“Dr. and Mrs. Clyde Varley from South Africa.”
“Were they in diamonds?”
“No …”
A smile touched his mouth. “Then I daresay they were not important.”
She stamped her foot. “Yes, they were! They were martyrs. Killed in the Zulu War of 1879.”
He flicked the riding reins across his palm. “I shall find out about that. I have ways to discover things of importance. Where did they die?”
That stopped her for a moment. “I—I do not know.”
“No matter. I’ll learn all there is to know about your parents and see if you are only boasting.”
“In the meantime I shall walk here anytime I please.”
A smile suddenly altered the young man’s expression, and Evy stared. So this was why Alice Tisdale, the daughter of the village doctor, tittered about swooning over Rogan Chantry.
“Walk here anytime you please, and be ready to meet a bear—a big black one.”
“Bears? Here?” She scoffed but couldn’t help a glance behind her. The action was not lost on Rogan.
“Why do you think I was riding so fast? It must have weighed five hundred pounds and had big white teeth. If I were you, I’d think twice before I came here alone.”
Just then, a voice shouted plaintively from the trees closer to the road: “Miss Evy? Are you there?”
“I’m over here, Derwent.”
He came through the trees and stopped when he saw Rogan astride the handsome black horse. Derwent’s eyes widened, and he had the awestruck expression of one who had come in contact with royalty. He touched three fingers to his forelock.
“Afternoon, Master Rogan. Fancy meeting you here, sir.”
Evy could have cuffed Derwent for fawning over the knave before them.
Derwent ambled toward them, a bag of kindling on his back. He was tall for his age, and looked gaunt in his patched breeches. His crop of russet hair was untidy from the wind, and in the nippy air, his rather long nose, salted with freckles, had taken on a rosy color. He was ogling Rogan’s majestic horse and paying scant attention to where he stepped. His thick boot must have caught under a root, for he took a tumble, the bag of wood weighing him down in the moldy damp leaves.
Rogan laughed, and Evy shot him a glare before rushing to lift the bag from her friend. “Are you hurt, Derwent?”
“Ooh … I skinned my palms.”
“Poor Derwent.” She dragged the wood free, casting a glance at Rogan. The knave was simply sitting atop his beast, watching. Heaven knew it would tax him unduly to come help her!
Evy knelt beside Derwent. “You are always stumbling,” she said sadly. “Mrs. Croft says you may need spectacles. Can you stand?”
“His feet are too big is all,” Rogan observed with amusement. “Why do you baby him? I do not like girls who bleat like sheep.”
Evy shot Rogan another glare. “I do not care what manner of girls you like, Master Rogan. If you were a gallant boy, you would have climbed down from your fine horse to help me get that heavy wood off him.”
Derwent gaped at her as though she had sassed the king. Rogan, too, seemed at a loss. Then his lips thinned and he tapped his heels into the horse’s side. It sprang forward and raced in the direction of the road.
“Ought you to have spoken like that to him, d’ye think, Miss Evy? The Chantrys are important folk in Grimston Way.”
“A Chantry or not, he is arrogant and conceited. He’s been nourished with exceptional manners, you can count on it, so he ought to use them on everyone, not just the sons and daughters of the aristocracy. I’m as good as any of them!”
At this passionate outburst, Derwent gawked at her. “Sure you are. But, well, Master Rogan’s a son of the squire, whereas you and me—”
She jumped to her feet. “He treats us like servants. I’m not a servant’s child. His father did not know the great missionary David Livingstone like my father did. You know how they were both great doctors. Missionaries,” she repeated with emphasis.
Derwent ran his long, restless fingers through his russet hair. “I daresay you may be right, Miss Evy. Dr. Livingstone was a great explorer. I would like to go to Africa and explore the dark regions. I might likely find diamonds too.”
“Are you able to walk?” She squinted upward, but the trees were thick, and the dark sky was blotted out. “It’s soon to pour.”
Derwent took a few steps and tested his ankles. “Good as can be. We best dash for it. Say—what happened to those leaves for Mrs. Havering?”
For some reason, Evy did not tell him about the stranger she had met. “The wind blew them all away.”
