She had offered to sit behind the tea tray, pouring tea, and the duchess had accepted her offer. But she was not so busy that she could not observe the way people gathered into conversational groups-the wealthier English landowners with the Bedwyns, Mrs. Llwyd with Mrs. Pritchard and Mrs. Thompson, the vicar and his wife with Baron Weston and Miss Thompson, Mr. Llwyd, Mr. Jones, Mr. Rhys-the Welsh minister-with Mr. Butler and the Duke of Bewcastle. The duchess moved from group to group, drawing smiles wherever she went.

Mr. Butler was deep in conversation and did not once glance Anne’s way-she was on his blind side. But later, after she had got to her feet and brushed her hands over her skirt during the bustle of the removal of the tea tray, she found that he was standing beside her.

“Shall we sit together, Miss Jewell?” he suggested. “Unless you have other plans, that is.”

“No.” She smiled at him. “Thank you.”

And so she had all the pleasure of observing and listening to the entertainment in company with a gentleman who was not also someone else’s husband. It felt absurdly exhilarating.

Joshua and Lady Hallmere sang a few English folk songs first, with Joshua accompanying them on the pianoforte. They were surprisingly good, though Lady Hallmere began with a disclaimer.

“I have absolutely insisted that we be the opening act,” she explained to the audience. “I have a strong suspicion that the others are going to be vastly superior-I know Judith will be-and I have no wish to be forced to follow them.”

Joshua, at the pianoforte, grinned while the audience laughed.

One could not help liking Lady Hallmere, Anne thought, for all her prickly ways.

“Just sing, Free, and put us out of our misery,” Lord Alleyne called out.

Mrs. Llwyd-a small, dark-haired, very Celtic-looking lady-played next on her large, beautifully carved harp, and Anne soon found herself blinking away unshed tears and feeling as if she had been transported into another world and another culture, so beautiful was the music she produced.

“It always seems to me,” Mr. Butler said softly, leaning toward Anne during the short pause between pieces, “that the harp somehow captures the very soul of Wales.”

“Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes, you must be right.”

And then Mr. Llwyd got to his feet and sang to his wife’s accompaniment in a light, pleasant tenor voice to which Anne could have listened all night though he sang in Welsh and she did not understand a single word.

She felt rather sorry for Lady Rannulf, who was to conclude the entertainment. Lady Hallmere was the wise one in having insisted upon going first.

Lady Rannulf was extremely beautiful, with a full, voluptuous figure and glorious red hair. But the idea of her acting alone, without any supporting characters, somehow embarrassed Anne even though she had been told that the lady was a good actress.

“I hope,” Mr. Butler said, “she does Lady Macbeth. I have seen her do it before, and she is quite extraordinary.”

She played Desdemona first, her hair down, her elegant green evening gown somehow transforming itself into a nightgown purely through the power of suggestion as Desdemona waited in bewilderment and misplaced trust for Othello to come to her in her bedchamber and then pleaded her case with him and begged for her very life.

It truly was extraordinary, Anne agreed, how she gave the impression that her maid and, later, Othello were there in her bedchamber with her and yet carried the scene alone. It was more than extraordinary how she lost all resemblance to the Lady Rannulf Anne had known for almost two weeks and became the innocent, loving, loyal, frightened, but dignified wife of Othello.

The return to reality when the scene was over was disorienting for a moment.

And then, at the special request of the Duke of Bewcastle, Lady Rannulf did indeed play the part of Lady Macbeth, also with hair loose and dress become nightgown-also a night scene. But there the resemblance between the two scenes and characters-and even the actress herself-ended. She became the powerful, ruthless, mad, tormented Lady Macbeth, sleepwalking and trying desperately to wash away the blood of her guilt. Anne found herself sitting forward on her chair, her eyes fixed on the lady’s hands, as if she really expected to see the blood of King Duncan dripping from them.

She was, she realized as she applauded enthusiastically with everyone else, in the presence of greatness.

Mr. Butler was looking expectantly at her.

“Well?” he said.

“I have not been so well entertained for a long time,” she told him.

He laughed. “I thought perhaps you would admit that you have never been so well entertained,” he said.

