Page 57 of The Duke's Promise to Her Child
They walked for a while in comfortable silence, lifting a hand now and again at passing members of staff. The morning was clear and cool, the grass still damp with dew, and the path wound downward through a stand of old oaks before opening out to the water. It was, as he had promised, rather spectacular. The lake lay calm and bright, with a family of swans moving across it with the dignity of those who know they have the right of way.
“Duck!” Lavinia announced, pointing.
“Swan, actually,” he began.
“Duck,” Lavinia said, in the tone of one who has closed the matter.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Duck.” He set her down on the path. She tottered forward toward the water with the enthusiastic single-mindedness of a small person who has identified a destination and intends to reach it.
“No, Lavinia—” Helena moved, but he was already there, catching her hand.
“You need to take care,” he explained to her. “The water is very deep. You could fall in.”
“In?” she said — and immediately pulled toward it with renewed interest.
He realized at once the mistake he had made. She had not previously contemplated the possibility of going in. He had now rather helpfully introduced it to her.
Helena scooped her up. Lavinia began to wail into her mother’s shoulder. Gideon bit his bottom lip and looked at Helena.
“You look rather Friday-faced,” she said, not unkindly.
“I wish I were better with her,” he said, over the sound of Lavinia’s protests. “That I understood her better.”
“Lavinia has learned that crying sometimes gets her what she wants. I am trying to ensure she does not make a habit of it. And you must understand that she is simply too young for reason. She cannot help it.”
“I know,” he said. “I have a habit of speaking to her as though she were rather older than she is.”
“In,” Lavinia said, tears still making tracks down her cheeks.
“No,” Helena said. “We are not going in the water. But we can walk around it.” She set Lavinia down, taking her hand. Lavinia raised her other hand in Gideon’s direction. He took it — felt the small, warm, pudgy weight of it in his palm — and thought, not for the first time, that he wished she were truly his.
The three of them walked on, Lavinia a step or two in front, examining everything she encountered with the thoroughness of a very small naturalist. The swans maintained their dignity at a distance. The sun came through the trees in long slanted bars and landed warm on their faces.
“Do you know how to make daisy chains?” Helena asked.
He looked at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“Daisy chains. Do you know how to make them?”
“Is that — not a peculiarly female occupation?”
“It ought not to be. It is very peaceful. You should try it. I can teach you.” She said it with complete seriousness.
He let out a short laugh, and then saw that she meant it. “Very well.”
“You think it beneath you?”
“I never said that.”
“You have rather large hands,” she said, looking at them with an air of scientific assessment. “I doubt you would be able to manage it. That is perhaps why men do not attempt it — their fingers are not delicate enough.”
“I assure you,” he said, “my fingers are very delicate. I have been told so on numerous—” He stopped. Closed his eyes briefly. “That did not quite come out as I had intended.”
“I dare say it came out exactly as you intended,” she replied, but she was smiling now. “Perhaps you would like to prove me wrong?”
“I would,” he said. “I see a considerable quantity of daisies just over there. Shall we?”
They walked to the edge of the field and sat down in the grass — he spread his jacket first, so she and Lavinia had something to sit on. Helena produced several small pieces of apple from a handkerchief in her pocket, which immediately occupied Lavinia, and then the two of them set about picking daisies.