She hurried through Grimston Wood, and Derwent struggled to keep up, loaded as he was with his bag of kindling.
Evy called over her shoulder: “As for being an explorer … Curate Brown will be unhappy if he thinks you’re not going to follow his steps in life.”
“Aye.”
“You are to be a curate just like he. Sons always follow in their father’s steps.” She paused to let him rest a moment and catch his breath. “Your future waits here in Grimston Way.”
“Aye, and yours, too, I’m thinking.”
Evy thought of the gentleman who had spoken to her. Who could he have been? Had he been staying at Rookswood?
More lightning streaked across the darkening sky, prodding them onward.
Thick fir trees hugged the side of the road as they emerged from the woods. She could look up the road and glimpse the big stone gates leading onto Rookswood, so named because of the many black rooks that nested in the nearby wood and made such a fuss in the spring with their cawing.
Rookswood, prominent on the hill overlooking the village of Grimston Way, was even more mysterious and interesting to her now that the stranger had spoken to her and asked her if she wished to visit. Somehow the mere question gave her the exciting sensation of being connected to that huge gray-stone mansion and its forbidden halls. At least, she secretly liked to imagine such things, even though she was not likely ever to be invited there.
Cold splashes of rain from the roiling dark sky splashed on Evy’s face, shaking her from her daydreaming. She turned away from the mansion and started down the road toward the rectory.
Derwent switched the heavy load to his other shoulder and followed behind. “Your folks were saints all right, Miss Evy, and important ones too, dying the way they did in Zululand years ago, but most folks in Grimston Way agree that no one is as important as Squire and his family.”
It was rather a blow for her to hear that it was not her martyred parents who filled the good villagers with admiration, but the local squire, Sir Lyle. Well, she knew far better. No matter how she might hold the squire in respect as master of the village, the ofttimes arrogant Chantrys could not compare with Dr. Clyde and Junia Varley.
“I do not believe you, Derwent Brown! Why, my parents’ photograph hangs in the rectory hall. Aunt Grace says I look just like my mum.” She threw him a glance. “I do not see Squire’s photograph there.”
“She said that? I don’t see it, myself. If you don’t mind my saying so, your hair is—er, prettier. Goldenlike. Your mum’s is black, like your aunt’s.”
Evy stopped on the road and turned to face him.
“So? My hair will turn darker when I get older. What are you trying to say, Derwent Brown?”
His eyes widened. “Say? Why, nothing Miss Evy. Nothing at all. Just that I think you’re prettier—but I wasn’t suggesting—” He stopped, red filling his freckled cheeks.
The rain splashed cold and startling against her face. The gusts of wind whipped at her hooded cape as a nameless fear suddenly whipped at her heart. Evy turned and ran down the road toward the village green.
Fancy his saying she did not look like her mum’s photograph. Her father had light hair didn’t he? Of course he did. The photograph showed that he did. And she’d wager his eyes were like hers too, amber with flecks of jade green. Derwent could be so exasperating
at times.
Perhaps Rogan Chantry was right after all. Derwent was silly.
At that, her conscience smote her. She must not be so hard on Derwent. He was a kind boy, and she knew he would never deliberately say anything about her or her parents to make her unhappy.
By the time she started across the green Evy was thoroughly soaked. Aunt Grace was going to be upset with her again. “You are so willful at times, Evy,” she said time and again. “You must learn to be more like Junia.”
Evy saw the old sexton persevering across the rectory yard toward the cemetery. The village gravedigger was carrying a large piece of canvas.
He must be on his way to cover the trench he was digging earlier this morning. If he could keep the rain out, he would be able to finish tomorrow. Uncle Edmund said the sexton was the most superstitious person in Grimston Way, even more so than Old Lady Armitage, who hung garlic on her kitchen door to keep the vampires away on Allhallows Eve. According to the good sexton, if the rain interfered with digging a grave, it meant the Grim Reaper on his horse had been delayed.
Evy waved at the old man, smiling. “No Grim Reaper is going to overtake me,” she sang out and took off running toward the church and the rectory house.
