He could feel her draw in a deep breath and let it out on an “Ooh. ” She leaned back against him. There was a grassy clearing among the trees on the downward slope behind them. The clearing was carpeted with blooming daffodils.
“ ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud,’ ” he said. “ ‘That floats on high o’er vales and hills.’ ”
She turned her head and looked into his face, smiling brightly. “Mr. Wordsworth,” she said. “You know his poetry?”
He smiled back at her. “ ‘When all at once I saw a crowd,’ ” he said, “A host, of golden daffodils.”
“ ‘Beside the lake, beneath the trees,’ ” she said, “ ‘Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.’ ”
“Except that they are not exactly beside the lake,” he said, “and there is no breeze today. You like his poetry too?”
“Leonard bought me a volume,” she said, “and then laughed at me because I loved the poems so much that I learned many of them by heart.”
He released her shoulders and took her by the hand so that they could run down the slope together. She was laughing. When he let go of her hand, she stooped down to cup a bloom in her hands and to bury her nose against the golden trumpet.
“Oh, the smell of spring,” she said, closing her eyes and lifting her face. “I have never seen so many daffodils all together, Justin. Have you?”
“No,” he said. “But this must be nothing in comparison with Wordsworth’s ten thousand.”
“I think perhaps he exaggerated,” she said. “I can imagine looking back on this and remembering that there were thousands of daffodils here.” She held both arms out to the sides and twirled about, her face held up to the sun.
“Perhaps there are,” he said. And he began to pick some of them and lay them in her arms. Gold against the blue of her pelisse and dress. Sun against the sky. He wanted to load her down with them until she collapsed beneath them. And he would follow her down and kiss her amongst all the blooms and all the smell of spring.
“Oh, glorious,” she said, smelling them again and reaching out her free hand for more. And then she sobered, and her hand fell to her side. “These are for Annabelle, are they?”
He paused in the act of picking another bloom, his back to her. God! “Those are yours,” he said. “The ones I am picking now are for Annabelle.”
“Thank you,” she said.
Where were Annabelle and Josh? It seemed that he and Rosamund had been alone for a long time, though he supposed that in reality not many minutes had passed.
Rosamund returned to the top of the rise and looked back along the bank. She raised her free arm.
“Over here,” she called. “Come and see what we have found.”
Suddenly, and quite beyond reason, the Earl of Wetherby almost hated her. Or himself. Yes, it was himself he hated.
Annabelle had asked Lady Sitwell about her two sons, both of whom were at school. She was listening carefully to the description of the two boys who were to be her nephews.
“Gracious!” Lady Sitwell said as there was a loud crackling of twigs and undergrowth from behind them. “Are they back already? It was hardly worth going.”
But it was only Lord Beresford who came striding down to them. His hand was outstretched to Annabelle.
“Come along,” he said. “We decided that no one below the age of thirty should be allowed to go without exercise. Up you get, Annabelle.” He grinned at her.
“Thank you,” she said, “but I am talking with Lady Sitwell.”
“You can do that for the next two weeks,” he said. “Besides,” he winked at Lord Sitwell, “even couples who have been married forever occasionally like time to themselves.”
Annabelle flushed slightly and allowed herself to be helped to her feet.
“Take my arm,” Lord Beresford said with a mock bow. “I promise not to let you fall off any precipices.”
“I am not afraid of falling,” she said gravely. She ignored his arm and began to climb the slope.
Lord Beresford looked after her, shook his head, and followed.
“Annabelle,” he said, “have you ever in your life smiled?”
