Chapter 5

“But which do you think I should wear, Rebecca?” Harriet asked. “If I wear the yellow, I shall doubtless find that Primrose has chosen the same color. Yet it is more becoming on me, I think, than the blue. It shows my dark hair to more advantage. Do you not agree?”

Harriet was standing in her cousin’s dressing room, her arms outstretched, a yellow muslin gown over one arm and a blue over the other. Her brow was drawn into a frown.

“I like both gowns,” Rebecca said, considering. “The yellow is more vivid, but the blue is very delicate. If I were you, Harriet, I should wear the one that will be the most comfortable. It is like to be a hot day and there will be much walking and sitting on the grass.”

Harriet lowered her arms and walked over to the stool that stood in front of the dressing table. She sat down.

“My new straw bonnet is decorated with cornflowers,” she said. “I suppose I should wear the blue. It will match his eyes.” She sighed.

Rebecca went back to the task she had been busy with when Harriet had arrived, unannounced, without so much as knocking at the door—as usual. She was repairing the hem of the pink and blue floral-patterned cotton dress she planned to wear to the picnic that afternoon. She knew that Harriet’s rare visits to her room generally lasted quite a while. They usually happened when the girl wanted to talk, yet found that neither her father nor Maude would do as listeners.

“Is he not gorgeously handsome, Rebecca?” she said, gazing dreamily in the direction of the window. “And so mature. It is a trial to live in such a retired corner of the country, where one rarely sees anyone worth seeing. I am so glad he came home. Do you expect he will stay long?” “I really have no idea,” Rebecca said. “But you are right. It is pleasant for you to have more young company. Mr. Bartlett, Mr. Carver, Mr. Sinclair: goodness, Harriet, we will hardly recognize our quiet neighborhood.”

“Mr. Carver is quite insignificant,” Harriet said disdainfully. “I cannot imagine why Mr. Sinclair associates with him. I suppose it is the other way around. Mr. Carver must feel that his own image is enhanced by his association with his friend.”

“I would not underestimate Mr. Carver if I were you,” Rebecca said hastily. “He is a well-bred and sensible young man, in my opinion. People should not always be judged by their appearance, Harriet.”

“Mr. Bartlett is charming,” the girl said, “though not exactly handsome, would you say, Rebecca? I could wish he were taller. But, of course, it does not matter. Mr. Sinclair is here now, and I mean to have him.”

“Gracious!” Rebecca exclaimed, looking up from her task, her needle suspended in midair. “You have hardly even met him yet, Harriet. How can you be so sure of such a thing?”

“Oh,” Harriet said, “it does not take more than one meeting to learn that a gentleman is the most handsome man one has seen, Rebecca. I have always been determined to marry such a man. I want to be the envy of every other female when I marry.”

“And nothing else matters?” Rebecca asked.

“Well, of course,” her cousin replied, “if he is also rich and wellbred, then the connection becomes quite irresistible. Mr. Sinclair is all three. I can predict that Papa will be less than eager to allow the match. The Sinclairs are not our equal in rank, you know. But Mr. Sinclair has been away from here for years. No one looking at him now would know that his family was of such little consequence.”

Rebecca kept her head lowered to her work. She found it appalling that Harriet could be so unconcerned about character or companionship or any of the other requirements that she might look for in a good marriage. Good looks and money were the only criteria by which she would make her choice. In the coming days or weeks of Christopher’s visit, she would probably remain oblivious to all the shortcomings of his character. Only after marriage, if she did achieve her aim, would she come face-to-face with the cold man who would marry for money and then ignore his wife while he carried on with his life of personal gratification.

In many ways Harriet deserved to be left alone to reap the rewards of her actions. Yet Rebecca hated to sit back and allow it to happen. She had known Harriet long enough to realize that her selfishness and thoughtlessness were more the result of a weak and indulgent upbringing than of a basic defect of character. The girl was capable of warm feelings and impulsive acts of generosity. If only she were fortunate enough to find the right husband, she might yet be shaped into a caring and responsible woman. Or so Rebecca liked to believe. Perhaps it was just an unlikely dream. But she must try if she could to discourage the flirtation that she was sure was about to develop between Harriet and Christopher.

