Chapter 15

Rebecca had danced with Mr. Carver and Mr. Bartlett. The street and the green were crowded with people. She guessed that almost everyone for miles around had come into the village for the evening festivities. Harriet had danced constantly but had been nowhere near Mr. Bartlett. Maude must be feeling great relief. It looked as if her stepdaughter was going to accept the inevitable with the minimum of fuss. Maude herself had danced with Christopher, and she was standing now a little removed from the dancers talking to Philip. Both of them looked grave. It was the first time Rebecca has seen them together since the night of the Langbourne ball.

She looked at Philip quite dispassionately. He was extremely handsome in his dark clothes and with his gleaming blond hair. And she felt nothing. There should surely be some panic at the realization of what she had just given up. There should be some regret over the loss of a good man as a prospective husband. But she felt nothing, except perhaps relief that she no longer had to pretend even to herself that her life was taking a course that was pleasing to her.

It was becoming more and more difficult to seek out Christopher. It seemed clear that he had been making as great an effort as she during the day to avoid a meeting. Several times she had been close enough to him to speak or at least to smile, but he had chosen to pretend she was not there. Even at the dinner table he had not looked at her once as far as she knew. Tonight he had danced every dance and had always been intent on talking to his partner when she was dancing near.

How was she to approach him? Ask him to dance with her? The very idea was enough to make her feel quite faint. Tap him on the shoulder and ask if she could have a word with him? She would never pluck up enough courage. Perhaps it would be better after all to say nothing. If he had wanted her to know about his involvement in the school, he would have told her himself. He would not thank her now for broaching the topic. And the occasion was hardly suitable for such a conversation.

Rebecca leaned against a tree outside the tavern in an unconscious effort to avoid notice by would-be dancing partners. She should seek out Maude or Mrs. Sinclair. It was unseemly to be alone thus. But her eyes were resting almost absently on Christopher as he returned a flushed young lady to her mama’s side. And finally, quite accidentally, their eyes met. They both looked away hastily and then back at each other again. And this time the look held for several moments until Rebecca looked down in confusion.

Julian was at her side, grinning with the joy of the evening’s activities, asking her to join him for the next country dance. She pushed her back away from the tree.

“Sorry, youngster,” Christopher’s voice said, “this dance has been promised to me, I believe?”

He was smiling when Rebecca turned to him, and holding out a hand for hers.

“Thank you, Julian,” she said, turning back to the younger brother. “Perhaps later?” And she placed her hand in Christopher’s.

Even then she said nothing, but allowed him to lead her to join a set. It was a particularly vigorous and intricate country dance. They were separated frequently, and even when they danced together there were so many figures to execute and so many steps to remember that there was no chance to speak even a word. When it was over, he laid her hand on his arm in a courtly gesture that seemed strange in such a setting, and looked around him.

“Would you care to join my mother and sisters?” he asked. “I am sure they would be delighted with your company.”

Rebecca tightened her grip on his sleeve and drew a nervous breath. “Christopher,” she said, “I have been wishing to talk to you. All day.”

He looked down into her face, a gleam of something in his eyes for a moment. “What is it?” he said. “Shall we walk?”

They walked in silence until they had passed the dense crowd around the dancing area and were strolling along the less crowded street outside the church. He had taken her hand and tucked it more comfortably beneath his arm. Rebecca could feel the blood pounding through her temples. Had she done the right thing? How was she to begin to speak to him?

“Is something troubling you, Becky?” he asked at last. “Can I be of any service to you?”

“No, there is nothing wrong,” she said, “But I had to talk to you before you return to town. I have done you an injustice and I feel conscience-bound to apologize.”

He laughed briefly. “You apologize to me?” he said. “What can you have possibly done to wrong me?”

“I have thought of you as being shallow and uncaring, and have treated you accordingly,” she said. “I really believed that you visited the school only because you wished to impress others. I did not know that it is only through your generosity that the school exists at all. I might have known, of course. You were ever concerned about the plight of the poor. And I did not know about Cyril’s eyeglasses. I thought that Philip had paid for them, you see, and I felt anger that you would still visit the school and show special interest in the boy when you had done nothing to really help him.”

