“My brother insists she did look at him,” Meg said.
“The boys’ staring at Arcilla is no more silly than every girl in the village gaping at the squire’s two sons.” Evy shook her head. “Did you see Alice staring? I nearly laughed at her.”
“As if Rogan would pay her any attention.”
“Well, I could have told you Arcilla would come wearing the latest London fashion,” Emily told them. “Mum says a new seamstress from London arrived at Rookswood in the Chantry coach. Miss Hildegard, her name is. She is there to make Arcilla, Lady Honoria, and Lady Camilla new winter wardrobes. Mum was cleaning the sewing room when Miss Hildegard arrived. She had all manner of cloth—velvet, taffeta, and silk from India.”
Meg and Evy moaned.
All this was fresh on Evy’s mind when she returned to the rectory. The next day she was with Mrs. Croft in the kitchen learning how to cook and bake, and how to preserve jams and watermelon rinds in cinnamon. Cooking was part of Evy’s schooling so that one day, when she became a vicar’s wife, she would be able to bring food to the sick and infirm among the parishioners.
It was fully expected that Derwent would become curate after his father, and one day a vicar. In another few years he would be going away to divinity school in London. Marriage to Derwent would let Evy continue on at the rectory in a comfortable lifestyle. The idea was sensible and practical.
Evy grimaced. If only she felt some excitement when she thought about Derwent! He was like a comfortable shoe. Pushing the disloyal thought aside, she told Mrs. Croft how Rogan and Parnell ignored her and the other girls.
“As though we are a necessary evil to be tolerated.”
“You wait a few years.” A slight smile tipped Mrs. Croft’s lips. “Sudden like, they’ll be whistling a different tune. If they be anything like Squire or them before him, they’ll be hanging about the girls of Grimston Way like ants around a honey pot. Every decent girl who wants herself a good husband had better watch her reputation. Squire thinks his boys can do no wrong. So if there’s mischief to happen, who do you think will be blamed? It won’t be Master Parnell or young Rogan—or that sister of his neither, for that matter,” she said, showing Evy how to mash the berries for pound cake. “That young Master Rogan has wanderlust, he does, and he is too comely for his own good.”
Evy licked the berry juice from her finger, and Mrs. Croft gently slapped at her hand. “Bad manners, missy.”
“What does comely mean?”
“In the young master’s case, pleasing to a girl’s eye. Mark my words, little one. That means be cautious of him. He holds promise of becoming a rascally rogue, if you go wanting my opinion.”
Evy smiled. Mrs. Croft would give her opinion whether anyone asked for it or not.
“He fits ’is name, I daresay.”
Rogan … rogue. Yes, the words even sounded something alike, Evy decided.
Mrs. Croft nodded her gray head. “Aye, but he’ll still rise above Parnell, I’m thinking. There’s talk about, saying it’ll be Rogan who inherits Squire’s tide, not Master Parnell. Lizzie’s heard tales about young Parnell wanting more diamond shares in the Kimberly mines in place of the title and Rookswood lands. Don’t know how this will affect Master Rogan, though.”
Evy supposed she meant that Rogan, too, wanted to go to South Africa when he grew up, and would not look favorably on remaining in Grimston Way to rule Rookswood lands. However, since most of the villagers living in Grimston Way could trace their lineage back to the time of the Crusades, it seemed that if anyone even so much as wished to journey afar, they were accused of suffering from the reckless disease of wanderlust. Derwent also talked of adventure in faraway places, yet he was even more likely than Rogan to be denied his dreams.
Evy stared down at the bowl in her hands and sighed. Was there no one who could live life the way he—or she—wished?
October blew in on a chilly wind, bearing change in more than just the seasons. The village doctor, Dr. Tisdale, came through Rookswood’s gate in his coach and called on Vicar Edmund. The vicar was needed up at Rookswood right away, he said. The long-ailing Lady Honoria, the squire’s wife, had passed away in her sleep the night before.
A few days later the sky was roiling with clouds, and the fall wind shook away the few remaining leaves on the chestnut trees. Almost the entire village of Grimston Way lined the road from Rookswood to St. Graves chapel as the Chantry coaches made the slow procession down to the cemetery.
Because the vicar was Evy’s uncle, she was permitted to attend. The Chantry family was all in black, including Miss Arcilla. She wore a veiled hat, as did Lady Camilla, who held the young girls hand. Miss Hortense, the governess, was there too, wiping her eyes on a handkerchief and ho doubt recalling being governess to Honoria when she was but a little girl in Capetown.
