Christmas tea took place as it always had at the vicarage, with one distinct difference. Derwent did not attend.
“Derwent is working today,” Vicar Osgood told Evy when she inquired.
“Working?” Evy was unable to conceal her surprise.
“For Rogan Chantry. He’s been spending quite a lot of time at Rookswood with the Chantry horses. We are hoping the position of curate opens soon … I’m certain it will.”
His sympathetic look told Evy he understood that marriage could only take place once Derwent received the position. Evy’s annoyance with Derwent was growing. How much had he told the new vicar?
It appears as though he is doing a good deal of explaining about his situation to everyone except me.
So Derwent was working at Rookswood estate for Rogan! Then that explained why she saw them riding together yesterday.
Derwent was not the only absentee. Lady Elosia, who made it a point to maintain her influence in the village, did not attend either. Someone mentioned she was “a bit under the weather.” In fact, none of the Chantrys were present, nor were the Tisdales. Evy’s girlhood friends Meg and Emily, now married, were there. Meg had married Emily’s brother, Tom; Emily was married to Meg’s brother, Milt. Both women were expecting babies. They were quick to embrace Evy and welcome her home, smiling and congratulating her on success at music school. Evy had always liked the two. They were plain, humble, and genuine. But even they watched her as though they were on the verge of asking her a question about some matter that troubled them. An exchange of glances between the two appeared to discourage either one from doing so.
When the first group left early to take their children home, Evy used their departure as an opportunity to get away. She left Aunt Grace chatting with the new vicar’s wife and wandered out the rectory gate, onto the road. It was odd how everyone watched her. Could her worst fears be true? Could gossip have escaped Pandora’s box somehow about her mother stealing the Kimberly Diamond? No, that could not have happened. Not many knew about it, not even Lizzie or Mrs. Croft. Rogan, while a scamp in some ways, would not embarrass or hurt her reputation in the village.
But might Heyden have been here asking questions?
Evy walked along the road toward Rookswood. Aunt Grace would come home in the jingle, so there was no need to worry about her. Evy wanted to be alone.
Though it was far from an unpleasant day, she could think of little to cheer her mood. The holiday festivities no longer seemed as bright as when she had arrived three days ago. The excitement of returning to Grimston Way had fizzled. Except for seeing Aunt Grace, little remained of the old life she remembered when Uncle Edmund was the beloved vicar. Even Derwent and her village friends had changed. It was as though she were no longer one of them. Even Aunt Grace seemed different … a little sad, perhaps? Or perturbed? Yes, that was it. Perturbed. It must be on account of her poor health. Undoubtedly she misses her life as it was in the rectory, too. What else could it be except disappointment with Derwent?
Evy thought of the Kimberly Diamond again. So far, she had avoided upsetting Aunt Grace by discussing it with her. But if Heyden had been asking around the village and word had gotten back to her aunt as well, perhaps it was time to speak to her about it.
Rogan believed her aunt knew something, though even he had not forced the issue with her. He would graduate soon and be off to South Africa, so surely he would want to learn everything he could before leaving Grimston Way.
Evy cast a glance at the sky now turning as dark as her mood. Yes, perhaps it was time.
The next day, however, Aunt Grace took to bed with a mild fever.
“You must not worry so, Evy. I overdid it a little at the tea, is all. A rest in bed today and I shall be feeling much better tomorrow. But perhaps you should go ahead with our plans to deliver presents today. That is if you do not mind going without me?”
“No, I wouldn’t think of your going. The weather has taken a turn for the worse. It looks like a foggy evening.”
“Then do not be late. Mrs. Croft is coming over to make us a good chicken soup.”
Evy’s mood was far from festive as she loaded the basket with the cakes and candies they had made on her arrival and carried it to the jingle.
She rode into the village alone, forcing a cheery spirit and trying to leave a blessing in the homes where she called. She delivered the preserves and cakes to Old Lady Armitage, who was still spry and alert in her advanced years. The old woman came out her door to the wicket gate and up to the side of the jingle. The wind blew her thin white hair, and she drew her fringed shawl around her bony shoulders. A gleam flickered in the still-shrewd eyes.
