Charity Begins at Home (37 page)

By the time the torchlit parade snaked around back to the stage, she had already begun preparations for the second play. Barry, Jacob, and Crispin cursed as they hauled the heavy canvas backdrops across the green, stumbling into each other in the dark. When Tristan saw them manhandling his paintings onto the stage, he sheathed his sword, yanked the chainmail vest over his head, and joined them. "Put the middle one there, Barry. Yes, there, in the middle. No, that's upside down. By God, if you put your foot through the whale, I'll kill you."

Glad of his authoritative presence, Charity left the set design to Tristan and gathered her performer around her beside the stage. She wet her finger and brushed a shard of peppermint off the face of her star, Jack Moresby, and helped the Haverton boys change into the striped jerseys that proclaimed them sailors. Mary Moresby, another seaman, objected at the last minute to having her ringlets stuffed under a cap. "Fine," Charity said coolly. "We have plenty of seamen. You may go sit with your mama and watch."

The threat worked; Mary pulled on her cap and assumed a piratical expression, which Lawrence and Jeremy tried to imitate. The other seamen lined up in the order they would be sitting in the boat and promised not to fight until after the play was done. When they were all standing at attention, chins down on chest, shoulders braced, she said, "Don't move. I'll be just a moment."

Jacob and Barry were wrestling the rowboat in front of the backdrop, with Tristan directing its exact placement. As Charity walked through the audience, she heard the gasps that greeted the unveiling of the whale triptych. Well, she thought with mordant humor, at least no one will ever forget this Midsummer. They will forever recall it as the one with the man-eating whale.

When she saw the vicar sitting with Mrs. Dalton, Charity felt in her pocket for the script she already knew by heart and brushed aside Charlie's bits of pyrite and mica. She took a deep, steadying breath. This was a gesture of reconciliation, but it could be so easily interpreted as something else. And the vicar's expression when she approached him was not conciliatory—guarded, rather, as if he no longer knew how to deal with her. It didn't matter; she held out the script to him.

"Mr. Langworth, I need your help."

He didn't say that she should have asked for that long since on many matters of more import, but his nod was a little curt.

In for a penny, in for a pound, she told herself. "I meant for the squire to read the words of God in the play, but then I realized that might be somewhat—blasphemous." Oh, no, she thought, seeing Mrs. Dalton's startled face, now they'll think I'm criticizing the squire. "For an ordinary man, even one as good as Mr. Hering, to take on the role of God. But for a vicar it would be no different, would it, than reading the words of God during the sermon?"

The vicar opened his mouth to protest, but Charity didn't let him. "If we don't have God's words, then this will be just another, umm, sensational play about a man swallowed by a fish. It will have no moral import. But if God is in it, then, then—" she added bravely, "it will be godly. Do say you will read the words." She forced the script into his hand. "Do you see, I've underscored your lines—I mean, God's word—in red. You have such a powerful voice. I think you can sit here under the torch and merely speak them." The vicar was noncommittal, only scanning the lines as she used her last desperate weapon. "Indeed, I think that it might be all the more effective, to have God's word ring out from the middle of the audience, as a reminder that He is with us always."

Mr. Langworth glanced up at this, and a curious light shone in his eyes. "So I am to perform. In the role of God."

My word, Charity thought, he is as starstruck as Molly. Fearful of hexing this piece of good fortune, she bade him a quick thanks and sped back to the less divine performers.

Charlie was waiting for her. He had crawled about the stage in search of his rock and trusted her no more with the rest of his treasures. She handed them over, but reminded him he had promised to supply the storm noises for the play. She showed him the bucket of large stones, which he examined with professional interest. "Charlie, please. You just shake the bucket when it's supposed to be thundering. I'll take care of the surf noise."

At her signal, the squire, still in his royal purple robes, introduced St. Catherine's own rendition of that great Biblical tale, "Jonah and the Whale." Some notion of fairness had made her insist that he identify the author as David Greenaway and herself as merely the adaptor and director. Tristan, standing next to her, gave her arm a squeeze as the squire intoned that the backdrop was painted by Lord Braden. "And Charity Calder," Tristan whispered in her ear. "We should give credit where credit is due."

