more often. Every day. And I want Papa to stay the night every night. I want…I want to be home.” Claudia continued smoothing a hand over her hair. She said nothing though her heart ached for a child who wanted only what ought to be every child’s right. After a few minutes Lizzie was asleep. But the very next day Claudia was able to seek her out with altogether more cheerful news. She had just heard it herself from Susanna and Anne, who had come over from Alvesley with Lady Ravensberg. And Lizzie, Claudia had decided, would be the first of the girls to hear. She was standing by the fountain with Molly despite the fact that it was a chilly, windy day that threatened rain. They were trailing their hands in the water and sometimes stretching out their arms to feel the spray. They were giggling. “You girls will all be going to Alvesley Park tomorrow,” Claudia said as she came up to them. “You have been invited with all the children to a picnic.” “To a picnic,” Molly said, her eyes as wide as saucers, the fountain and the water forgotten. “All of us, miss?” “All of you,” Claudia said, smiling. “Will that not be a wonderful treat?” “Do the others know?” Molly asked, her voice just a little lower than a shriek. “You are the first to be told,” Claudia said. “I am going to tell them,” Molly cried, and she went dashing off to find the other girls, leaving Lizzie behind. Lizzie’s face was turned up and seemed lit from within. “I am to go too?” she asked. “To Alvesley? Where Papa is?” “You are indeed,” Claudia told her. “Oh,” Lizzie said softly. And she stooped down and felt for Horace, who was sitting quietly beside her, and took the leash in her hand. “Will he be glad to see me?” “I expect he is counting the hours,” Claudia said. “Take me to my room, Horace,” Lizzie said. “Oh, Miss Martin, how many hours is it?” Horace, of course, was not that good a guide, though he might learn in time. He was always careful to see that Lizzie ran against no obstacle, but he had no particular sense of direction despite Lizzie’s great faith in him. Claudia led the way indoors and upstairs, and Horace trotted after her, bringing Lizzie along behind. But it always pleased the girl to think she was becoming independent. She could not get to sleep that night. Claudia had to sit beside her bed and read one of her stories aloud and pat her hand while Horace curled up against her. Claudia doubted she would sleep either. She had decided reluctantly that she must go with the girls to Alvesley—it was too much to expect Eleanor to take the responsibility entirely on her own shoulders. But she really, really did not want to go. She had been concentrating very hard on making plans for the coming school year and upon renewing her acquaintance with Charlie, who still rode over to Lindsey Hall every day. But now she was going to have to see the Marquess of Attingsborough once more. It was pointless to hope that he would stay away from the children’s picnic. She knew he must be pining for Lizzie as much as she was for him. Was it just her imagination that heartbreak was worse the second time around? Probably, she admitted. At the age of seventeen she had wanted to die. This time she wanted to live—she wanted her life back as it had been until the afternoon she had stepped all unwittingly into the visitors’ parlor at school to discover the Marquess of Attingsborough standing there. And she would get that life back. She would live and prosper and be happy again. She would. It would just take some time, that was all. But having to see him again was not going to help.
Joseph’s yearning to see Lizzie again was like a gnawing physical ache. Every day he had been on the verge of riding over to Lindsey Hall. He had restrained himself partly because he would have been unable to think of an excuse to see her even if he did go there, and partly because he owed it both to Claudia Martin and to Portia—not to mention himself—to stay away. But it was only partly of Miss Martin he was thinking when the carriages from Lindsey Hall arrived all in a cavalcade together on the afternoon of the picnic, and half the guests at Alvesley and almost all the children stepped outside onto the terrace to greet the new arrivals as they began to spill out of the carriages. Soon there was a noisy, shrieking melee of adults and children, the latter darting about among adult legs in search of comrades and potential new friends and addressing one another with the sort of volume they might have used if they were five miles apart. Joseph, who was out there too, spotted Claudia Martin as she climbed down from one of the conveyances. She was wearing a cotton dress he had seen before in London and her usual straw hat. She was also wearing a severe, almost grim expression, which suggested that she would rather be anywhere else on earth than where she was. She turned back to the carriage to help someone else down. Lizzie! All decked out in her best white dress with her hair tied high behind with a white bow. He hurried forward. “Allow me,” he said, and he reached up into the carriage, took his daughter by her slender waist, and lifted her down. She inhaled deeply. “Papa,” she murmured. “Sweetheart—” The dog jumped out and ran around them, barking, and Molly ca me down the steps behind him. “Thank you, sir,” Lizzie said more loudly, lifting a mischievously smiling face toward his. “Are you the gentleman who walked to the lake with us last week?” “I am indeed,” he said, clasping his hands behind him. “And you are…Miss Pickford, I believe?” “You remembered.” She giggled—a happy, girlish