“So it’s you, is it, Miss Evy? I daresay you’ve changed a bit since tripping off to London to play that piano. You look a mite too pretty for the young scoundrels of Grimston Way.” She studied Evy up and down. “Unless it’s that chief scoundrel, Rogan Chantry, you’ve an eye on.”
“Merry Christmas, Miss Armitage.” Evy forced a smile and ignored her comments. “Aunt wanted me to bring you some of her summer preserves.”
“Bless her soul. True blue, she is. Always was. Can’t say the same for the rest of ’em … And now Vicar Brown is gone to his reward too. The new vicar laughs too much. I don’t care for it. That silly boy of Vicar Brown’s hasn’t half the wit of his father, either. Derwent lets himself be pushed around like a wet mop. You’d think he’d stand up on his hind feet and demand to chart his own life, wouldn’t you? But oh no, not him. Knuckles under to Lady Elosia like a puppy grabbed by the scruff of its neck. A shame, really … Ah, thank you, dearie.” She took the box of preserves and cakes. Evy had put extra inside, along with a new shawl and bonnet she had bought for the woman in the village.
“You’re not missing much when it comes to Derwent Brown.” Miss Armitage gave a sage nod of her head and a wink. “Let him have that silly Alice if that’s the way of it. Well, Merry Christmas, Miss Evy. You keep playing your piano.”
It was a few moments before Evy could reply, but she finally gathered her scattered wits. “Yes, Merry Christmas, Miss Armitage.”
So that was it! Derwent and Alice! My suspicions were right.
Evy drove on, and by the time the jingle was empty, she was in a better mood. In fact, she almost overflowed with relief! She did not love Derwent the way a girl should love a man. She’d known it for some time but never really admitted it, mostly because Aunt Grace had always expected the union. I was told from a child I should marry Derwent.
The relief she felt over admitting this, combined with giving and sharing Christian love with others, cheered her heart and utterly lifted her burden. She was humming “silent night, holy night” when she left the village proper and was on the road back to Rookswood estate. She had not gone far when she met Arcilla riding one of the mellow mares from the Chantry stables. She called to Evy and waved for her to pull over. She came riding up, her cheeks tinted pink with cold and her blue eyes bright. The wind tossed her hair beneath the pert riding hat.
“Hello and cheers! I’ve been looking for you, Evy. Your aunt said you had come into the village.”
“What brings you out riding alone?”
“I’m a big girl now,” Arcilla jested.
“Yes, but surely any mission important enough to get you on horseback must be worth some kind of escort,” Evy said with a laugh.
Arcilla played with her whip. “Exceedingly important, if you want to know.”
“A dinner ball?”
Arcilla stared at her, clearly amazed. “How did you know?”
Evy laughed. “I know you. When is this one?”
“Tonight. And you must be there.”
“Me, tonight? Oh come, Arcilla, you are teasing.”
“No, indeed. There is an emergency, and I need you.”
“Well, it is so grand to be wanted, even if only when an emergency demands it.”
“Oh, you know what I really mean.”
“Yes.”
Arcilla laughed. “Now don’t be so moldy. You need some fun as well, so let us conclude we are helping each other. Do say you’ll come. Aunt Elosia approves of you, and so does my father. They wouldn’t have had your aunt as my governess years ago if they hadn’t.”
Evy toyed with the reins. Would Rogan be there? Of course … Patricia Bancroft would no doubt be at his side.
“Aunt Grace is not well and needs me to be home tonight.”
“I already spoke to her. She tells me she will have the company of Mrs. Croft. A party will do you good, she says. So there! No more excuses.”
Arcilla was never one to mince words when it came to protecting someone else’s pride or feelings, and she did not do so now. “It’s Rogan’s friend, Abbot. He’s here at Rookswood. I had planned for Cicely to be Abbot’s partner tonight, but she became ill this morning. And you have the perfect gown to wear, too. The one you wore to your concert in London. It looked very pretty on you, I must say.”
