There was no real need for him to go there since Bewcastle and the duchess were staying for two days longer, and in fact it was only the Hallmeres and the Rosthorns who were leaving today. But it seemed the courteous thing to do to pay his parting respects to Freyja and Morgan.

Not that he was that adept at self-deception, of course.

Anne Jewell was leaving today too, and his heart felt literally heavy within him. He dared not think yet about what his life was going to be like without her.

He ought perhaps to have stayed away this morning. They had effectively said good-bye yesterday, though the return of the carriages from Pembroke Castle had prevented the actual words from being spoken. It probably would be as well to leave them unspoken.

But though he had been up since dawn and had paced his cottage and made a new decision every few minutes, he had known from the start that he would come.

Good-byes, painful as they were, needed to be said.

The end needed to be written beneath every story.

And so he was on his way to Glandwr.

Halfway up the driveway he realized that he was limping and immediately strode more firmly onward.

He could see that several carriages were already drawn up on the terrace. He pulled the brim of his hat lower in order to shield his face from some of the fine rain.

It seemed to Sydnam as he came around the carriages and glanced toward the open front doors of the house that all the Bedwyns must be gathered in the hall with their spouses and children and other guests. There was a great deal of noise and bustle going on in there.

He stayed outside on the terrace, and finally Hallmere and Rosthorn stepped outside and shook his hand and helped their children’s nurses lift their children inside the carriages before they could get too wet. Then Freyja came out between Alleyne and Rannulf, and she shook Sydnam’s hand too and informed him in her usual forthright manner-and without explaining herself-that she had never before taken him for a fool. Hallmere handed her into the carriage while Ralf grinned at Sydnam and Alleyne waggled his eyebrows.

Then Morgan came out, hugged her brothers, saw that Sydnam was standing with them, and hugged him too despite the fact that his clothes were considerably wetter than theirs.

“Sydnam,” she said, gazing up into his face, and he could have sworn that there were tears in her eyes. “Oh, my dear Sydnam. I so want you to be happy.”

“Morgan,” he protested, “I am happy.”

“We are missing Anne,” Hallmere said.

“Mrs. Pritchard is weeping over her,” Rannulf explained with a grin. “And Judith and Christine are still awaiting their turn.”

“Come, cherie,” Rosthorn said to Morgan, “and get in out of the rain.”

“We had all better get in out of the rain,” Rannulf said, and almost simultaneously he and Alleyne headed back into the house and Hallmere and Rosthorn followed their spouses into the carriages.

Sydnam was left abruptly alone on the terrace-alone with Anne Jewell, who was just hurrying out, head down, her son’s hand in hers. Aidan, who was accompanying them, was hauled back inside by someone’s hand on his arm.

Ah, Sydnam thought-the Bedwyns were being tactful, were they?

Her head came up when she was no farther than a foot or two away from him, and she looked at him, startled.

It seemed to him that she was pale, though perhaps it was only the absence of sunlight that gave the impression.

“I came to take my leave of everyone,” he said.

Her son smiled up at him, though he looked as if he had been crying.

“I am going to ask Mr. Upton about those oil paints,” he said.

Sydnam smiled back at him.

“David,” Anne said, without taking her eyes off Sydnam, “make your bow to Mr. Butler if you please, and then climb inside the carriage where you will be dry.”

“Good-bye, David,” Sydnam said, “and thank you for letting me see one of your paintings.”

“Good-bye, sir.” The boy bobbed his head in a quick gesture of respect and half dived into the carriage out of the rain.

And so they were left alone together for the last time, he and Anne Jewell-with people beyond the open door into the house on one side and people inside the row of carriages on the other side. The setting could hardly have been more public.

But he ignored everything except the woman standing before him.

Anne. Whom he liked exceedingly well. Whom perhaps he loved.

No-whom he did love.

She was leaving. He would never see her again even though his body felt its knowledge of hers like a dull ache.

And his heart? Well, it felt now rather as if it had acquired lead weights to drag it downward.

“You will remember your promise?” he asked, offering her his hand.

“Yes.”