She was talking very fast.

Christopher lightly covered her hand with his. “Hush,” he said. “You do not need to say more, Becky. I am vexed with Everett for telling you as much as you know. I thought I could have trusted him.”

“I had guessed part of the truth,” Rebecca said. “He merely confirmed my suspicions.”

“Well,” he said, “perhaps no real harm has been done. I am conceited enough to be pleased that there is perhaps at least something in me about which you will be able to think kindly. But I am not sure my motives have been as pure as you might think. I believe I was thinking less of the welfare of your boys than I was of enabling you to achieve one of your dreams. I like to think that I would have helped Everett even if I had not known of your interest in the scheme, but I cannot be sure that I would.”

Rebecca looked up at him, a slight frown on her face. “You did it for me?” she asked. “Why? Was it a salve to your conscience?”

He winced. “You might call it that,” he said. His hand was still over hers. They had walked, without realizing it, past the church and the schoolhouse and onto the country lane that led to both their homes. The crowds were all behind them.

“I thank you anyway,” she said. “The school has meant a great deal to me.”

“Then I am happy,” he said. “And would you like another room added, Becky, so that you can have your girls’ school too? I shall give it to you as a wedding gift, shall I?” His hand tightened momentarily around hers.

Rebecca did not answer immediately. “I think I have a long battle ahead before I can persuade Philip that there is a need for a girls’ school,” she said, “but I do mean to fight it. And I shall not say no to the gift if you still wish to give it when the time comes. But it will not be a wedding gift, Christopher.”

“You do not wish me to give you a wedding gift?” he asked gently.

“There is to be no wedding,” she said.

He stopped walking and turned to her. “What are you saying?” he asked. “The scoundrel has not let you down, has he? My God, I will not allow anyone else to do that to you. I’ll kill him!”

“No,” she said earnestly, laying a hand on his arm. “It was a mutual agreement, Christopher, made just today. We would not suit. I think we have both known it for quite a while, but it is hard to admit one has made a mistake when something as formal as a betrothal has taken place.”

He was searching her face in the moonlight. “It seemed to me that you were eminently suited,” he said. “I thought you loved him, Becky.”

“No,” she said, and for some reason, standing there and looking up at him, in surely almost the exact spot where they had stood seven years before, all the confusions and uncertainties of the previous weeks washed over her and she was powerless either to look away or to stop the tears from trickling down her cheeks.

He bent closer and put his hands on her shoulders. “Are you crying, Becky?” he said. “Oh, God, it has upset you after all. Don’t cry, my love. Somehow everything is going to turn out well for you. It must. I don’t know anyone who deserves happiness more than you do.”

And he put his arms right around her and pulled her against him, cradling her head against his shoulder, rocking her comfortingly, murmuring unintelligible words into her hair.

Rebecca would not let herself break down completely. She leaned against him, relaxed into the strength of his body, closed her eyes to feel the comfort of his hand and cheek on her head, and brought herself slowly under control. But she did not want to break away. This moment was the whole of life. Tomorrow he would be gone. Perhaps in five minutes’ time she would be thinking about his desertion again. For the rest of her life she would miss him and love him. But for this moment she was here in his arms and nothing else mattered. If he were a murderer and a traitor, it would not matter at the moment. Now was all that was important.

“You can let me go now, Christopher,” she forced herself to say eventually. “I must be tired. I did not mean to cry.” But she made no effort to pull away from him.

He too did not let go of her, but actually tightened his hold and rubbed his cheek across the top of her head. “I should not say this,” he said. “I have no right. No right at all. But I have to say it just once as a self-indulgence. I love you, Becky Shaw. I have loved you for seven years and probably even before that, and I shall go to my grave loving you. It will not be very gratifying to you to know that you are loved by someone like me, but maybe sometimes when you are depressed as you have been this evening and perhaps feel very much alone, you may gain some fleeting comfort from knowing that there is one man to whom you are the whole world.”