Evy knew Arcilla would give her no peace if she did not capitulate. “Very well, I will come.”
“I knew I could depend on you.” Arcilla’s smile beamed on Evy. “I will send Bixby to bring you up to the house around seven.”
It was raining when Bixby helped her into the coach and closed the door.
Evy arrived at the front carriageway, and the footman came to open the door. He carried an umbrella for Evy and escorted her up to the open doorway of Rookswood.
The glittering chandeliers, the decorations of pine and berries, red and gold ribbon, all glowed with festive color. Lilting voices reached her ears, and she realized they came from the expanded ballroom off to her left. Evy held her breath as she waited near the wide double doorway that led into the aristocratic foxes’ lair.
Arcilla saw her first and rushed toward her, bringing a handsome young man in evening dress with her.
“This is Abbot Miles. Abbot, my very best friend, Evy Varley.”
He bowed over her hand and smiled. “Fortune has smiled upon me.”
He took her arm, and they stopped at the doorway of the ballroom as their names were announced to the small group, all of whom had turned in their direction. Then Lady Elosia came toward them, a smile on her face, her elegant hand outstretched, the gems glittering on her fingers and wrist.
“Ah, dear Evy, how charming of you to come. And how positively enchanting you have become.”
“Thank you indeed, Lady Elosia.”
“Come, let me introduce you to the others.”
In the next few minutes Evy found herself murmuring all the right responses to all the right greetings from all the right holiday guests—mostly lords and ladies, of course—from London’s elite. She felt a little breathless when introduced to an earl and his countess. Then, of course, there was Peter Bartley, looking quite distinguished. Even Arcilla seemed more mature than when Evy had seen her that afternoon. She actually seemed to change in Peter’s company, to stand straighter and carry a more somber demeanor. Evy could not help note, however, that the girlish glow that had shone in her eyes when with Charles Bancroft had dulled to a look of resignation.
A stir passed through the gathering as everyone turned to look toward the doorway. The handsome younger son of the squire himself had arrived, Patricia Bancroft on his arm. Rogan’s dark gaze slipped over the faces of those present and then focused on Evy. He looked genuinely shocked for a moment before he recovered. His jaw hardened, and Evy frowned. He did not look pleased.
He did not know I would be here.
“Rogan Chantry and Miss Patricia Bancroft,” the male reader intoned, and the couple advanced into the ballroom, Patricia’s hand resting lightly on Rogan’s arm. They made the rounds of the guests, exchanging greetings, until they came to Abbot and Evy. Evy felt her heart skip a beat as her gaze met Rogan’s.
Yes, he was displeased. She could see an angry spark in the depths of his eyes, and it brought a heat to her cheeks.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had such a beautiful neighbor, Rogan?” Abbot grinned. “Or maybe I should say now I know why you didn’t tell us all these years.”
“Where is Cicely?” Patricia asked the question of Abbot, though her narrowed gaze was fixed on Evy.
“Ill, in her room.”
Patricia’s cool gaze slipped from Evy, and she looked at Rogan. “There is Peter … Come, Rogan, I think dinner will soon be served.”
Evy refused to be intimidated by the cool reception. Had she not told Arcilla it would be this way? But she had not expected Rogan to be in opposition to her presence. Was it because he was with Patricia? Rogan had not actually spoken to her yet and now walked Patricia away toward his sister and Peter Bartley.
They all made their way to the table, and Evy lifted her chin. She would not dart away like a timid mouse. She determined to enjoy the evening no matter how coolly Patricia treated her.
Never had Evy seen such elegance. It almost made her head spin with the wonder of it all. The long dining table was adorned with silver and crystal, all aglitter under the great chandelier. The dining hall must have witnessed many splendid occasions through its years, but never more so than tonight, she thought. Flowers had been brought in from Rookswood greenhouses and were in great ceramic pots on urns and side tables. Candlelight did wonders for the gowns and jewels that adorned the women, as well as the gentlemen adorned in dinner black with startling white frilled shirts. Evy sat toward the end of the long table to the left of Abbot, and though she was aware of the interested glances cast her way from the young men in attendance, she pretended not to notice.
