schoolmaster.
Mrs. Derrick, standing quietly beside him, chuckled softly.
Wulfric turned his head to look at her.
“I have done something to amuse you again, Mrs. Derrick?” he asked.
“Not really.” She smiled at him. “But it has struck me how like a doll’s house Hyacinth Cottage looks from up here. It would probably fit into one corner of the drawing room at wherever you live.”
“Lindsey Hall?” he said. “I doubt it. I perceive that there are four bedrooms upstairs and as many rooms downstairs.”
“Perhaps the corner of your
ballroom,
then,” she said.
“Perhaps,” he agreed, though he doubted it. It
was
an amusing image, though.
“If we follow the path right around the lake at this pace,” she said, “we may arrive back at the house in time to scrounge a biscuit or two with our late-evening tea.”
“Then we will move on,” he said.
“Perhaps,” she said, “you did not intend to walk so far. Perhaps you would prefer to return the way we have come while I continue on my way.”
There it was—his cue to escape. Why he did not take it, he had no idea. Perhaps it was that he was unaccustomed to being dismissed.
“Are you by any chance, Mrs. Derrick,” he asked, grasping the handle of his quizzing glass and raising it all the way to his eye to regard her through it—simply because he knew the gesture would annoy her, “trying to be rid of me?”
But she laughed instead.
“I merely thought,” she said, “that perhaps you are accustomed to riding everywhere or being conveyed by carriage. I would not wish to be responsible for blisters on your feet.”
“Or for my missing my dinner?” He lowered his glass and let it swing free on its ribbon. “You are kind, ma’am, but I will not hold you responsible for either possible disaster.”
With one hand he indicated the path down the other side of the hill. For a short distance, he could see, the path then followed the bank of the lake before disappearing among the trees again.
She asked questions as they walked. She asked him about Lindsey Hall in Hampshire and about his other estates. She seemed particularly interested in his Welsh property on a remote peninsula close to the sea. She asked about his brothers and sisters, and then, when she knew they were all married, about their spouses and children. He talked more about himself than he could remember doing in a long while.
When they emerged from the trees again, they were close to a pretty, humpbacked stone bridge across a stream that flowed rather swiftly between steep banks on its way to feed the lake. Sunshine gleamed off the water as they stood at the center of the bridge and Mrs. Derrick leaned her arms on the stone parapet. Birds were singing. It was really quite an idyllic scene.
“It was just here,” she said, her voice suddenly dreamy, “that Oscar kissed me for the first time and asked me to marry him. So much water has passed beneath the bridge since that evening—in more ways than one.”
Wulfric did not comment. He hoped she was not about to pour out a lot of sentimental drivel about that romance and the gravity of her loss. But when she turned her head to look at him, she did so rather sharply, and she was blushing. He guessed that she had forgotten herself for a moment—and he was delighted that she had recollected herself so soon.
“Do you
love
Lindsey Hall and your other estates?” she asked him.
Only a woman—a sentimental woman—could ask such a question.
“
Love
is perhaps an extravagant word to use of stone and mortar and the land, Mrs. Derrick,” he said. “I see that they are well administered. I attend to my responsibilities for all who draw a living from my properties. I spend as much time as I can in the country.”
“And do you love your brothers and sisters?” she asked.
He raised his eyebrows.
“
Love,
” he said. “It is a word used by women, Mrs. Derrick, and in my experience encompasses such a wide range of emotions that it
Mrs. Derrick, standing quietly beside him, chuckled softly.
Wulfric turned his head to look at her.
“I have done something to amuse you again, Mrs. Derrick?” he asked.
“Not really.” She smiled at him. “But it has struck me how like a doll’s house Hyacinth Cottage looks from up here. It would probably fit into one corner of the drawing room at wherever you live.”
“Lindsey Hall?” he said. “I doubt it. I perceive that there are four bedrooms upstairs and as many rooms downstairs.”
“Perhaps the corner of your
ballroom,
then,” she said.
“Perhaps,” he agreed, though he doubted it. It
was
an amusing image, though.
“If we follow the path right around the lake at this pace,” she said, “we may arrive back at the house in time to scrounge a biscuit or two with our late-evening tea.”
“Then we will move on,” he said.
“Perhaps,” she said, “you did not intend to walk so far. Perhaps you would prefer to return the way we have come while I continue on my way.”
There it was—his cue to escape. Why he did not take it, he had no idea. Perhaps it was that he was unaccustomed to being dismissed.
“Are you by any chance, Mrs. Derrick,” he asked, grasping the handle of his quizzing glass and raising it all the way to his eye to regard her through it—simply because he knew the gesture would annoy her, “trying to be rid of me?”
But she laughed instead.
“I merely thought,” she said, “that perhaps you are accustomed to riding everywhere or being conveyed by carriage. I would not wish to be responsible for blisters on your feet.”
“Or for my missing my dinner?” He lowered his glass and let it swing free on its ribbon. “You are kind, ma’am, but I will not hold you responsible for either possible disaster.”
With one hand he indicated the path down the other side of the hill. For a short distance, he could see, the path then followed the bank of the lake before disappearing among the trees again.
She asked questions as they walked. She asked him about Lindsey Hall in Hampshire and about his other estates. She seemed particularly interested in his Welsh property on a remote peninsula close to the sea. She asked about his brothers and sisters, and then, when she knew they were all married, about their spouses and children. He talked more about himself than he could remember doing in a long while.
When they emerged from the trees again, they were close to a pretty, humpbacked stone bridge across a stream that flowed rather swiftly between steep banks on its way to feed the lake. Sunshine gleamed off the water as they stood at the center of the bridge and Mrs. Derrick leaned her arms on the stone parapet. Birds were singing. It was really quite an idyllic scene.
“It was just here,” she said, her voice suddenly dreamy, “that Oscar kissed me for the first time and asked me to marry him. So much water has passed beneath the bridge since that evening—in more ways than one.”
Wulfric did not comment. He hoped she was not about to pour out a lot of sentimental drivel about that romance and the gravity of her loss. But when she turned her head to look at him, she did so rather sharply, and she was blushing. He guessed that she had forgotten herself for a moment—and he was delighted that she had recollected herself so soon.
“Do you
love
Lindsey Hall and your other estates?” she asked him.
Only a woman—a sentimental woman—could ask such a question.
“
Love
is perhaps an extravagant word to use of stone and mortar and the land, Mrs. Derrick,” he said. “I see that they are well administered. I attend to my responsibilities for all who draw a living from my properties. I spend as much time as I can in the country.”
“And do you love your brothers and sisters?” she asked.
He raised his eyebrows.
“
Love,
” he said. “It is a word used by women, Mrs. Derrick, and in my experience encompasses such a wide range of emotions that it
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