To Love and to Cherish (18 page)

“I don’t know, but don’t stop,” she said in a throaty murmur that made his blood race.

It took all his self-control to take his hands off her soft, perfect breasts and put a few inches of distance between them. She was adorably mussed; she even had a straw in her hair. He removed it tenderly, then took her hands in both of his. “Anne.” He made his voice serious; he wanted to be sober, so to speak, for what he was about to say, so she would know that passion wasn’t all that motivated it. “Anne, my love.” She bent her head to kiss his fingers. When she looked up again, he saw that there were tears in her eyes. “I love you, darling. With all my heart. It’s too soon to tell you that, I know”—she shook her head—“but I have to. I love you. If you’ll have me, I promise I’ll make you happy.”

“I’m already happy.” The tears welled over and spilled down her cheeks.

He had to kiss her again. He tasted salt on his tongue and felt like weeping with her, he was so happy. “It’ll have to be a secret engagement. Probably for a whole year,” he said ruefully. “Even after that, we couldn’t marry for a few more months, not without offending the whole—”

“Christy, stop—I can’t marry you!”

The surprise in her voice was more of a shock than the words—at first. What did she think he’d been leading up to? “You can’t?” he said stupidly.

“No.
No
. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you—that you wanted—that you were
proposing
to me.” She made the word sound outlandish, even distasteful. “It’s just—oh, Christy, I’ll never marry again. I have no intention of marrying again, anyone. But
especially
you.”

She stood up and backed away from him. All he could do was blink at her while she made a shaky-fingered attempt to rebutton her dress. When his wits came back, he said, “Why not?”

She looked at him as if he were a slow-witted child. “Because! You’re a minister!”

He stood up, too. “It’s the first I’ve heard that that rules out marriage.” He thought that came out sounding fairly reasonable; odd, since inside his head everything was chaos.

“Christy,” she said patiently, “I don’t believe in God. You’re a priest and I’m an atheist.”

“You’re an agnostic. That’s—”

“No, I’m not, I’m an atheist. For me to marry you, it would be like—like St. Paul marrying a harlot.” He snorted. “Or Jesus marrying Mary Magdalene.” He started to laugh, but she cut him off. “How can you even consider it? It’s impossible, absurd. We can’t be together like that.”

He spread his hands. “Then how can we be together?”

She started to pace. The mare sidestepped out of the way, sensing her nervousness. “It would be risky for you. I don’t care for myself, I honestly don’t, but if we were found out I suppose it could be very bad for you. They might even defrock you or whatever it’s called.”

The truth hit him. Just to make sure, he said, “What are you talking about?”

She stopped pacing and looked him in the eye. “I’m talking about an affair,” she said boldly.

“An affair.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Are you in earnest? Because it’s
wrong
.”

“I don’t see anything wrong with it! It’s not adultery—we’re not married. ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery’—we wouldn’t be. ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife’—you wouldn’t be.”

He didn’t know whether to laugh at her or throttle her. “Have you ever heard of the sin of fornication?”

“It’s not a sin to me.” She crossed her arms and lifted her chin.

“Is that so. How many affairs have you had?”

“That’s not the point. If I haven’t had any, it’s because I haven’t wanted to until now, not because I think they’re immoral.”

She had an answer, albeit a stupid one, for everything. “Anne, have you ever thought about this? Ever sat down and really given it any serious consideration?”

“Have you?” she countered.

“Yes, I have. In the abstract as well as the concrete.”

An impish light came into her eyes. Moving a step closer, she made her voice seductive and asked, “With whom have you thought about it in the concrete, Reverend?”

He was enchanted all over again. But he kept his hands to himself and just said, “Fishing for compliments?”

“Maybe.” She smiled naturally, dropping the coyness. “You want me, don’t you?”

“I want to marry you.”

“I can’t marry.”

“In time you won’t feel that way. It’s too soon, you’re still—”

“No, you’re wrong. I never wanted to marry Geoffrey either, and I was right. I never should have.”

