Chapter 6

Harriet was taken to task as soon as the group of six returned to the rest of the picnickers—by Julian.

“Really, Harriet,” he said, leaping to his feet as soon as he saw her approach and steering her by the elbow away from the others, “do you have windmills in your head? What was the point of that ridiculous exhibition you were putting on at the bridge?”

“I was walking across the wall,” she said, staring at him haughtily and jerking her arm away from him, “if it is any of your business, Julian. Anyway, you have done it a hundred times yourself. I have seen you.”

“When I was twelve years old and younger and knew no better,” he said. “Really, Harriet, I thought you had more sense.”

“You are behaving just like a mother hen!” she snapped, striding ahead of him to the river-bank, where their quarrel could be a little more private. “Thank you kindly, Julian, but I do not need you to tell me what I should or should not do.”

“I suppose it is all done for Christopher’s benefit,” he said scornfully.

Harriet glared at him, snapping open her parasol and twirling it behind her head. “And what is that supposed to mean?” she asked.

“You are showing off, Harriet,” Julian said sullenly. “Don’t think I have not noticed that you have set your cap at him.”

“Well!” she exclaimed. “You sound like a jealous lover, Julian. What if I do enjoy your brother’s company? He at least is fun to be with. He admired my courage earlier.”

“I doubt it,” Julian said, his face contemptuous. “He probably was playing the gentleman. I wouldn’t doubt that he really considers you to be a silly chit.”

“Well!” Harriet said again. “At least I know where I stand with you, Julian Sinclair. And you have been declaring undying love for me for the last two years.” She lifted her chin and turned back to the group of people seated on the blankets.

“I do care,” Julian said, looking miserable now. “I just hate to see you make a cake of yourself, Harriet, that is all.”

She tossed her head but did not deign to reply. She strode across to sit beside her father. There she received another scold.

Rebecca was talking to Mrs. Sinclair. She had been planning to join Philip but changed destination when she realized that Christopher had the same idea. The two men now appeared to be in earnest conversation.

“And when are you planning to set the date of your wedding, Miss Shaw?” Mrs. Sinclair asked. “Mr. Sinclair and I have been expecting it all summer, but the best of the season is already past.”

Rebecca smiled. “We still have not set a date, ma’am,” she said.

“It is such a long time since there was a wedding of any note in the church,” Mrs. Sinclair said with a sigh. “It would be such a treat to have another. We were very disappointed, you know, when Lord Holmes decided to marry his lady in London before bringing her home.”

“You can be sure, ma’am,” Rebecca said reassuringly, “that when we do set the date, you will be among the first to receive an invitation.”

“Such a very proper young man,” Mrs. Sinclair said, looking across at Philip with an affectionate smile. “He will make you a good husband, Miss Shaw. He is very like your poor dear papa except that he is perhaps a trifle more serious. Perhaps he will soften somewhat under your influence.”

Rebecca too looked across at her betrothed. He was very serious. She rarely saw him smile. She could not imagine what he found to talk about so earnestly with Christopher. She wondered what Mrs. Sinclair’s thoughts were about the past. Everyone had known that she and Christopher were seeing each other. Surely they must have suspected that the relationship was a serious one. Did they ever wonder what had happened? Of course, perhaps Christopher had explained the situation to them. Perhaps they knew more than she did.

Philip looked up at her while she was still staring in his direction. He beckoned and called to her above the hubbub of voices. Rebecca got reluctantly to her feet and moved over to where he sat with Christopher. Both men got to their feet as if they were in a formal drawing room rather than outdoors at a picnic.

“I have been telling Mr. Sinclair about the school,” Philip explained to her as they all sat down on the blanket.

Rebecca’s eyes strayed to Christopher’s chin. “Oh?” she said.

“I like the sound of what you have been doing there, Miss Shaw,” Christopher said. “It is quite a brave venture.”

“I do not know about brave,” she said, raising her eyes to his at last. “I think it only right. The poor should have as much right as we to an education.”

He inclined his head. “And do you find that the boys learn easily?” he asked.    .

Rebecca felt irritated. The school was too important to her to become the topic of a polite conversation. What did he care about the school or about the boys? “Probably as easily as any boys anywhere,” she said. “Those at Eton, for example.”

He raised his eyebrows, and she was annoyed to see that he looked amused for a moment. “I am glad you feel strongly about it,” he said. “But then I might have expected it. You always did feel passionately about the unfairness of class distinctions, I remember.”