“I have a friend,” she explained, “who has become all the rage throughout Europe. She has the most glorious soprano voice I have ever heard. She taught at Miss Martin’s school until just two years ago.”

“And she is?” he asked.

“The Countess of Edgecombe,” she said. “She was Frances Allard before she married Viscount Sinclair, now the earl.”

“Ah,” he said, “you mentioned her before, and I believe I had heard of her before that. But I have never had the pleasure of listening to her sing.”

“If you ever do have the chance,” she said, “you must not miss it.”

“I will not.” He smiled again while all about them family and guests were getting to their feet and conversing and laughing, the formal entertainment at an end.

“There is to be dancing,” he said. “It is my cue, I believe, to return home.”

“Oh,” she said before she could stop herself, “please do not leave yet.”

The carpet was being rolled up from the drawing room floor and the French windows at one end of it thrown back, since the room had grown stuffy. Mrs. Lofter was taking her place at the pianoforte, having offered earlier in the day to play. It had been the duchess’s idea that some informal country dancing would be a more pleasant way of ending the evening than playing cards would be, though a couple of tables were being set up for the older people.

Anne felt instantly embarrassed. What if he had been waiting for some excuse to get away from the gathering-and from her?

“Must I sit and watch you dance, then?” he asked, smiling at her. “I would be envious of your partners, Miss Jewell.”

It was the first thing he had said to her that was remotely flirtatious.

“But I have no wish to dance,” she said, not quite truthfully. “We will sit and talk, if you wish. Unless, that is, you have your heart set upon returning home.”

“What I do have my heart set upon,” he said, “is drawing some cool night air into my lungs. Would you care to step outside, Miss Jewell, to see how brightly the moon shines tonight?”

How foolish they had been, she thought, getting to her feet, to have wasted more than a week of days during which they might have met occasionally and walked and conversed together. But at least there was this evening-and there would be Sunday morning to look forward to.

“Yes, I would,” she said. “May I run and fetch a shawl?”

A few minutes later they stepped out through the French windows while the card players settled into a game and two lines of dancers were forming amid a great deal of noise and merriment. No one would have noticed them leave, Anne thought.

“Ah,” Mr. Butler said, standing still and looking upward. “I thought it would be a bright night. There is not a cloud in the sky, and see-the moon is almost at the full.”

“With a million stars to supplement its light,” she said. “Why is it we are not constantly awed by the size and majesty of the universe?”

“Habit,” he said. “We are accustomed to it. I suppose if we had been blind from birth-in both eyes-and could suddenly see, we would be so overwhelmed by a night like this that we would either gaze upward at it until dawn or else cling to the earth, afraid that we were about to fall off. Or perhaps we would simply assume that we were at the center of it all and the lords of all we beheld.”

The air was deliciously cool after the heat of the day. Anne let her shawl fall to her elbows and drew in a deep breath of the slightly salt air.

“What a good idea of yours,” she said, “to step out here.”

“If you want a night view that will truly awe you,” he said, “you should climb to the top of the hill over there. Have you been up it in the daytime?”

The hill to which he pointed was part of the park, but it was also part of the cliff-top scenery, a rise of land that was covered with gorse bushes and wildflowers and grass. None of the walks and games had ever taken Anne actually to it, but she had often admired it and thought she must go there alone or with David one day before they left.

“No,” she said, “but I can believe there is a lovely view from up there.”

He looked down at her evening slippers. “Is it too far to go now?”

It struck her suddenly that perhaps it was too far for a single lady to go with a single gentleman at night, but she dismissed the thought. She was twenty-nine years old and an independent woman. She was no delicate young girl to be hedged about by propriety and chaperones.

“It is not,” she said.

They walked slowly, talking as they went. It had not occurred to either of them to bring a lantern, but it would have been quite superfluous anyway. It was one of those nights that are almost as bright as day. The hill was higher and steeper than it looked. By the time they had scrambled to the top Anne was breathless, and the soles of her feet were smarting from having stepped on a few jagged stones with only her thin evening slippers for protection. But she knew immediately that the climb had been worth the effort and the pain.