When she had finished taking some deep breaths in a conscious effort to keep control over herself, Rebecca found that her arms had somehow found their way around his neck. Her face was still buried against the lapels of his coat. “I don’t love you,” she said incoherently. “I can’t love you, Christopher. I can’t forgive you. I can’t love you. I can’t, Christopher, I can’t.”

She lifted her face to him and tightened her arms around his neck. “Tell me I am wrong,” she cried. “Tell me that it is possible for me to love you. I can’t. I can’t forgive you.” 

“I know,” he said, and his mouth was on hers, both arms bent beneath hers so that he held her head with both hands.

Rebecca did not fight his kiss or the hot passion that soon had her arching her body against the heat of his, tilting her head, and opening her mouth beneath his. She could not love him as she had in the past. She could not forgive him. But for this moment she did not care what her rational feelings might be. Her body knew that it was with the only man who would ever stir her, and she did not care what he was or what he had done. He was Christopher.

He released her mouth finally and gazed down into her eyes. He was not smiling and he was quite untriumphant.

“I can’t ever forgive you, Christopher,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said. “I knew it more than six years ago. I knew it when I made the hardest decision of my life. I knew not only that I would lose you forever, but also that I would be hated and despised forever by the one person I love more than life itself. I made the choice. I have to live with the consequences.”

He bent down and kissed her softly on the lips again. “Some kind angel must have granted me these few encounters with you in the past weeks,” he said. “I will live on the memories. But I fear I have done you a great disservice, Becky, churning up old hurts when I had promised never to come near you again. Come, love, let me walk you back to the village. We have wandered too far already. Tomorrow I shall be leaving. I shall not trouble your peace again.”

He took her hand and drew it under his arm again and they turned back in the direction of the village from which the sounds of music and merriment could still be heard. Rebecca felt totally powerless either to slow their progress or to say another word.

They had almost reached the church on their way to the area of the village where the dance was still noisily in progress. There was no one else at this end of the street. No one visible, that is. But there was the sound of voices raised in fierce argument coming from somewhere behind the parsonage. Christopher gripped Rebecca’s arm a little tighter and would have hurried her past. But she stopped suddenly.

“Hush!” she said. “Listen.”

He looked down inquiringly at her, but her face was intent.

“That is Harriet,” she said. “One of those voices belongs to Harriet. She must be in trouble.”

Christopher released her arm without another word and raced up the pathway leading to the parsonage and around the side of the house. Rebecca followed close on his heels.

They both came to a stop when they rounded the back corner of the house and saw the scene before them. Mr. Bartlett’s curricle and grays stood ready for travel in the laneway that ran the length of the village behind most of the buildings. Harriet stood beside it, wearing a pelisse that she had not worn all day. Mr. Bartlett stood at the horses’ heads and in front of him, almost nose to nose with him, in fact, stood Mr. Carver.

“I shall say it only once more, Mr. Carver,” Harriet was saying shrilly. “You cannot stop us. What we do is absolutely none of your concern. Stand aside immediately.”

“And I shall tell you only once more, ma’am,” Mr. Carver said, an unaccustomed menace in his voice, “that I shall deal with you after I have dealt with this scoundrel.”

Mr. Bartlett was looking quite relaxed, almost amused. “I have been very patient, Carver,” he said, “but now I am afraid it really is time for Miss Shaw and me to leave. We have a sizable distance to travel tonight. I really will have to consider removing you with my whip if you will not stand aside of your own volition. Of course, I suppose I should render you senseless and bind and gag you, because doubtless you will run squawking your story as fast as your legs will carry you as soon as we have left, but pursuit may be difficult. There are those crossroads a mere three miles away, and it would be tricky for our pursuers to decide which one we will have taken.” He smiled.

Mr. Carver did not shift his ground by so much as an inch. “You may leave anytime you please, Bartlett,” he said, “and good riddance to you. But you ain’t taking Miss Shaw with you. If she wasn’t such an addle-pated female, she would know better than to have considered it. Eloping with a penniless good-for-nothing! Chit needs to be soundly thrashed.”