Perhaps Mr. Bartlett could be persuaded to give Harriet some attention. There was even a faint chance that the girl would respond to his advances. She appeared not to dislike him, though his appearance admittedly showed to disadvantage when compared with Christopher’s. It would be a great deal to ask of Maude’s brother. He might well find it irksome to be forced into showing preference for one lady when he appeared to enjoy socializing with a wide range of people. She would not say anything to him immediately. But if she felt it necessary to divert Harriet’s attention, then she would ask him. He appeared to care about the welfare of his sister’s family.

Harriet had been sitting quietly for a while, staring off into space, one leg crossed over the other and swinging back and forth.

“He must be ready to take a new wife, do you not think, Rebecca?” she said. “He has been a widower for more than a year, and he must be feeling lonely. And this time, surely, he will be eager to take a bride of his own class and breeding. She was most shockingly vulgar, you know. And not at all pretty. Do you think I am pretty, Rebecca?”

“You know very well that you are,” her cousin replied, looking up and smiling at her. “And very young, too, Harriet. I would not fix my choice with too much haste if I were you. You know that your papa has talked of taking you to London again for the Season next year. You will still be only nineteen.”

“That is old!” Harriet said with some vehemence. “And I should not be a debutante. Everyone would wonder what was wrong with me that I had not found a husband during my first Season.”

“Rather,” Rebecca suggested, “they would see you as a discerning young lady who chose with care instead of snatching the first eligible male she cast her eyes on.”

Harriet burst out laughing. “It is no use trying to argue with you, Rebecca,” she said. “I should know by now. You always have an answer for everything. But it does not matter. I mean to have Mr. Christopher Sinclair. I shall take part in the Season next year as his wife. I can see us now. We will be the most handsome couple in the ton, I believe.”

Rebecca smiled. “If you do not go and dress yourself in one of those gowns soon, Harriet,” she suggested, “you are going to miss this picnic altogether. You know that it takes you at least twice as long as anyone else to get ready to go into company. And you will put your papa into a thundering mood if you are very late.”

“Pooh,” Harriet said, “he is always late himself.” But she got to her feet and wandered in the direction of the door. “Do you think I should get married here where everyone we know will see me, or wait for a society wedding in London?” she asked.

“Harriet!” Rebecca exploded. “You are being quite ridiculous.”

The girl grinned unexpectedly. “Mrs. Harriet Sinclair. Mrs. Christopher Sinclair. Do you not like the sound of it, Rebecca?”

“Harriet!”

No, Rebecca did not like the sound of it at all. In fact, she did not like many of the thoughts and feelings that had haunted her for the past several days. She had continued with her usual activities since her uncle and aunt’s dinner party. She had taught; she had visited Mrs. Hopkins, who was confined with her eighth child and who had no one to help her with the other seven, all of whom were younger than twelve. Rebecca had tidied the house for her, washed and fed the children, and played with them until almost a whole day had passed without her realizing it.

On yet another day she had visited Cyril’s home after school was over for the day. It had basically been a social call; she had taken with her some freshly baked muffins. But really she had been hoping to talk to the boy, to win his confidence away from the public setting of the schoolroom. He was a puny and timid twelve-year-old who did not respond well to attention in class, even if that attention were kindly meant.

She had been glad of her visit. Cyril, shy at first, even perhaps dismayed to see her, finally brought forward a rough wooden bench that he had carpentered himself. It was for his mother to rest her feet on during the evenings while she was doing the family darning, he explained. And Rebecca found that she was able to direct the conversation toward his problems at school.

“I could read for sure, maybe, miss,” he had said apologetically, “if the words would just stand still.”

“Stand still?” she prompted gently.

“The other boys don’t notice, miss,” he said, “but them words dance about too quick for me.”

“Do they, Cyril?” she asked, her attention focused fully on him. “Are all the books the same? Are some easier than others?”

“Them ones with the letters and pictures is easy,” he said after thinking for a moment. “The letters is too big to move around. But in them other books, when the letters is squashed into words, they chases one another all over the paper.”

Rebecca smiled. “I shall see if I can find you a book in which the words are large, Cyril,” she said. “Then I wager you will read as well as any of us.”

“Aw, miss,” he had said, “I’m just dumb, like the reverend says.”

Rebecca leaned forward and smiled at him. “I am going to prove both of you wrong, Cyril,” she said.

