Chapter 12

Harriet was almost subdued for the next few days. Her ankle really was severely sprained, as the doctor confirmed on the evening of the outing. Consequently, she was confined to the house until she could get about again. She sat on a sofa in the morning room for most of each day, her injured foot propped on a cushioned stool in front of her.

She need not have been unduly bored. Her own family and the Sinclair family did their best to ensure that she constantly had company, and news of her mishap brought many other visitors, too. But Harriet had decided to be bored and generally out of sorts. The only person with whom she was in charity was Mr. Bartlett, who had not only been the only one with the courage to accompany her to the dungeons, but who also was the only one who had in no way blamed her for what had happened. In addition, he had been ill-used himself, notably by Mr. Carver and Mr. Christopher Sinclair, and it was up to her to console him.

The two spent hours together, talking, playing cards, reading—Mr. Bartlett read aloud to Harriet. On two occasions, he carried her out onto the terrace so that she might sit in the fresh air for a while.

Maude seemed not to like her brother and her stepdaughter being alone together. Whenever possible, she brought her work into the room and sat silently, her head bent to the embroidery until someone else arrived. But Maude could not always be there. Lord Holmes—claiming that the long journey to Cenross Castle, the wind and fresh air in the courtyard, and the shock of his daughter’s accident had quite undermined his delicate health—had taken to his bed. The doctor was sent for daily to examine some new symptom. And Maude was the only nurse allowed near the somewhat petulant patient. She was constantly in attendance on him when he was awake. Fortunately for her, he slept quite frequently.

Harriet was quite out of charity with both Christopher and Julian. She did not quarrel openly with them, but she behaved with cold hauteur during their daily visits, to the frustration of Julian and the apparent amusement of Christopher.

“I say, Harriet,” Julian said unwisely one afternoon, “you ain’t going to go around with your nose in the air for the rest of the summer, are you? It’s deuced uncomfortable trying to converse with a female who is on her high ropes.”

“I do not recall asking you to converse with me, Julian,” Harriet said with such a bored drawl that Christopher got to his feet and strolled to the morning-room window so that he might have his back to the company for a few minutes.

Harriet was civil to Ellen and Primrose, though she behaved as if she were twenty years older than they and condescended so shockingly that both became quite indignant and confined their conversation to the ever-charming Mr. Bartlett for all subsequent visits.

Almost undoubtedly Harriet would have treated Mr. Carver with a special disdain. However, she was not given a chance to do so in the days of her confinement to home. He did not visit even once or send any messages that she might have answered in a suitably contemptuous fashion. It was left to her, in fact, to show an awareness of his existence.

‘‘Never tell me that Mr. Carver has finally gone home,” she said to Christopher one afternoon. “I thought perhaps he was planning to take up permanent residence with your mama and papa.”

“Luke?” Christopher said in some surprise. “Oh, he is still here. And when he came, he accepted a very firm invitation to stay until my own return to town in September. He is in the village this afternoon, visiting Miss Shaw at the school, I believe. He seems to have developed a social conscience since coming into the country. His mother will be delighted.”

“Well,” Harriet said acidly, “it is as well that he has some feelings for the poor. He seems to have none for the sufferings of his own class.”

Mr. Carver was indeed at the school. Rebecca had been surprised to find him standing on the doorstep soon after luncheon when she answered his tap on the door. She looked nervously around, fully expecting to see that Christopher had accompanied him, but he was apparently alone.

He smiled, removed his hat, and bowed. “Came to see how you were doing, ma’am,” he said. “Can I be of any assistance?”

Rebecca raised her eyebrows in surprise. “I am sure the boys will be delighted by your presence, sir,” she replied. “Pray come inside.”

She had discovered from experience that, though somewhat nervous at the presence of visitors, the boys were also exhilarated by it. It was novel for them to be the focus of attention to persons of quality.

Mr. Carver strode to the back of the room and stood with his hands behind his back for several minutes while Rebecca continued with her lesson on Greek mythology.

“Coo, miss,” one of the bolder boys said when she had described the Parthenon to them, “do any of them buildings still exist?”

“I would not think so, Teddy,” she said, “though there are many buildings in England now, you know, that imitate ancient Greek architecture.”

“Pardon me,” Mr. Carver said in his deep voice, “but you are quite mistaken, Miss Shaw. There are still many signs of ancient Greek civilization in Greece. Been there,” he ended lamely.

‘‘Oh, have you?” Rebecca said. “How I envy you! Do share your memories with us, sir.”

The boys turned around to him with eager faces.