His breath against her cheek, his generous words, made her color up. She wished that this could be over so that they could have some easeful time alone, without the specters of Midsummer or David Greenaway or Jonah's whale looming over them. Then she could thank him properly for his kindness, and—and ask him for more. She would visit him, she vowed to herself, when she traveled to Italy, no matter how improper that was. And there, in the heat of the Italian sun, they would start again, away from this village that claimed her and restrained her and kept her from herself.

As the squire bowed and left the stage, Charity wrenched her mind back to work. She signaled to Jack Moresby to lie down on the stage as if asleep. The vicar, a born actor, took this as his cue, and intoned, "Arise, Jonah, go to Ninevah, and cry against it."

Jack rose and stretched and looked befuddled, then when the vicar repeated the line, he put on a terrified expression and dashed downstage. Charity gave Jeremy, the first sailor, a little shove, and the ship's crew clambered on stage and into their boat. Jack approached, glancing all about him as she had taught him, and in a carrying whisper asked Lawrence, "Can you take me to Tarshish?"

The play went well. The children remembered most of their lines, no one fell out of the boat, and the vicar made an impressive voice of God. Charity let go of some of the tension that had gripped her all day. Soon Midsummer would be done and without disaster—without transformation, too, it was true. But the fair would soon be over, and she would be free.

Tristan was still standing behind her, watching over her shoulder as his nephews rowed furiously. He laughed, and the flickering light outlined the dramatic planes of his face and the curve of his smile. Did he want another chance, too? As Francis said, he was still here. It was enough to give her hope.

There was a burst of applause, and with the aplomb of seasoned stars, the children joined hands at the edge of the stage and bowed. Charity clapped until her hands hurt, then kissed each child coming off the stage. "You did wonderfully well," she said before she dismissed them to their families. "The best Midsummer play ever."

Before he took his nephews home, Tristan bent to whisper in Charity's ear, "The triptych is yours,
cara
. I can't imagine where you'll place it, but I never want you to forget this Midsummer."

Pausing for a moment beside her, Francis was quick to congratulate her, or so he said. His real role turned out to be spoilsport. "I've told Barry to see you home when you're done here."

It was no use, but she tried anyway. "But Francis, what about the dancing?"

Francis shook his head. He was distracted, looking past her to the crowd at the bonfire. "You know that's not for girls like you. The activities get heated there by the fire, and I've more important things to do than to try to peel some foxed farmhand off you."

Charity retorted that she was quite able to deal with farmhands herself. But then she saw his fists clenching and unclenching, and recalled that a proposal was the most important thing he must be planning to do. No need to add to his anxiety with resistance.

Still, her sense of anticlimax grew as everyone removed to go dancing and she was left to pick up the discarded costumes. Even Cinderella danced till midnight. She stomped around the stage, feeling childishly resentful. She had expected more of this night than a square destiny cake and kisses from children.

But as she pulled the covers down over the great triptych, recalling the hours they spent painting, she had to smile. This was hers now; Tristan had given them to her. And she supposed that was better than a glass slipper and a pumpkin coach.

Any slight hope that she might still be able to get a dance or two with Tristan if he returned was dashed when Barry vaulted onto the stage with Jacob and Crispin to tow. They helped her douse the torches but wouldn't hear of lingering. "No, no, don't worry," Barry said. "We'll just come back after we take you home, sis!"

So she trailed along home like a good girl, cursing the social system that let her younger brother drink and carouse and denied her even a single dance in the Midsummer firelight.

Just as the lane up to the Grange crossed the stream, Crispin leaned toward her, his eyes clearly bloodshot even in the dim light. "Just tell me where that Greenaway fellow is, and I'll search him down and rip 'im up a bit for you. Just tell me.

He stumbled on a speck of dust in the lane and fell onto her. With a muttered curse she shoved him away. "I don't need you to fight my battles, Crispin Hering. Especially—" she added, as he stumbled backward, flailing as if she were the whale and had swamped him with her mighty tail, "since you can scarcely stand up."

