Remember Love (Ravenswood #1)(16)

“But will people then believe we have quarreled?” she had asked him. “And make something of that?”

“Well, I suppose we can occasionally exchange a few words and a laugh with each other before drifting apart again,” he had said. “Dash it all, Gwyn, I wish people would mind their own business and let friends be friends without getting all silly about it and hinting at some grand romance when there is none. I do think we had better keep away from each other most of the time, though. What do you think?”

“It sounds like a very sensible idea,” she had assured him, smiling at him and then laughing. “There is no need to look so tragic, Nick. There is not going to be one broken heart between the two of us, is there?”

He had laughed with her then and looked hugely relieved. “You are a jolly good fellow, Gwyn,” he had said. “I have scarcely slept for the last two nights. I have tossed and turned instead and wondered if you would be hurt if I told you I do not want to marry you. The last thing in the world I want to do is to hurt you. I like you. I mean, I am not just saying it. I do.”

“I know, Nick.” She had laughed again. “And I feel just as you do. It would seem a bit like marrying my brother. Not at all the thing, in fact. I am glad you came and cleared the air. Now we can enjoy a simple friendship—but from a distance. And not at all during the fete.”

He had taken his leave soon after, a spring in his step.

And the thing was, Gwyneth had thought as she had gazed after him, he was right, and she had been fully aware of it—and concerned about it—before he came and made his painful explanation. She was dearly fond of him, but she could never love him. Not in that way. It really was a relief to discover that he had no romantic feelings toward her either. Now she was free to enjoy the fete as she had wanted to enjoy it—looking about at all the other young men, seeing if any were interested in her and if she was interested in them. Perhaps even . . . No, not perhaps him. Devlin Ware hardly knew she existed. She would be free to find someone new, even if only for a little light flirtation.

But, oh dear, it did feel a bit upsetting that she and Nicholas could no longer enjoy even a friendship. And it was all because they were a boy and a girl suddenly grown into a young man and woman and it was no longer quite the thing unless they were in a courtship. Life was going to feel a tad flat for a while. A rehearsal for September, perhaps, when he would be going away to join his regiment and would perhaps never come back. But a lurching of her stomach had made her wish she had not thought beyond his actual leaving. Never was a pretty brutal word.

So here she was at the fete, feeling festive and pretty—even if it was a bit conceited of her to think so—and looking forward to all the activities and possibilities of the day ahead. And a little dragged down by depression. She had not set eyes upon Nicholas all week, and this morning, while every member of the Ware family had greeted her by name and spoken a few words to her—even Devlin, who had commented upon how fortunate they were that the weather was so lovely—Nicholas had included her in the general remarks he had made to her parents and Idris but had scarcely glanced at her and had not even spoken her name. He was finding this hard, she thought, but . . . Oh, Nicholas! Everyone would be thinking they had quarreled. And she really was missing him.

Being eighteen was not all sunshine and light, as she had expected it to be. But at least she was free to look about her today and enjoy herself.

The vicar began his prayer.



* * *



—

After the opening prayer and some brief words of welcome from the earl, the children’s choir sang. They were unaccompanied but took their opening note for each song unerringly from Sir Ifor and remained miraculously on key and even in harmony with one another when they launched into two-part singing. The sopranos from the church choir soared, most of the others took the lower notes, which often comprised the main melody, and those few who were truly tone deaf at least managed to keep the correct rhythm as they growled a bass foundation to the whole. They all took their bow—which they had practiced to be done in unison—when they were finished, some of the boys giggling self-consciously and crossing their eyes, Owen among them, most of the girls, including Stephanie, puffing out their chests and beaming with pride.

Then it was the turn of the maypole dancers, who performed for almost half an hour while guests gathered in a wide ring about them and marveled at the colorful visual spectacle that whirled and dipped before their eyes as dancers performed the intricate steps with lithe grace and circled the maypole, weaving in and out and past one another, first plaiting their ribbons into what looked like a hopeless entanglement, and then magically unweaving them as they moved until they were all single ribbons again, each held by one dancer.

“I wish they could dance all day long,” someone complained when they finally came to the end of their repertoire and acknowledged the enthusiastic applause, the women by curtsying low, their skirts spread about them on the grass, the men by bowing and grinning.

“But then we would miss our luncheon, Mavis,” someone else said.

And everyone turned from the maypole to see that while they had been watching the dancing, long tables had been set up along the terrace and covered with crisp white cloths and laden from end to end with a large variety of foods and beverages. They lined up to serve themselves, having suddenly discovered voracious appetites.