He pulled a face. “Only if he decides to go somewhere civilized,” he said. “Italy, perhaps.”
Christine listened with only half an ear. She really had not needed to know about the Duke of Bewcastle’s women. How very annoying of Justin to treat her like a male comrade rather than as a lady. What the duke did was none of her business, of course, even if he employed a whole harem of women. But she could not help remembering his saying that if he ever married, his wife would be the only woman to share his bed for the rest of his life. Somehow she had believed him. But it did not matter anyway, did it? She was never going to be his wife. She was quite determined about that even if he had brought her here to court her.
Was
that why he had invited her? It seemed just too incredible.
She avoided him all morning and sat far from him at both breakfast and luncheon. She was, however, thrown unexpectedly into his company again during the afternoon. Lord and Lady Aidan announced their intention of taking their children for a walk outside, Lord and Lady Rannulf decided to join them with theirs, and before another minute had passed almost everyone had decided to go out. They all dispersed to fetch their outdoor things and their children, having agreed to meet downstairs in the hall. Christine was delighted at the prospect of some fresh air and at the discovery that the Bedwyns shared her love of the outdoors.
She joined Audrey and Sir Lewis in the hall and smiled at all the young children, who darted about with caged energy that was about to be unleashed. She hugged Pauline and Pamela, who came dashing up to greet her before darting off again to rejoin some young companions. Justin, who was in conversation with Bertie, indicated that he would join her in a moment. The Marchioness of Rochester, who was not going out with them, had come down to the great hall anyway to see them on their way—and to do some organizing.
“I have been telling Amy about the pretty path that connects the wilderness walk with the lake, Wulfric,” she said in a voice that was clearly accustomed to command. “You must be sure to show it to her.”
He bowed stiffly to her and to poor Miss Hutchinson, who almost visibly shrank from the prospect of spending the afternoon in his company.
“That will have to wait for another day, I am afraid, Aunt,” the Countess of Rosthorn said, tucking her arm firmly through Miss Hutchinson’s and smiling apologetically at both the marchioness and the duke. “I have promised Amy that we will talk about her presentation to the queen in a few weeks’ time. I shall pass along to her my own experiences and advice, for what they are worth.”
The countess’s husband, the earl with the attractive French accent, had a little boy astride his shoulders—his son Jacques. Christine had visited the nursery before church and got to know all the children, including the babies.
“Oh, poor Wulfric!” Lady Alleyne cried. “Now you have no partner. Perhaps Mrs. Derrick will take pity on you.”
Justin, who had been threading his way through the crowd toward Christine, stopped short, and the Duke of Bewcastle turned and inclined his head to her.
“Ma’am?” he said, offering his arm. “Will you? Though it would appear that you have been given little choice.”
Neither had he, she thought, casting a rueful glance at Justin as she took his grace’s arm and they led the way from the house. She very carefully did
not
look Hermione and Basil’s way.
“It would also appear,” he said, “that the ladies in my family are in league against my aunt. I wonder if it is on Miss Hutchinson’s account or mine.”
“Undoubtedly Miss Hutchinson’s,” she said. “She is clearly terrified of you.”
He gave her a sidelong glance but she did not respond to it.
“It is, of course, for your sake,” he said, “that I agreed to participate in this walk at all. However, I do not intend to be overrun with infants or to have my eardrums assaulted by their shrieks every step of the way. They and their parents are heading toward the lawns and the trees. We will lead those people who are not so encumbered to the wilderness walk.”
“I suppose,” she said, “you never allow your peace to be disturbed.”
“Not if I can help it,” he agreed. “And I usually can. I have been looking forward to showing you the park. I suppose it is even more picturesque during the summer, but there is a certain fresh beauty about it in the spring—and the weather is kind today.”
“I love winter landscapes too,” she said. “They have all the appearance of death but all the potential for resurrection. One understands the full power and mystery and glory of life during winter. And then comes spring. Oh, how I
adore
springtime! I cannot imagine your park looking lovelier than it does now.”
