposed. He had heard women in her condition were prone to food cravings at all hours.
Noticing his attention, she mouthed, “For Winnie.”
“Ah.” His heart warmed at her thoughtfulness.
Miss Blake asked, “And what are your plans for the future, Mr. Harrison? Will you follow your father into the church?”
“I don’t think so, no. I aspire to be a writer.”
“Oh? A novelist?” Kate asked.
“I’m afraid not. I am primarily interested in history.”
“Oh. Well, history is good too, I suppose.”
Mr. Harrison asked Kate about her favorite book, and Kate eagerly complied with an enthusiastic and detailed description of Sense and Sensibility.
After they had eaten their fill, Mr. Harrison thanked them and rose. “Well. If you will excuse me, I had better head home.”
Kate’s expression dimmed. “Must you go already?”
“I’m afraid so. I’ll need to stop at the fishmonger’s on the way.” He smiled sheepishly. “Mamma has her heart set on perch for dinner. Hopefully, my skill in buying fish exceeds my skill in catching them.”
Kate returned his smile. Then Mr. Harrison bowed in farewell and took his leave.
After their guest departed, Stephen relaxed.
The ladies sat primly on one end of the blanket in the shade, Miss Blake and his sister talking and laughing while Sophie listened.
He and Keith sprawled nearby at their leisure with legs outstretched, lulled by warm air, peaceful birdsong, and the murmuring stream.
Keith groaned with satisfaction. “I could not eat another bite—or move.”
Kate passed him the biscuit tin, and with a shrug he popped one into his mouth, earning himself a headshake from Miss Blake and an amused swat from Kate.
Keith refilled his glass of claret and offered to pour Stephen a glass. He declined, as usual.
Kate and Angela prattled on like eager schoolgirls, making Keith the frequent recipient of their good-natured teasing, which the man clearly enjoyed. Stephen, however, grew restless and rose to stretch his legs, and to put some distance between himself and the incessant chatter.
As he walked away from the group, Sophie called after him. “Captain?”
She had risen to her feet but paused to accept the parasol Miss Blake thrust toward her.
“If you must walk about in the sunshine, I insist you use this. Think of your fair complexion!”
Stephen waited where he was.
Unfurling the parasol, Sophie approached him. “May I walk with you?”
“Of course. I only wanted to stretch my legs—and rest my ears.”
She grinned up at him, and he returned the gesture, feeling his heart lighten.
They walked along the stream in silence for several moments. Then she must have felt his gaze resting on her profile, for she glanced over at him.
“I feel like an imposter,” she admitted, twirling her parasol for emphasis. “Or an actress playing a role. This dress isn’t mine, nor even this bonnet. It’s like a costume.”
“You look charming in it.”
“Thank you. But all this—” She gestured back toward the blanket and spread of food, the sweep of her arm encompassing the idyllic spring day. “It’s like a stage. Or a painting.”
He nodded. “You ought to have brought your easel.”
“I wish I had,” she agreed on a sigh. “Though I would feel too self-conscious to paint in company.”
As her words sank in, Stephen squinted up at the sun shining through the canopy of tree branches above them. He said, “And you find the role of my wife a difficult one to play, I gather?”
She sent him a worried look. “You know what I mean. Pretending that we are a normal, newly married couple.”
“What is normal? A lot of marriages begin less than romantically. Look at my parents . . . On second thought, perhaps not. Mamma was handsome and Papa a wealthy heir. They may not be the ideal to aspire to.”