The Proposal

Chapter 21

Walking into the drawing room for tea had taken a surprising amount of courage, Gwen had found. She had not known quite what to expect. She had feared everyone would look at her either with excessive awe or with resentful hostility, either of which would have been isolating and would have made it difficult for her to behave with any degree of ease.

Constance had made it easier, even though she had probably done it quite unconsciously. Although there had been some sign of awe as the girl introduced her, Gwen had detected no hostility. And even some of the awe, she believed, had dissipated during tea. Perhaps after all this was going to be somewhat more doable than she had feared.

She did not care anyway. She was almost fiercely glad she had come. Even open hostility from every single one of his family members would be worth facing just for this.

This was the sight of Hugo feeding a lamb, the smallest of the flock. Its mother had died giving birth to it, and the sheep to whom it had been given, though it had lost its own lamb, was not always willing to let it suck. Today was one of those days, and so there was Hugo, sitting cross-legged in the pasture, the lamb half on his lap and sucking greedily from a bottle with some sort of nipple attached to it.

He was talking to it. Gwen could hear his voice, though she could not distinguish the exact words. She stood against the outside of the fence, her arms leaning along the top of it, watching them, though she believed he had forgotten all about her. There was such tenderness in his voice and in his whole manner that she could have wept.

He had not forgotten, though. Even as she thought it, he looked up and smiled at her. No, it was not just a smile. It was more of a boyish grin.

“I am so sorry,” he said. “I ought to have taken you back to the house first.”

“Don’t start,” she said again.

And he laughed and returned his attention to the lamb, which was finally showing signs of having had enough.

“Or I ought to have had someone else do the feeding,” he said a short while later as he let himself out of the meadow. “There are a few laborers. I had better not offer my arm. I must smell of sheep.”

She took his arm anyway. “I grew up in the country,” she reminded him.

He did smell faintly of sheep. And he was still wearing the very smart clothes he had worn for tea.

He did not take the path that led directly from the boundary of the park to the stables. Instead, he led her about part of the perimeter of the park, where there were more trees. They were widely enough spaced, though, that it was easy enough to walk among them.

“I can understand,” she said, “why you shut yourself up here in the country a number of years ago and wanted nothing more to do with the outside world.”

“Can you?” he said. “It cannot be done indefinitely, though. My father’s dying dragged me out again. On the whole, I am not sorry.”

“Neither am I,” she said.

He turned his head to look at her but did not comment.

“I realized something,” he said, “when I was feeding that lamb and you were standing there so patiently, watching. I keep my sheep for their wool, not their meat. I keep my cows for their milk and cheese, not for their meat. I keep chickens for their eggs. I have felt very virtuous about it all. But I eat meat. I concur in the killing of other, unknown animals so that I may be fed. And almost all creatures prey upon others for food. It is all very cruel. One could dwell upon it and become massively gloomy. But that is the way life is. It is a continual balance of opposites. There are hatred and violence, for example, and there are kindness and gentleness. And sometimes violence is necessary. I try to imagine Bonaparte having been allowed to reach our shores with his armies. Overrunning our cities and towns and countryside. Pillaging for food and other pleasures. Attacking my family and yours. Attacking you. If any of that had happened, I could never have stood by in the name of the sanctity of human life and the tenderness of my conscience.”

“You have forgiven yourself, then?” she asked.

He had stopped walking and was standing with his back against a tree, his arms folded across his chest.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” he said. “Carstairs has lived with guilt all these years even though he spoke up for retreat at the time and a saving of at least some of the men’s lives. And even though he was badly wounded in the attack and has suffered the consequences ever since. He feels guilt because he believes his instinct was cowardly and my actions were right. He hates me, but he believes I was right.”

“You were right,” she said. “You have always known that.”

He shook his head slowly.

