Remember Love (Ravenswood #1)(78)

He was, though. He was leaning against the wooden fence that surrounded the paddock beside the stables, one booted foot propped on the bottom rung, his arms folded along the top rung. He was dressed with shocking informality in breeches and shirt and unbuttoned waistcoat. His hair was windblown and a bit in need of a cut. He was looking really quite gorgeous.

Beside him was Ben Ellis, also leaning on the fence. On his back he was carrying that contraption she had heard about. Cameron Holland and Sally, his sister, had made it between them out of an old knapsack Ben had had on the Peninsula and taken down to the smithy a week or so ago. Cameron had made a sort of metal frame to hold the bag open and firm, and Sally had cut and bound two holes at the bottom of the front of it and had folded and bound the top of it over the metal to make it warmer and more comfortable to the touch. And they had tried it out. Ben’s daughter now rode everywhere with him, snug and safe inside the bag on his back, high enough to see past him and set her hands on his shoulders. There she was now, hugging his sides with her legs, bouncing and squealing as she pointed into the paddock and delivered one of her high-pitched monologues in gibberish—though one frequently repeated word was recognizable.

“Papapapapapa.”

She was pointing at Owen Ware, who was dressed like Devlin and riding the horse that had been badly injured earlier in the summer when it had stepped into a particularly large rabbit hole. Owen himself had been thrown and had suffered a sprained ankle and numerous scrapes and bruises. The horse had to be put down—or so the steward and all the most senior grooms had agreed. Until, that was, Owen, in great wrath, had threatened to shoot himself if anyone shot his horse.

“If a bad sprain is a death sentence for him,” he was rumored to have said, “then it must be for me too. But before I shoot myself, I’ll get in a bit of practice by first shooting whoever kills my horse.”

The horse had lived, though his sprain had been far worse than Owen’s. Gwyneth had heard that the horse was being exercised again and Owen was going to get up on his back one day soon and gradually set him through his paces again. This was the day, it seemed. He was taking the horse from a walk to a cautious trot.

All of this Gwyneth took in with a single glance. The next moment Ben turned and Joy stared at Gwyneth over his shoulder. Devlin looked over his shoulder before lowering his foot to the ground and turning too. He would have come toward her, but a groom was already lifting her down from her sidesaddle and then leading her horse away into the stables.

“Good afternoon, Gwyneth,” Ben called, and Joy pointed and smiled. “Ah, excuse me.” Owen had ridden up to the fence farther along and was patting and running a hand along his horse’s neck. Ben went to confer with him.

“Gwyneth,” Devlin said. “Allow me to escort you inside to my mother. Is she expecting you? But it does not matter. She is at home and will be happy to see you. I must apologize for my appearance.”

“I came to see you,” she told him, walking toward him before he could move away from the fence.

He leaned back against it and crossed his arms defensively over his chest and his legs at the ankles. He frowned. “I am honored,” he said.

“Has anyone from the committee talked with you yet?” she asked him.

“Committee?” he said. “Ah. Yes. I did have a delegation of four wait upon me this morning. Two men and two women, who claimed to be representatives of a larger committee. They were all looking mulish and determined, as though they expected to have a fight on their hands. About paying the expenses for the assembly. Is that what you were referring to?”

“Yes,” she said. “They called upon everyone. They came to Cartref, but they did not ask only Mam and Dad and Idris and me. They talked with all the servants and grooms and gardeners. As well as the farm workers, I believe. They said the verdict so far had been almost unanimous.”

“Everyone actually wants to pay to attend,” he said. “They want to purchase their tickets from Jim Berry at the inn, as they always do.”

“I hope you agreed,” she said.

“I did.” He gazed at her for a moment. “I am beginning to understand that my father was something of a benevolent tyrant—one of those delightful contradictions in terms. Apparently he took over every traditional social event of the neighborhood after my grandfather’s time and insisted upon organizing and financing everything.”

“He was very good,” Gwyneth said.

“Which is exactly what the committee said,” Devlin told her. “And his goodness obviously exasperated a large number of people.”

“Mam and Dad have been talking about it,” she said. “Apparently there used to be all sorts of committees here. They organized everything of a community nature and delegated tasks. No one had to be forced—people actually liked to volunteer. There even used to be a summer fete on the village green and the connecting streets. The maypole would be set beside the duck pond. Everyone was involved in planning and running the whole thing. Everyone shared the expenses.”

“Until my father decided that Ravenswood would be a far more spacious and scenic venue,” he said. “And that my mother would organize it all and he would pay for it.”

“Yes,” she said.

His face was looking as hard as ever. His jaw was tight. He was a good man, she almost added again. But she did not say it. Devlin had agreed to let everyone buy a ticket to Friday’s assembly. Apparently he had invited Mr. Berry to provide and serve the beverages and Mrs. Berry to cook the food—and to do it in the kitchens here if she wished. Apparently, she did wish. Devlin had obviously realized, as his father seemed not to have done, that he would be hurting both the feelings of the Berrys and their income by taking the assembly right away from them. He had offered the venue but had left everything else to them, including all the profits. And now he had agreed to allow everyone to pay their way so that no one would feel beholden to him.