To Love and to Cherish (26 page)

Except for the intermittent tolling of the clock, he would not have known if time passed or stood still. The small light on the altar, the one he’d thought was dim, burned like a red sun in his eyes, even when he covered them with his hands. His knees went numb, then his fingers, then his toes. All the while he listened, listened. Sometimes God spoke softly, and he couldn’t afford to miss the news. Close to dawn, the early chirp of a chaffinch roused him from some kind of revery. Hedge sparrows twittered in the ash tree outside Saint Catherine’s window. Christy lifted his head from his crossed arms. Silver dawn light was invading the black shadow-corners; the white of the altar cloth gleamed palely, the brightest object he could discern, brighter even than the candle now. And something had settled inside him. He would pray again, pray forever, in the hope that it was true, not self-deception, but for now it seemed right. For now, that was enough. “Thank you,” he prayed, too exhausted for joy. That would come later, too.

2 March

I’m—I don’t know what I am. I’m—no, I really don’t know.

A letter’s come from Christy. He’s decided we’re not committing a sin when we make love. He says he’s made a pact with God. He wants to announce our engagement to the world (meaning the Ludds, and whoever else will get the word out with dispatch and discretion) on Easter Sunday, and to hell (expletive mine) with public opinion. I would rejoice, I
do
rejoice, except for the codicil, the condition all this good news comes attached to.

I see that Christy’s God is very wily, very clever. We’re to have our hearts’ desire, but there’s a price. I look at the words in the letter again and again, trying to rearrange them so they don’t say what they say. But they always do.

Thunderation! (The worst oath I have ever heard pass my beloved’s lips.) Hell and damn! Balls! I wish I knew more curses; at times like this, I feel the deprivation acutely. Journal, are you ready?

He’s giving me up for Lent
.

XVIII

“C
HRISTY SHOULD PAINT THIS
,” Anne said out loud—talking to herself again. She frowned down at the half-finished drawing on her lap. She’d chosen the wrong medium—which seemed obvious in retrospect; trying to capture sun-shot daffodils on the far bank of Wycombe Cleave with a pencil and a piece of charcoal was a pretty silly thing to do, and a gross overestimation of her artistic abilities. “Christy could get it, though. In watercolors. Right at this moment, the way the flowers are filling up with sun like teacups.”

She heaved a sigh and wrote “Wycombe Cleave” at the bottom of the page in her sketchbook. She liked the words, if not the picture they were meant to describe. They sounded so English. A cleave, William had told her this morning, was a place where a river ran through an avenue of trees. Which was exactly what the Wyck did here, down the center of a long copse of larches, not half a mile from the Tavistock toll road. It was a lovely spot, but she wouldn’t have known it existed if Christy hadn’t asked her to meet him here at three o’clock. It seemed as if every day she discovered a new point of interest or beauty or enchantment in her adoptive neighborhood. How could she ever have thought of Wyckerley as a lifeless backwater? It was a mistake that said less about the village than it did about her state of mind, then and now.

Another turn of the gem.

She stretched her arms up over her head to ease the slight stiffness in her shoulders, blinking at the sky through the bare branches of the tree at her back. After two days of steady rain, it was finally fair, radiant in fact, with bees droning and turtledoves cooing, everything in creation budding, blossoming, and bursting. This morning she’d seen robins, skylarks, blackbirds and sparrows, starlings building a nest in the dovecote, pheasants feeding in the plowed fields. Primroses and cinquefoil were in bloom along the lane, and new green buds were showing on the hawthorn and the wild rose. Right now, two magpies who had forgotten she was there were building a nest directly over her head in the larch tree. They made a noisy diversion—and a handy excuse for laying her sketchbook aside once and for all. It was simply too beautiful to go on pretending she was usefully employed.

Something drew her gaze to the spot where the mossy footpath disappeared in a bend among the trees. Seconds later Christy strode around the turn, swinging an ash sapling for a walking stick. She didn’t move at first, just basked in the luxury of looking at him, resigned by now to the reckless leap in her pulse rate. But then she couldn’t contain herself. Jumping up, startling the busy magpies, she brushed at her skirts and smoothed her hair. No need to pinch her cheeks; she could feel the flush in them, growing warmer the closer he came. His dear face lit up when he saw her. His knee-high leather gaiters were spattered with mud; he’d taken off his jacket and thrown it over his shoulder. He looked so handsome in his shirtsleeves and unbuttoned waistcoat, his neckerchief untied and flying in the breeze, that she had to lean against the rough trunk, actually feeling weak in the knees.

He veered off the path and started up the shallow rise to her secluded spot under the larches. He’d been visiting needy souls in the southern reaches of the parish. “I thought you’d be on horseback,” she greeted him from twelve feet away, beaming at him.

