“I met him for the first time this evening,” Anne told him. “He was very gracious, though I must confess I was ready to sink through the floor with fear.”

They both laughed again.

“The duchess is exceedingly amiable,” she said.

“According to Lauren, my sister-in-law,” he told her, “it was a love match. It was the sensation of last year. No one would have predicted that Bewcastle would marry for love. But perhaps he did.”

The tea tray was being brought in, and two of the card games were coming to an end.

“I must be going home,” Mr. Butler said. “I am pleased to have made your acquaintance, Miss Jewell.”

She set both hands on the arms of her chair and got to her feet. She noticed that he got up a little more slowly from his low chair, and it occurred to her that being without one arm and one eye must shift the natural balance of the body that she took so very much for granted. How long had it taken him to adjust to the change? Had he ever adjusted completely?

“I shall go and convey my thanks to the duchess,” he said, holding out his hand to her. “Good night.”

“Good night, Mr. Butler.”

She held out her own hand and he shook it before releasing it and turning away.

Anne was left biting her lip. She should, of course, have given him her left hand as she remembered the duchess had done earlier. Their handshake had been horribly awkward-as if they had been holding hands and swinging them. It had felt almost intimate. Embarrassingly so.

He was bowing to the Duchess of Bewcastle, who smiled warmly at him and set one hand on his arm while she leaned a little toward him to say something. Lord Rannulf came up behind him and slapped a hand on his right shoulder. The two men left the room together.

Where did he live? Anne wondered.

Would she see him again?

But it would not matter too much if she did. She had got past the awkwardness of what had happened last night. She was vastly relieved about that. It would be easier to meet him next time.

But how tragic for him to have lost a limb and an eye and to have had his looks so marred.

Was he lonely? she wondered.

Did he have friends?

Outcasts were frequently both lonely and friendless. Her mind touched upon her years in the Cornish village of Lydmere, living on the very fringes of local society.

She had never ceased to give thanks for the fact that she finally had found friends at the school in Bath and that three of those friends-Claudia herself, Susanna, and Frances-had come to be as close as sisters to her. It was so much more than she had ever expected-or felt she deserved-after those long, lean years.

She hoped Mr. Butler had some close friends.

“Come and have tea, Anne,” Joshua said, appearing suddenly at her side. “I hope you are enjoying your stay here.”

“Oh.” She smiled at him. “I am, yes, thank you, Joshua.”

But most of all, Miss Jewell, they need a mother. I daresay you did the right thing in coming here with him.

The remembered words that Mr. Butler had spoken warmed and comforted her. She had done the right thing. David had been animated and happy all day long with the other children. But he had hugged her when she went to say good night to him before dressing for dinner.

“Thank you, Mama,” he had said, “for bringing me here. I am so glad we came.”

We, not I.

She would suffer the discomfort and embarrassment of the month here only to see David happy-for though he was well loved at the school by staff and girls alike, he had no close friends.

And no father.

Sydnam was busy for most of the next day. It was never hard to find things to do. But now, in addition to his usual routine, there was Bewcastle to accompany on a morning inspection of the home farm and calls at a few of the tenant farms. The duke might spend very little time on his Welsh estate, but he knew all there was to know about it, since he conscientiously studied each monthly report that Sydnam sent him. And whenever he did visit, he spent only a little time poring over the books and a great deal of time riding and tramping about the land observing and talking with the people.

But Bewcastle was now also a husband, and it intrigued Sydnam to find that he returned home at noon because the duchess had arranged a picnic on the beach for everyone during the afternoon. The old Bewcastle would not have dreamed of participating in such frolics.

The Duchess of Bewcastle seemed like a very ordinary person to Sydnam. She was pretty without being beautiful, trim and smart without being elegant, courteous and amiable without being overrefined or in any way domineering. She was vivacious and filled with laughter. And she was the daughter of a country schoolmaster. She was, in fact, the very antithesis of the woman one would have expected Wulfric to choose for a bride-which fact left Sydnam wondering about the strange power she seemed to wield over him. Good Lord, he had even noticed Bewcastle smiling at her once last evening.