“Oh!” Harriet said, her hands clenched into fists at her side, “You are always saying that. You are beginning to sound like a parrot who has learned only one phrase. Get away from here, Mr. Carver. I do not need you or anyone else telling me what I should do.”

Rebecca finally regained the use of both her feet and her voice. She rushed forward. “Harriet,” she hissed, “what is going on here?”

“Oh, not you too, Rebecca,” Harriet said crossly. “The whole militia will be here soon.”

“You were not really planning to elope, were you?” Rebecca asked incredulously, but she glanced at Harriet’s pelisse and at the two bandboxes that had been half hidden beneath the seat of the curricle, and looked back accusingly at her cousin. “Oh, Harriet,” she said, “how could you? I did not think that even you could be so lacking in conduct. You must come back with me at once to Maude. We must be very thankful that you have been discovered before it is too late.”

“Ah, and here comes Sinclair too,” Mr. Bartlett said. “The whole righteous crew. Are you forever to dog my footsteps, Sinclair? I quite fail to see what concern Harriet is of yours. However, it does seem that there is to be no elopement tonight. One can hardly wave good-by to a farewell party when one is eloping. The effect would be quite ruined.”

Rebecca, glancing briefly at Christopher, was amazed to see just how furious he was. She was suddenly afraid and caught at Harriet’s arm in an attempt to remove her from the scene. But Harriet shook off her hand impatiently.

“Leave me alone, Rebecca,” she said. “And all of you can go to the devil for all I care.”

To her chagrin no one appeared to pay her the least attention except Rebecca, who caught at her arm again.

“Come away, Harriet,” she said urgently. “There is going to be violence here.”

Christopher had moved across to stand in front of Mr. Bartlett, beside his friend. “Stand back, Luke,” he said. “This is mine. Your behavior here is very much my concern, Bartlett,” he said, his voice shaking with such anger that Rebecca pulled anew at Harriet’s unresponsive arm. “I should have killed you several years ago, or at least punished you to such a degree that you would never have attempted anything like this ever again. I let you go then, thinking you were beneath my contempt. This time you will not escape so lightly. This time you have committed the mistake of making an innocent though headstrong young girl of good family your victim. You had better prepare to defend yourself.”

He began methodically to remove his coat and roll back his shirt sleeves. Without turning around or removing his eyes from his adversary, from whose face the unruffled calm had vanished, he said, “Becky, will you take your cousin away from here, please? What is about to happen is not for the eyes of ladies.”

Suddenly Harriet’s arm was no longer resistant. She looked at Rebecca, bewildered, the beginnings of fear in her eyes.

“Stop them!” she said. “Stop them, Rebecca.”

“Come,” Rebecca said calmly, “we will go and find Maude. I don’t believe there is any way to stop this fight, and I am not sure I would try even if I thought there were.”

Harriet allowed herself to be led around to the front of the parsonage and out into the street. It seemed something of a shock to both that the crowds and the noise and the dancing were proceeding just as they had been all evening.

Yet they were not the only ones who were not involved in the festivities. As they drew closer to the crowd, they became aware of Mrs. Sinclair and Ellen hurrying toward them.

“Ah, thank goodness,” Mrs. Sinclair sang out when they were still several yards distant. “We have searched all over the place for you two young ladies. Mr. Sinclair and Julian have gone looking in the other direction. And Christopher is nowhere to be seen either.”

“What has happened?” Rebecca asked.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Sinclair, “a servant came riding in from Limeglade to say that his lordship has taken a turn for the worse and that Dr. Gamble was to come and Lady Holmes. Poor lady! She was almost distracted what with blaming herself for leaving him and looking in vain for Harriet. ‘You take our carriage, your ladyship,’ I said, ‘and leave everything else to us. We will see that Harriet comes home as soon as may be.’ Julian was going to drive her, but the Reverend Everett was kind enough to take her himself. He will be a comfort to her and to Lord Holmes if he really is poorly.”

“Papa?” Harriet said rather shakily. “He is really sick? I must go to him at once. Rebecca, come with me, will you?”

“Yes, of course,” Rebecca replied. “We shall take the gig at once. It is such a bright moonlit night that there will be no trouble seeing our way.”