“Marrying Geoffrey was a mistake,” he agreed. “Marrying me—”

“Would be almost as catastrophic. Christy, it’s impossible, it’s absolutely out of the question!” She pounded her fist against the palm of her hand, meaning it. “If there were ever two people who shouldn’t marry each other, it’s you and I. And not only because of our—ha!—religious differences. When you get down to it, we have nothing in common. I couldn’t live here in Wyckerley for the rest of my life. Me, a minister’s wife?” She laughed again, without humor. “Visiting the poor and the sick, having people to dinner, being nice to the bishop—all that political nonsense—”

“I can see you doing all of that.”

“But this isn’t my home. I—I want to go back to Italy, to Ravenna, where I grew up.”

“Ravenna?” It was the first he’d heard. He tried to keep exasperation out of his tone, but it was getting harder. “Do you have people there? Family?”

“I was happy there,” she evaded. “We left when my mother died, but I have memories—”

“Anne, you were seven years old!”

She turned her back on him for a moment, then spun back around. The distress in her face made him close the gap between them and take her hands. “Oh, Christy,” she wailed, “it’s hopeless. I’m simply not the wife for you. You know it too, I think.” He started to deny it, but she put her fingers over his lips. “But we could still be together. We could still be happy.” She caressed his cheek, then his lips with her fingertips. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his mouth, whispering his name. He watched her eyes close, felt a tremor of wanting shudder through her body.

He put his hands on her shoulders and gently pried her away.

She blushed. At first he couldn’t believe it; he thought she must be about to cry. But she didn’t cry, and the blush—her first ever, as far as he knew—was because she was embarrassed. Such a storm of tenderness seized him then, he couldn’t contain it. “Oh, Christ, Anne,” he mumbled, reaching for her.

But she jerked back, and now there was a holy fire in her eyes. “Oh, so it’s a sin to kiss me now?” she said scathingly. “I loathe your religion. You say you love me, but you won’t be my lover. How can love ever be a sin?” She brought her arms out and dropped them back to her sides. “Oh, this is completely hopeless. I’m sorry, Christy, I made a mistake. The truth is, you’re too provincial for me. I can see now that we don’t suit at all.”

She had her hand on the door to the stall before he realized she was leaving.
Leaving
. It was a trick to move fast so he could catch her, and smoothly so he wouldn’t spook Molly. He managed it, and he had the added satisfaction of seeing Anne’s face go from grim to astonished in the second before he grabbed her, backed her up against the rails, and growled at her, “This is the way we kiss in the provinces.” Her surprised mouth was an open target. He took an intimate, breath-robbing kiss from her, then another and another.

She wilted. Making the loveliest sounds, she found the strength to reach behind him and press her hands to his buttocks, pulling him close against her. Raw sexual heat burned him. He pulled her head back and kissed her throat with his hot, open mouth, while his fingers played over the soft swell of her bosom, teasing her, making her moan. “Marry me,” he grated, taking dangerous little nips of her neck with his teeth. “Marry me, Anne.” She tried to shake her head, but he wouldn’t let her. “Marry me.” All she got out was “Nnn,” before he silenced her with his mouth. He could feel himself losing control, and at the last second it came to him that seducing Anne wasn’t the solution to his problem, but to hers.

Shivering with frustration, he dragged his mouth away and rested his forehead against hers. Their mingled breaths sounded harsh and desperate, and it was no consolation at the moment to know that he’d succeeded in getting her as excited as he was; in fact, he felt contrite. Without much hope, he said, “We wouldn’t have to wait a whole year. To hell with it—six months.”

She shook her head and said, “No, no, no, no no.”

Standoff. Their hands fell away from each other, but they didn’t move apart. She looked the way he felt—drained.

“I’m going to wear you down,” he warned.

“I’m going to seduce you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. If I’m a sinner and I have to go to hell, I damn well want you with me.” Suddenly she smiled. “Just you. Think about it, Christy—you and me in hell. Wouldn’t it be heaven?”

He stepped back, shaken. If she was the devil in disguise, he had serious fears for the fate of his immortal soul.

“You’d better run,” she taunted shakily. “I’m going to get you.”

He pointed his finger at her. “The bigger the sinner, the harder she falls. I’m going to get
you
.”

A noise from the front of the stables made them both jump. “Collie’s back!” Anne said in a guilty whisper.