And so Mr. Carver found himself in the unlikely role of guest speaker at the village school, telling an enthralled audience about his travels in Greece and answering innumerable questions. When the time came for school to close for the day and Rebecca announced the fact, there was a collective moan of disappointment from the boys.

She turned to Mr. Carver, laughter in her eyes as the last of her pupils dragged himself almost unwillingly from the building. “You have missed your calling, sir,” she said. “If you could just see these boys as they usually are when the end of the day comes. If they were just a little stronger, I believe they would leave the school without even opening the door first, such is their haste to be outside.”

“Glad to be of assistance,” Mr. Carver said. “Ain’t much of a speaker, though.”

“How can you say that,” Rebecca said, “when you saw how delighted the boys were with what you had to say? And I too,” she added. “I have never before had the chance to speak to someone who has actually been to Greece. It is the ambition of my life to travel there and to Italy.”

“Could come in next time you are here,” Mr. Carver said, “and tell the boys about Italy.”

“Oh, would you?” Rebecca said, her tone dispelling any fear he might have had that she was being merely polite.

“Walk you home,” Mr. Carver offered. “I can lead m’horse by the reins. Unless you would like to ride, that is. Won’t suggest that we ride together. Poor animal would collapse in the middle.” He gave a short bark of a laugh.

“I would far prefer to walk,” Rebecca said, “and I should be delighted with your company, sir.”

They talked about the school for part of the journey until Mr. Carver changed the subject. ‘‘I hear Miss Shaw’s ankle is bad enough to confine her to home,” he said gruffly.

“Yes, indeed,” Rebecca said. “But poor Harriet hates to be immobile. I predict that she will be up and about within the next day or so.”

“Serves her right,” Mr. Carver said. “Hope the injury will teach her some sense. Glad she didn’t break any bones, though. Wouldn’t wish the little chit any real harm.” 

“Well, I would have to agree with you that she deserved the accident,” Rebecca said candidly. “She has been dreadfully spoiled all her life, you see, and still feels that all her whims should be gratified instantly. I think a really strong person might still force her to grow up. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I have always believed that there is some good in Harriet. However, I do believe that any man with the necessary strength of character would cry off as soon as he saw how selfish and willful she is.”

“Hm,” Mr. Carver said, “all she needs is one good thrashing when she does something like that escapade at the castle. I would have given it to her in a moment had I been her papa or her brother.”

“Yes,” Rebecca agreed, “or her husband.”

It had been a totally innocent remark. Yet glancing up at the big man who walked beside her, Rebecca was completely taken aback at the flood of color that rushed to his face. He withdrew a large handkerchief from his pocket and affected a coughing spell that lasted for all of one minute.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” he said when he had recovered himself, “not used to so much walking.”

Rebecca said nothing but resumed the walk, which had halted while he coughed. She was feeling somewhat stunned. Had she been mistaken? Did Mr. Carver have a tendre for Harriet? It was not possible, surely. Since his arrival a few weeks before, he had shown nothing but contempt for her cousin. And well he might. Harriet had made no effort to hide the disdain she felt for his giant figure. Poor Mr. Carver. If he really were nursing tender feelings for Harriet, he was doomed to nothing but disappointment.

Mr. Carver was obviously concerned with changing the subject. “Sinclair was at the school yesterday,” he said. “Seems to have become attached to that protégé of his.”

“Protégé?” Rebecca said.

“Young lad with the eyeglasses,” Mr. Carver said. “Says that he saw promise in that lad from the first day he saw him—time when you pointed out that he could scarcely see, I believe.”

“Protégé,” Rebecca repeated. “He has the nerve to use that word. Well, that is the outside of enough. Philip went out of his way to finance a school; both he and I have worked hard to teach Cyril; I discovered his disability; Philip used money he can ill afford to buy the boy eyeglasses—and he is Mr. Sinclair’s protégé! Merely because Mr. Sinclair has spent a few hours with the boy, helping him to read. He is nothing but a town dandy.”

“I say,” Mr. Carver exclaimed, “not quite fair, Miss Shaw. Sinclair don’t like it to be known that he helps the poor, but he has already spent a large part of his fortune on projects like this school of yours, y’know.”

“No, I do not know,” Rebecca said. She was so irritated by the presumption of the man in calling Cyril his protégé that she was not prepared to listen to reason. “If he has so much money to give to charity, where was he when we needed a school here, and where was he when we were puzzling over the problem of purchasing eyeglasses for Cyril? It is said that charity begins at home, Mr. Carver.”

