But this was a challenge he had chosen to face-for the sake of her son. She fell a little deeper in love with him as she watched. How many men, even if they had married her, would have been prepared to do more than tolerate her illegitimate son?

“No, no,” she heard him say now. “You are still gliding the brush as if you were using watercolors. Try using your wrist more to produce the texture of those waves. Flick the brush.”

“I just cannot do it,” David said in exasperation after trying again. “Show me.”

Something happened then-or did not happen-that made Anne turn cold. How she knew she never afterward understood-but she did know that Sydnam had lifted his right hand to take the brush, only to discover that it was no longer there.

She covered her face with her hands and drew a few slow, silent breaths before looking again.

Sydnam had the brush in his left hand and was bending closer to the canvas. But the hand shook, and it was obvious that he could not perform the demonstration he had intended. He made a low, inarticulate sound of distress and then bent forward to take the end of the brush in his mouth while adjusting his hold on the brush so that he held it grasped in his fist. He made a few bold brushstrokes on the canvas and drew back.

“Ah!” David cried. “Now I understand. Now I can see. Those are waves and they are not flat. Let me try.”

He took the brush from Sydnam’s hand and made his own strokes on the canvas before looking up with triumph into Sydnam’s face.

“Yes,” Sydnam said, laying his hand on his shoulder. “Yes, David. Now you have it. Just look at the difference.”

“But it is all one color,” David said after returning his attention to the canvas. “Water is not all one color.”

“Exactly,” Sydnam said. “And you can do much more mixing and blending of colors and shades with oils than with watercolors, as you will soon discover. Let me show you.”

Anne watched them, her two men, their heads bent together, utterly absorbed in what they did, quite oblivious to her presence.

Was there to be some healing after all?

Was healing possible when grave damage had been done?

Was wholeness possible when one had been horribly maimed?

She spread a hand over her abdomen, where she sheltered the unborn member of their family.

The food on Sydnam’s plate tasted like straw.

He could not get the smell of the oils out of his nose or out of his head.

“Are Kit and Lauren going to accompany you and Anne to Lindsey Hall this afternoon, Sydnam?” his mother asked.

They ought to have called there yesterday. He had written to Bewcastle, of course, to inform him that he was taking a short leave of absence-to which the terms of his employment entitled him. But he had not explained the reason. Common good manners dictated that he call at Lindsey Hall with his new bride before Bewcastle heard from someone else that he was at Alvesley. They certainly ought to go today.

“Perhaps you would like to take my place in the carriage, Mama,” he said. “I feel a little indisposed. I will stay here.”

Anne looked at him sharply across the table.

“So will I,” she said. “We can go to Lindsey Hall some other time.”

It was impossible to argue with her when they were not alone together. But all he wanted was to be left literally alone.

“We will take the children riding, then, Lauren, will we?” Kit suggested. “I daresay David will come too, with your permission, Anne.”

“Oh, certainly,” she said. “He is looking forward to it.”

Not long afterward Sydnam and Anne were upstairs in their rooms together.

“I need some air,” he said, “and some solitude. I am going outside to walk. Will you stay here or do something with my mother?”

“I want to come with you,” she said.

“I will not be good company,” he told her. “I feel indisposed.”

“I know,” she said.

And the trouble was that he thought she probably did.

It struck him suddenly that loneliness was not perhaps the least desirable state in the world. Was marriage going to feel too crowded? It was an alarming and unwelcome thought. He had always longed for a wife, for a life’s companion. But foolishly he had thought of marriage as a happily-ever-after, as a destination rather than a new fork in the path through life.

“Don’t shut me out of your life, Sydnam,” she said as if she knew very well what he was thinking. “We must try to make our marriage work if we possibly can. We were friends in Wales, were we not? Let’s continue to be friends now. I want to come with you.”

“Come, then,” he said grudgingly, finding his hat and waiting for her to pull on her warm new pelisse and tie the ribbons of her bonnet beneath her chin.

They walked without talking or touching down the driveway and across the Palladian bridge before he turned onto a path that led among the trees until it arrived at the marble temple folly that stood on the southern shore of the lake and made a picturesque prospect from the opposite shore.

It was a chilly, cloudy day and blustery too. The ground was carpeted with leaves, though there were still plenty left on the trees. Anne went to sit inside the shelter of the temple while he stood outside gazing across the choppy water.

He was not often depressed. He did not allow himself to be. Whenever his spirits threatened to droop, he always found more work to do. Work was an amazing antidote to depression. And he did not often give in to self-pity. It was tedious and cowardly and pointless. He preferred to count his blessings, which were many. He was alive. Even that was a miracle.

But just occasionally depression or self-pity or both assaulted him no matter how determinedly he tried to keep them at bay. He dreaded such times. Sometimes neither work nor positive thinking would help.

This was one of those times.

The smell of the oils was still in his head.

He still remembered the moment when he had lifted his hand to take the brush from David.

His right hand.

And he still remembered lifting his left hand to the canvas.

“Sydnam-”

He had almost forgotten Anne’s presence. She was his wife, his bride. She was bearing their child. And she had shown him enormous kindness even in the midst of her own pain.

