“I’ll take all the children to see the new lambs and calves and foals tomorrow morning,” he said to Bernadine. “There are some chicks and kittens and pups too. I think I would have thought I had died and gone to heaven if someone had done that for me when I was a child.”
“We all remember your strays, Hugo,” Bradley said, laughing. “Uncle used to sigh when you came home with yet another bedraggled wall-eyed cat or skeletal three-legged dog.”
“The children will love it,” Bernadine said. “Just do not, I beg you, Hugo, allow any one of them—especially one of mine—to persuade you to allow them to take a puppy or a kitten or a lamb or two home with them when they go.”
Hugo laughed and caught Gwendoline’s eye.
“Perhaps you would all care to come and see the lambs now,” he said. “They will still be out in the pasture.”
“Oh, Hugo,” Bernadine said with a sigh. “The journey was a long one and the country air is killing me—in a thoroughly good way, I hasten to add. And our children are off playing. I am for my bed until it is time to dress for dinner.”
“Brad?” Hugo said.
“Another time, perhaps,” Bradley said. “I ought to walk off that extra cream cake I could not resist, but that bed in our room is beckoning very insistently about now.”
“Lady Muir?” Hugo looked politely at her.
“I will come and see the lambs,” she said.
“Ah,” Bernardine said, “Lady Muir is being polite. You would soon learn to be more selfish if you spent more time with us, Lady Muir.”
But she laughed as she took Brad’s arm and moved off with him without waiting for an answer.
“Sometimes,” Gwendoline said, looking at Hugo, “I think I already am the most selfish of mortals.”
“You don’t have to come,” he said.
“Don’t start.” She laughed and took the arm he had not yet even offered her.
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.