It was true that in the day since that visit Rebecca’s mind had been much preoccupied with the new problem she had discovered with the solving of the old one. Cyril obviously had very poor eyesight. She did not know why the truth had not struck her earlier. It was easy now to recall that the boy always held his book unnaturally close to his face. She had scolded him for doing so on more than one occasion. But it did not help to know the problem when the solution was not at all obvious. The boy needed eyeglasses. But how could poor farm laborers afford to buy eyeglasses for their son? And there was no money left in the school fund even if she could justify using it for such a purchase.

Really, though, Rebecca had to admit to her own chagrin, the bulk of her thoughts during those days had centered around Christopher and his unwelcome return to the neighborhood. She had always known deep down that she had never recovered fully from his defection. She had loved him for so long that he had become part of her very being. And it had all happened when she was young and impressionable. It had not been an adult experience that she might have shrugged off more easily. She had known as soon as she heard that he was coming home that old wounds would be opened, that she would not be immune to him.

Yet she had hoped. She had hoped that when she saw him she would find that her fears had been unfounded. It had been possible that both he and she would have changed so much that there would be nothing left of the old feelings. And doubtless that was true for him. She was aware that she must have changed almost beyond recognition both in looks and manner. But he was Christopher still. His looks had matured, but he still had the same upright, proud bearing. And those very blue eyes would always be Christopher’s.

She had not got over him at all, in fact, and she was disgusted with herself when forced to admit the truth. She had been aware of him in a very physical sense during every moment of that dinner party. And she was shocked and horrified to realize that the feeling she had had on seeing him with Harriet was not so much concern for the reputation of her cousin as jealousy. Pure and simple jealousy! She wanted him bending over her at the pianoforte, exercising that charm of conversation on her.

She almost hated herself. She certainly hated him for breaking his promise and coming back again. He had treated her so badly, abandoning her like that, breaking their engagement—even though it had been unofficial—after all that had happened between them in those months after they discovered their love for each other. Surely he could have done one honorable thing and stayed away from her for the rest of their lives.

She wished desperately that she did not have to attend this picnic. Yet for some reason Philip wanted to go. In fact, he had talked with something like enthusiasm about the occasion when she saw him two days before. And he seemed to be impressed with Christopher. He talked almost admiringly about his sincerity and friendliness. It was surprising, really. Philip was usually so sensitive to snobbery and hypocrisy..And surely he should have been able to see both in his new acquaintance.

Rebecca finally finished the repair to the hem of her dress. She would have finished long before had she not kept falling into a dream, she scolded herself. She got resolutely to her feet and began to change her clothes for the afternoon’s outing. It was really useless telling herself that she did not wish to go and would not do so if it were not for Philip’s wishes. Of course she wished to go. How dreadful it would be not to be there but to be wondering every moment what was happening, imagining with whom he was walking and talking.

Rebecca stopped guiltily in the middle of performing the awkward task of buttoning her dress at the back. She had been thinking almost exclusively of Christopher in the last few days. Yet she was engaged to marry Philip. She must spend the afternoon concentrating on the friendship and mutual respect they had for each other. She would be foolish to let go of those things when she had nothing to gain by brooding over Christopher. Her feelings for him were purely regrets for a past that might have been. He was not now the sort of man whom she would wish to captivate even if that were possible.

Rebecca spent five whole minutes before the shelf of her closet in an agony of indecision over which of her very plain bonnets she should wear. She wished she had something just a little prettier or more frivolous. Perhaps she would be quite reckless and buy one for the annual fair in three weeks’ time.

Rebecca was very glad to ride the mile to the river from the Sinclairs’ house in the gig with Ellen and Primrose. She had driven over there with Lord Holmes, Maude, and Harriet in the closed carriage. And the baron had insisted that all the windows remain closed for fear of a draft. Rebecca had thought she would explode before the two-mile distance had been covered. However, most members of the party had driven or ridden to the picnic site while Primrose was showing off her new horse. By the time they returned to the house, only the gig, a very irate Ellen, and Mr. Carver remained.

“Oh, do come along, Prim,” Ellen called out crossly as soon as they were within earshot. “We will miss all the fun. You could have shown Miss Shaw your horse at some other time.”

“I am afraid the fault is mine, Ellen,” Rebecca said with a smile. “One look was not enough for me. I had to go right into the stall and get to know the horse. He is a beauty.”

“All we will have missed,” Mr. Carver said with a smile, “is the work: lifting down baskets of food and spreading blankets. I think it clever of you, Miss Primrose, to have thought of that.” He shook with quiet laughter so that Rebecca feared for a moment that he might fall from his horse’s back.

