“He took your advice to heart,” she laughed. “The notion of staying rooted in his library to spare his ankle appealed to him enormously. He was so caught up in his studies, that he forgot entirely to write his sermon one Sunday and delivered one extempore: it was quite brief, but exceedingly well received. I think he may have learned that a few words from the heart are more convincing than hundreds of lofty sentiments.”
With that she turned the conversation to news of the neighborhood: a farm had changed tenancy, and the banns were to be read for a number of young couples, but the district’s most significant news was that a member of the gentry was stopping at the inn.
“Such visitors are so rare as to attract as great a crowd as a Punch and Judy show,” Mrs. Waller said with a shake of her head. “I have been receiving all manner of reports on the poor gentleman’s carriage and horses— even how many bottles of claret he consumed at dinner last night!”
“It is to be hoped,” the doctor commented, “he is able to conduct whatever business brought him to these parts and take his leave, before he is entered as one of the sights in the guide book.”
“And before Charlie and George discover a way to charge their fellows a penny apiece to have a look at him,” she added with a spark of humor. “Speaking of which, how does Mrs. Glencoe fare with the children?”
“Very well indeed. It is become a perfect little world for them at Rosewood Cottage. Mrs. Glencoe, the soul of patience, allows them to run tame there. However, all of the children— Charlie and George included— are learning their letters and numbers.”
Mrs. Waller very nearly choked on her tea. “Do not tell me those rapscallions have embarked on the road to scholarship! What is our dear Mrs. Glencoe’s secret?”
The image of Marianne rose up before him. What could she command that any male would not be happy to perform? “I believe,” he said, after a moment, “it is a combination of their having fallen a little in love with her—and knowing they have outworn their welcome at any other house in the area!”
She cast her eyes heavenward and nodded. “That is so, I am afraid. After their last visit here, our Haggerty threatened to give in his notice if they were not at once drawn and quartered!” Then her eyes twinkled at him. “It is a good thing my husband was able to convince the poor soul to moderate his view. I cannot think the magistrate would have supported Haggerty in the matter.”
Venables smiled ruefully. “I collect they have never yet paid a call on our magistrate, else he would have had them behind bars ere now— and very likely have concurred with Mr. Haggerty’s suggestion.”
“So, they are perforce become angels. And are you able to see anything beyond that guileless surface? Do you not fear they might simply be biding their time to play some trick or other?”
The doctor began to speak, then suddenly stopped himself. He knew quite well what they—and the girls—were up to, but did not know how or whether to convey this information.
“Come, doctor. What is it you are not telling me?” Mrs. Waller teased. “Trust me, I have inured myself to such tales as old Mithridates to poison. I believe there is little I cannot bear!”
“It is not precisely tricks,” he said slowly, “nor is it the boys on their own, who have entered into a conspiracy.”
“And whom else have they corrupted?” she asked in surprise.
He frowned as he considered her question. “Corruption is not quite the word. Nor am I certain, in this case, that the plot was initially of their making.”
She took a deep breath. “I am afraid you must begin at the beginning, for I am all at sea!”
“It is George and Charlie and Jane and Becky all together, you see, setting the world straight— at least by their childish appraisal.”
She cocked her head, but looked encouragingly at him as she waited for the silence to pass. He settled back in his chair and tapped the tips of his fingers together. “You have stood as something of a sister to me these last years, Mrs. Waller,” he began, “else I should not know how to tell you of this, for, believe me, this tale is not in the least ordinary.”
She smiled. “Nor did I expect it to be.”
“It comes to this,” he said. “I have been so naive as to think that merely removing the children from the squalor of their surroundings, bringing them here to the country, would be sufficient to erase their past, to set them on a fresh future.” He looked up and caught her astute expression. “You are correct. I was foolish to make such an assumption; as you might guess, despite my attempts at reassuring the children, they are still afraid they will be disowned, and abandoned once again to their own resourcefulness.”
“Poor little waifs,” she sighed. “That has, after all, been the story of their lives.”
“Indeed, and it is not in the least an uncommon fate. It makes me shudder to think of them cast on the world’s cold charity— and of all the others like them who suffer such treatment.”
“So, tell me,” she said softly, when he had been silent for a long moment, “just what is it they are about?”
“Matchmaking,” he said at last with a rueful sigh. There. It was out. Let the lady make of it what she would.
“Of course,” she nodded, apparently not in the least surprised. “You and Mrs. Glencoe, I presume?”
“Yes, and before her baby is born, if you can credit it! But,” he stopped himself, “how did you know?”
She laughed and shook her head. “It is only what the entire district has been thinking. And the match has many fine attributes—your backgrounds are similar, you seem to rub along uncommonly well. Besides, it is a commonly held opinion that single men are in need of wives— and babies in need of fathers.”
The complacency with which Mrs. Waller responded to his revelation put him to silence for a moment. Was he so unaware of his community, so oblivious to them, that their discussion of the intimate details of his life took him by surprise? He should have known better. And as for Mrs. Waller’s assessment of his situation, there was a good deal of truth to it. Certainly, he had heard of poorer reasons for marrying.
“Tell me,” she said, interrupting his thoughts, “what arguments do the children offer you?”