Christy snatched his coat off the floor and said, his eyes rolling upward to God,
“Thank you.”

XIII

Let the heavens rejoice, and let the earth be glad; let the sea thunder and all that is in it; let the field be joyful and all that is therein. Then shall all the trees of the wood shout for joy before the Lord, for he cometh, for he cometh to judge the earth.

W
HEN HE COMETH
to judge the earth
, thought Anne,
I will be in trouble. Because I tried to corrupt one of his finest creations
.

Sitting in her warm, padded, D’Aubrey family pew, she lifted her gaze from her prayer book and let it rest on Christy. He was reading the 96th Psalm, his Bible in his left hand, gesturing with his right with smooth, slow, hypnotic movements, perfectly in tune with the psalm’s joyful message. His vestments were white today, in celebration of Christmas. In the light of the altar candles, his graceful robes glowed like mother-of-pearl, and his gorgeous golden hair gleamed with a radiance she could only call heavenly.

Heavenly?
Good Lord. But it was true; what she thought of as his militant angel quality always seemed to intensify when he had on his liturgical garments and was backlit by candles and crucifixes. If he had suddenly sprouted wings and brandished a fiery sword, she doubted anyone in the congregation would have been surprised.

And she’d tried to seduce him. If the memory of that afternoon in Molly’s stall weren’t so vivid, she’d have thought it a hallucination. Seduce the vicar of All Saints? Look at him! He was reading the Collect, preparatory to the Lesson and the sermon—she could follow the liturgy now like a seasoned congregationist—and his voice rang with the absolute conviction that God’s only Son was born of a pure virgin and became a man. She lowered her eyes, ashamed. If there was a God, she’d have to ask his pardon; but since there wasn’t, she guessed she’d have to ask Christy’s.

She hadn’t seen him alone since their encounter in the stables. He’d invited her—in a
note
—to attend the adult choir’s Advent program, and she went, not knowing what to expect. As it turned out, there was nothing to expect; after the singing, he disappeared. On some church business, no doubt, but she didn’t want to ask Reverend Woodworth exactly what. And once he’d come to the Hall to ride Devil, but he left immediately afterward without coming to the house or trying to see her; she wouldn’t even have known about it if William Holyoake hadn’t mentioned it to her. Since then, nothing.

It meant he’d come to his senses, and that was a good thing. That was the best thing that could happen. Yes, yes, yes, but why did she feel so let down? All that heat, all that new, forbidden wanting, the excitement, and the hard, wrenching
denial
in the end—gone! And apparently forgotten by him, as if it had never been. Could he really have discarded her that easily? Written her off as a risk not worth taking? An occasion of sin his soul was better off avoiding? The thought was not only distressing but perversely galling. She already admired his willpower; she didn’t feel like increasing the admiration by adding herself to his list of successfully abandoned temptations.

But he’d said he loved her. Oh, God. He loved her.

He didn’t know her, of course; if he did, he couldn’t love her. She had too much bleakness inside, too much desolation. Compared to her, he was a sun god—Apollo to her dark Diana. Oh, but he’d said it, “I love you, Anne,” and so he must believe it, because Christy would never lie. So she could keep that, no matter what else happened.

But evidently he was fighting his illicit passions and winning. She should feel glad for him; that would be the Christian thing to do. But she didn’t feel a bit glad. She listened to his sermon in a bad mood. It was a simple one, and short for him, on the miracle of the Nativity. He thought he gave terrible sermons, but Anne disagreed. Maybe sinners didn’t suddenly fall to their knees, repent, and turn their lives around because of his power and eloquence, but she doubted if anyone’s sermons accomplished that, not in any lasting way. What Christy couldn’t see was that he—“manifested” was probably the word—he manifested God’s teachings by his own manly, gentle, upright example. She could listen to him preach all day, because his intentions showed through so plainly. He’d told her more than once that even he had doubts at times, occasions when his faith failed him—a confession that, had shocked and fascinated her. But if he did have doubts, it never showed in his sermons, during which he appeared to believe in,
glory
in, every word he uttered. That was his magic: his absolute earnestness.

