Charity Begins at Home (11 page)

Chapter Six

Steadying his hand with a long-held breath, Tristan etched a fine black line along the charred mainmast. Then quickly, before he ruined it, he stepped back from the ship. Tomorrow he would begin filling in the background that he had so far neglected.

He emerged from his creative trance to the sounds of a household in operation. His studio, opening onto the long south balcony, was entirely too noisy on such a warm day, when every window in the house was open to the light breeze. But for a change the noise was pleasant. The new gardener below whistled a popular tune in counterpoint to the birdsongs; the foreman borrowed from Calder shouted instructions to his workers in a nearby field. A maid sang to herself in the hallway. The boys, taking their lessons on the terrace below, chanted their spelling words vigorously, Mrs. Cameron murmuring praise occasionally, corrections more frequently.

And Tristan thought if he listened hard enough he could hear his sister in the nearby drawing room, chatting with a few church ladies as they sewed rag dolls for the Midsummer prize booth. The great day was less than three weeks away, and Anna was sewing rag dolls as if her life depended on it.

But one voice he didn't hear—the cheerful one belonging to the girl who had organized all this humming activity. Today Charity's voice was silent. In the past week, Tristan had heard her brisk instructions to a new downstairs maid, her confidential whisper to the gossip-hungry Anna, even a trace of her laughter amidst the boys' gleeful shouts.

Never, however, did he hear a friendly greeting directed his way or a sudden observation that made him suspect she had read his mind. He never got close enough to her for that. Her visits always coincided with the early afternoon hours, when the light was so white and gold it seemed almost Italian, when Tristan surrendered himself to painting.

In fact, her visits were so perfectly timed that Tristan suspected she was avoiding him. And now, as he soaked his brushes and scrubbed his hands, he thought he knew why.

He had offended her during that picnic lunch. She had read his hesitance to join her and his quizzing about her proposals as warnings to steer clear. And so she had, all through the picnic, all through the week. Now he was weary of the game, weary of feeling like a villain, of sensing her presence and finding her gone, of hearing her voice and having to imagine her face.

He went out on the balcony to clear the paint fumes from his mind. As he gazed south, straining for a glimpse of the sea between the hills, he saw instead a small feminine figure cutting across the corner of the Haver Park. She squeezed through a gap in the unkempt hedge and emerged into the avenue that wound down to the village.

From her quick light steps as much as her direction, Tristan knew this was Miss Calder. He narrowed his eyes, shading them against the sunlight, and saw that she must be returning from some homely parish duty, for a goodwill basket hung from her arm. From this distance, he could distinguish only the faded blue of her gown and sunbonnet, a pastel as subtle as today's sun-blanched sky.

She had appeared as if prompted by his conscience. So he answered his own cue expeditiously. He changed into a pristine shirt, yanked on a coat, and bent to chip a paint spot off his Hessians. Then, mindful that the boys would soon be released from their lessons and beg to go along, he took the secret route, out the balcony. Without giving himself time to think, he swung his leg over the wall and slid down. Then he hung there for a moment, looking down at the ground a dozen feet away, contemplating the likelihood of breaking his ankle. He felt the rough stone scraping at his hands and decided better a broken ankle than a scabbed brush-hand, and let go. He landed safely on the soft, overgrown grass, dusted his tingling hands, and crossed the lawn to the elm-lined avenue.

Miss Calder was walking briskly down the slope toward the village. With its crooked streets, white and black houses, red and yellow and green square gardens, spread out like a display in a toyshop window, it was as neat and pretty and unique as the girl who served as its mainstay and source of energy.

He was just in time to see her quick figure vanish, as if the village's needs and demands had swallowed her up whole, like the whale with Jonah. But he knew where she must have gone, to that cross-shaped church with the deteriorating square tower, that tower whose expensive restoration so occupied Miss Calder's time.

She was not in the hushed, dusty church, so he walked across the yard under the ancient oaks to the church hall where she had said some of the Midsummer preparations would take place.

