There was a glow of color in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes-something their servants and neighbors no doubt attributed to the fact that she was a new bride discovering the delights of the marriage bed when in reality it was probably due to the fact that she was busy with schemes that brought her pleasure.
He pursed his lips as he looked down at her.
They crossed the wide east lawn, soon to be the apple orchard, and he led her onto the path into the trees. It turned almost immediately to the north and ascended the gradual slope that would take them into the hills.
“You are unusually quiet this morning,” Katherine said.
“I might have observed,” he said, “that my prediction that this would turn into a lovely day has proved quite correct. I might even have added the words I told you so. But alas, you were reading your letter from the Duchess of Moreland at breakfast, so I made the prediction silently lest I disturb you. Now if I lay claim to it, you will probably accuse me of taking credit for something I did not predict at all. You are not a very trusting person, Katherine.”
She had turned her head and was laughing at him.
“For the sake of peace between us,” she said, “I will believe you.”
He smiled lazily back at her.
“How lovely this is,” she said. “Like an outdoor cathedral.”
The trees were indeed tall and fairly widely spaced at this point, and the path was broad and straight despite the incline.
“This has always been one of my favorite stretches of the wilderness walk,” he said. “I suspect that when the path was constructed, it was begun at the lake side and ended here. And that by the time the designer arrived here, he had run out of ideas and energy and interest. There are no follies, no seats, no prospects down to the house or out over the countryside. Just forest and hillside.”
“And holiness,” she said.
“Holiness?”
“I am not sure if it is the right word,” she said. “Just unadorned nature, though I suppose the path is man-made. Just trees and the smell of trees. And birds. And birdsong.”
“And us,” he said.
“And us.”
They walked in silence for a while, the sound of their breathing added to birdsong as they ascended more steeply into the hills behind the house and finally came to the rhododendron walk, the highest part of the trail, where there were several carefully contrived prospects and a few benches and follies. And the heady perfume of the blooms.
“Oh,” she said. “Beautiful!”
“Better than the cathedral?” he asked her.
“But that is the wonderful thing about nature, is it not?” she said. “Nothing is better than anything else-only different. The parterre gardens, the cathedral section of the walk, this-they all seem best when one is actually there.”
There was an ancient stone hermitage to one side of the path, complete with crucifix carved into the wall beside the doorway. It was not that ancient, of course. It was a folly. There never had been a hermit with sackcloth tunic and matted hair and beard, telling his beads from morning to night and existing on moldy bread and brackish water. They went and sat inside it on a stone bench that had been made more comfortable with a long leather cushion.
There was a view down across the east and south lawns to the village in the distance. The church spire was centered in the view. It all looked very rural and peaceful.
He took her hand in his.
“What would you be doing if you had not been forced into marriage?” she asked him, reversing the question he had asked her a few days ago. “Where would you be?”
“Here,” he said. “I promised to be home for Charlotte’s birthday.”
“And afterward?” she said. “Would you have stayed?”
“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “Perhaps not. Brighton is a good place to be during the summer. The Prince of Wales is usually there, and he draws all sorts of interesting people. There is much company, much entertainment. I might have gone there.”
“Do you need company, then?” she asked. She had turned her head and was looking at him.
He raised his eyebrows. “We all need company,” he said. “And entertainment.”
“Are you a lonely man, then?” she asked him.
The question jolted him. It was completely unexpected-and quite unanswerable. He answered it anyway.
“Lonely?” he said. “Me, lonely, Katherine? I have scores of friends and acquaintances. I always have so many invitations and activities to choose among, that making choices is a daily chore.”
“And do you fear being alone?” she asked.
“Not at all,” he said.
He had grown up essentially alone-with a mother and her husband and two sisters, with a houseful of servants and numerous neighbors, most if not all of whom had been kindly disposed to him. He had nevertheless grown up alone.
“People who live among crowds can be very lonely people,” she said.
“Can they, indeed?” He laced his fingers with hers. “And people who grow up in remote villages cannot be lonely?”
“There is a difference,” she said, “between solitude and loneliness. It is possible to be alone and not lonely. And it is possible to be among crowds, to be a part of those crowds, and be lonely.”
“Is this,” he asked her, “part of the vicarage wisdom that you learned at your father’s knee?”
“No,” she said. “It is something I have learned myself.”
“And are you,” he asked her, “a lonely woman, Katherine?”
“Not often.” She sighed. “I like being alone, you see. I like my own company.”
“And I do not,” he said. “Is that your inference? You once told me that I do not like myself. Is this why I must be lonely? Because I cannot enjoy the company of the only companion with whom I must spend every moment of my life?”
“I have annoyed you,” she said.
Had she? He was not in the habit of allowing people to annoy him over trifles. He did not care for other people’s opinions when they concerned him.
“Not at all.” He raised their hands and kissed the back of hers. “Solitude holds no fears for me. I would just prefer company. Including present company.”
“I think,” she said, “I can be happy here.”
“Can you?” he said.
“I love this place,” she said. “I love the servants. And I like your neighbors-our neighbors. Yes, I can be happy here.”
“Organizing fetes and balls and house parties and other social events?” he said.
“Yes,” she said, “and just living. Just being here. Belonging here.”
“And bringing up your children?” he said. “Our children?”
“Yes.” She looked into his eyes, her cheeks slightly flushed.
“We could,” he said, “begin immediately on those children-or on the first of them anyway-if you wish, Katherine. Although, on second thought, perhaps not quite immediately.” He looked down at the bench, which, even with the leather cushion, was not very comfortable.
She laughed, though she continued to look into his eyes.
“I do want children,” she said.
“And I need them,” he said. “Or one son at the very least. So we are in agreement. We need to work on the first of those children. Almost immediately?”
She laughed again.
“It depends on your definition of almost,” she said.
“Almost is to be three weeks long, is it?” he asked with a sigh.
“Yes,” she said. “Do you not want children for their own sake, Jasper?”
He had never really thought of it. He thought now. Children of his own body. And Katherine’s. Children who could be loved and nurtured. Children who could be hurt, who could have all the spirit crushed out of them. If he were to jump a hedge one month before his son was born and break his neck, would Katherine marry another man to bring him up?
There is too much potential pain in having children, he almost said aloud. Too much risk. But he would merely expose himself more to her with such words.