Remember Love (Ravenswood #1)(23)

“But think of all the freedom you will have when we are all grown and settled,” he said. “You will be able to go to London with Papa every spring and dance each night away.”

“Mmm,” was all she said by way of reply. “Ah, here we are. Just look at all these wonderful carvings, Devlin.”

It had never seemed particularly odd to Devlin that his parents lived apart for the spring months every year while Parliament was in session. It was necessary, after all. His father had the duty of his aristocratic rank to serve his country. His mother had a duty to her family. The fact that duty took one of them to London and kept the other at home in the country was all just a part of the reality in which Devlin had grown up. Why would he ever have questioned it? It was only last year when he had gone to London himself after coming down from Oxford instead of coming straight home that he had realized most ladies of the ton went to London with their husbands each spring. More often than not their children went with them.

But the judging had begun, and there were the hands of the winners and other entrants to shake and congratulatory comments to be made. Afterward he made his way back up toward the house and the log-splitting contest in the stable yard. He supposed he had missed the archery contests. It was a pity, but he could not be everywhere at once.

Just as his parents could not be everywhere at once or together all the time. There was nothing strange about it. Just as there was nothing strange about their living apart during the spring months. He definitely did not want to start thinking about it with unease today of all days.





Chapter Six





Devlin had indeed missed the archery contests, though he soon heard that Matthew Taylor had won the men’s again.

“By a mile, Dev,” his brother Owen told him in a voice that might have been heard all the way at the front of the house. “You should have seen. He carries his sheaf of arrows on his back, like the archers in olden times, and he pulls them out and shoots them one after the other so fast that everyone thinks there is just one arrow quivering in the bull’s-eye when really there are five.”

“It’s true, Devlin,” their cousin Clarence assured him at a volume to match Owen’s. “I am going to get Papa to buy me a bow for my birthday, and I am going to shoot with it every day until I am as good as Mr. Taylor.”

“Well, you can’t be better, can you Clar?” Owen said. “There isn’t anything closer than the bull’s-eye. I tried it myself last year, but I gave it up after Papa told me I would never be able to hit the long side of the barn from six feet away. That was not a very encouraging thing coming from my own father, was it?”

“The thing was, though,” Devlin said, setting a hand on his brother’s shoulder and squeezing, “no one would come within a quarter of a mile of the barn while you were practicing, and the milk cows inside were lowing piteously as a result.”

Clarence cackled.

“Oh, you made that up, Dev,” his brother said indignantly. “For shame. He is fibbing, Clar.”

“Not very much,” Devlin said. “On the other hand, Owen, you only have to cast a line into the river to come up no more than five minutes later with a fish at least three feet long. Sometimes I wonder if you even stop to bait the line. I can fish patiently all day long and go home empty-handed at the end of it.”

“That’s a bit of a whopper too,” his brother said. “You need to watch that, Dev.”

The three of them were in the stable yard, waiting for the log-splitting contest to begin. Idris Rhys had come to join them. So had Ben. It was always the most popular of the contests, together with the archery. The yard was soon crowded with men, women, and children. There were four contestants, brawny men with huge chests and bulging muscles in their upper arms and calves. They were all stripped down to shirts, breeches, and boots. The rules forbade the removal of shirts if there were ladies present—as there always were—but rules were made to be bent. The men’s shirts were open at the neck and almost all the way to the waistbands of their breeches. The sleeves were rolled up as far above their elbows as the girth of their arms would allow.

Cameron Holland, the blacksmith’s son, had been placed in the first pairing. The winner of each would go another round later to determine the overall winner.

Devlin had seen Gwyneth as soon as he arrived. She was amid a group of young people, both male and female, and still appeared to be enjoying herself. She moved away just before the contest started, however, and came to join her brother. Owen and Clarence darted away to join a crowd of other boys.

“Are you cheering for Cameron?” Gwyneth asked Idris.

“Of course,” he said. “I always cheer for friends. And winners.”

“Just look at those logs,” she said, squeezing in between her brother and Devlin. “They look impossible to chop through.”

“Not for Cam,” Devlin said. “He is as strong as an ox. So are the other three, by the look of them. I would not like to bet on a winner.”

He wondered if she had left her group and crossed the stable yard to join her brother—or him. She was certainly not avoiding him. She might have chosen to stand on Idris’s other side but had not. He felt suddenly happy again. Nicholas was with a group of young men some distance away. He seemed to be enjoying himself too. He did not look heartsick.