“I do not believe there is right or wrong,” he said. “There is only doing what one must do under given circumstances and living with the consequences and weaving every experience, good and bad, into the fabric of one’s life so that ultimately one can see the pattern of it all and accept the lessons life has taught. We were never expected to achieve perfection in one lifetime, Gwendoline. Religious people would say that is what heaven is for. I think that would be a shame. It’s too easy and too lazy. I would prefer to think that perhaps we are given a second chance—and a third and a thirty-third—to get everything right.”

“Reincarnation?” she said.

“Is that what it is called?” He dropped his arms to his sides and looked at her. “I wonder if I would meet the same woman in each life and discover each time that there was a problem. And would the solution that came to mind be foolhardy or brave? To be resisted or embraced? Wrong or right? You see what I mean?”

She stepped forward and stood against him, spread her hands over his chest and rested her forehead between them. She felt his heartbeat and his warmth and inhaled the strangely enticing smells of cologne and man and sheep.

“Oh, Hugo,” she said.

The fingers of one hand caressed her neck.

“Yes,” he said softly, “I have forgiven myself for being alive.”

“I love you,” she said into the fabric of his neckcloth.

For a moment she was horrified. Had she really spoken aloud? He did not reply. But he bent his head and kissed her softly and briefly in the hollow between her shoulder and neck.

And so the words had been spoken aloud—by her at least. And really it did not matter. He must know anyway. Just as she knew that he loved her.

Did she know that?

Of course she did. He had just said so in other words. I wonder if I would meet the same woman in each life …

Love might not be enough. He had said as much in London when he had come to tell her he was not going to court her.

And then again, it might be.

Perhaps love was everything. Perhaps that was what they would learn if they had thirty-three lifetimes together.

“Some people have wilderness walks on their estates,” he said. “I have thought maybe I ought to have one too. But they usually have hills and masses of trees and views and prospects and all sorts of other attractions. I have none of those things. A wilderness walk here would be just that—a walk through the wilderness. It would be silly.”

“Daft?” she said, lifting her head and looking up at him.

He tipped his head to one side.

“That is not a very elegant word for a lady to use,” he said.

She laughed.

“A definite path meandering through the woods would be pleasant,” she said. “And there is room here for more trees, perhaps some rhododendrons or other flowering trees or bushes. Perhaps a few flowers that would grow well in the shade and not be too gaudy. Bluebells in the spring, for example. Daffodils. There could be some seats, especially in places where there is something to look out upon. I noticed a few moments ago that I could see the spire of the church in the village. I daresay farther along here we will see the house. There could be a little summer pavilion, somewhere to sit even when it is raining. Somewhere to be quiet and relax. Or read. It is what Crosslands is all about, after all, and why you were attracted to it. It is not a place that is spectacular for its picturesque beauty and its prospects, but just a plain statement of something good—of the peace and joy that come with the ordinary, perhaps.”

He was gazing down into her eyes.

“It would not need fountains and statues and topiary gardens and rose arbors and boating lakes and alleys and mazes and Lord knows what else?” he said. “The park, I mean.”

She shook her head.

“It could do with a few delicate touches here and there,” she said, “but not much. It is lovely as it is.”

“But a bit on the barren side?” he said.

“Just a bit.”

“And the house?” he said.

“The paintings need to go.” She smiled at him. “Was the house fully furnished when you purchased it?”

“It was,” he said. “It was built by a man who, like my father, made his money in trade. He built it with all the best materials and furnished it with all the best furniture and never actually lived in it. He left it to his son when he died. But his son did not want it. He went off to America, to make his own fortune, I suppose, and left the house for an agent to sell.”

Sad, she thought.

“Just as I went off to war and left my own father,” he said.

“But you came back,” she reminded him, “and saw him before he died. You were able to assure him that you would take over from him and care for his business and his wife and daughter.”

“And I have just realized something else,” he said. “It would have broken his heart if I had been killed. So I am glad for his sake I did not die.”

“And for my sake?” she said.

He framed her face with his great hands and held it tilted up to his.

“I am not sure I am much of a gift,” he said. “What do you think of my family and Connie’s?”