“I lent Doncaster to Reverend Woodworth. His pony’s lame, and he needed to go to Swallowfield for a christening.”

“That was awfully nice of you. How many miles did you walk today?”

He shrugged, coming to a stop in front of her. “It’s a good day for walking.” He had the same idiot’s grin she knew she had, and he was looking her up and down as if she were a mutton chop he was about to bite into after a long, difficult fast.

“And how many souls did you save?”

“All of them. I left ’em singing hymns on their knees, praising God for the miracle of salvation.”

“Think of that. A satisfying day for you, then.”

“Ah, well. Not entirely.”

She batted her eyes at him. “What’s missing?”

The game was up as soon as he touched her. Kissing Christy was serious business these days; she couldn’t afford to waste a second through frivolous talk or lack of concentration. He had her pressed against the tree, his hands on her waist. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately and exuberantly—and thoroughly, since this kiss might have to last her for days.

“You are delicious,” she sighed, nibbling on his top lip, not letting go of him. “I missed you so much. I thought it would never stop raining.
Two whole days.
”

“I know. It felt like forty to me.” He stroked her hair, bringing a handful to his nose to sniff, and then to his lips to kiss. “You’re so pretty, Anne. I love it when you wear your hair down like this.”

“I know,” she said, shiny-eyed. “That’s why I do it.” She caressed his face, his hard cheekbone and the light stubble of beard on his chin. They dared another kiss, this one slower, sweeter. And more devastating: they broke away at the same time, taking their hands off each other with the same reluctance. She could have said,
Why are we doing this, again? Explain it to
me one more time
—but what was the point? It was one of those things she was never going to understand.

“What’s happened? Tell me everything you’ve been doing,” he charged her while she bent to gather up her scattered belongings—sketchbook and pencils, reticule, straw hat and shawl. So she told him about all the petty household dramas that had been unfolding at the Hall in the last two days: the politely worded reminder from the butcher and the chandler that their bills were long overdue—because Mrs. Fruit had forgotten to pay them; the latest instance of the housemaid Violet Cocker’s amazing impudence, and Anne’s increasing temptation to let her go; the shepherd’s helper William Holyoake had hired at Lady Day, who spent too much time in the kitchen flirting with the scullery maid; William’s dilemma over whether to try Early Flourballs or Thompson’s Wonderfuls when hay-sowing time came; Anne’s invitation to dine with Dr. and Mrs. Hesselius next Thursday; and what she thought of the book she was reading these days,
Walden, or Life in the Woods
, by an American with a French name.

They held hands as they went along the path toward home, confident they wouldn’t be seen because, Christy said, nobody ever came this way, but keeping a careful eye out anyway. “Now tell me what
you’ve
been doing,” she invited, having exhausted her fund of domestic tidings. “Did you visit today with anyone I know?” His pastoral work intrigued her, in part because he kept so much of it to himself. Once they were married, she hoped he wouldn’t be quite so discreet, but for now she often had to settle for the most sweeping generalities—“Mrs. Mooney is having a difficult time of it these days with Mr. Mooney,” for example, when she knew for a fact that old Mooney had gotten blind drunk and set the privy on fire with his wife in it.

“Do you know Enid Fane?” Christy asked. She shook her head. “Her brother’s in Dartmoor Prison, so I write a letter to him for her once in a while.”

“Can’t she write?”

“She can, but she says her letters never come out sounding right. So I talk to her, find out what’s been happening with her, what’s on her mind, and then write it down for her. When I read it back, she always says, ‘Why, Vicar, ee’ve got it fair perfect, I never knowed I’m havin’ such a interesting life.’”

Anne laughed, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. “What’s her brother in gaol for, if I may ask?”

“A variety of petty crimes, all related to drink. He’ll be out in a few months.”

“Do you ever go to see him?”

“Him and a few others from the parish, yes, sometimes. I’ve gone as guest chaplain for Sunday services at the prison, too.”

“That sounds a bit grim.”

“Grim doesn’t begin to cover it, believe me. I feel sorry for any man who ends up in Dartmoor, no matter what he’s done. Or any woman.”

“Are there women there, too?”

He nodded. “Pitiful, wretched creatures, Anne. Don’t ever break the law, will you? Whatever you’re tempted to do, I can assure you it won’t be worth it.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” They stopped in the angle of an L the river made, a shadowy spot overhung with the budding branches of willows. “Once we’re married, no one would dare to arrest me, though, even if I became a master criminal. I’ll be Mrs. Christian Morrell, the minister’s wife, which will immediately convey legitimacy to my existence. I’ll achieve the ultimate in respectability overnight.”

“So Lady D’Aubrey isn’t respectable?” he asked interestedly, folding his arms and leaning against a thick, waist-high willow bough.

“Oh, the title is. It’s the lady herself who raises the occasional eyebrow.”