“Sydnam,” she said again, “is there no way you can paint again?”

Ah. Already she understood him too well.

He stared bleakly into the folly.

“My right hand is no longer there,” he said. “My left will not do my bidding. You must have seen that this morning.”

“You used your mouth,” she said, “and changed your grip on the brush. And then you made brushstrokes that caused David to understand what you had been telling him.”

“I cannot produce art with my left fist and my mouth,” he said. “Forgive me, but you do not understand, Anne. There is the vision, but it flows down my right arm, which is not there. Am I to produce phantom paintings?”

“Perhaps,” she said, “you have allowed the vision to master you instead of bending it to your will.”

She was sitting very upright on the stone bench at the back of the folly, her feet together, her hands cradled in each other, palm-up, in her lap. She looked very much like the rather prim teacher she had been until a few days ago-and ever and always dazzlingly beautiful. He turned his head away.

“The vision is not like a muscle to be exercised,” he said softly. “I have lost an eye as well as an arm, Anne. I do not see properly. Everything is changed. Everything has narrowed and flattened and lost perspective. How could I even see accurately to paint?”

“Properly,” she said, picking up on the one word he had spoken. “How do we know what is proper or accurate vision?”

“That which involves two eyes?” he said rather bitterly.

“But whose two eyes?” she asked. “Have you ever watched a bird of prey hovering so high in the sky that it is almost indiscernible to the human eye and then diving to catch a mouse on the ground? Can you even begin to imagine the vision that bird has, Sydnam? Can you imagine seeing the world through its eyes? And have you seen a cat at night, able to see what is invisible to us in the darkness? What must it be like to see as a cat does? How do we know what is proper vision? Is there any such thing? Because you have only one eye, you see differently from me or from yourself when you had two. But is it therefore improper vision? Perhaps your artistic vision is great enough to see new meaning in things and to find a different way of expressing itself without in any way diminishing itself in the process. Perhaps it has needed the changes so that it may challenge you to do great things you never even imagined before.”

He stood looking out over the lake as she spoke, its surface gray and rough in the wind but nevertheless reflecting some of the myriad colors of autumn that the trees were sporting.

He felt a painful surge of love for her. She wanted so badly to help him, just as she had the night before last after he had woken from his nightmare. And yet there seemed no way he could help her.

“Anne,” he said, “I cannot paint again. I cannot. Yet I cannot live without painting.”

Those final words were wrenched unwillingly from him and horrified him. He had never dared even think such thoughts before. He dared not believe in the truth of them now. For if they were true, there was no real hope left in life.

Suddenly, without warning, he hit the very bottom of despair.

And then he was horrified anew as he sobbed aloud and, when he tried to strangle the sound, sobbed once more.

After that he could not stop the sobs that tore at his chest and embarrassed him horribly. He turned to stumble away, but two arms came about him and held him tightly even when he would have broken away from them.

“No,” Anne said, “it is all right. It is all right, my love. It is all right.”

Not once before now had he wept. He had screamed when he had been unable to stop himself, he had groaned and moaned and later raged and suffered in silence and endured. But he had never wept.

Now he could not stop weeping as Anne held him and crooned to him as if he were a child who had hurt himself. And like a child that had hurt itself, he drew comfort from her arms and her warmth and her murmurings. And finally the sobs turned to a few shuddering hiccups and stopped entirely.

“My God, Anne,” he said, pulling back from her and fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief. “I am so sorry. What kind of a man will you take me for?”

“One who has conquered every aspect of his pain except the deepest,” she said.

He sighed and realized suddenly that it had started to rain.

“Come and shelter inside,” he said, taking her hand and drawing her back under the roof of the temple. “I am so sorry, Anne. This morning seriously discomposed me. But I am glad I did it. David was happy. And he is going to be good with oils.”

She had laced her fingers with his.

“You must face the final, deepest pain,” she said. “No, more than that. You have, in fact, just faced it. But you have looked at it with despair. There must be hope, Sydnam. There is your artistic vision and your talent, and there is you. They have to be enough to propel you onward even without your right arm and your right eye.”

He raised their hands and kissed the back of hers before releasing it. He tried to smile at her.

“I will teach David,” he said. “I will be a father to him in every way I can. I will ride with him. I will-”

“You must paint with him,” she said. “You must paint.”

But though he had calmed down considerably, there was still a coldness and a rawness at the core of his being, where he had not dared tread during all the years since he returned from the Peninsula.

“And you,” he said, realizing something suddenly with blinding clarity when he had not even been thinking about it, “need to go home, Anne.”

There was a brief, tense silence between them while the faint rushing sound of rain beyond the shelter mingled with the lapping sounds of the lake water.

“To Ty Gwyn?” she asked.

“To Gloucestershire,” he said.

“No.”

“Sometimes,” he said, “it is necessary to go back before we can move forward. At least I think that must be so, unwelcome as the thought is. I suppose we both need to go back, Anne. Perhaps if we do it, both of us, there will be hope. I cannot see it in my own case, but I must try.”

When he looked at her, he found her staring back, her face pale, her look inscrutable.