It was not, of course, that she had not wanted to impose on them. It was that she had not even wanted to admit to herself that David had had a father and that he had been Albert Moore. But she had come to realize that what she wanted for herself was not necessarily what was good for David.

Ghastly as the thought was, Albert Moore had been his father.

“Do I have anyone else?” he asked.

She would not mention the dowager Marchioness of Hallmere, David’s grandmother, who no longer lived in Cornwall and who hated Anne and therefore David with a passion. She looked up almost unwillingly to find Sydnam looking over his shoulder at her, his gaze steady.

She drew in a deep breath again and released it slowly.

“You have a grandmother and grandfather in Gloucestershire,” she said. “Real grandparents-my mother and father. And an Aunt Sarah and an Uncle Matthew, my sister and brother.”

He was up on his knees again then and gazing at her with saucer eyes.

“And cousins?” he asked.

“I do not know, David,” she said. “I have not seen or heard in years.” But there was, of course, another uncle. And she had heard, though her mother’s twice-yearly letters were always brief and about matters that did not relate to the family.

“Why?” he demanded to know.

“I suppose,” she said, smiling at him, “I have always been too busy. Or they have.”

He continued to gaze at her, and she somehow knew what he would say next even before he opened his mouth to say it.

“But you are not too busy now,” he said. “We can go to see them now, Mama. We can. My stepfather will take us. We can go. Can’t we?”

Anne licked dry lips. She would not look at Sydnam again, though she was half aware that he had turned back to face the lake again.

She ought to have lied.

But no, it was time. He had a right to the truth.

“Perhaps we can go sometime,” she said.

“When?”

“After we have finished visiting here, perhaps,” she said. “But perhaps-”

“Famous!” he cried, jumping to his feet. “Did you hear that, sir? I have a real grandmama and grandpapa, and we are going to see them. I am going to tell Uncle Kit and Aunt Lauren. I am going to tell them now.”

“You had better take your painting things with you,” Anne said, and he bounded over to them, picked them all up, careful not to smudge the surface of his canvas, and trotted off in the direction of the house without waiting for either Anne or Sydnam.

She hugged her knees tightly and bent her head to rest her forehead against her knees.

He wondered if she would have told David about her family and even agreed to take him there if he had not said what he had at the temple folly two afternoons ago.

They had rejected her. No, they had forgiven her, which had apparently been worse. And they had never asked about David or expressed any wish to see him.

He could only imagine what she was feeling now. But her decision, he knew, was irrevocable. David was excited about going.

“Have you ever rowed a boat?” he asked.

“What?” She looked up at him with blank, uncomprehending eyes.

“I have,” he said, “but not for years. I could do it now, I suppose, but the exercise would be mildly self-defeating. It strikes me that a one-armed rower would move in a perpetual circle and never get anywhere. Which is something like life, I suppose, if one cares to take a pessimistic view of it.”

He grinned at her. Making fun of his disabilities was something he rather enjoyed being able to do.

“I have rowed a boat, yes,” she said, looking warily beyond him to the boat both he and David had painted a little while ago. “I lived in Cornwall right by the sea for a few years. But I have not done it for a long time. And I was never very good at it. I always used to dig the oars too deep and try to push the sea past the boat instead of moving the boat through the sea.”

“Sounds exhausting,” he said.

“And impossible,” she agreed.

“I have not been to the island for years,” he said. “Do you fancy going there today?”

“With me rowing?” She shaded her eyes, presumably to judge the distance. “If you have an hour or three to spare.”

“But I am far too gallant to expect you to do all the rowing alone,” he said. “I was thinking of us as a team-you on the right hand oar, me on the left.”

“It sounds like a recipe for disaster,” she said.

“Can you swim?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“And I can bob around and somehow keep my head above water,” he said. “We would survive a ducking, which I do not expect. I trust your rowing prowess and my own. Of course, if you do not have the nerve…”

She smiled and then chuckled and then laughed aloud.

“You are mad,” she said.

“Guilty as charged.” He grinned back at her. “But the question is-did I marry a mad wife?”

