The Proposal

He was talking to it. Gwen could hear his voice, though she could not distinguish the exact words. She stood against the outside of the fence, her arms leaning along the top of it, watching them, though she believed he had forgotten all about her. There was such tenderness in his voice and in his whole manner that she could have wept.

He had not forgotten, though. Even as she thought it, he looked up and smiled at her. No, it was not just a smile. It was more of a boyish grin.

“I am so sorry,” he said. “I ought to have taken you back to the house first.”

“Don’t start,” she said again.

And he laughed and returned his attention to the lamb, which was finally showing signs of having had enough.

“Or I ought to have had someone else do the feeding,” he said a short while later as he let himself out of the meadow. “There are a few laborers. I had better not offer my arm. I must smell of sheep.”

She took his arm anyway. “I grew up in the country,” she reminded him.

He did smell faintly of sheep. And he was still wearing the very smart clothes he had worn for tea.

He did not take the path that led directly from the boundary of the park to the stables. Instead, he led her about part of the perimeter of the park, where there were more trees. They were widely enough spaced, though, that it was easy enough to walk among them.

“I can understand,” she said, “why you shut yourself up here in the country a number of years ago and wanted nothing more to do with the outside world.”

“Can you?” he said. “It cannot be done indefinitely, though. My father’s dying dragged me out again. On the whole, I am not sorry.”

“Neither am I,” she said.

He turned his head to look at her but did not comment.

“I realized something,” he said, “when I was feeding that lamb and you were standing there so patiently, watching. I keep my sheep for their wool, not their meat. I keep my cows for their milk and cheese, not for their meat. I keep chickens for their eggs. I have felt very virtuous about it all. But I eat meat. I concur in the killing of other, unknown animals so that I may be fed. And almost all creatures prey upon others for food. It is all very cruel. One could dwell upon it and become massively gloomy. But that is the way life is. It is a continual balance of opposites. There are hatred and violence, for example, and there are kindness and gentleness. And sometimes violence is necessary. I try to imagine Bonaparte having been allowed to reach our shores with his armies. Overrunning our cities and towns and countryside. Pillaging for food and other pleasures. Attacking my family and yours. Attacking you. If any of that had happened, I could never have stood by in the name of the sanctity of human life and the tenderness of my conscience.”

“You have forgiven yourself, then?” she asked.

He had stopped walking and was standing with his back against a tree, his arms folded across his chest.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” he said. “Carstairs has lived with guilt all these years even though he spoke up for retreat at the time and a saving of at least some of the men’s lives. And even though he was badly wounded in the attack and has suffered the consequences ever since. He feels guilt because he believes his instinct was cowardly and my actions were right. He hates me, but he believes I was right.”

“You were right,” she said. “You have always known that.”

He shook his head slowly.

“I do not believe there is right or wrong,” he said. “There is only doing what one must do under given circumstances and living with the consequences and weaving every experience, good and bad, into the fabric of one’s life so that ultimately one can see the pattern of it all and accept the lessons life has taught. We were never expected to achieve perfection in one lifetime, Gwendoline. Religious people would say that is what heaven is for. I think that would be a shame. It’s too easy and too lazy. I would prefer to think that perhaps we are given a second chance—and a third and a thirty-third—to get everything right.”

“Reincarnation?” she said.

“Is that what it is called?” He dropped his arms to his sides and looked at her. “I wonder if I would meet the same woman in each life and discover each time that there was a problem. And would the solution that came to mind be foolhardy or brave? To be resisted or embraced? Wrong or right? You see what I mean?”

She stepped forward and stood against him, spread her hands over his chest and rested her forehead between them. She felt his heartbeat and his warmth and inhaled the strangely enticing smells of cologne and man and sheep.

“Oh, Hugo,” she said.

The fingers of one hand caressed her neck.

“Yes,” he said softly, “I have forgiven myself for being alive.”

“I love you,” she said into the fabric of his neckcloth.

For a moment she was horrified. Had she really spoken aloud? He did not reply. But he bent his head and kissed her softly and briefly in the hollow between her shoulder and neck.

And so the words had been spoken aloud—by her at least. And really it did not matter. He must know anyway. Just as she knew that he loved her.

Did she know that?

Of course she did. He had just said so in other words. I wonder if I would meet the same woman in each life …

Love might not be enough. He had said as much in London when he had come to tell her he was not going to court her.

And then again, it might be.

Perhaps love was everything. Perhaps that was what they would learn if they had thirty-three lifetimes together.

“Some people have wilderness walks on their estates,” he said. “I have thought maybe I ought to have one too. But they usually have hills and masses of trees and views and prospects and all sorts of other attractions. I have none of those things. A wilderness walk here would be just that—a walk through the wilderness. It would be silly.”

“Daft?” she said, lifting her head and looking up at him.

He tipped his head to one side.

“That is not a very elegant word for a lady to use,” he said.

She laughed.

“A definite path meandering through the woods would be pleasant,” she said. “And there is room here for more trees, perhaps some rhododendrons or other flowering trees or bushes. Perhaps a few flowers that would grow well in the shade and not be too gaudy. Bluebells in the spring, for example. Daffodils. There could be some seats, especially in places where there is something to look out upon. I noticed a few moments ago that I could see the spire of the church in the village. I daresay farther along here we will see the house. There could be a little summer pavilion, somewhere to sit even when it is raining. Somewhere to be quiet and relax. Or read. It is what Crosslands is all about, after all, and why you were attracted to it. It is not a place that is spectacular for its picturesque beauty and its prospects, but just a plain statement of something good—of the peace and joy that come with the ordinary, perhaps.”

He was gazing down into her eyes.

“It would not need fountains and statues and topiary gardens and rose arbors and boating lakes and alleys and mazes and Lord knows what else?” he said. “The park, I mean.”

She shook her head.

“It could do with a few delicate touches here and there,” she said, “but not much. It is lovely as it is.”

“But a bit on the barren side?” he said.

“Just a bit.”

“And the house?” he said.