Rebecca stared back, unable to look away from those blue eyes, and unable to think of anything to say in reply.

“Mr. Sinclair would like to visit the school one day, Rebecca,” Philip said. “I have suggested that he come tomorrow.”

“No!” Rebecca said sharply. “Tomorrow is my day, Philip. I am sure Mr. Sinclair would far prefer to see you teach. You are more competent than I.”

“I should like to be free to show him around,” Philip said. “It really would be more convenient if you would do the teaching.”

Rebecca looked back in dismay to Christopher. What right did he have to interfere with her activities this way? Was it such a great curiosity, a novel amusement, to be able to watch a village school in operation? She hated him for a moment.

“You will not be nervous, will you, Miss Shaw?” he asked. “I really am not a severe critic, you know. I am full of admiration for your efforts.”

He had said something very similar to Harriet after she walked across the wall of the bridge, Rebecca thought indignantly.

She lifted her chin. “I shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow, sir,” she said.

Philip’s attention had strayed several times in the direction of the river. “Lady Holmes was very foolish to wear such thin slippers,” he said at last. “The stones near the river are quite loose and jagged. How foolish some females are to sacrifice good sense and comfort to fashion.”

“But one must admit that she looks most charming,” Christopher added, also looking at Maude, who was standing alone at the river’s edge looking down into the water. “She has learned, you see, that greens look quite stunning on redheaded ladies.”

“She needs someone’s arm to lean on,” Philip said irritably, “before one of those stones cuts through a slipper and lames her.”

Christopher grinned. “I don’t believe we can expect her husband to walk that far,” he said, lowering his voice. “It looks as if you will have to play the gallant, Everett.”

Philip hesitated but finally got to his feet and strode across the grass to the stones that bordered the riverbank, his back registering anger. Maude turned hastily when he drew close, and even at the distance from which she viewed them, Rebecca could see that she flushed as she looked up into his stern face. Poor Maude! She admired Philip, but she seemed to sense that he disapproved of her. She seemed almost afraid of him.

“Is your fiancé always so humorless, Becky?” Christopher asked quietly, and Rebecca turned back to him with a start, realizing suddenly that they were almost alone, set apart from any of the other groups.

“Humorless?” she repeated. “You mean that he is not constantly laughing and joking? I think such behavior would be inappropriate in a vicar, don’t you?”

He did not answer immediately but regarded her with a half smile. “You are very much on the defensive,” he said. “Do you still hate me, Becky? Have I not been forgiven?”

She looked back at him, her jaw clenched. “I really don’t know what you are talking about,” she said. “What reason do I have for being angry with you?”

He smiled, his mouth a little twisted. “No,” he said, answering his own question, “I can see I have not. I did not expect to be. I cannot blame you, Becky. Ah, I see that finally Mama has signaled that it is time for the food. I thought she would never get to the point. Come. Let us go fill some plates.”

He got to his feet and held out a hand to help Rebecca to hers. She could not refuse without being publicly rude to him. But it was an ordeal worse than any she had yet experienced in the days since she heard he was coming home. To see him and to hear him was bad enough. To touch him was unendurable—that slim yet surprisingly strong hand that had so often held hers in the past, so often touched and caressed her.

Rebecca snatched her hand from his as soon as she was on her feet, hoping that her blush was not as noticeable as it felt. Had she looked at him, she would have seen that all traces of his smile had disappeared and that the new set to his jaw, which she had noticed during their first meeting, was very apparent. But she did not look up. She walked hastily over to the open picnic baskets, helped herself to food without even considering what it was she took, and seated herself right in the middle of the noisy group that included Ellen, Primrose, Julian, Mr. Bartlett, and Harriet.

Rebecca had hoped that Christopher would come on his curiosity visit to the school early in the morning. She wanted the ordeal over with. She had had a very disturbed night, lying awake and tossing and turning for what seemed to be hours and then dreaming so vividly that she felt afterward that she might as well have lain awake all night.

It felt so strange to see Christopher again, to move in the same circles as he yet to feel uncomfortable. They had always been friends, even when they were children and his friendly feelings had been displayed largely through practical jokes. They had always been comfortable together. She could hardly bear to be in his company now and to feel a stranger. She had never really known him, of course. The Christopher she had thought she knew could never have broken all his promises to her in order to marry a stranger for her money. And that Christopher could not have neglected his wife and cruelly flaunted his mistresses before her.