As they turned off a long lawn to the west side of the house in order to move uphill into what must be the wilderness walk, they passed some cherry trees that were in bloom. The children and their parents, a noisy, ebullient group, continued along the grass.
“I believe, Mrs. Derrick,” the duke said, “you are an eternal optimist. You find hope even in death.”
“The whole of life would be a tragedy if one did not understand that it is, in fact, indestructible,” she said.
They followed a path upward through trees sporting their new, bright greenery and some darker evergreens until they turned onto a more level path that wound its way between rhododendron bushes and taller trees. Wild daffodils and primroses carpeted the ground in more open places. Occasionally a break in the trees gave them a view down to the house or the park or surrounding countryside. There was a large lake to the east of the house, surrounded by trees, an island in the middle of it.
A few of the other guests had turned onto the wilderness walk too, but they soon fell behind as Christine and the duke strode briskly onward. She felt her spirits rise after the depression she had felt last night. It was true what she had just said. Easter began with mourning for a death and was gloomy for a while. But then came the glory of resurrection.
At the end of a gradual climb the path reached the top of a rise, on which a folly had been built—a picturesque ruined tower.
“Can one get to the top?” Christine asked.
“There is an unobstructed view for miles around from up there,” he told her. “But the stairs inside are steep and narrow and winding—and rather dark. Perhaps you would prefer to walk onward rather than stop.”
Christine gave him a sidelong glance.
“And then again,” he said, “perhaps you would not. You enjoy climbing to the battlements of old castles, I seem to remember.”
She laughed.
She climbed the staircase carefully, keeping to the outer wall, where the spiraling steps were at their widest, holding up the hem of her skirt so that she would not trip over it. But the view from the top was well worth the climb. From up here she could see just how vast and magnificent the park of Lindsey Hall was and how extensive the farmlands surrounding it. The house was huge and imposing.
And with a simple yes when she had said no, Christine thought, she might have been mistress of it all—and of those other properties he had told her about last summer. And
he
might have been hers too. Perhaps he still could.
Was
he courting her?
Could he not see the impossibility of it all?
He was standing at the top of the steps, looking at her more than at the view, she could see when she turned her attention to him. His eyes were narrowed against the sunlight.
“It is all quite magnificent,” she said, twirling slowly once about.
“Yes,” he said, “it is.” But it was at her he looked.
And
he
was magnificent too, she thought. He was dressed immaculately in brown and buff and white with shining black Hessians. His austere, handsome face perfected the picture he made of the refined and consummate aristocrat. He would surely be a portrait painter’s dream.
They were stuck then within a few feet of each other, staring at each other, he with narrowed gaze, she wide-eyed, with nothing to say.
He stepped forward after a few moments and pointed and she turned to look at what he indicated.
“Do you see the small building among the trees there to the north of the lake?” he asked her.
It took her a moment to find it, but then she could see a round, thatched roof. The stone building beneath it was round too.
“What is it?” she asked. “A dovecote?”
“Yes,” he said. “I would like to show it to you, but it is some distance away.”
“Am I incapable of walking so far?” she asked, laughing.
“Will you come?” He had turned his head to look at her, and their glances met and held again.
“Yes,” she said, and felt that she was somehow agreeing to something far more significant than was apparent to her.
The other group of walkers was approaching the tower as they came down—Mrs. Pritchard and Lord Weston, Lady Mowbury and Justin, Hermione and Basil. Audrey and Sir Lewis were lagging far behind.
“I will be taking Mrs. Derrick down off the walk,” the Duke of Bewcastle told them. “But do not let us disturb anyone else. This path eventually winds its way back to the house and there are several resting places along the way.”
They walked a short distance in silence and then turned sharply to their right onto a grassy slope that would take them down among the trees that surrounded the lake. The duke offered his arm again since it was a long, rather steep slope and would be difficult to descend without slipping and sliding. Indeed, Christine thought, ignoring the offered arm, there was only one sensible way to do it. She gathered her skirts above her ankles and ran.