The hall was Tudor, like the rest of the village, far newer than the Norman-era church. As he came alongside it, he heard Miss Calder's laughter through the open casement window and knew he had come the right way. He glanced in through the rippled glass then hesitated there on the side of the hall, reluctant to call out. For on a raised platform that resembled a stage, beyond three stacks of pine boards, she was kneeling as if in prayer, her back to the room, her head bent. But then he heard another voice, raised in laughing protest.

She wasn't praying; she was hard at work, and not alone. She raised a hammer aloft in what in a less-amiable woman might have seemed a threatening manner, and indeed, the boy in front of her, holding the corner of a wooden frame with exaggerated gingerness, was giving a good imitation of fear.

"Crispin, you're such a coward! I promise you I won't hit you, no matter how much you deserve it!"

Her brother, Tristan thought, recognizing that form of abuse. They were building a huge canvas, the backdrop for Jonah and the Whale, perhaps, the one she wanted him to paint. They'd do better to construct a triptych, he thought with professional interest, then the canvas wouldn't sag in the middle and the effect would be more macabre. As Miss Calder's hammering echoed in the hall and escaped through his window, he envisioned a Hieronymus-Bosch-like scene: a distorted seascape, a monstrous whale with seamen dangling from its teeth, their feet kicking, arms flailing. Not his sort of painting, but it would be effective with the provincials.

The blond boy gave an exaggerated sigh of relief as the last tack secured the canvas to the wood. Then Miss Calder propped the frame, as tall as she and at least eight feet wide, against the back wall and surveyed it critically. The boy, however, was watching her. Not her brother after all, Tristan decided, annoyed. A brother wouldn't stand quite so close or watch her so intently or reach out and brush the stray curl back from her cheek like that.

Miss Calder only pushed another tack into the canvas frame and raised her hammer. "Cris, don't crowd me, or I shall have to hit you after all." Sullenly he drew away, and with a few swift blows she dealt with the last tack.

With this delicate operation concluded, Tristan went through the great rustic plank doors and, ignoring the boy entirely, said, "Miss Calder, I thought I would find you here."

She turned, startled. Her expression, before she assembled it into the familiar cheerful lines, was one of dismay, and he determined then and there that he couldn't abide that, couldn't let her respond so to his presence. If the words twisted his throat, he would apologize for his inadvertent offense; he would say what he must to make her regard him as she had when first they met, with that open willingness to be pleased.

The boy made no such attempt to hide his emotions. He took the hammer from Miss Calder and hefted it, more boyish than ever as he favored Tristan with a hard look, as if he meant to challenge him to a duel with building tools. No, he was most definitely not her brother.

"Yes, the lumber was delivered today, and I put Crispin right to work." So saying, Miss Calder put the paper twist of tacks into Crispin's free hand, abjuring him, "You be careful with those now. I don't want the children stepping on them."

The boy flushed dark, and Tristan knew an unwilling sympathy for him, treated so casually, as if they were brother and sister after all. But that was better, Tristan thought as she made swift introductions, never really looking at him, than to be treated as a stranger by the girl who had never known a stranger.

Crispin acknowledged him with a barely civil nod, then crossed to a stack of lumber and pulled a six-foot board off the top. "Come on, Charity. You said we had to make something to look like Jonah's boat or the children will never agree to rehearse."

Miss Calder gave Tristan a swift, unreadable glance from under her lashes before she replied. "Don't bother, Cris. I decided just to borrow a rowboat. But you can start building booths. We'll need a dozen at least for all the concessions." She untied the scarf from her hair, shook free the tangle of curls, then rolled down her sleeves. "I think I've mangled enough of my fingers for the day, but I'll go home and wake Barry and send him over to help you!"

Tristan noted that she did not bother to ask for his help, and, provoked, he broke in. "Perhaps I can walk with you then." She opened her mouth, and he said what he knew would forestall her demurral. "You mentioned that you needed someone to paint the backdrop of the whale. I have thought of a rather dramatic scene, but I don't know whether it would be appropriate for Midsummer."