Now, since his return, she was very much aware that she did not know him. She no longer felt, as she used to, that just by looking at him she knew what he thought and how he felt. Now looking at him was rather like looking at a shield. She did not know how he felt about being home; she did not know what his attitude toward Harriet was; she did not know if he felt contempt, regret, amusement, or sheer indifference for herself. And she had no idea of why he would wish to give up a morning of his time to watch untutored boys learn their lessons. Was he trying to impress Philip? Her?

There was another reason why she wanted him to come early. She usually began the day with arithmetic, having found that the boys’ minds could handle numbers best when they were fresh. And all of the boys were progressing satisfactorily in that subject. Even Cyril could excel, since there was no reading involved. He was, in fact, one of her best pupils in mathematics. Being slow and meticulous, he was less likely than the others to make careless mistakes.

But the lesson in multiplication passed, and they had turned to their reading books before Philip finally pushed open the door and stood aside to let Christopher pass. Rebecca immediately felt herself flush. She curtsied, and then wished she had not done so. She felt very much like a lowly servant paying homage to a grand gentleman. He looked remarkably fine in buff riding breeches and olive-green superfine riding coat, snowy-white neckcloth arranged in intricate folds, black topboots still spotless and shiny after the ride from home.

He and Philip wandered to the back of the room and Rebecca resumed the lesson. The boys’ reading abilities seemed even less competent than usual. She guessed that they were feeling self-conscious. She was constantly aware that Cyril’s turn to read could not be ignored, though she did for a moment consider deliberately forgetting him.

The two men stood with their backs to the room for a few minutes while Philip was apparently showing the visitor the few books they possessed and the meager samples of the student work that they kept. But finally Christopher turned around and watched her as she listened to and helped each reader. He stood with his legs slightly apart, arms folded across his chest, looking totally out of place in the very modest setting of the schoolroom, thought Rebecca, though she did not once look directly at him.

Philip too turned around when Cyril began to read. Rebecca had found him a book in which the print was larger than in the others. She believed that under normal circumstances he might have read slightly better than usual. But these were not normal circumstances. The child glanced nervously around at Philip and in the process was also reminded that another strange and very formidable-looking stranger stood there, his whole attention on the class. His reading was quite incoherent. After a mere minute Rebecca told him gently to sit down and called the name of another boy. She was relieved that Philip said nothing.

The two men still lingered when she had dismissed school for the morning and the boys who lived too far from the village to go home for luncheon had taken their food outside. Rebecca stood at the table, straightening books that already stood in a neat pile.

“I am impressed, Miss Shaw,” Christopher said, moving toward the front of the room. “You have done your work well. The boys are amazingly proficient in reading, considering the fact that they have been coming to school for only a few months.”

“I am pleased with them,” Rebecca said, looking unwillingly up into his face. “But Philip works very hard too.”

He nodded. “You have commendable patience,” he said, his eyes smiling at her. “You always did, I remember. You would do tasks for the elderly even when they were tedious enough to try the patience of a saint. I would be inclined to yell and fume if every time a boy came to the word the I had to tell him what it was.”

“Yes,” she said, “Ben cannot get over that stumbling block. But he so consistently improves in all other areas that I do not have the heart to get cross with him over that one problem.”

Philip spoke, and they both turned toward him as if only then remembering his presence. “I really think we must tell Cyril’s parents that they are wasting their time sending him here,” he said. “He is our only real failure, Mr. Sinclair. The child does not even try, and it seems that one cannot force learning on anyone.”

“Oh, no,” Rebecca protested, “I think you are too harsh, Philip. It is true that he is not doing well in reading, but you must have noticed that he is more than satisfactory in arithmetic. And he does care. If he did not, he would not have become as nervous as he did this morning, knowing that you and Mr. Sinclair were listening to him. Anyway, Philip, I believe I have discovered his problem. I have been meaning to speak to you about it.”

“Perhaps another time,” Philip said. “We do not want to bore Mr. Sinclair with minor matters. Shall we go for luncheon, sir? My housekeeper will be expecting us.”

“In a moment,” Christopher said. “I should like to hear first what Cyril’s problem is. I felt great sympathy for the lad, I must admit.”

“He cannot see well,” Rebecca said. “I visited his home a couple of days ago, and he told me the words will not stay still on the page when he reads.”