“Oh, lord,” that gentleman said, mopping his brow with the handkerchief that he still clutched in one hand, “I should not have started this, ma’am. Sinclair wouldn’t like it. But I hate to see m’friend maligned. I think you should ask your betrothed, ma’am, about Sinclair’s connection with your school.”

“I would not think Philip would have much knowledge of Mr. Sinclair and his charitable endeavors,” Rebecca said. “Anyway, sir, it is easy enough, I suppose, to be charitable with someone else’s money.” She was feeling thoroughly out of sorts and beginning to say things that were really none of her concern. She did not stop even when a remote corner of her mind reminded her that she would regret having spoken later when she had had time to cool down and consider.

“Mr. Sinclair had no money of his own,” she said, “until he married. Is one supposed to admire him now for spending a small portion of his wife’s money on the poor?”

“Eh?” said Mr. Carver. “Many men marry rich wives, Miss Shaw. And many of them never give a penny to the poor.”

“Many of them do not treat their wives abominably, either,” Rebecca said incautiously.

“Are you referring to Sinclair?” Mr. Carver asked, stopping and turning to look full at her.

Rebecca had the grace to blush. “Forgive me, sir,” she said. “I really have spoken quite out of turn. It is none of my concern how Mr. Sinclair treated his wife. I never even knew the lady.”

Mr. Carver’s eyes narrowed as he continued to look closely at her. Rebecca almost squirmed with mortification. How could she have given in to such childish spite?

“Is this Bartlett’s doing?” he asked. “Has he been talking to you, Miss Shaw?”

Rebecca blushed again. “I would much prefer to say no more,” she said. “Please forgive my impertinence, sir.”

Mr. Carver ignored her plea. “You would do well to ignore Bartlett, Miss Shaw,” he said. “He is a viper in the guise of a man.”

“Oh, come now,” Rebecca said, recovering herself. “I can see that you would dislike him if you are Mr. Sinclair’s friend, but even you must admit that he was a much wronged man. At least, it must have been painful for him to see the woman he loved so mistreated by her husband.”

Mr. Carver frowned. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said, “but it sounds as if he has been telling you some Banbury tale. My only criticism of Sinclair was that he treated that baggage of a wife of his with unfailing courtesy even when she was so obviously . . . I’m sorry, ma’am. Am being indiscreet too, talking about matters that are none of my concern. But I will say this. If you want to know the truth of Sinclair’s marriage, Bartlett ain’t precisely the one to talk to.”

They walked on in silence after one attempt to talk on a different topic. The new subject sounded so artificial that they both seemed to prefer not to talk at all. When they came to the stile that led into the pasture and Rebecca suggested proceeding alone, Mr. Carver made no objection but helped her over the stile and then swung himself into the saddle and rode away in the direction of the Sinclair home.

Rebecca had plenty of time to think. She slowed her pace and resolved to take as long as possible to reach home. She knew that she would in all probability miss tea, but tea meant visitors more than likely. Yesterday she had invented some errands to keep her away during the afternoon, but when she returned the Sinclair party had still been there and she had been forced to tiptoe to her room and hope that no one realized that she was at home.

She had not seen Christopher since the disastrous afternoon at Cenross Castle, and she was willing time to pass quickly so that the fair would come and go and he would leave her life forever. The week after that she would be married, and soon, probably, she and Philip would move away to begin life anew somewhere else, he to kill his memories of Maude, she hers of Christopher. It was not a satisfactory way to begin a marriage, she supposed, but it seemed to be the only way out of problems for both of them. She had no doubt that Philip and Maude really did harbor a deep and hopeless love for each other.

Rebecca was more disturbed than she would admit over what had happened at Cenross. The memories themselves had been bad enough. It was almost unbearably painful to remember how close they had come to giving themselves to each other, how deep and lasting their love had seemed to be. It was impossible to understand how he could have changed so utterly and in such a short time. She shuddered at the memory of his coldness and callousness when he broke the news of his impending marriage.

And then there was the other thing that had happened at Cenross—that very disturbing encounter with Christopher himself. Why had he been there? Why would he want to resurrect the memories of what had happened in that place almost seven years before? It was hard to remember what he had said to her. She had been in such an emotional state herself that her brain had not been functioning with great clarity. And he had stood so close to her, his hand beside her head against the trunk of the tree, his blue eyes on a level with her own and gazing into them. She had been too disturbed by his physical nearness to understand his words.

She had heard them, of course. They were waiting somewhere in the jumble of her mind to be brought forward, fitted together, and comprehended. He had wanted to tell her something, had taken great pains to say it slowly and clearly. He had loved her when they visited that place before. That was what he said. He had loved her with his whole being. How could that be? How could he have loved her and married someone else just a few months later? It was not possible. Love could not be very strong if it could be displaced so easily by greed for money. She could not believe him.