Jane’s eyes had glistened when she explained her apprehensions to him, and he felt a dull ache at the back of his throat as he recalled the scene now. “It is all fear,” he said simply. “They fear that once Mrs. Glencoe’s child is born, she will have neither time nor love remaining for children not her own—and they will become such a burden to me that I shall send them back to the city.” He sighed. “They would have it that is why I sent them to Mrs. Glencoe to begin with.”
“How silly of them,” she said with an arch smile, “when all the neighborhood knows you had to do so that you might call there more frequently.”
Ignoring her shrewd insight, he stood and walked to the window. The evening was gathering; it would be dark soon. “The question is,” he said at last, “what am I to do? My assurances seem to mean nothing, and I cannot have the poor mites worried that they will soon be on the road.”
“Forgive me for correcting you,” Mrs. Waller smiled, “but the real question is: why do you not simply offer for Mrs. Glencoe?”
He turned and looked at her hard. There was no teasing in her eyes now.
“There are, of course, any number of quite practical reasons you should do so,” she said, then went on softly, “but believe me, I should not suggest such a thing did I not believe you to be in love. Has not your heart yet shown you the truth of it?”
Just then, Reverend Waller reentered, bearing a dusty tome. “Forgive me, doctor,” he said, as he entered. “I had quite forgot what I went to fetch. It is most annoying in me I am sure, this absentmindedness.”
Venables grinned, thankful for a reprieve. “No more annoying than the color of your hair or eyes, Reverend, for it is as much a part of you.”
Reverend Waller was already absorbed in finding the passage he wished to share, and did not
seem to hear. But Venables could still feel Mrs. Waller’s eyes on him, and knew that her unanswered question still hung in the air between them, like a thread loosened from the fabric of his own fears.
* * * *
Dr. Venables turned his horse toward home as the last light disappeared to the west; he rode in uncertain spirits. Was he truly in love? Had it crept up on him despite his better judgment? And was it so clear that he was the only one who could not see it? The answers came quickly: yes, yes, and again, yes.
And what of Mrs. Glencoe? What of Marianne? The notion of waking to her smile each day, to her bounteous kindness and beauty each day, made his heart race. But did she, could she, return his love? He did not know. She was like the tide, one moment seeming to be drawn toward him, the next, drawing away. What was he to make of her? She had her own secrets, that much was clear— and they might remain so. He would be untruthful to say he felt no urge to discover what they might be, but he had no right. Whatever the mystery might be, it had far better rest as quiet as the late captain.
But what of his own secrets? Would she press him for information? He thought not. But …if he confessed all, what then? Would she turn her heart away from him, and freeze him with a stare when she heard of his past? The thought, now it had formed, was unbearable.
Ought he to leave well enough alone? he wondered. He did not wish to. Part of him whispered, I could make her love me, while another part jeered, make her love what? Rationally, spiritually even, he knew he might hope for love. But that was in the daylight hours, before his dreams haunted him.
As he rode up to the house, he could see the curtain at the upstairs window twitch. The children were watching for him. He dismounted his horse, wondering desperately what he might do to make it all come right.
He went straight to his study, avoiding, for the moment, their pointed questions and penetrating stares. Solitude was little better, but at least it had no voice, no imploring look.
He leaned back in his worn leather chair and traced the line of his thin scar with his fingertips, summoning the dark and the light of his past, hoping to find some answer to his dilemma there. He remembered the inn where he had almost ended it all those many years ago . . .
* * * *
Outside, a clear starry night had been at odds with the raucous noise from the public rooms below. Neither had had the least effect on him. His soul, his very body had been full of shame and regret, as his fingers had traced the form of the loaded pistol on the table. In a few moments, he would put a period to his life.
His parents would mourn, he knew, for they loved him—far too much, as it turned out. But he hoped they would see his last act as a desperate attempt to finish it all with honor, to put an end to his trail of shameless exploits, a trail which had ended in disarray, fraught with cries of pain and the uncomprehending look of a child, now crippled for life. It was those eyes which haunted his every waking hour, and the eyes of the child’s parents, who dared neither speak out nor take action against the gentry.
His only hurt in the accident had been a thin deep cut which ran from his chin to his left ear. As he fingered it in the semidarkness, Venables had felt its burning sting with a sort of satisfaction. He took a long draught of water, for he would allow himself no spirits to anaesthetize his last moments. Painfully clearheaded, for once, he had picked up the pistol, raised it to his temple and . . . then, suddenly, it had been gone, disappeared into thin air, as if he were the victim of some curious parlor trick.
Astounded, he had clutched at the empty air. Then he heard a sound behind him. He whipped about, furious that he had been intruded upon. Before him, a young man sat in a chair by the fire, smiling sadly at him. The pistol was cradled in his lap.
“Pray be seated, Alden,” the youth had said. “We shall talk a while, you and I.”
Bereft of speech, Venables had stared mutely at him, then at the door. The bolt was still in place. “How, in God’s name— ?” he began.
“Come, now” the other chided. “The how is the least important of your concerns. You know that quite well, do you not?”