If only she could also have ignored the fact that Rogan was fully attentive to Patricia.
The meal was sumptuous. Evy had never seen such food, including three kinds of roasted meat and a number of side dishes and breads. The conversation as well was stimulating. On her right was an older gentleman, a friend of Sir Lyle’s. Evy carried on a fascinating discussion with him through the meal about the prospects of war between England and the Boers of South Africa. He was in favor of ousting the “Boers under that uncivilized Paul Kruger” and planting the Union Jack squarely in the Transvaal, the area controlled by the Dutch.
After an assortment of English and French desserts, teas, and coffees, liquor was served in the next room. Evy declined and accepted lemon water with a sprig of mint.
Later in the evening the dancing began in the ballroom. Sir Lyle and Lady Elosia led the first waltz, followed by Rogan and Patricia, then Arcilla and Mr. Bartley. Afterward, Sir Lyle and Rogan performed their social duty by choosing other partners from among their guests.
Evy’s heart fluttered when Rogan stopped in front of her, bowed lightly, and escorted her onto the glossy floor. As she moved into the circle of Rogan’s arms, she could sense Patricia’s cool indignation. Sir Lyle chose Lady Elizabeth, and the four of them waltzed about the huge ballroom floor. Despite her pleasure at being chosen for such an honor, she couldn’t help a touch of nerves.
If I miss a step, I shall wish to sink through the floor. Happily, she did not, and soon she relaxed and let the music overtake her.
It was an astounding moment to be in Rogan’s arms, with the grand notes of Johann Strauss’s music echoing about them. She was waltzing where great ladies of the blood had done for nearly two hundred years, and the man she was with was heir to its history and future. For a moment she felt like Lady Eve Varley, her beautiful skirts swirling in a show of color and promise. She was aware of Rogan’s nearness, of the way he held her, his arm around her waist, the other hand enclosing hers …
For just a moment, her rebellious memory flashed to the moment in the library all those months ago, when his kiss had sent her head spinning and her heart dancing. For a moment, all was magical and all her girlish daydreams were coming true. For a moment …
Her gaze met Rogan’s. He stared back evenly.
“You have made me the center of attention,” she said breathlessly.
“You already were. The rectory girl is not supposed to be so beautiful, or so poised and polished.”
Her heart beat faster at that. He thinks I’m beautiful! “Everyone will talk, now that you asked me to share the first waltz. You dance well.”
“It is not hard when holding you.” Something burned deep in his gaze. Something heated and disturbing. “Yes … I would like the waltz to continue indefinitely.”
She let her gaze drop. “You must not say such things.”
“I could say a great deal more.”
“But it would not be fitting for you to do so … Master Rogan.”
At her use of his title, they lapsed into silence. Evy focused on enjoying the music. Waltzing beneath the glowing chandelier was like a fantasy. And like any fantasy, it would certainly come to an end.
She might be as beautiful as any woman there, but she was, and always would be, the rectory girl.
She pulled her dismal thoughts another direction. “Arcilla does not look happy tonight, but subdued.”
“I’m hoping she will get over losing Charles. She’s young.”
He spoke as though he himself were old and seasoned in such matters.
“Then you’ve changed your mind? You think Mr. Bartley will be a proper husband?”
His shoulders lifted. “I doubt either man would be a proper husband, as you mean it. They love their pleasure too much for both marriage and their ambitions. It’s not that I have changed my mind about Arcilla’s marriage. South Africa does not suit her nature—she is too flighty—but my father has decided the matter, as is his right. She will marry Peter and go to South Africa.”
“Soon?”
“Quite soon.”
Evy lapsed into silence for a moment, then, “She will be forced into a marriage she does not want, to a man she does not love. How could it be worse?”
“It could be worse, because as we discussed that night in the town-house, Peter is likely to be sent inland to the Rhodesia colony. Can you see my sister as the governor’s wife?”
No, she could not. Arcilla would be most unhappy. She belonged in London among her elite friends. “Then—it could come to that, do you think?”