Parnell Chantry was very somber, as was Rogan, but neither shed tears the way Arcilla did. For the first time ever, Evy’s heart went out to the girl. So she’s human after all.
Evy watched Rogan put his arm around his sister’s shoulder when she began to cry, and a warmth filled her. How splendid of him to care for his sister that way. He seemed protective of Arcilla, much more so than Parnell, though one would have expected the older brother to take the lead. Evy recalled what Mrs. Croft said about how the squire’s title would be given to Rogan. That was odd, but then, so were many of the details about the Chantrys.
Evy was heartened when the service was all over and they could join the unhappy procession back to the rectory. When Aunt Grace went ahead to check on the tables of food waiting inside the rectory hall, Evy edged up alongside the vicar in his black robe.
“Uncle Edmund,” she whispered, “did she go to heaven?”
“My dear child!”
“But Uncle, its important where Lady Honoria went to.”
He smiled and his eyes danced as he reached over to place his loving arm around her shoulders. “You make me a happy man, Evy. Yes, it is all-important where Lady Honoria went. And I feel confident, after having spoken with her many times on the subject of Christ our Savior, that Honoria Chantry is safe in the arms of Jesus.”
Evy’s relief escaped on a sigh. “Good. Now I can enjoy all the food everyone brought to the rectory.”
The vicar threw back his head and enjoyed his laughter, then stopped quickly and cleared his throat when Miss Hortense, the retired governess, shot him a shocked glance over her pince-nez.
There was much food waiting in the hall provided by Rookswood servants, who had been sent down earlier that morning to get everything ready.
Evy marveled when she saw roast ducklings and partridges, a ham, and a big leg of lamb. There were breads, butter, pies, persimmons, and pears. But Sir Lyle, looking most unhappy, stayed only long enough to accept condolences from some of the villagers. Lady Camilla went back to Rookswood with Arcilla and the Chantry sons. Evy felt compassion for them. She had contemplated telling Rogan of her sympathy, but the opportunity had not come. Once again, he had not even glanced her way.
The death of a family member was such a lonely time, but Honoria was not lonely now. She was basking in the joyful presence of God.
Sir Lyle shook hands with the vicar and thanked him for his comforting words of sympathy, then he, too, departed.
The parishioners stayed, and after a while the mood cheered a little. Everyone ate so much that Mrs. Croft teased that no one should be able to eat again for another week, so she ought to take a week off from cooking and go home to clear out her old summers garden and get it ready for the coming winter.
There was plenty of food left over. The wives all lined up to receive portions, commensurate to the size of their families, to take home. Meg’s family got the most, while old Miss Armitage, who was all alone, received the least. She was quite dour about it and did not mince her words to Aunt Grace.
“Hark! An old lady who cannot be waiting on herself at every turn ought to receive a wee bit more. I’ll be turning ninety in Decem
ber.”
Evy watched Aunt Grace add their own take-home portion to Miss Armitage’s basket, assuring the old lady she was absolutely correct.
Evy sighed and nudged Derwent. “There goes my last hope for a piece of apple tart.”
He carried Miss Armitage’s basket outside, then drove her to her bungalow before the rains came.
That night Evy prayed especially long for Rogan, Arcilla, and Parnell, who now, like herself, had no mum. She wondered about Lady Camilla Brewster.
The fall rains lingered for several days, making everything chilly, damp, and morosely gray.
A week later Evy was sitting with her fellow students in the rectory hall, which was being used for a schoolroom. Along with her were Meg and her brother Milt, Emily and her brother Tom, Derwent Brown, and Alice Tisdale, the doctor’s only child. As Evy sat before her open workbook, Curate Brown spoke.
“It seems Miss Evy is dreaming of faraway places. Do pay attention and begin your Bible lesson.”
“Yes, Mr. Brown.” Evy felt her face turn hot and she read the parable of the rich fool in the gospel of Luke.
“What happened to the rich fool?” Curate Brown studied the small class when Evy had finished reading.
Milt held up his hand. “He built himself bigger barns to hold it all. No sooner did he have himself a pile, then he up and croaked. He left it all in the barn and never saw it again.”
“Just like Lady Chantry,” Tom whispered, grinning at Evy. “You know where she went? Deep down below!” He used a deep, baritone voice to say this. He winked, and everyone chuckled except Evy.
“You should not talk so flippantly, Tom,” Evy said. “You are gleeful about Lady Honoria’s passing because she had so much and you have so little. But you should feel sorry for Arcilla, Parnell, and Rogan Chantry. How would you like to lose your mum?”