The slope was longer and steeper than she had estimated. By the time she reached the bottom she was close to flying. The brim of her bonnet had blown back, her curls were bouncing about her face, and she was shrieking. But how wonderfully exhilarating it had been! She also realized as she arrived there that the families with children were approaching from among the trees—and most of them had witnessed her undignified descent of the hill. She laughed and turned to watch the Duke of Bewcastle descend with the utmost dignity, as if he were strolling on Bond Street.
“What a splendid hill this would be for rolling down,” she called up to him.
“If you cannot resist the temptation, Mrs. Derrick,” he said as he reached the bottom, “I will wait here while you trudge back up then roll down. I’ll be a spectator.”
And then he turned with raised eyebrows as exuberant children came running out into the open with adults behind them.
“Are we going up?” young William Bedwyn shrieked to Lord Rannulf. “I want to go up, Papa.”
“Up,” young Jacques demanded of his own papa.
Daniel did not even ask. He dashed upward, turned partway up the slope, and dashed down again, his little legs pumping just fast enough to land him safely in Lady Freyja’s arms before he toppled over. He wriggled free and went up again.
The hill was obviously going to be the chosen playground for some time to come. The Duke of Bewcastle looked at his nieces and nephews with his usual unreadable expression before turning to offer his arm to Christine, but he was forestalled by Pamela and Pauline, who grabbed one of her hands each, both speaking—or rather yelling—at once and demanding that she watch them despite the fact that Melanie and Bertie were not far off. Christine laughed and watched as they darted away to join the game of running down the hill before they fell down. Beatrice Bedwyn was the first to come to grief and set up a wailing until her father grabbed her up, set her astride his shoulders, and went galloping off among the trees with her. Miranda Bedwyn, who was little more than a toddler, persuaded Lord Rannulf to go up a little way with her and run her down. He swung her up into the air with a loud roar as they neared the bottom and had her shrieking with delight and demanding more. Hannah Bedwyn was toddling about in circles, clapping her hands and laughing up at Lord Aidan as she lost her balance and landed on her well-padded bottom.
The noise was deafening.
“Phillip and Davy are going to the very top,” Pamela screeched full volume as she came to grab Christine’s hand again, “and my friend Becky and I want to go too. Come with us, Cousin Christine.”
It did not occur to Christine as Becky caught hold of her other hand to say no even though she had just come down that long slope. She trudged up it with the two young girls, stopping halfway to watch the two older boys hurtle downward with bloodcurdling whoops of delight.
“You know,” she said as they neared the top, “it would be far more fun to roll down than to run.”
“Roll?”
Becky giggled. “How?”
“You lie flat along the top of the hill with your legs together and your arms above your head,” Christine explained, “and let yourself roll over and over to the bottom. I have never seen a more splendid hill for rolling down.”
“Show us,” Pamela demanded.
“I will,” Christine promised. “I’ll show you how it is done, but I’ll not actually do it. It would be very undignified for a grown lady, would it not?”
The two girls giggled with glee and Christine joined them. But when they were at the very top she stretched out on the grass to demonstrate the ideal position for rolling.
“It is quite easy,” she assured them. “If you have trouble getting started, I will give you a little push. But once you
have
started, there will be no need for any more—”
The sentence ended on a shriek. Two little voices had giggled again, four mischievous little hands had given her a push, and she was rolling downward. For one moment she thought of trying to stop herself, but she knew from past experience that she might hurt herself if she tried, especially on such a steep slope, and that even if she did not, she would look enormously undignified as arms and legs flailed for hand- and footholds to slow her progress. And then in the next moment trying to stop was no longer an option. She rolled over and over down the slope at an alarming speed, shrieking as she went.
By the time she reached the bottom her thoughts were no longer coherent at all, and her shrieks had turned to laughter. Two strong arms caught her and two grim silver eyes looked down at her. When her thoughts
did
become coherent, she realized whose arms and eyes they were and noticed that everyone else seemed to be laughing except him.