His volunteering came as a surprise to them all, an unwelcome one to Crispin, who immediately said with some belligerence, "Charity, I told you I could paint a whale. Anyone can paint a whale. You don't need," his youthful voice dripped with sarcasm, "the
Royal Academy
to paint a whale."

Tristan ignored him, for the impulsive offer had done its job. Miss Calder was regarding him more charitably now; in fact, she even smiled at him as she gathered up her basket and donned her bonnet, leaving the ribbons undone to tangle with her dark curls. "Thank you, Cris, for the offer. But you've already volunteered to do so much. Just the booths will take a fortnight or so of evenings, for you know your papa will not be happy if I take you away from your duties every day like this."

Crispin's muttered protests grew louder as Tristan held open the door for her. Fortunately, relief arrived in the form of a familiar formidable matron in a prowlike bonnet just ascending the steps: Mrs. Hering, the lady who was keeping Anna supplied in rag doll material.

Miss Calder called back over her shoulder, "Oh, Cris, here is your mother!" They stood in the doorway then, exchanging greetings, while Crispin banged petulantly inside. "Mrs. Hering, Cris is going to build the booths, and I think he should start with the ale booth, don't you? Perhaps you can tell him what dimensions you want."

Ignoring her son's dismay, Mrs. Hering agreed and sailed past them, stopping to inspect the nearest pile of lumber then beckoning the boy to her. "Come, dear, have you got your tape measure? And where are your spectacles? You know you can't judge distances well! What are you thinking, leaving your specs at home? You'll probably pound your hand instead of the nail!"

Mrs. Hering's adjurations trailed Tristan into the soft afternoon, and he hid a smile as he followed Charity across the green to the street. There were some benefits to being orphaned, after all.

Villagers stopped them every few steps to say good afternoon, so Tristan wasn't immediately called upon to explain his offer of painting services, and even had a few moments to consider how to rescind it. As they crossed the main road in front of the half-timbered inn, the village school was just letting out. The stream of a dozen or so children past the black-garbed schoolmaster was diverted their way as soon as one sighted Miss Calder and cried, "There's Charity!"

They ignored Tristan altogether, pushing past him to gather round her on the village common, tugging at her skirt and calling her name. One little boy boastfully recited his alphabet and demanded her approval. A little girl held up a dirty bandaged finger, which Charity gravely examined. Finally, laughing, she dipped her hand into her basket and came up with a handful of paper-wrapped peppermints. With remarkable efficiency, she distributed them with a quick personal word to speed each child on the way.

As the children scattered, the schoolmaster Mr. Greenaway came forward to be introduced. They exchanged meaningless pleasantries, Tristan thinking that he had met more people in the ten minutes he had walked with Charity Calder than the ten days he had been in this village. She is so popular, he thought with an odd pang, watching her toss the last peppermint to the biggest boy and display her empty basket to the schoolmaster. I shall never have her to myself.

It was an aberrant thought, but one he had no chance to chase. Mr. Greenaway was holding out a sheaf of papers. "The play," he said. Something about his low, urgent tone and the careful way Miss Calder took the pages made Tristan study the schoolmaster's sharp face. He saw jealousy there—but not jealousy for Miss Calder, as the luckless Crispin had shown: jealousy of her. But why? Because his pupils preferred her?

Instinctively Tristan moved a step closer to her on the path, interposing his shoulder and arm between her and the schoolmaster.

It was a needless gallantry, certainly. Mr. Greenaway was a weedy young man with anxious hands that flexed and fluttered as Miss Calder skimmed his Jonah and the Whale play. He was harmless, no doubt. Tristan had met many like him in Italy, those nervous literary types hired to shepherd the sons of earls through the Grand Tour. The little lords usually thought the tour pretty grand, for the tutors were wont to drape themselves on various Roman ruins and write sonnets, leaving their charges to catch dread diseases from black-eyed pleasure girls. Lord Byron, Tristan always thought, had done Italy a great disservice, inviting in every pale English versifier who had ever read "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" and aspired to similar heights.