“I hope not. I’ve discussed the matter with my father. He has yet to convince Sir Julien, though. Perhaps when Julien meets her at the Cape, he will understand and change his mind about the governor’s post, at least. Sending Arcilla with Peter into Mashonaland is like sending a lamb into the wolf pack. She would become ill and depressed.”
“You must convince them.”
One brow arched, and he met her earnest gaze. “I have tried, and will continue. It is kind of you to concern yourself. You have been a good influence on her from the beginning.”
She was pleased that he would think so.
“But you mustn’t worry too much about Arcilla. You have your own concerns, it appears. I hear you have lost the humble, kindhearted boy your aunt expected you to marry these years.”
Derwent.
Rogan’s lively dark eyes studied her a moment too long, and then a hint of something like satisfaction showed itself. Whenever Rogan wore that satisfied smile, she worried.
He cocked his head. “Then you have not heard the romantic news?”
“I have my suspicions and”—she inclined her head—“a bit of gossip from Miss Armitage, but I have heard nothing from Derwent, and until I do …” She let her words fade.
His smile loitered. “Why, I am indeed scandalized that Derwent—fine upstanding saint that you say he is—has not come to you to explain the change in his future plans. What could he be afraid of, I wonder?” He scanned her lightly. “Do you have a temper, Miss Varley? They say hell has no fury like a woman scorned.”
That got her. “Afraid! Of me! Because of an interest in Alice?”
“Rather shoddy of him not to tell you sooner. Even if his courage is lacking, he might at least have written you while you were in London to prepare you for the surprise. You are surprised by this turn of events, are you not? Come, admit it. Surely your reticence does not come from your feminine pride being stepped on?”
She was tempted instead to stomp on one of his finely clad feet. “If you have news worthy of being believed, and not mere gossip, then please do get on with it.”
“My, my, such lofty indignation. The news that has the village buzzing of course is marriage, what else? Between Derwent and Alice Tisdale.”
Then Old Lady Armitage had known what she was talking about after all. Evy might have expected this outcome about Derwent, but hearing it now so bluntly put was startling. For a moment she was tongue-tied under Rogan’s alert gaze.
“Did Derwent tell you he wanted to marry Alice?”
“Yes, when we were out exercising the horses recently.”
He watched her, but she scarcely noticed. She was turning the news over in her mind. If Derwent had confided in Rogan, it must be true.
His arm tightened around her. “I am waiting for you to faint in utter despondency over your loss. Do I take it then that you are not disappointed?”
She pulled away a little, finally finding her voice. “Disappointed? Perhaps I was expecting it. But until Derwent himself tells me, I think it best not to rush to conclusions.”
“Mrs. Tisdale has been calling on Aunt Elosia for the last few weeks. There was a lengthy discussion between them just a few days ago. It appears there will be an arrangement made between Dr. Tisdale and Lady Elosia to have Derwent and Alice marry in the new year.”
Apparently Mrs. Tisdale had decided Derwent would be a good catch for Alice. But why? What had changed Mrs. Tisdale’s mind so that she would seek out Derwent?
She realized Rogan still watched her with keen eyes and forced a smile to her lips. “If what you say is true, then I hope they shall be very happy.”
She thought that beneath his grave mood there was satisfaction.
“They are well suited then, you think?”
“I would not know.” Her words sounded stiff even to her own ears, and she tried to ease the tension in her voice. “That is for Derwent to decide … and Alice.” No wonder Alice had looked smug and secretive when she had seen Evy the other day in the village.
“It is just as well then, that you are not too disappointed. Derwent will soon be going to South Africa with his new bride. Thanks to my father, Derwent has a job that pleases him—and the Tisdales. Derwent will be working for the family. He will also get some training in geology. I understand his pay will be generous. And that, along with his prospect of owning shares in any new gold discovery, has made everyone happy.”
She stopped dancing. “So that’s it!” She struggled to keep her tone hushed. “You were partly behind all this. What did you do, bribe him to abandon divinity school, marry Alice, and go to South Africa?”