Crispin balanced for a long moment on the edge of the road, then with an "uh-oh" he tumbled into the stream. "Some protectors you are." She shook her head and, leaving Crispin to be rescued by his friends, went on home alone.

Chapter Twenty-four

In that tantalizing moment before full sleep descended, she almost ignored the tap at her window. But curiosity proved stronger than drowsiness, and she shook herself awake. In the darkness the window was a gloss of moonlight; the casement was open just a crack. "Come out, Charity."

At once wide awake, she ran to the window and threw it open, almost knocking Tristan from his perch on a ladder. "What on earth are you doing here?"

Hands gripping the window sill, he gazed up at her innocently. In the moonlight his dark eyes danced with laughter. "Midsummer's not over yet,
cara
. I wanted to invite you to my picnic."

"Tristan, we can't have a picnic. It must be near two o'clock!"

His face fell. "Then what am I to do with the champagne? And the strawberries?" In a sudden, decisive motion he grasped her wrist. "No, I can't let them go to waste. You must come along."

He was ruthless, Charity realized with a thrill. "I'll climb down myself," she promised, afraid he might try to sweep her over the window sill. She waited until he had descended. "Move back," she whispered into the cool air.

"Charity, I have to hold the ladder for you. I'll look the other way, I promise."

She was too disoriented by the whole experience to question any part of it. So, glad of her tree-climbing skills, she stuck one foot out the window and found the ladder rung. Then, all too aware of her billowing cotton nightgown, she made a quick descent into his arms. She couldn't deny the tremble of her body but sought instead to disguise it. As he set her down on her bare feet, she said, "Oh, it's so chilly! And the grass is wet!"

Immediately he pulled off his gray riding coat and draped it over her shoulders. She pulled it close around her, savoring the warmth of him in the linen. "Will you give me your boots also?"

His brows drew together, but a smile quirked the comer of his mouth. "A heroine should not make such complaints when she's being abducted. Your concern should be for your virtue, not your feet."

Even in dazzlement, Charity retained her pragmatism. "Well, young Lochinvar, unless you want my brothers also concerned for my virtue, you'd better move this abduction farther from the house."

He tugged her through the shrubbery edging the side drive and down the service lane. Outlined against the darker sky was the patient Giotti, laden with saddlebags but still somehow dignified. As his master approached trailing a young hostage, he dropped his head as if disavowing any acquaintance.

Drawing deep breaths, Charity leaned against Tristan's arm as he adjusted the saddle. She was too athletic to attribute her breathlessness to anything but excitement. And it was exciting, to be stealing away while the rest of the sensible populace slept off a Midsummer Eve, to be out in the misty air in her nightgown, to feel the hard warmth of a man against her, though she could barely make out his features in the darkness. "Where is my horse?"

In answer, Tristan put his hands on her waist and hoisted her into the saddle. Before she could protest, he sprang up behind her, reaching around her for the reins, leaving one arm snug about her waist. He nudged the horse into a trot and they left the safe confines of Calder behind them. "I don't provide mounts for my captives. Only champagne."

It was all too outrageous to protest and too magical to resist. So she leaned back against him, savoring the hard support of his chest and the security of his arm around her. Above, a half-moon silvered the clouds and cast pale light over the hills. The air was scented with wildflowers, the night alive with the songs of crickets and the rhythmic beat of hooves. She was drowning in sensual delight, and with a longing sigh realized there was more to come.

More to come: the glow of the great Midsummer bonfire off in the dark south sky, the little grove of silver birches arching toward the brook, the soft blanket he spread there, the strawberries bursting sweet in her mouth, the champagne drunk from the bottle for lack of glasses. And Tristan, his eyes alight, stretched out beside her, his callused hand caressing her bare arm. He spoke Italian slowly and sensuously so that she was able to understand nearly every word. It was so much like a fantasy that she knew she would never believe it in the morning. So she simply savored it, lived it, knowing that soon she could do no more than yearn for the vanished dream.