“Ah,” he said, “I believe you are probably right. The boy must be fitted for eyeglasses.”

Rebecca stared at him blankly. Had his years in London removed him so far from reality? She could hardly keep the contempt from her voice when she spoke. “One might as well tell his parents to take him to the moon for a cure as advise them to buy him eyeglasses,” she said. “They would have to work a lifetime to pay for them.”

He looked searchingly back at her, an unreadable expression on his face. Then he nodded slightly but said nothing.

“My opinion is still the same,” Philip said. “If the boy cannot see to read, there is really no point in his being here. He would be better off and less frustrated working with his father. I do believe, as I always have, that all our children should have the right to an education, but it would be foolish to insist that everyone participate.”

‘‘Girls, for instance,” Rebecca said with a smile. She did not really treat the topic as a joke, but she felt that the moment called for lightheartedness.

Christopher grinned unexpectedly, looking disturbingly like the old Christopher. “Do I detect a grievance, Be— Miss Shaw?” he asked.

“Rebecca has several ideas that are very humane but quite impracticable,” Philip said without a glimmer of a smile. “Shall we go for luncheon?”

The invitation did not include Rebecca. Philip had explained when they first became betrothed that no breath of scandal should ever attach itself to their persons. She had never so much as been over the doorstep of the parsonage since he had moved in. And even on this occasion Philip obviously deemed it improper to ask her to dine with two single gentlemen.

Rebecca was very thankful now, though, for her betrothed’s strict notions of propriety.

Primrose and Julian Sinclair were in the drawing room drinking tea with Maude and Mr. Bartlett when Rebecca arrived home that afternoon. She was feeling unusually tired after the nervous tension of the morning and the long walk home through weather that had turned cold and blustery. She was thankful that brother and sister had come alone.

“How do you do, Miss Shaw?” Primrose cried gaily. “I have ridden Peter all this way today. Papa said I was accustomed enough to riding him that I could take him some distance. Julian insisted on coming too just in case there was any trouble.” She pulled a face and then giggled. “Though what he would have done if Peter had suddenly decided to bolt with me on his back I do not know.”

“I really had to make sure that she did not do anything foolish like trying to gallop across the fields,” Julian explained as if his sister were not present. “Prim used to do that with old Mollie when she thought no one was looking. But then old Mollie’s gallop was a mere trot by any normal standard.”

“It is terrible to be the youngest in the family,” Primrose said indignantly. “Everyone thinks I am still a baby to be protected instead of a seventeen-year-old young lady.” 

“Sorry, Prim,” Julian said uncontritely, “but sometimes you play the part too convincingly.”

“Well, Christopher can see that I am grown up anyway,” Primrose said, and turned her attention to Maude and Rebecca, her eyes dancing. “He says that Ellen and I may have a Season next year,” she said. “He will be in town again and he will see that we are admitted to all the important ton events. Even to Almack’s.”

“How splendid for you,” Maude said warmly. “I am sure your brother will make sure that you have a wonderful come-out Season.”

“Papa did think I would be too young,” Primrose said. “I nearly died! But Mama reminded him that I will be eighteen soon after Christmas, and he has said I may go.” 

“Christopher wants to send me on a Grand Tour,” Julian said. “It has always been my dream to travel, especially to Greece. But it just seems too extravagant. He is very insistent, though.”

Maude smiled warmly and poured a second cup of tea for Rebecca. “You are very fortunate to have such a generous brother,” she said. “I am glad Mr. Sinclair has come home so that we might make his acquaintance.” 

Rebecca was aware of Mr. Bartlett’s eyes on her and looked up at him. He was frowning broodingly. “He is riding with Miss Shaw this afternoon?” he asked, shifting his glance to Julian.

Julian glowered. “Yes,” he said. “She don’t seem so interested in me since Christopher came home. Can’t say I blame her really. He is top of the trees, I can see that.” 

“And so will you be soon enough,” Maude said gently, “especially after your Grand Tour.”

Mr. Carver and Ellen are with them,” Primrose added. “They would not let me go with them because I would make an odd number. Or so Ellen said. I would have enjoyed going. Mr. Carver is so funny, though I do not believe he always means to be. Just seeing him laugh is enough to put me into convulsions.”

Rebecca smiled. She could not help but agree.