Primrose giggled. “You and I will do our share of the work later when it comes time to eat, Mr. Carver,” she said conspiratorially, and he actually winked at her from above his high and sharp shirt points, Rebecca noticed with some amusement.

They had indeed missed most of the fuss and bluster of the arrival, they found when they caught up to the others on the riverbank. Lord Holmes, it was true, was still on his feet, instructing his coachman to move his blanket yet again so that it would remain in the shadow of a large tree even when the sun shifted its position. The site that had originally been chosen for him, Mrs. Sinclair explained sotto voce to Rebecca and her girls, had been well shaded but too much exposed to the wind. And they all knew how delicate his lordship’s health was, poor soul.

“What wind, Mama?” Primrose asked tactlessly and rather too loudly.

Harriet was impatient to walk. “I have always loved the old stone bridge,” she said wistfully, gazing upstream to the single-arched structure over the river that made this particular site so picturesque. “There is such a delightful view from the center of it, and such a lovely walk through the trees on the opposite bank. Do let us take a walk.” She smiled generally around the group, though her eyes lingered rather longer on Christopher than on any of the others. She twirled the blue parasol that matched perfectly the blue of the cornflowers in her bonnet and complemented the paler blue of her light summer dress. She presented a very pretty picture against the swift-flowing waters of the river.

Christopher smiled. “I should be delighted to accompany you, ma’am,” he said. “I am in the mood for exercise. Will you take my arm?”

Harriet smiled with delight, though the smile faded slightly when Mr. Bartlett got to his feet and turned to Ellen. “Shall we join them, Miss Sinclair?” he asked, bringing a blush to the girl’s cheeks by bowing in courtly fashion before her and smiling warmly.

“Come on, Carver,” Christopher said, grinning back at his friend, who was already reclining indolently beneath a tree. “It would do you good to take to your feet too. Give us a chance to convince you that the countryside has as much to offer in the way of entertainment as the city.”

“I could be entertained just as well sitting b’neath this tree,” Mr. Carver grumbled. But he pulled himself to his feet. He sighed and glanced wistfully in the direction of the blanket on which Julian sprawled, looking less than delighted with life, and turned to Rebecca. “Will you bear me company, Miss Shaw?” he asked. “You may take m’arm. I believe I can support you through the ordeal of a country walk.” He shook with laughter again.

The six of them strolled toward the bridge, Harriet tugging rather impatiently at her companion’s arm.

“I used to come here often when I was a child,” she said as they began to cross over the river, “with Julian. We used to try to fish from the bridge until we realized that the water was too fast flowing to make it possible to catch any.”

‘‘That was far more innocent than my favorite game when I was a boy,” Christopher said with a smile. “We used to walk along the wall and try not to fall into the water. It is amazing that we never did. We might have ended up with worse injury than a soaking.”

“Oh,” Ellen said, “I remember when you caught me and Julian doing that, Christopher, and gave us a thundering scold. You threatened to tell Papa if you ever caught us at it again. You said it was very dangerous.”

“And so it is,” he said. “The stones on top of the wall are irregular and it is not too wide to start with. Add to that the fact that it is not flat but continuously curved to form the arch and you have a pretty tricky walking surface. All children are mad daredevils. I suppose we become too staid and dull as we grow up. You see, all of us are perfectly content to cross the bridge sedately on the roadway.”

“Oh, I would do it,” Harriet cried, twirling her parasol behind her head and smiling gaily at her companions. “Does anyone dare join me?”

Ellen giggled. “Not me any longer,” she said. “I have learned wisdom with age. I always used to be petrified, anyway.”

Christopher smiled engagingly at Harriet. “I must admit you would make a remarkably pretty picture walking across,” he said. “But I cannot allow it.”

“Ah,” she said, smiling brilliantly and giving the parasol another twirl, “but I am not your sister, sir, and am not obliged to do as you say. Hold my parasol, please, Rebecca. I shall show you who is old and staid in this party.” Rebecca was seriously alarmed. She knew that once Harriet got an idea into her head, it was very difficult to dislodge it. “You really must not try, Harriet,” she said. “Indeed, it is very dangerous. And remember that your papa is looking on. He will be very distressed if he sees what you are about.”

