She was in love with Sid, and he—poor fool—was in love with her.
He joined no particular group for the rest of the afternoon and evening, but moved about making sure that everyone was comfortable and had enough to eat, making sure that everyone was happy. And he stood against a tree as the sun fell lower in the western sky, listening to the singing that one group had begun—a strange and happy mixture of folk songs and hymns—and watching a group of young people talking and laughing down by the boats. A few couples strolled along the lake front or among the trees—that old haunt of lovers—intent on a few moments to themselves. Constance was strolling at the water’s edge with Hadley Fleming.
He smiled at a small group of ladies, who nodded and raised their hands in greeting to him, and felt longing wash over him. If only he had not frightened her out of her wits when she was a mere child at this very place and on this very occasion, and if only she had not fallen in love with Sid and Sid had not made promises to her—then perhaps he could be strolling off among the trees with her now and kissing her. Perhaps he could have been the one to make her twentieth birthday in two weeks’ time a very special occasion. But wishes were pointless.
No one ever gave a definite signal to end the Esdale picnics. Always it seemed that everyone decided at the same moment that it was time to head back to the house and the carriages. This year was no exception. The singers were on their feet, brushing at skirts and breeches to rid them of clinging grass; mothers were rounding up tired and noisy children; couples were linking arms, and the slow trek back to the house was beginning. The sunset was a glorious orange, the lake a shimmering gold.
Constance was bending over her mother, tucking a shawl about her legs before Sir Howard began to push her wheeled chair along the worn path. Constance straightened up and watched them go—and Lord Whitley gave in to impulse.
“Constance?” he called. “May I escort you back to the house?”
“Yes.” She turned toward him, her face shadowed in the dusk. Her voice sounded a little breathless. “Thank you.”
But he could not go immediately. It would have been unmannerly not to be the last to leave the lake, and one youngster was displaying a scraped knee to his mother, and it had to be washed off with lake water before they set out in pursuit of everyone else. And then the viscount noticed that one of the boats had not been securely tied and would probably float away if he did not retie it himself.
The sky was turning a dark pink by the time he and Constance finally followed the trail of distant voices and laughter.
“I think,” he said, “it was a success.”
“Oh, yes,” she assured him. “It was. Everyone will hope and hope that you will be home next year and every year so that it can be repeated. It has been much missed.”
“And will you hope and hope that I will be home next year?” he asked, and then wished he had not.
“Yes,” she said very quietly after a moment’s hesitation. “It was a wonderful day.” She shivered.
“You are cold,” he said, looking down at her flimsy sprigged muslin dress.
“No,” she said hastily.
But he withdrew his arm from hers and removed his coat. He wrapped it about her shoulders and held it there until she lifted her hands to clasp it at her bosom.
“Thank you,” she said, looking up at him. “But there was no need.”
The dying light of the sun caught at her face. His arm was still about her shoulders. Her lips were parted and her eyes dark and huge. He closed his hand about her shoulder and lowered his head toward hers until his forehead touched the brim of her bonnet. He kept it there and swallowed before lifting his head again and removing his hand.
“No,” he said, “we do not want any such memories of this picnic, do we, Constance? Forgive me?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice a whisper. “There is nothing to forgive.”
And they walked on side by side, not touching and not talking, the sky above them black and star-studded, the sky ahead of them a deep purple and red.
But there would be memories anyway, he knew. Bitter memories of what might have been. And despite himself he was sorry that he had not drawn her right into his arms and held her slender, shapely body against his, and kissed her mouth. And told her that Sid was not coming home but that he would love her in his brother’s place and make her a thousand times happier than Sid would ever have done. He would take her to London and Bond Street and Almack’s. And he would give her children of her own to teach and enjoy.
He was engaging in midsummer madness, he thought, walking silently at Constance’s side and noticing thankfully that around the bend just ahead of them they would be in sight of the house. He could already hear all the bustle of people finding their own carriages on the terrace and calling out good-night greetings to one another.
Constance had always enjoyed the dances at the assembly rooms in the village inn. Probably, she thought, it was for much the same reason as she had always loved the Esdale picnics. Everyone came to the assemblies, regardless of social status, and so there were not just the same few families to mingle with as there were at all the parties in private homes. Of course, most private homes were far too small to accommodate such numbers.
Constance helped her father hand her mother down from the carriage outside the inn and then hurried inside alone to find Georgina. Papa was going to carry Mama up the stairs, despite Mama’s protests.
She should not have been looking forward to this particular assembly Constance thought. When she had originally heard about it, she had written to Sidney and he had asked in his reply to reserve the opening set and the supper set with her. Not that there was any need to reserve sets ahead of time at a country assembly, but even so, it felt good to know that one was assured of certain dances.
But now Sidney would not be there. There had been no letter from Brighton and she could only assume that he would come within the next few days—certainly well before her birthday, she hoped. She spotted Georgina in the ladies’ withdrawing room and was glad after all that she had decided to wear her new lemon-colored silk. She had worried that perhaps she would be overdressed for a village assembly, but Georgina was wearing a gown that must surely have been purchased in London. Constance put determinedly from her mind her disappointment that Sidney was not there and the strange, quite unfounded fears that had begun to nudge at her.
“You look beautiful, Georgie,” she said. “A London gown?”
She looked eagerly about her when she entered the long assembly room on the upper floor of the inn a short while later, arm-in-arm with her friend. But he was not there yet. And she felt guilty when she realized that she was feeling eager after all and that she had looked specifically for him when there were any number of other friends and acquaintances to be nodded and smiled at.
He was Sidney’s brother. That was all. And it was pure courtesy that had prompted him outside church on Sunday to remark that he had heard there were to be waltzes at the assembly and to ask her if she would reserve the first and the last for him—just as if it were any London ball. She adored waltzing. Sidney had taught her the steps, though he often said that he had two left feet and occasionally she had to agree with him. Jonathan would surely dance well. She could scarcely wait. If only he did not arrive too late to dance the first waltz. Georgina had told her that most gentlemen did not deign to arrive at London balls until late.
