Simply Perfect

  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