The children’s choir sang “Behold a Little Child” like angels, led by Sophie Deene, who still looked pretty despite the heavy black mourning she wore for her father. When the time for Holy Communion came, Anne sat still in her pew, as always, and watched Christy distribute the bread and wine to the communicants. These were the times when she almost envied people for their devout-looking, mysteriously simple belief. Christy said faith was a gift, which was not consoling since it meant God had decided not to give it to her. Did the villagers wonder and whisper about the interesting fact that Lady D’Aubrey never took the sacraments? Oh, probably. They’d whisper louder if they knew she’d never been confirmed in their Anglican religion. They’d
shout
if they knew what she’d tried to do with their pastor two weeks ago in a horse stable . . .

Christy was blessing them: “May the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, keep thy hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of God, and of his Son Jesus Christ our Lord.”

“Amen.”

Anne put away her prayer book and her hymnal, relieved that the service was over. She didn’t know what she was going to do about Christy; but if she was going to renounce him, it would be easier to do if she didn’t have to look at him.

The reprieve would be brief, though: he and forty village children and their parents were coming to her house in two hours for the annual Christmas revel.

***

The great hall refused to look intimate, in spite of the best efforts of every housemaid, kitchen maid, footboy, and stable lad Anne had set to work on the project. The dimensions of the vast, echoing chamber defied coziness no matter how many boughs of holly, ivy, spruce, or pine were lugged in and dutifully hung from its burnt, mile-high rafters. But with a Nativity scene complete with manger and live lambs, a Christmas tree laden with holly berries and lit candles, and a Yule log crackling in the enormous fireplace hearth, no one could deny that the place looked
festive
. As soon as the children began arriving, the distinction between cozy and festive became irrelevant in any case, and the new challenge was trying to be heard over the din.

“What can I do to help?” Miss Weedie almost had to shout. “Just give me your worst job and forget all about me.” She looked tall and gawky in a dress of plum-purple bombazine that didn’t become her; in fact, it looked as if it might have belonged originally to her mother. But her anxious smile was kindness itself, and Anne had grown extremely fond of her faded prettiness and the frowzy blond hair that wouldn’t stay put no matter how many pins she stuck in it.

Anne looked around, feeling a bit overwhelmed. The adult residents of Wyckerley might be in awe of Lady D’Aubrey, but their children definitely weren’t, and they were making free with her great hall as if it were the village green on May Day. Just then a little girl of about four barreled into her hip. Anne bore the impact sturdily, but the child toppled over backward and landed on her behind. Before she could cry, Anne knelt down and pulled her into her arms. “Well, hello!” she exclaimed brightly. “How in the world did that happen?” She kissed one sticky cheek, and the little girl smiled at her shyly. “What’s your name?”

“Birdie,” she mumbled.

“Birdie? That’s a pretty name. Do you know what mine is?”

“No.”

“No?” She made an amazed face that tickled Birdie and made her giggle. “You don’t know who I am?”

“You’re the Hall lady. We’re to curtsey when we see you an’ say ‘Good day, m’lady’” Her little snub features lit up. “I know your name,” she crowed. “It’s M’lady!”

Anne laughed. “I guess it is,” she said, and stole another quick kiss before Birdie scrambled up and ran off. Anne rose to her feet a little wistfully. She’d known it before, of course, but until now it had never hit her with such force—one of the problems with ruling out marriage was that one also ruled out children.

To Miss Weedie she said, “It was so good of you to come. How is your mother today?”

“She’s better, thank you, and asked me to tell you in particular how much she enjoyed the pumpkin soup. Miss Pine is sitting with her while I’m here.”

“Then I’m indebted to Miss Pine as well.”

Miss Weedie blushed. “How can I help you?” she repeated.

“You can tell me whose idea it was to give the boys whistles for presents and let them open them up before the party even begins!”

Miss Weedie, who always took her literally, looked confused, then worried.

“It was mine,” Anne explained, laughing. “Collie Horrocks, our groom, is a wood-carver in his spare time, and I set him to making twenty-five whistles two weeks ago. Now I wish I’d given them out as farewell presents, so the children could drive their parents mad at
home
with the dratted things.” Miss Weedie tsked sympathetically. “Well, if you really want to do something, I suppose you could start helping Miss Mareton get them quiet and organized for the Nativity play. That’s the first order of business, I believe.”