sound. And then other girls came spilling out of the carriage, and one of the older ones took Lizzie by one hand while Molly took the other. They bore her off to another carriage, which held the remainder of their number with Miss Thompson. Joseph looked at Miss Martin. It seemed somewhat incredible that he had kissed this stern woman on two separate occasions and that he loved her. Yet again she looked the forbidding, quintessential spinster schoolteacher. And then her eyes met his, and it was incredible no longer. There were depths behind those eyes that drew him instantly beyond the surface armor she had put on to the warm, passionate woman within. “Hello, Claudia,” he said softly before he could frame an altogether more appropriate greeting. “Good afternoon, Lord Attingsborough,” she said briskly. And then she looked beyond his shoulder and smiled. “Good afternoon, Charlie.” Someone was tugging at the tassel on Joseph’s Hessian boot. He looked down to see Wilma and Sutton’s youngest, who proceeded to lift both his arms in the air. “Uncle Joe,” he commanded. “Up.” Uncle Joe obligingly stooped down to pick him up and settle him astride his shoulders. The empty carriages from Lindsey Hall were moving off to be replaced by other carriages bringing children and adults from neighboring homes. Ten minutes or so later a veritable army—to use Gwen’s analogy—of children was making its disordered way toward the picnic site on a wide expanse of lawn beside the lake to the right of the house, the older ones rushing ahead, toddlers riding shoulders, babies bouncing or sleeping in arms. They might all be deafened by the noise before the afternoon was over, Joseph thought cheerfully. Lizzie and Molly and the older girl were skipping, he noticed. 17
It was very brave of the Earl and Countess of Redfield and of Lord and Lady Ravensberg to have organized a picnic on such a grand scale just the day before the anniversary celebrations, Claudia thought as the afternoon progressed. For of course, parents had come as well as children. There were probably at least as many people milling about the lawn west of the house as there would be in the ballroom tomorrow evening. It would have been very easy to avoid the Marquess of Attingsborough amid all the crowds if they had not both been keeping a careful eye upon Lizzie. It was unnecessary to be overvigilant. Lizzie, shadowed by Horace but not needing him as a guide, was having the time of her life. Lady Redfield, the Duchess of Anburey, Mrs. Thompson, and a few of the other older ladies, who were sitting together on chairs that had been placed beneath the shade of a group of trees, would gladly have taken her under their wing and indeed did draw her down to sit with them for a few minutes. But she was not forgotten by everyone else. Soon Molly and a few other girls drew her away to introduce her to David Jewell, who had been openly delighted to meet some of his old school friends again and tell them all about his life in Wales. They took her with them to sit by the lake for a while. A few of the gentlemen organized a cricket game after tea for any children who were interested, and a number of Claudia’s girls joined in as well as David. Molly would not play and Lizzie could not, but they stood for a while, Molly watching and explaining to Lizzie what was happening. And then there was an extraordinary moment when Lady Hallmere—the sole lady involved in the game—went in to bat. She made a great show of settling herself in before the wickets and blocked two of the balls bowled at her by Lord Aidan Bedwyn while her team cheered and his jeered. But before he could bowl to her again, she straightened up and looked consideringly at the two girls. “Wait,” she declared. “I need help. Lizzie, come and bat with me and bring me better fortune.” And she strode over to Lizzie, took her by the hand, and led her back to stand before the wickets while Claudia caught Horace by the collar and held him back. Lady Hallmere leaned down to explain something to the girl. “Yes!” Agnes Ryde cried as she awaited her turn. “Lizzie is going to bat. Come on, Lizzie!” For the moment there was a suspiciously Cockney flavor to her accent. Claudia watched with a frown as Lady Hallmere nestled in behind Lizzie, settled all four of their hands about the bat handle, and looked up at Lord Aidan. “Right, Aidan,” she called, “bowl us your best. We are going to hit it for a six, are we not, Lizzie?” Lizzie’s face was bright with excitement. Claudia turned her head briefly to see that the Marquess of Attingsborough, who had been tossing a never-ending line of very young children up in the air one at a time and catching them, was watching intently. Lord Aidan came loping in halfway down the pitch before bowling the ball very gently at the bat. Lady Hallmere, her hands clasped over Lizzie’s, drew back the bat, missing the wickets behind it by a hair, and swung at the ball, hitting it with a satisfyingly loud crack. Lizzie shrieked and laughed. The ball soared into the air and straight into the outstretched hands of the Earl of Kilbourne, who inexplicably failed to catch it but fumbled it awkwardly and eventually allowed it to fall to the ground. But Lady Hallmere had not waited for what had seemed like an inevitable out. She had grabbed Lizzie about the waist and gone tearing down the pitch with her and back again to score two runs. She was laughing. So was Lizzie, loudly and helplessly. Their team cheered wildly. The marquess was laughing too and applauding and whistling. “Oh, well done, Miss Pickford,” he