“Not alone,” Mrs. Sinclair said firmly. “I will not hear of it, my dears. Julian will take you when he comes back from searching for you in the other direction. Ah, thank goodness. Here comes Christopher.”

They all turned to watch him walk along the street beside Mr. Carver. To Rebecca’s searching eyes, he looked quite as calm and immaculate as he had looked earlier in the evening. There was no sign of Mr. Bartlett.

“Christopher,” Mrs. Sinclair called, “here are the Misses Shaw with an urgent need to return home. Poor Lord Holmes has taken a bad turn and the doctor and the ladies have been sent for. The vicar has taken Lady Holmes already and left the gig for the young ladies. And I have just been saying that I will not hear of them going off alone.”

“Indeed not,” he said, looking with quiet sympathy at Harriet and Rebecca. “I shall accompany them, Mama. You need not worry. We had best leave immediately. Will you take my arm, Miss Shaw?” These last words were directed quite gently to Harriet, who indeed was looking as if she was not capable of getting anywhere under her own power.

It was an almost silent journey. Rebecca could not guess what Christopher’s thoughts might be. He appeared perfectly calm, and there was no sign that he had just been involved in a fight—no black eyes or bloody nose or split lips. She longed to ask him what had happened, where Mr. Bartlett was now, how Mr. Carver had discovered the elopement plan, why he had been quite so angry with Mr. Bartlett, what exactly he had meant by his references to the past, if he was nursing some broken ribs or some other ghastly but invisible injury.

She wanted to question Harriet, to find out why the girl had been, about to elope with Mr. Bartlett, where they had planned to go, what they had planned to do afterward. Her head teemed with enough questions to keep them all talking nonstop during five journeys from the village to Limeglade. But she said nothing. And what of Uncle Humphrey? Had the doctor been right and was he now really ill?

“It is all my fault that Papa is ill at all,” Harriet said from her seat between Rebecca and Christopher. Her voice was unusually subdued. “That journey to Cenross Castle was just too much for him. Do you think he is really ill, Rebecca?”

Rebecca murmured something soothing.

“I know what you are both thinking,” Harriet blurted a little later. “You both despise me.”

“I believe your cousin loves you simply because you are her cousin,” Christopher said. “And my feelings are merely ones of relief that you have been rescued from the clutches of an out-and-out bounder. You need not fear recriminations from either of us, I think, Miss Shaw.”

“But I deserve to be despised!” Harriet said vehemently and quite unexpectedly. “It was a stupid thing to do. I only did it because Maude tried to separate us. I had not even thought seriously of marrying Mr. Bartlett before that. But I could not let her think that I would give in meekly to her bidding. I really am too stubborn for my own good.”

Neither of her companions said anything to contradict this opinion of herself that Harriet had given. She looked down at her hands for the remainder of the journey home and said no more until Christopher drew the horses to a halt outside the main doors of the house.

“I do hope Papa felt better once he saw Maude,” she said.

But when they went inside, a poker-faced butler directed them to the drawing room, where they found Maude and Philip standing at opposite sides of the empty fireplace. Maude, her face deathly pale, came hurrying across the room when they entered, her hands outstretched to Harriet.

“My dear,” she said, “it was much worse than we could have imagined. He is gone, Harriet.” Her eyes, fixed on her stepdaughter’s, were dazed.

“What?” Harriet said on a gasp. “Papa is—dead? No, he cannot be. I won’t believe it. I must go to him now.”

“No,” Maude said, catching Harriet by the shoulders as she turned. “We shall both see him afterward, Harriet. But not just yet. He is gone, dear. Your papa is dead. He had a heart seizure.”

And Maude pulled the stunned girl into her arms.

Rebecca had not moved. She still stood just inside the door. She looked across the room to Philip, whose eyes were fixed on Maude and Harriet, and back to the doorway to Christopher, whose hand was still on the handle of the door.

It was Christopher who strode across to her, put a firm arm around her shoulders, and led her to a chair before crossing the room and pouring them all a drink of brandy from the decanter that was always kept on a sideboard there.