“Have you had your invitations to the Langbourne ball, Lady Holmes?” Primrose asked. “I cannot imagine why I did not think of it until now. We were in a fever of excitement this morning. Ellen could not go last year because she had a chill, and this is the first time I have been included in the invitation. And they must have heard of Christopher and Mr. Carver being here because they are to go too.”

“Sir Clive and Lady Ethel Langbourne always pride themselves on having as great a squeeze as possible for their annual ball,” Maude said. “They must indeed have discovered the goings-on for miles around, for Stanley was included in our invitation. You have a card too, Rebecca. Did you not see it on the hall table?”

“No,” Rebecca replied. “I must admit that I had only two thoughts as I came through the hallway, and those were to reach a comfortable chair and the teapot.”

“You will be accepting the invitation I trust, Miss Shaw?” Mr. Bartlett asked with his charming smile.

“I really do not know,” she said. “I went to sit with Ellen and Primrose last year, I remember.”

“Ah, but there will be no one needing your services at home this year,” he said, “and the gathering would certainly not be complete without your presence, you know.” 

“You really must come, Rebecca,” Maude agreed. “I greatly admire you for all the useful work you do, but I really would like to see you enjoy yourself more. Do you think the Reverend Everett will be invited?”

“He was last year,” Rebecca said, “though he was forced to send his apologies at the last moment in order to stay at a deathbed.”

“Perhaps you will both be able to go this year,’’ Maude said. “It will be good for you.”

“I think we should be starting back, Prim,” Julian said. “It looks as if it may rain before the day is out.”

“Oh, Miss Shaw,” Primrose said, jumping to her feet, “do come and see me on Peter’s back. You will see how really splendid he is.”

Rebecca got to her feet with a smile. “Lead the way,” she said.

They were in the stable yard, Primrose and Julian already on horseback, when Harriet and Christopher came riding in. Rebecca was clasping her arms, rubbing them against the chill which the brisk wind was causing. Loud greetings were exchanged.

“What a glorious day for a ride!” Harriet said brightly. “Of course, we could have had a much brisker gallop if Mr. Carver had not been with us. He is quite staid.” 

“Luke?” said Christopher, dismounting and holding up his arms to lift Harriet to the ground. “Not at all. He was just wise enough to know that the countryside over which we were riding was not suitable terrain for a gallop.” “Pooh,” said Harriet. “I have been galloping over all the land hereabouts for years.”

“Then you are very fortunate, young lady,” Christopher said with a smile, “to still have a neck on which to balance your very pretty head.”

Harriet tittered and smiled coquettishly into his face, which was very close to hers at that moment.

He released his hold on her waist and turned to Rebecca. “I’ll wager Primrose dragged you out here to see her Peter, Miss Shaw,” he said. “She seems to feel that there is no greater treat in life for other people than to be allowed to view her horse, especially with her perched on its back. But you are cold. You should have brought a shawl with you.”

She smiled rather stiffly. “I shall go back inside in a moment,” she said. “And indeed, I must agree with Primrose. Peter is well worth seeing.”

He held her eyes for longer than seemed necessary. “You look tired after a day of teaching,” he said, his eyes searching hers. “It must be an exhausting business. May I escort you inside?” He offered his arm.

“No!” she said breathlessly and hastily. “Indeed I am not as tired as all that, sir. The air feels good. I shall say good-day to you all.” She turned and would have left the four of them standing there.

“Christopher,” Primrose said suddenly, “Miss Shaw says that she is not sure if she will attend the Langbourne ball next week. Do you tell her she must. You are very good at bullying people.”

“I wish I could bully you into a greater display of good manners, my girl,” Christopher said as Rebecca clutched her arms harder in an agony of embarrassment. “I have no wish to coerce Miss Shaw into doing anything she does not desire to do.”

“Oh,” Harriet said. “You must come, Rebecca. You can be so stuffy sometimes, but you are only six-and-twenty. Really that is not so old. It will be a few years yet before you will be forced to sit with the chaperons.”

“I really have not said I will not go,” Rebecca said. “I have not even read my invitation yet, Harriet.”

“I have no wish to coerce you,” Christopher repeated, “but I do hope that you decide to come, Miss Shaw. Those of us who learned and performed the waltz here last week must show off our accomplishment at the ball.”

His eyes, she saw when she looked directly at him over her shoulder, were positively dancing with merriment. Her stomach lurched. The old Christopher, some joke constantly on his lips.

“Go, Miss Shaw,” he said, “before your hands and face match the blue of your dress.”

Rebecca went.