“They are people,” she said. “Strangers who will become acquaintances, even perhaps friends during the coming days. They are not so very different from me, Hugo, and perhaps they will find that I am not so very different from them. I look forward to getting to know them all.”

“A diplomatic answer,” he said.

And perhaps a little naïve, his expression seemed to say. Perhaps it was. Her life was as different as it could possibly be from that of Mavis Rowlands, for example. But that did not mean they could not enjoy each other’s company, find common ground upon which to converse. Or was that a naïve belief?

“A truthful answer,” she said. “What about Mr. Tucker?”

“What about him?” he asked.

“He is not a relative,” she said. “Is there something between Constance and him?”

“I think there may be,” he said. “He owns the ironmonger’s shop next to her grandparents’ grocery. He is sensible and intelligent and amiable.”

“I like him,” she said. “Constance is going to have a wide variety of choices, is she not?”

“The thing is,” he said, “that she thinks your boys, the ones you introduce to her at balls and parties, are sweet, to use her word, but a bit silly. They do not do anything with their lives.”

“Oh, dear.” She laughed. “She has told you that too, has she?”

“But she is enormously grateful to you,” he said. “And even if she marries Tucker or someone else not of the ton, she will always remember what it felt like to dance at a ton ball and to stroll in the garden of an aristocrat. And she will remember that she might have married one of their number but chose love and happiness instead.” “And she could not find either with a gentleman?” she asked him.

“She could.” He sighed. “And indeed she may. As you say, she has choices. She is a sensible girl. She will choose, I believe, with both her head and her heart, but not one to the exclusion of the other.”

And you? she wanted to ask him. Will you choose with both your head and your heart? She said nothing but patted her hands against his chest.

“I am going to have to take you back to the house soon,” he said, “if you are to have any sort of rest before dinner. Why are we wasting our time talking?”

She gazed into his eyes.

He bent his head and kissed her openmouthed. She slid her hands to his shoulders and gripped them tightly. A wave of intense yearning, both physical and emotional, washed over her. This was his home. This was where he would spend much of the rest of his life. Would she be here with him? Or would this prove to be just a weeklong episode and nothing else? Not even a week, in fact.

He lifted his head and brushed his nose across hers.

“Shall I tell you my deepest, darkest dream?” he asked her.

“Is it suitable for the ears of a lady?” she asked in return.

“Not in any way whatsoever,” he said.

“Then tell me.”

“I want to have you in my bedchamber in my own house,” he said. “On my bed. I want to unclothe you a stitch at a time and love every inch of you, and make love to you over and over again until we are both too exhausted to do it anymore. I want to sleep with you then until we have our energy back and start all over again.”

“Oh, dear,” she said, “that really is unsuitable for my ears. I feel quite weak at the knees.”

“I am going to do it too,” he said, “one of these days. We are going to do it. Not yet, though. Not in the house, anyway. Not while I have guests. It would not be proper.”

Not in the house, anyway.

“It would not,” she agreed. “And Hugo? I cannot have children.”

Now why had she had to introduce reality into fantasy?

“You don’t know that,” he said.

“I did not conceive in that cove at Penderris,” she said.

“I mounted you once,” he said. “And I was not even trying.”

“But what if—?”

He kissed her again and took his time about it too. She slid her arms about his neck.

“That is the excitement of life,” he said when he was finished. “The not knowing. It is often best not to know. We don’t know that we will ever actually make love all night on my bed at the house here, do we? But we can dream about it. And I think it will happen. There will come the time, Gwendoline, when you will be drenched with my seed. And I think at least one of them will take root. And if it does not, at least we will have fun trying.”

She felt breathless again and considerably weaker about the knees. And she could hear the sound of children’s voices approaching from a distance. Typically of children, they all appeared to be talking—or, rather, yelling—at once.

“Explorers,” he said, “heading this way.”

“Yes,” she said and took a step back from him.

He offered his arm and she took it. And the world was the same place.