Rebecca’s footsteps lagged. She gazed down at her feet as she walked slowly across the pasture. What had made him leave so hastily at the end? She could remember now how he had gone crashing through the trees, leaving her still standing against the tree. She could recall her own pain, the almost overpowering urge to call him back. It had been the universal maternal need to comfort. Comfort for what? What had he said? Whispered, rather. He had whispered, as if his voice was not steady enough for the words to be spoken. She could not remember.

What had Mr. Carver meant by suggesting that she talk to Philip about Christopher? The two men had become surprisingly friendly, and Christopher had apparently been spending some time at the school when it was Philip’s day to teach. But what would Philip know about Christopher’s life beyond these few weeks? Probably nothing. He was doubtless impressed by the visitor’s behavior and interest in his work. But he could not know the man as she knew him.

It seemed, though, if one were to believe Mr. Carver, that Christopher was a charitable man. He always had been, of course, until greed had changed the course of his life. If he had turned back now to his old ways, there was perhaps a chance that he felt remorse for what he had done and that he was determined to make up in small part for the wasted years. She hoped so. She was finding it increasingly painful to hate him. She hoped he would be able to rise above his past.

My life came to an end the day I left you. I have lived in hell since then.

Rebecca stopped walking completely. She could almost hear him saying those words. Whispering them. Oh God, that was what he had said to her before rushing away up the hill. He had lived in hell, he had said. He did not need to die. She closed her eyes and put her hands over her face. Dear God, he had suffered too. He had never been happy with his wife despite all the money.

Then why had he done it? Why had he married Angela? Why had he abandoned her?

Why, Christopher, why?

Rebecca removed her hands from her face after a while and gazed wearily ahead. She started to walk again. Mr. Carver had been puzzled when she had alluded to the shabby way Christopher had treated his wife. He had always treated her with unfailing courtesy, Mr. Carver had said, even when ... He had not completed the thought. Even when she was with child? Had Christopher not wanted a child? She supposed it was possible to be unfailingly courteous to someone and still neglect her shamefully. Perhaps both Mr. Bartlett and Mr. Carver were right. A viper, Mr. Carver had called the other, though, a viper in the guise of a man.

Whom was one to believe? Life had become so complicated in the last few weeks that there seemed to be no certainties any longer. And she did not feel that her mind could cope with what was happening. She clung as to a lifeline to the knowledge that in two weeks’ time she would be married to Philip and could devote herself wholeheartedly to making him a good wife and helpmeet. She would be able to stop worrying. Life would become simple and tranquil again.

Rebecca looked ahead to the house, which was quite close now. A group of people was gathered outside the front door, four on horseback, one on foot. Three of the riders raised their hands and waved in her direction as they rode off. Christopher affected not to see her, or perhaps he really did not. He was bent forward talking to Maude for several seconds after his brother and sisters had moved off in the direction of home.

Maude saw Rebecca approaching and waited for her to come up before returning to the house. “Oh, Rebecca,” she said, “you have been working too hard, dear. We have already finished tea and sent the tray back to the kitchen. You really must be careful for your health. You have been gone since early this morning.”

“I walked home in disgracefully leisurely fashion,” Rebecca said cheerfully, “with Mr. Carver as far as the stile and then alone. The weather seems too lovely to be cooped up indoors. Do you think Cook will be dreadfully cross, Maude, if I ring for a cup of tea?”

“Of course not,” Maude said, “and what does it signify if she is? But do please take it in the morning room, Rebecca. Harriet and Stanley are in there, and I must return to his lordship’s room. He is sure to be waking up soon, and he frets if I am not there.”

“You must be careful not to overwork too, Maude,” Rebecca said, taking in the pallor of her uncle’s wife. Surely Maude had lost weight too in the last little while.

Maude smiled rather wanly. “I shall be fine, Rebecca,” she said. “But I am afraid that the excursion to Cenross Castle really did tax his lordship’s strength too much. I believe he is feeling definitely unwell this time. Oh dear, and I was uncharitable enough to say to you only recently that I thought that sometimes he imagined his maladies.” She hurried up the staircase ahead of Rebecca and continued on up to the third floor and her husband’s bedchamber. Rebecca reluctantly turned in the direction of the morning room. The very last thing she felt like at the moment was a dose of Harriet’s peevishness and even— surprisingly—of Mr. Bartlett’s charm. Sometimes, she reflected, one could have too much even of a good thing.