Immediately Miss Weedie’s customary air of tentativeness fell away and she drew herself up, full of purpose. “Right, then. My lady,” she remembered to add, and marched off to do her duty. Oh, of course, Anne remembered, she’d been the village school-teacher years and years ago. She’d been Christy’s teacher, in fact. Good—then she was in her element.

And there was Christy, over by the Christmas tree, sipping hot cider and talking to Captain Carnock. A little boy of about three had his arms wrapped around his left leg and was trying to climb it. He stopped talking to the captain long enough to bend over and haul the little boy up into his arms.
Well, what else?
Anne grumped to herself. Didn’t it just
have to be
that he was marvelous with children?

“I’ve never seen the great hall looking so cheery. You’ve quite transformed the place, Lady D’Aubrey.”

Anne turned with a start to see Mayor Vanstone at her side, looking tall, sleek, and faintly seal-like with his elegantly graying hair combed straight back from his forehead. “It’s the children who’ve transformed it,” she demurred. “I’m so glad you and Miss Vanstone could come.”

“We wouldn’t miss it. Everyone is in your debt for carrying on with the tradition in spite of your terrible loss.”

“Oh, do you think so? It occurred to me that some might think carrying on with it showed disrespect for my late husband,” she said deliberately. Indeed, she’d heard through the grapevine that that was exactly what Honoria Vanstone had been saying.

“Not at all,” he denied smoothly. “It’s an event the children eagerly anticipate, and only a very churlish person would construe the continuation of it as anything but a kind and benevolent act by our most beloved ladyship.”

She could only agree: Honoria
was
churlish. But it was hard not to smile at his description of herself, or to ask him if he was referring to her or the Blessed Virgin. She couldn’t wait to repeat this conversation to Christy.

That is, if he ever spoke to her again, about anything. Now he was across the way, helping Miss Mareton and Miss Weedie get the Nativity play youngsters in their proper places for the start of the performance. “Sorry?” she said, realizing the mayor had asked her a question.

“I say, I wonder if you might be free one evening next week. Honoria has been hoping you would dine with us—and I, too, it goes without saying. It would, of course, be a very quiet evening,
en famille
, in keeping with your state of mourning. Or, I should say,” he added quickly, “with the state of mourning of all of us.”

“How kind. It sounds delightful. Thank you so much.” It sounded no such thing; she could hardly imagine anything more tedious. But he was the mayor, and she was still the head of Lynton Great Hall; she felt an obligation to be attentive, at least for a little longer, to the exigencies of local politics.

Not that she fooled herself that Eustace Vanstone was inviting her to dinner for the sole purpose of discussing policies and programs for the benefit of Wyckerley. This wasn’t the first time he’d paid his stiff court to her since Geoffrey’s death, although it was the most direct. Unless she was grievously misreading the signs, Mayor Vanstone had designs on her. She wished she knew a way to communicate to him the absolute hopelessness of his suit without causing embarrassment. And hopeless it was, and not only because she didn’t fancy him. Even if she were mad for him, she would still have to decline a marriage proposal, because accepting it would make her Honoria’s stepmother. Gads!

The Nativity play started. Tommy Nineways, the churchwarden’s son, played Joseph, and it was immediately clear that nepotism rather than dramatic talent had played a major role in the casting. Mary, on the other hand, was played by Sally Wooten—Christy tutored her brothers, Anne recalled—and except for a bad moment when she dropped the Christ Child doll on the floor, Sally seemed born for the stage. All in all, the performance was sweet and touching and very funny; more than one adult watching it had to resort to coughing into a handkerchief to smother uncontrollable laughter.

Anne’s enjoyment was tempered by having to watch Margaret Mareton stand next to Christy throughout the play, whispering to him, bumping shoulders, sometimes leaning against him as if overcome with pride in her fledgling thespians. She was an undeniably pretty girl, with shiny black hair and big serious brown eyes. But Anne didn’t care for her. Where was her sense of decorum? She was the Sunday school teacher, for heaven’s sake; children looked up to her as a model of propriety. Why was she leaning against the vicar in a public place? In
any
place, if it came to that?