And forever different.

Hugo had worked hard during his years as a military officer, probably harder than most since he had so much to prove—to them, to himself. He had worked hard during the previous few weeks, learning the businesses again, taking the reins of control into his own hands, making it all his own. Yet it seemed to him during the course of the stay in the country that he had never worked harder than he did now.

Being sociable was hard work. Being sociable when one had all the responsibility of being host was infinitely harder. One had everyone’s enjoyment to see to. And it was not always easy.

He doubted he had ever enjoyed any week so much.

Providing entertainment was actually no trouble at all. Even a rather barren park was like a little piece of heaven to people who had lived their lives in London, and a very small piece of London at that, as was the case with Fiona’s relatives. And even to his own relatives, most of whom had traveled a little more widely, the chance to wander about in a private park for almost a whole week without the press of work and the continuous noises of a large city was a wonderful thing. And the house delighted everyone, even those who could see its shortcomings. Hugo, who had never been able to explain to himself what exactly was wrong with the house, now knew. His predecessor had furnished and decorated it all-in-one, probably using the services of a professional designer. It was expensive, it was elegant, and it was impersonal. It had never been lived in—not until he moved in last year, that was. Those of his guests who could see the problem amused themselves by wandering about endlessly and making suggestions. His relatives had never been shy.

There was a billiard room that proved popular. There were no musical instruments. There was a library, its walls lined from floor to ceiling with shelves, all of them filled with great blocks of books that Hugo was almost certain no one had read or even opened before him. He had read precious few of them himself, not being particularly partial to books of sermons or books of the laws of ancient Greece or books of poetry by Latin poets he had never heard of—and in Latin too. But even those books amused some of his relatives, and all the children loved the moving stairs and darted up and down them and stood together to push them to different locations and made imaginary carriages and hot-air balloons out of them and even a tower from which to screech for rescue from any prince who happened to be passing below.

Fiona’s family tended to huddle together for confidence—for the first day or so, at least. But with Hugo’s help Mavis and Harold discovered common ground with the other young parents among his cousins, and Hilda and Paul were soon drawn into the company of those of the cousins who were not married or who did not yet have children. Hugo made sure that Mrs. Rowlands met all his aunts face to face, and she developed something of a friendship with Aunt Barbara, five years younger than Aunt Henrietta and rather less of a regal matriarch. Mr. Rowlands fell in with some of the uncles and seemed reasonably comfortable with them.

Fiona did not once mention her health in Hugo’s hearing. It must have become clear to her after the first day that the Emes side of the family was not looking upon her with contempt but actually deferred to her as his hostess. And obviously she was the grand, adored one of her own family. She bloomed before Hugo’s eyes, restored to health and mature beauty.

And he would be very surprised if a romance was not developing between her and his uncle.

As for Tucker, he was a young man who would be comfortable in almost any social setting, Hugo suspected. He mingled easily with everyone and seemed particularly popular with the younger cousins, both male and female.

Constance flitted everywhere, brimming over with exuberance. If she fancied Tucker, and if he fancied her, they were certainly not clinging to each other and making it obvious. And yet, Hugo would be willing to wager, they did fancy each other.

And Gwendoline, with quiet grace, fitted herself in wherever she was able. Aunts who half froze with apprehension at first, soon relaxed in her company. Uncles welcomed her conversation. Cousins soon included her in their invitations to walk or play billiards. Little girls climbed on her lap to admire her dresses, though she dressed with deliberate simplicity during those few days, Hugo suspected. Constance chatted to her and linked arms with her. And she made the deliberate effort to get to know Mrs. Rowlands, who regarded her with almost open terror at first. Hugo found them one morning at the end of an upstairs corridor, their arms linked, discussing one of the paintings.