The soggy lawn sank beneath her shoes as Evy dashed through the wicker gate and up the walkway, through Aunt Grace’s heavily pruned rose bushes. Little remained of the summer flower garden except a few worn-out daisies. The seedpods that her aunt had out on a drying screen for the next spring’s planting were getting a drenching. Evy put them under the porch before entering the front door, remembering to wipe her shoes on the mat.
Inside the rectory hall she removed her shoes, then stood quite still, looking up at the photographs that hung over the landing at the top of the first flight of stairs.
Evy went to stand and look as she had done unnumbered times in the past. There they were, Dr. Clyde Varley and his wife, Junia, servants of God to the savages in Zululand. A handsome couple. He had grave but kind eyes. “They are amber colored with flecks of jade green,” she assured herself in a whisper. “The color just does not show up in the photograph.”
And there was her beloved mother, Junia, with her bright, sweet smile and her dark hair pulled back in a knot.
Evy pulled her own wet hair back from her face and tried to wind it into a knot, but it was so thick, heavy, and wavy, that it ended up spilling from her grasp. She gave up and let it fall about her shoulders. “I look just like you, Mum. I know I do.”
She reached a hand to touch her mother’s portrait, closing her eyes, imagining as she so often did that she could feel her mother’s loving embrace across time, across the miles. Mother is a heroine. After all, they died as Christian martyrs, in much the same way other Christian leaders laid down their lives throughout the centuries. Evy was learning about many of those heroes in her Sunday studies at the rectory. “But I wish I had your heart for God too. Your gentle spirit. Aunt Grace says I have a willful spirit. But where did I get it? Not from you. From father?”
Evy could hear Mrs. Croft’s twanging voice singing in the kitchen. She turned from the photographs and ran down the stairs and to the back of the rectory, where the fragrant smells of hot bread wafted to entice her.
Aunt Grace was out calling on the parishioners with Uncle Edmund, and they must have been delayed by the rain. She would ask Mrs. Croft about it. Evy had learned early that if one wanted to know anything about what was going on in the village, the person to ask was the sextons wife, Mrs. Croft. She had a full basket of relatives, so it seemed, and they all apparently worked in Rookswood as parlor maids, downstairs maids, grooms in the stables, cooks and washers in the kitchen, or gardeners. Whatever gossip was astir, be it upstairs or down, it was sure to drift down the hill from Rookswood to the big rectory kitchen to Mrs. Croft.
Aunt Grace would scold them for gossiping if she happened to walk in and catch Mrs. Croft talking to one of her kin. Vicar Edmund, too, would point out the inherent evils of the tongue when unyielded to the lordship of Christ. Nevertheless, gossip flourished “like dandelions in the lawn,” Uncle Edmund often stated with a resigned sigh. “Proof the devil walks to and fro seeking someone to devour.”
Evy carried her wet shoes and stockings, along with her cloak, placed them by the glowing hearth, then went straight to the oversized kitchen. Her gaze traveled the huge stove, long sideboards, and floor-to-ceiling cupboards stashed with dry foodstuffs, dishes, and great beat-up pots and blackened kettles.
Mrs. Croft had been employed by the rectory to help with cleaning and cooking for as long as Evy could remember, and she was as much a member of Evy’s family as her aunt and uncle. In some ways Evy felt even closer to Mrs. Croft, since she could tell her almost anything that troubled her, be it unsavory or fair, and Mrs. Croft would speak her mind plainly. Whereas Evy loved and respected her aunt and uncle and was on her best behavior around them, she could take off her shoes and tuck her feet up under her when sitting in the big kitchen chair in the company of Mrs. Croft.
Mrs. Croft was singing in her off-tune voice when Evy came rushing in, her wet hair loose and wild around her shoulders and back. She breathed in the heady smells of hot, steaming cinnamon scones. “Mmm … I’m starving.”
“Humph. You keep eating scones before supper, child, and you’ll soon turn into one.”
Evy took a mouthful. “Mrs. Croft? Derwent says the Chantrys are more important than my parents.”
“Does he now? Still trying to become friends with the squire’s young son, is he? Dreams of Kimberly diamond mines and gold fields in the wilds of Africa, that’s why. But the good curate won’t be letting him go on any such adventure, you’ll see. ’Tis best. Derwent will make you a good husband, child.”
