“I asked if you had any vinegar to add some piquancy.”
“And being a lord, and a man, and I only a humble village wench, you were about to pedantically explain what piquancy meant.”
“I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did; I was there. I hurried away before you could display your aristocratic education, found a bottle of vinegar, rushed back, and—”
“Accidentally squirted vinegar right into my eye.”
“I wouldn’t do a thing like that.”
“Yes, you would.”
“Yes, I would. Continue.”
“But, being a gentle soul, even though still only a simple-minded wench, you fetched water and a towel and gently washed away the hurt.”
She screwed up her face. “That’s a bit soppy, isn’t it?”
“Stay with me. You gently washed away the hurt and in doing so floated into my heart.”
“I was with you, sort of, until the floating into the heart bit. That would never stand up under scrutiny, and if you said it aloud to someone, I’d giggle and give it away.”
Hector struggled with his exasperation. “I’m trying my best. You come up with something better.”
“I will. Stand back. I bathed your eye, but you still couldn’t see properly out of it, so I gallantly set aside my cucumber sandwich sales, volunteered to be a guide, took your hand, and led you around the fête for the rest of the day. I’m generous that way. And as the day progressed, somewhere between the three-legged race and the DUNK THE VICAR booth, we fell forever in love. What do you think?”
“I am blinded, at least in one eye, either by everlasting love or your explanatory brilliance.”
“I accept my brilliance but would settle for a yes.”
“Yes.” He caught a movement outside. A police constable had gotten off his bicycle and was inspecting the horse box. “Before our local copper gets too nosy,” he said, “let’s get back on the road. We’ll talk more about our wonderful marriage on the way.”
“At least we now know where we met and fell in everlasting love. That’s a start.”
7
The road followed an old Roman path through the Cotswolds, passing villages of golden limestone cottages and soft-edged fields beneath a rinsed blue sky. Caitrin was silent as she watched the landscape pass.
“Is this your first time in the Cotswolds?” Hector asked.
“Yes, it’s beautiful, and everything here is so clean,” she said. “Even the sheep are white.”
“Sheep are white.”
Caitrin put her hands together as though she were praying and opened them to make a steep V. “My home town, Abertillery, is in the bottom of a valley, along with a half-dozen coal mines, an ironworks, and a foundry. Oh, and a gasworks. We have gray sheep. Gray everything. Hang the clean white washing on the line, and it turns gray in minutes.”
She unfolded a map and traced their progress. The two-lane road was narrow and serpentine, and several times they were slowed by a trundling farm cart or tractor. Twice traffic was stopped while workers removed direction signs.
“Now that is definitely what I call daft,” Caitrin said as she watched them unscrew the signs. “How low and slow would the German bombers have to fly to read the road signs?” She held up her road map, turned it upside down, and looked baffled. “Gott in Himmel, mein Führer! We iz ordered to bomb zis place called Marston Meysey, but I zink zat is Ampney Crucis. Or could it be being ze Stanton Fitzwarren? Holy sauerkraut, ve just bombeded der Little Coxwell, vot are ve to do? Ve are so lost!”
Hector laughed. “I think it’s more to confuse ground troops than Luftwaffe aeroplanes.”
“Ground troops?” Caitrin’s smile faded. “I don’t ever want to imagine or see German soldiers marching over this countryside.”
“Me neither, but it’s happened before. That’s how most of the great English families started. Over the centuries there were waves of invading Angles, Saxons, Vikings, and Normans.”
“Who pushed the original British west into Wales and Ireland.”
“Yes.”
“So I suppose that means the Irish are the Welsh who could swim.” Caitrin shivered. “Sometimes I think this island is far too small for so much history.”
Hector pulled into a lay-by and turned off the engine. “We’re close to Cockleford Manor, and I forgot to give you this earlier.” He handed her a small box. She opened it.
“Engagement and wedding rings. My goodness.” She slipped on the rings and held her hand into the light. The diamond arrangement would not have been her design choice, but she said nothing about that, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “These are so beautiful. Is this Winnie the Churchill’s bright idea?”
“No, it was mine.”
“Who would have imagined such a thing?” Her face softened. “Behind that proper English exterior of yours lies a big soft puppy.”
“With dangerous eyes.”
“Yes, but the rest of you isn’t. Are these real diamonds?”
“Hardly.”
“And the wedding ring, real pretend gold, is engraved with Celtic motifs. That’s very loving and thoughtful of you. You must have spent a fortune.”
