“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.