“How deep is that water?” She shaded her eyes again and looked dubious.

“About up to your eyebrows at its deepest point,” he said.

“My raised eyebrows?”

“You are a coward,” he said. “Let’s go back to the house, then.”

“We will never fit side by side on that seat,” she said, turning her attention on the boat again.

“Yes, we will,” he said, “provided you do not mind some intimacy. I do not have a right arm to take up room, remember. And you are not very large-yet.”

Her eyes flew to his and she blushed.

“You are insane,” she said again. “Let’s do it.”

It was a mad suggestion-he did not mind admitting it to himself. He had long ago decided what was difficult but possible-riding a horse, for example-and what was absolutely impossible. Rowing a boat fit into the latter category. But then so did painting. Indeed, that had always been at the top of the list. But he had painted this morning. And now he felt capable of anything. He felt like a veritable Hercules.

The jetty was not as steady as he remembered it. But he walked carefully out onto it and held the boat while she stepped into it-very gingerly and without the aid of his hand since the only one he possessed was holding the boat. She turned and sat on the seat and laughed and looked terrified as she pushed her cloak out of the way of her arms. He climbed in after her, and she edged along the seat to give him room, causing the boat to tip and rock alarmingly. She shrieked and they both laughed.

She had been almost right. They were very tightly packed on the seat.

“I hope,” she said, picking up one of the oars and fitting it into its lock, “I remembered to say my prayers last night.”

“I did if you did not,” he said, grappling with the other oar.

“They cover both of us.”

He unwound the mooring rope and pushed them away from the jetty.

She shrieked and laughed again.

It took them all of half an hour to row across to the island. But as he informed her when they finally pulled onto the beach there and jumped out to drag the boat together up onto dry land, they might have crossed the English Channel and back if only they had proceeded in a straight line instead of meandering around in rough circles for the first twenty minutes while they both tried to recapture the knack of rowing and-once that was more or less accomplished-tried to row in harmony with each other.

They were both laughing so hard that she could scarcely get any words out.

“How on earth are we going to get ba-a-a-ack?” she asked.

“Not on earth,” he said, “unless you want to try running over the lake bottom, Anne. You had better keep your eyebrows raised if you do, though, or you will get them wet. I intend rowing back.”

He took her hand in his, noticed that her palm was red and ridged from the oar, and held it to his lips.

“If you end up with blisters,” he said, “I will never forgive myself.”

“A few blisters would be a small price to pay,” she said, “for the fun of doing this. When did you last have fun, Sydnam? Silly, mad fun like this, I mean?”

He tried to remember and could not.

“It was forever ago,” he said.

“And at least that long ago for me,” she said.

“This has been fun,” he agreed. “But perhaps we had better wait until we have our feet safely back on the other shore before we pass a final judgment. Come and see the other beach.”

It was a tiny man-made island. But the adjacent side of it had always been a favorite spot, since it offered excellent swimming and faced away from the house, which was well out of sight anyway. The grassy bank sloped gradually into the water and was covered with wildflowers in the summer. Even now some hardy varieties survived. He and his brothers had often swum nude here, but they had never been caught.

“It is really quite blissful here,” Anne said, sitting down and gazing into the water.

“We ought to have brought the blanket,” he said.

“The grass is dry.” She rubbed it with one hand. “And it is sheltered from the breeze here. It feels almost warm.”

He sat beside her and lay back to gaze up at the sky.

“Sydnam,” she said several minutes later, bending over him to look into his face, “you will take us?”

“To Gloucestershire?” he said. “Yes, of course. You know I will.”

She gazed down at him.

“I suppose,” she said, “I ought to tell you what happened.”

“Yes,” he said, “I think you ought.”

He lifted his hand and touched the backs of his fingers to her cheek.

“Come down here,” he said, and spread his arm across the grass so that she could rest her head on it. When she had done so after tossing aside her bonnet, he wrapped his arm about her and drew her head onto his shoulder.

“I think you ought to tell me,” he said again.