“Do you really believe that? I thought you’d gotten over such feelings.”

She smiled to reassure him. “It’s just that I know what was said and thought about me here in the beginning. People were even surprised to find out I was English—they thought I’d be Italian, or half-Italian. From some cloudy sort of
artistic
background, too—definitely not respectable, possibly even decadent. At the worst, the new viscountess was a fortune hunter who had snared their absent heir apparent with her foreign, immoral wiles.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

She laughed. “Yes, but not much.”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “You’re always telling me how beloved I am, the esteem in which I’m held by my congregation. I wonder how it is that you can see that about me, but you can never see the affection the people of Wyckerley have for you. They had no love for Geoffrey, Anne. Even before he went off to war, he’d made his mark on them. Believe me, because I’m privy to all this,” he said seriously. “It was you they learned to look to, and it’s you they look to now.”

“Even though I’m to be replaced soon?”

“Even so.”

She took his hand and held it to her cheek. “If what you say is true, then we’re
equally
afflicted with an inability to know our own worth.”

“I suppose we are.”

“Well, I guess there are worse things.”

“Much worse—we could
overestimate
our value to the world.”

“Mm,” she said doubtfully. “But is that worse? Think how much happier we’d be in our overweening arrogance.”

He laughed, and reached for her. She went into his arms eagerly, and they stood quietly for a while, listening to the chuckle of the river. “Lord, I’m so lucky,” Christy said presently.

“Why?” she asked leadingly, smiling with her eyes closed.

“Because my best friend is also my lover.”

Not lately
, an irreverent voice in her brain retorted. But to Christy she said, “I was just thinking the same thing.”

“What would you like to do most after we’re married?”

This was one of their favorite topics of conversation lately. “The very most? Walk down the High Street holding hands with you,” she answered unhesitatingly.

“I should think we could do that once we’re engaged.”

“Really?” She was thrilled. “What else could we do?”

“Well, if you took Susan Hatch for a maid-companion, I don’t see why we couldn’t go to Exeter for an outing.”

“I’ve only been through Exeter on the train. You could show me the cathedral.”

“There you are—what could be more respectable?”

“Christy, what if we met
by chance
in Tavistock one day? I’d be there for the Corn Market, and you’d . . .”

“I’d be visiting the rural dean.”

“That sounds respectable. We’d meet on the street. Naturally, we’d start walking together.”

“We might pass a bookseller’s shop. We’d go in and browse together.”

“How perfectly lovely. Then we’d go and have coffee somewhere.”

“Maybe even a meal,” he said boldly.

“Think of it—actually eating together in public!”

“What I can’t wait to do is show you the Devon coast. We could take a pony gig to Plymouth—”

“Wouldn’t we have to be married for that?”

“That’s what I mean, after we’re married. We’d stay in a hotel—”

“A hotel,” she breathed. It sounded like heaven on earth.

“And we’d take walks along the coast, exploring. There’s a little fishing village called Luton Water about an hour’s walk from Devonport. It’s on a cliff overlooking the Channel, with a hundred and thirteen stone steps leading down to the shingle beach.”

“Ohh.”

“We could have a picnic in the sand.”

“We could wade in the sea.”

“We’d meet people, take up with them the way travelers do. Have a meal with some nice couple in a restaurant—”

“And then say good night and go up to our own room.”

Words failed them.

“You’ve never been to Cornwall or the Scillies,” Christy rallied to point out. “We could go on the train for a few days. St. Austell, Penzance, Mount’s Bay, whatever we like.”

“I want to see Wales someday, too.”

“Llandudno—they say the beach is beautiful.”

“The Cardigan Bay.”

“The abbey at Tintern.”

They were overcome again.

“Christy, how could heaven be any better than this?” She pressed her ear to his chest and closed her eyes, the better to listen to the strong beat of his heart.

“Don’t ask
me
a question like that.”

She could tell he was smiling. She wanted him so much at that moment; she let the lovely, unbearable longing well up inside, standing quite still so he wouldn’t know.

But he knew. “This is even harder than I thought it would be,” he said, sounding a little hoarse. “And I thought it would be sheer hell.”

“Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right.” One of the curious things about this horrible forty-day abstinence was that she always did her best to help him keep his vow. Not once had she deliberately tried to tempt him.

“I think it’s so hard because I know what I’m missing. If we’d never made love . . .” He trailed off.

“No.”

“No,” he agreed, on second thought. “It wouldn’t be any easier.”

She lifted her head. “Christy, I’m so in love with you.”

The tenderness in his eyes melted her. “I shouldn’t even kiss you. You don’t have to do anything—you’re a walking, talking temptation.” She didn’t argue, didn’t even answer; she knew he was going to kiss her. “The wonderful thing is that you don’t even understand any of this. But after—after—”