He gave her a look of utter innocence. “What suspicions you nurture. I am shocked you would think this of me. My thoughts toward Derwent are supportive and kind …” His gaze captured hers. “As they are toward you. Besides, we know, do we not, that he’s long spun dreams from cobwebs about South Africa.”
In fairness to Rogan, yes, she did know this about Derwent. Nevertheless—
“Come, Evy, you are not in love with Derwent.”
The music ceased, and she stood on the ballroom floor, still held captive in his arms, staring at him. She had no trouble reading the challenge in his eyes, yet she refused to give in. How could she, when doing so could only mean disaster for her?
“How would you know what I feel?” No sooner had she said this, than she wished ardently she hadn’t.
His arm around her waist tightened a little. “Because you are not as indifferent toward me as you pretend.”
“Indeed?”
“Nor am I indifferent toward you.” There was a husky quality to his voice that sent shivers tingling across her nerves. “You must know that.”
Of course she knew it. She’d known it for years. But she also knew any relationship between them had only one end. And it was not a good one.
“Don’t you see, Evy? I am not willing to lose you so quickly. You are too young to be snatched away from me.”
She swallowed as a trembling seemed to take hold of her. He sounded so determined. Lord, how am I to resist him when all I want to do is give in?
“I do not want to come back from South Africa in a few years and find you the wife of Derwent Brown. Or of anyone else, for that matter.”
She closed her eyes. And when he did come back, what then? His family had their expectations, and they would hardly be willing to permit the marriage of Master Rogan to Evy Varley—not, she reminded herself, that Rogan had ever mentioned marriage.
“You should be pleased you are not like Arcilla,” he said, “being forced to marry without love. Derwent is a fine fellow, but losing him to Alice is not the end of the world.”
She raised her chin. “How do you know what is best for me?”
“You forget, my dear Miss Varley, that I, too, have known you since childhood. If Derwent wishes to go, you should reconsider your feelings toward him.”
“What do you mean by that?” And yet, she knew quite well what he meant.
“Is it not obvious? He either allowed others to make up his mind for him, which does not bode well for his courage, or he freely made up his own mind. Which is it?”
“The latter, I suspect, with a bit of bait dangled before his eyes.”
He shrugged and a brow lifted. “The glare of gold blinded his vision, you mean? I won’t deny life is full of testings and temptations. One must still show what one is made of by one’s decisions. I say Derwent wants to marry Alice and go to South Africa. In which case, free him to go.”
That was too much. She stared at him, letting her irritation show. “I have no intention of holding him here!”
He flashed a smile. “Good. His only mistake, as I see it, is his timidity in coming to you and admitting it face to face. I shall have a little talk with him.”
She stiffened. “Please do not.”
“If he feels he cannot face you, then he can write you a letter.”
She narrowed her eyes, but Rogan seemed to ignore her. After a moment, she tilted her head. “Very well, you may be right about all this. Even so, there must be some other reason for his not telling me of his change of plans sooner. We’ve been friends since childhood.”
He gave a nod. “Though I don’t know this for a fact, I suspect his reluctance stemmed from his concern over the convictions he believed he must live up to in becoming a vicar. That they worried him, I think, is not a surprise to you.”
She did not reply, but he must have seen from her expression that he was right. He gave another nod. “Perhaps Derwent simply cannot face disappointing you, and others.”
He was probably right, but she did not want to hear it now. She turned. “I am going back to the cottage.”
He refused to release her hand. “Wait. Leave now, like this, and we will both be the talk of the village gossip tomorrow. We are being observed by everyone in the ballroom. Besides, the coach is not ready, and it’s pouring rain.”
She glanced about the room—he was right. They were indeed being observed.
“Shall we dance this waltz also?” Not waiting for a reply, he led her in step with the music.
She eased back into his arms, letting him direct her, letting his arms support her. Only for a moment, she told herself.
His low voice whispered in her ear. “Forget Derwent. He was never truly right for you.”
“You are so certain …”
His embrace tightened again, and he leaned close so that his warm breath caressed her face. “Oh yes. Quite certain.”