“We have just spent a pleasant half hour,” Gwendoline explained, “going up one side of the corridor and down the other, looking at all the paintings and deciding which one is our particular favorite. I think the one with the cows drinking from the pond is mine.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Rowlands said, “mine is the one with the village street with the little girl and the puppy yapping at her heels. Begging your pardon, my lady. It looks like heaven, don’t it, that village? Not that I would want to live in it, mind. Not really. I would miss my shop. And all the people.”

“That is the wonder of paintings,” Hugo said. “They offer a window into a world that entices us even if we would not want to step into it if we could.”

“How fortunate you are, Hugo,” Mrs. Rowlands said with a sigh, “to be able to gaze at these paintings every day of your life. When you are in the country, anyway.”

“I am fortunate,” he said, gazing at Gwendoline.

And he was. How could he have foreseen any of this even just a few months ago? He had gone down to Penderris, knowing that his year of mourning was at an end and with it his life in the country as a semirecluse. He had hoped his friends could offer some advice on how he might find a woman to marry, someone who would suit him without interfering too much with his life or in any way ruffling his emotions. Instead, he had met Gwendoline. And later he had gone to London to wrest Constance away from the evil clutches of Fiona and find her a husband as soon as possible, even if it meant his having to marry a woman chosen in haste. And he had found Fiona to be not quite the villain he remembered from his youth, and Constance with firm ideas of her own about what she wanted beyond the doors of her house. And he had proposed marriage to Gwendoline and been rejected—and invited to court her instead.

The rest was all a little dizzying and was proof enough that it was not always a good idea to try to plan one’s future. He could never have predicted this.

His house without all the dust covers looked very different. It was elegant but without heart. Yet somehow his visitors made the place cheerful and livable, and he knew that he would spend the next several years adding the heart that was missing. His park looked bare but full of potential and really not too bad as it was. With a lily pond and a curved flower bed and some paths and seats, and with a wilderness walk with more trees and seats and a pavilion, it would be transformed. And perhaps he would plant some tall elms or limes on either side of the driveway. If one must have a straight drive, one might as well accentuate the fact.

His farm was the warmly beating heart of his property.

He was happy, he discovered in some surprise during those days. He had not really thought about happiness with reference to himself since … oh, since his father married Fiona.

Now he was happy again. Or at least, he would be happy if … Or rather when …

I love you, she had said.

It was easy enough to say. No, it was not. It was the hardest thing in the world to say. At least for a man. For him. Was it easier for a woman?

What a daft thought.

She was a woman who had not known real happiness, he suspected, for years and years—probably not since soon after her marriage. And now …

Could he make her happy?

No, of course he could not. It was impossible to make someone else happy. Happiness had to come from within.

Could she be happy with him?

I love you, she had said.

No, those words would not have come easily to Gwendoline, Lady Muir. Love had let her down in her youth. She had been terrified since then of giving her heart again. But she had given it now.

To him.

If she had meant the words, that was.

She had meant them.

His tongue had stuck to the roof of his mouth or tied itself in a knot or done something to make it impossible for him to reply.

That was something he must put right before the end of their stay here. Typically, he had talked quite freely about making love to her. He had even enjoyed being quite outrageous. But he had not been able to say what really mattered.

He would.

He offered an arm to both ladies.

“There is a litter of puppies in the loft in the stables about ready to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting world,” he said. “Would you like to see them?”

“Oh,” Mrs. Rowlands said, “just like the one in the painting, Hugo?”

“Border collies actually,” he said. “They will be good with the sheep. Or at least one or two of them will. I will have to find homes for the rest.”

“Homes?” she said as they made their way downstairs. “You mean you are willing to sell them?”

“I was thinking more in terms of giving them away,” he said.

“Oh,” she said, “may we have one, Hugo? We have the cat to keep the mice out of the shop, of course, but all my life I have wanted a dog. May we have one? Is it very cheeky of me to ask?”

“You had better see them first,” he said, laughing and turning his head to look down at Gwendoline.

“Hugo,” she said softly, “you really must laugh more often.”

“Is that an order?” he asked her.

“It most certainly is,” she said severely, and he laughed again.