Evy wrinkled her nose. “That cannot be true about my parents. Not if my father knew David Livingstone! The stories about Mr. Livingstone were in all the newspapers. They don’t write about Squire.”
She chuckled. “You be right there. Leastwise in the society page.”
“Then Derwent is wrong.”
“Nay, he be right, I am afraid. Folks in Grimston Way don’t be caring much about Master Livingstone, but they do be worrying their heads about the doings of Squire.”
“But why?”
Mrs. Croft’s beady eyes twinkled. “Because Squire be the biggest landowner in Grimston Way, that’s why. Most folks in the village works for him. That makes Squire Chantry mighty important in the minds of hard working folk. Not all-important, mind you. God be all-important and all-powerful. But folks get their wages, you see, from Squire. Them Chantrys own just about everything, including diamond mines in South Africa.”
“Then I wonder why the Chantrys come to Sunday service.” Evy sniffed her indignation. “Surely they’re too important.”
Mrs. Croft laughed, clearly tickled, but when Aunt Grace suddenly came through the kitchen door Mrs. Croft coughed to clear her throat. Evy turned for the door.
“Evy, dear”—Aunt Grace Havering’s tone was disapproving—“I am ashamed you would say such a flippant thing about anyone.”
Evy winced and automatically pulled her shoulders back, hands tucked behind her. She became aware of her disheveled hair, her wet clothes and bare feet. She curled her toes inward and bit her lip.
Aunt Grace took in her condition and sighed. “Darling, you’re soaked. And after you were ill all last week. You can be so careless in your behavior sometimes. You worry me.”
Evy looked down at her toes. “Sorry, Aunt. The storm sort of crept up on me and Derwent, and before we knew it—it was pouring.”
Just then Evy’s cat meowed from under the hardbacked chair. She went to it and rubbed the sides of its golden face, then got up and poured it a saucer of milk.
Aunt Grace went to check on the scones, making sure there were enough to send over to Old Lady Armitage. “She has the grippe, poor old dear,” she told Mrs. Croft. “Can you add some cold chicken, Mrs. Croft?”
“Surel
y, Missus Grace. There’s plenty. I’ll deliver it on the way home.”
Evy watched her aunt as the cat drank its milk. Aunt Grace was a great lady. She was ten years younger than her husband, the vicar, and her hair was a shiny blue-black. Evy held fond memories of being rocked to sleep surrounded by the fragrance of the lavender lotion on her aunts hair. She wore it in a sedate bun at the back of her neck, much as Evy’s mother, Junia, wore hers in the photograph. Aunt Grace’s eyes were also brown and often appeared to be sad—
“Were you in the woods with Derwent after school, Evy?”
Evy hesitated at her aunt’s unexpected question. Should she tell her about the stranger in Grimston Wood? Her aunt was not the sort of person to approve of meeting and exchanging words with strangers, especially a man in the woods. Even if Evy said she had not wanted to speak to the man, she doubted if Aunt Grace would approve.
“Yes, Derwent was gathering wood for the stove, like Mrs. Croft asked. He should have brought it by now.” She glanced toward the back porch, where the wood was stashed in a bin out of the weather. “I thought I’d surprise you with autumn leaves for the chapel,” Evy went on. “I knew you would be going there tonight to decorate for Sunday worship.”
“That was thoughtful, dear. I did want some leaves. You had better get out of those wet clothes right away. You have a propensity for chest colds, as I do.”
“Yes, Aunt.” Evy left the kitchen, smuggling the half-eaten scone under her pinafore.
The rectory hall was dim at this hour, and Aunt Grace was going about with a candle, lighting the lanterns. She always did this to make things cheery for when Uncle Edmund came home for supper.
Evy paused on the steep stairway and looked back down. She vacillated. Should she mention the exciting stranger and the interesting things he had said to her? Maybe Aunt knew who he was.
Her aunt became aware that she was standing there and looked at her, waiting. She smiled. “Yes, Evy?”
“I was wondering … do many visitors come to Grimston Way to visit Rookswood?”
Aunt Grace tilted her head. “Yes, why do you ask, dear? Did you see anyone arriving today?”
Tomorrow's Treasure Page 8