She was looking at his chin. But she set her left hand in his. He bent his head over it and raised it to his lips for a few moments. He was terribly aware then that they had an audience-which quite possibly had assiduously turned its collective attention elsewhere since undoubtedly it had collectively arranged for this final, brief tete-a-tete.

She looked up into his face as he raised his head and released her hand, and he could see the drizzle beaded on her cheeks and eyelashes. A frown creased her brow.

“Good-bye,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

“Good-bye.” Somehow he smiled at her.

She turned and scrambled up the steps into the carriage with the children before he could offer to assist her, and her attention was taken by Freyja’s young daughter, who opened her arms to be picked up.

The coachman put up the steps and slammed the door shut before climbing to his perch, and the carriage rocked into motion and turned almost immediately to follow Hallmere’s down the driveway.

She did not look out.

Sydnam was scarcely aware that several other people had stepped out of the house to wave.

He felt lonelier than he ever remembered feeling.

Just this time yesterday he had been looking with satisfaction at the sunshine and anticipating a whole afternoon alone with her at Ty Gwyn.

Just yesterday.

Now she was gone.

A hand came to rest on his right shoulder, and he looked up into Bewcastle’s austere, impassive face.

“We will withdraw to the library, Sydnam, since you happen to be here,” he said, “and discuss what is to become of Ty Gwyn.”

Anne was exhausted with play by the time she arrived in Bath. The nurse’s motion sickness was worse than ever on the return journey, and Anne vigorously kept the children amused so that they would not grow petulant with the tedium of long hours spent in the carriage.

When they stopped for meals and for the night, she was determinedly cheerful as she conversed with Joshua and Lady Hallmere. She would not for one moment have them believe that she was in low spirits, though in fact they were as low as they could possibly be.

How foolish of her to have believed that she could lie with a man and then simply forget about it.

How foolish to have believed that they could take away each other’s loneliness for an hour and remember simply with gratitude.

And how foolish to have hoped she could lie with Sydnam Butler and taken pleasure from the experience just as if she were a normal woman.

Memory was like a raw wound that each passing mile only aggravated.

She had known him. She had been known by him. And yet her body had somehow remained aloof from the wonder of it.

She had been terribly afraid that he would not come to say good-bye.

She had been terribly afraid that he would.

And then when he had come, when she had looked for the very last time into his handsome, damaged face, there had been only pain.

And the terrible temptation to tell him that she had changed her mind.

She had not.

They had gravitated toward each other during the past month and spent time with each other-ah, yes, and lain together-because they were both lonely.

But that explanation was wearing very thin.

Surely it was not just the knowledge that she was alone again, without a man in her life again, that caused the sharp pain in her throat and chest that would not go away?

She supposed she had fallen ever so slightly in love with Sydnam Butler. Or perhaps a whole lot in love with him.

She had fallen in love with an impossibility.

The carriages stopped outside Lady Potford’s house on Great Pulteney Street, since Joshua and his family were to stay there for a couple of nights before returning to Cornwall. The one carriage was to continue on its way to Daniel Street with the baggage, but Anne and David chose to walk the rest of the way in order to stretch their legs. Joshua insisted upon accompanying them. He offered Anne his arm. David walked close to his other side.

“Anne,” he said, “it was a pleasant month, was it not?”

“Very pleasant indeed,” she assured him. “Thank you so much for thinking to invite us, Joshua.”

“And yet here you both are,” he said, “Friday-faced on a Tuesday.”

“I am not-” Anne protested.

“I wish we could have stayed forever and ever,” David cried passionately. He had come very close to shedding tears again a short while ago as he said good-bye to Daniel and Emily and shook hands with Lady Hallmere.

“Yes, it would have been desirable,” Joshua agreed. “But all good things end, lad. If they did not, there would be no new good things to look forward to. If Miss Martin can spare you, perhaps you will both come to Penhallow for Christmas. That will give us all something new to look forward to.”

David, Anne suddenly noticed, was actually holding Joshua’s hand, something he normally considered quite beneath his nine-year-old dignity.