Venables sat speechless for several minutes, contemplating the gentleman across from him. “I do not understand any of this,” he whispered at last. “I do not know who you are, how you got in here, or what you mean by it, but I wish you will go away and leave me to my business.”
“Of that, I have no intention ... at least for the moment.” Again, he smiled disarmingly. “Please, Alden, do me the honor of listening to me. Then, when I have done, I promise I shall leave you to your own devices.”
Bewildered, Venables sank into a chair and stared at his visitor. His hair shone gold, and his eyes were as blue as a jay’s wing. His face was familiar somehow, but Alden could not put a name to him. “Who are you?” he asked hoarsely.
“You may call me Michael,” came the answer. “I suggest you take a moment to recover yourself, but then you may wish to don a coat. We shall be going out.”
Chapter Fifteen
Venables did not know if he believed in angels, but as he looked back on the incident, that was how he always thought of the mysterious youth. Together, they had walked through squalid streets, scenes of unbelievable deprivation: he had seen eyes empty of hope, children with twisted limbs crying themselves to sleep with hunger, wantons near-dead with fatigue, struggling to attract the attention of bored degenerates that somehow those same children might be fed and cared for.
At last, when he could stand no more, Venables had flung himself against a stone wall, covering his face. “Why do you torment me thus?” he had cried. “Am I not yet sunk deep enough that I must still endure more? Take me back, and let me put an end to at least one soul’s desperate misery.”
“That is certainly your decision ,” the youth said with slow deliberation. “But it would be a sinful waste of your gifts, Alden. Do you not think they have been left idle long enough?”
“My gifts!” he sneered. “And what are they but an overriding penchant for dissolution? Condemn me if you must, but do not mock me.”
The stranger shook his head. “I do not mock, Alden. If you proceed with your plan, it is true you may end your own misery— for the moment. But, if not, there is much you might do. It is time on this tired old earth for those such as you to turn from selfishness to give comfort, where before you have only taken. To extend a hand and heal, where you might otherwise have hurt.”
There was something in these words, in the tone in which they were spoken, that resounded in his very soul. For the first time in many weeks, his heart lightened with possibility. He felt as if a window had been opened, and the cool fresh breeze of hope touched his heart.
“Yes,” Michael had said, “there is much you might do. You cannot entirely erase the harm you have done. But you might mitigate it— and ease much of the outrage that has been caused by others.”
Venables knew that the child he had injured still lived, and though he had emptied his pockets, astounding the impoverished parents with a glittering array of sovereigns, it was, he knew, an empty gesture, one which would never make amends for the harm he had done. No more would his death.
It was dawn when he found himself back at the inn, his companion having drifted into the night as silently as he had arrived. Though he had not slept a wink, Venables felt refreshed and, if not full of hope, at least not wholly divorced from it. From that day he had dedicated himself to bettering the condition of those around him, had given away that part of his fortune which was not entailed, and had embarked on a study of medicine. From thence it had been a driven, but fulfilling life, haunted less and less frequently by the shadow of the past.
Michael’s parting words had been, “There is no one entirely undeserving of happiness, you know. The day will arrive when happiness will take you in its embrace—and you will be able to bear it.”
Staring ahead at the fire, snug in his study, Venables wondered whether that day had arrived at last.
* * * *
> Marianne slept late the next day, having been kept awake much of the night with a series of pains which had sent her pacing about until almost dawn. She felt better now as she enjoyed a leisurely cup of tea, but an unaccustomed lethargy persuaded her to remain abed much of the morning and even into the afternoon of a lowering stormy day.
When she did, at last, arise and find her way into the drawing room, she discovered that the doctor had called earlier and left for her a bouquet of branches hung with red berries. Annie had placed it in a vase in a prominent position, and it warmed Marianne’s heart to look at it. She had missed the color which the bouquets from her garden had provided all summer. It was like the doctor to have noticed their absence in her home of late, and to have braved the rough weather to gather these branches for her.
She had recovered her equanimity somewhat after his last visit, despite having so dreaded the inevitable examination. She had been able to remove herself from this anxiety, and now she found that only the merest whisper of that intimacy had imprinted itself on her consciousness. Her secrets were still safe. To her infinite relief, there had been nothing unusual in his tone or demeanor to suggest that he had discovered anything untoward; he had merely informed her that, in his opinion, the child would arrive sooner than she had calculated. What she recalled most about the episode was his kindness, his gentleness, and tact. He was what she had come to believe did not, could not, exist— a good man.
She closed her eyes as she felt her throat tighten. If only she might be allowed to love him, she sighed. If only she might encourage the hints she had sometimes discerned of his inclination toward her. Such thoughts, she knew, were worse than useless. Once the baby came, she hoped her heart would be full enough to forget such idle fancies. But still, she thought, she might indulge herself for the present in a harmless daydream.
She curled herself onto the sofa, tucked a rug about her, and gave her imagination full rein. She could see quite clearly how such a life might be. How, weary after a long day’s toil, Dr. Venables, Alden, might turn to her with a smile for comfort and ease. They would sit before a fire, and she would take his head onto her lap, stroke his curls, and tell him the little events of the day. There might even be more children, she thought wistfully.
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