“Pooh,” Harriet said. “Papa will be proud of me.” Before the paralyzed gaze of her five companions, Harriet ran lightly back to the end of the bridge, where the wall was low enough for her to get up on it despite the hampering influence of her long skirt. She held out her arms to the sides to get her balance and began to place one foot after the other ahead of her up the uneven incline to the center of the arch. The onlookers dared not move or say a word once she had started for fear of startling her and pitching her into the fast-flowing waters below.

She walked even more slowly and carefully on the downward slope at the other side of the bridge. Twice she stopped altogether and had to make an effort to regain her balance. But after what seemed like an age to those watching, she finally reached the other side and jumped down into the roadway. She laughed with triumph and made an exaggerated curtsy to the five people still clustered at the beginning of the bridge.

“Miss Shaw,” Christopher said, hurrying forward, “if you were my sister, I should give you the worst tongue lashing of your life. As it is, accept my compliments, ma’am. I am full of admiration.”

His voice was rather grim, Rebecca noticed, although he spoke lightly and was smiling at her cousin. Rebecca felt almost limp with relief. She could cheerfully have shaken Harriet until her teeth rattled. Looking anxiously back to the spot on the bank where the other members of the party were gathered, she saw that they were all on their feet gazing at the bridge, including Uncle Humphrey.

“Now,” Harriet called gaily, “who said something about us all being staid and dull? I see only five such people!” 

“Now there is a young lady,” Mr. Carver said to Rebecca, “who needs a firm hand. A heavy hand, perhaps. Don’t she realize that Sinclair or Bartlett or I would have been obliged t’jump in after her if she had fallen in? Selfish little hussy!”

Rebecca was surprised at the vehemence of his attack. But she held her peace. She felt that her cousin thoroughly deserved such censure.

“I think that was very foolish,” Ellen said, looking up at Mr. Bartlett. ‘‘Harriet is the same age as I, but I consider myself too old for such foolishness.”

He patted her hand, which was tucked through his arm. ‘‘Ah, yes, Miss Sinclair,” he said. “You are a very sweet and sensible young lady. I would be shocked to see you behave like a daredevil. Of course,” he added, raising his voice just a little, “there is something very charming about a lady who is willing to take a risk and dare the consequences. My compliments, Miss Shaw. I salute your bravery.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” she replied, favoring him with a deep curtsy again and a dazzling smile.

“Perhaps we should walk on for a way,” Christopher suggested, “before it is time to turn back for tea. I hope the pathway through the trees here has not become overgrown. It was always a place of great beauty, especially in the autumn when the leaves are of all colors.”

His head turned rather jerkily toward Rebecca as he said the last words, and their eyes met. He flushed; she was sure she had not imagined it. She had certainly done so herself. It was a painful walk. It had been from the beginning. In a way she had almost been glad of the distraction of Harriet’s madness. The bridge and the path beyond it had been one of their favorite retreats during those months when they had been in love and planning a life together. They had used often to stand on the bridge, leaning on the stone wall and staring downstream.

She could remember sitting up there once while Christopher stood before her, one hand resting on the stones either side of her, his face on a level with hers. When he had started kissing her, she wrapped her arms around his neck. And she ended up shrieking while he laughed into her ear. He bent her backward so that she was suspended over the water, only her hold of his neck and his of her waist between her and certain disaster.

And they had walked often in the woods during that autumn, their arms around each other’s waist, marveling at the incredible beauty of the trees, their footsteps hushed by the still-soft leaves underfoot. They had talked and talked, planning and dreaming of a future that was not to be. They grew closer together in those months so that at last it seemed that there were no barriers left between them. They laughed a great deal, too, though she could no longer remember what had been so amusing.

They had become physically more familiar with each other during that time, too. They had always walked close to each other when there was no one else nearby, and they had kissed frequently. These woods, where they were walking now, the chatter loud and gay, had been the perfect setting for stolen embraces. Not only kisses. He had frequently explored her back and her breasts while he kissed her; she had often let her hands roam over the muscles of his back and shoulders and chest. And she gradually came to share his urgency, that heat of desire which had always finally driven them apart, smiling ruefully at each other.

Could this be the same place? And could that man ahead of her, the one bending his head with a smile to hear what Harriet was saying, be the man with whom she had walked and shared those confidences and those intimacies? Rebecca was conscious of a dull ache inside, which she could not disguise even by persisting in the conversation with Mr. Carver.

She was glad at least that it was not autumn.