She made Sydnam feel lonely. Not that he fancied her himself. But it must be wonderful beyond belief, he thought, to have someone to go home to after work, someone for whom to cut the workday short on occasion, even for something as seemingly unimportant as a picnic on the beach. It must be wonderful to have someone to draw one’s smiles.

And there was a baby in Bewcastle’s nursery.

He avoided the beach and the cliff top above it and the lawns leading to it all afternoon. He was not, after all, a member of the house party, and besides, he did not want to frighten any of the children. He kept himself busy on the home farm, being reluctant to spend a sunny, warm day indoors when it so often rained along the coast of South Wales.

Late in the afternoon, though, when he was riding back to the cottage, he could see that a noisy game of cricket was in progress on the lawn before the main house and that there appeared to be a vast number of people of all sizes involved. The picnic on the beach was obviously over.

It would be safe to go there himself.

He loved the beach. He loved the cliff tops too, but the perspective was different. From the cliff top one was aware of the wildness of nature, the potential cruelty of it, the panoramic beauty of it, with the land above and the sea stretched beneath and spreading to a far horizon, beyond which lay the coast of Cornwall and beyond that the coast of France and the Atlantic Ocean.

But on the beach he was aware only of the golden sands stretching in a great arc before him and behind him and to either side of him, land in its most elemental form, land worn away by the power of the ocean. And there too he was aware of the vastness and power of the deep, of the great, elemental mystery of this origin of all life.

It was on the beach that he could feel most strongly the paintbrush clasped in his right hand and see the vision that would never be captured on any real canvas. It was on the beach that sometimes the vision was enough.

He was halfway down the steep but quite wide path that led along a fault line from the top of the cliffs to the beach when he realized that not everyone had returned to the house. Someone remained. She was walking along the shiny wet sand over which the ebb tide had just receded, parallel to the water, her skirt caught up in one hand while the other held what must be her shoes.

He sighed aloud and almost turned back. He felt unreasonably resentful. He had come to think of this park and this beach as his own, he realized. But they were not his. They were Bewcastle’s, and Miss Jewell was Bewcastle’s guest here.

It was Miss Jewell down there on the sands.

There was room for both of them, he supposed. The beach was vast enough, and the tide was going out and making it larger by the minute.

He continued his descent.

She had a son. Yet she was Miss Jewell. She taught at a girls’ school and had her son there with her. The Marquess of Hallmere and Freyja knew her and had invited her here. No, correction-Hallmere had wanted to bring her son here, and then Freyja had invited the mother to come too.

It seemed strange to him that either one of them would want her here, since she had not mentioned any connection with Hallmere that would explain his interest in her son. It seemed stranger that Bewcastle would countenance such an intrusion into his family circle-an unwed woman with a bastard son. And she herself had not expected to be received as a guest but presumably as a servant. Intrigued as he was, though, he recognized that her presence here at Glandwr was none of his business.

He wished, even so, that Freyja had not invited her. He wished she were not here at Glandwr. He had been pleasantly surprised when she apologized to him last evening. He had found her company congenial during their short conversation. But he had dreamed about her again last night. She had been the one standing on the promontory this time, and he was the one on the path. She had been wearing something loose and diaphanous that blew against her shapely form in the breeze, and her long honey-colored hair had been loose and blowing back from her head. But when he had approached her this time and reached out to touch her, she had looked suddenly horrified and had turned to run-right off the edge of the cliff while he tried to grab her with an arm that was not there. But somehow in the dream he had become the faller. He had woken up with a jolt just before he landed on the rocks below the cliff.

He had no wish to be dreaming such idiotic dreams. He had enough problems with the usual nightmares.

He reached the bottom of the path, clambered over the loose rocks and pebbles at the base of the cliff, and then stood on the sand looking at Miss Jewell as she walked, unaware of his presence. She had lifted her face to the breeze and was moving her head slowly from side to side. He could see now that she held her bonnet as well as her shoes in one of her hands.