“Little Miss Vicar,” Tom teased.
“She feels more sorry for Rogan, don’t you, Evy?” Alice Tisdale’s strawberry-blond hair was wrapped around her head in a braid. Her skin was sallow, and her small mouth puckered. Tom once said she looked as though she had been weaned on a sour pickle.
Evy blushed at Alice’s taunt, and the other girl looked positively gleeful that shed made Evy uncomfortable.
Derwent came to Evy’s rescue. “Lady Honoria was a kind and Christian woman. She always came to Sunday services when she was feeling well. It seems her faith in Jesus was more than doing church rituals”—he fixed Alice with a hard stare—“which is more than I can say for others.”
When Alice turned away, her cheeks a bright pink, Evy gave Derwent a grateful smile. Rogan wasn’t the only one who could be protective. Perhaps life with Derwent would not be so boring, after all.
Three weeks after Honoria Chantry’s funeral, Evy watched as Aunt Grace sat in the small rectory office, poring over a pile of papers. Were they debts? Evy wasn’t sure, but she had noticed of late that Aunt Grace was mulling over many concerns, far more than the servants’ gossip. Maybe Uncle Edmund’s health had something to do with her aunt’s worries. He had a heart condition that Dr. Tisdale was treating and, after the funeral, had taken to bed with angina. He was still in a weakened condition, so it had been left to the curate, Mr. Brown, to give the Sunday sermons in the chapel.
Toward the end of November, Sir Lyle left Grimston Way for Dover to board a ship for faraway Capetown. Rumor had it that he was to see his stepbrother, Sir Julien Bley. Would he also see Anthony Brewster? Maybe he was trying to bring him and Lady Camilla back together again.
Later Alice Tisdale claimed that Arcilla had needed a long bed rest. “Arcilla’s even more unhappy now that her Papa has left. She doesn’t improve.”
“How do you know?” Evy asked as they walked to the classroom where Curate Brown Waited.
A look of smug pride came to Alice’s face. “Lady Camilla asked my father if he would send me up to Rookswood to be a companion to Arcilla. Of course, since I’m the daughter of the village doctor, I’m considered quite suitable. I went last week to read to Arcilla. The house is so grand. Her room is pink and white, and she has dozens of slippers and frocks.” Alice’s mouth turned up at the corners. “I even saw Rogan and Parnell. They both spoke to me. ‘Good morning, Miss Alice,’ Parnell said.”
“Indeed? Did you faint dead away?”
Alice’s smile vanished. Her eyes turned hard. “You’re jealous, Evy. And you the vicar’s niece, too. You should be better than the rest of us. That’s what my mama says.”
Your mama says too much about everyone, Evy wanted to tell her, but of course she did not. Alice would run home and tell Mrs. Tisdale, who would then come calling on Aunt Grace.
Besides, Alice was right. Evy should be nicer than Alice because her parents had been missionaries and because her uncle was the vicar. She tried to control her tongue thereafter, but trying hard in her own strength did not always work.
When she got home that day, Evy found Aunt Grace in the vicar’s office and told her about Arcilla Chantry growing worse.
Aunt Grace leaned back against the desk. “I daresay it has not been easy on her, poor child. Losing her mother, and now Sir Lyle has left for Cape.”
“Mrs. Croft says it seems like a curse is on Rookswood. Another death in the family would convince her it was so.”
“Nonsense.”
“Aunt, who is Master Henry?”
Aunt Grace looked at her sharply. “Why do you ask?”
“Some people say he killed himself.”
Aunt Grace yanked off her apron and threw it down on the chair. “I’m going to have a talk with Mrs. Croft.”
“It—It really was not Mrs. Croft, but Lizzie.”
“Ah, yes, the all-knowing eyes and ears at Rookswood.” Aunt Grace sighed, seeming to forfeit any hope of stopping the gossip, and sank tiredly into the chair. “There is no big secret, Evy. Master Henry Chantry was the squire’s brother. He came to Rookswood from Capetown after the Zulu War. He fought in the battles. I think he was quite heroic, but I never met him. He was here in Grimston Way only about a year before he … he met with an accident. Now, enough chatter. I’m taking the jingle out to see Miss Armitage. Want to come with me? Better bring your hooded cloak, dear.”
“Yes. Is … Was Master Henry Rogan’s blood uncle?”
“Yes. He was somewhat of an explorer in South Africa. He was fairly wealthy, and he never did remarry after his wife Caroline died on one of his expeditions. He favored Rogan and left him everything he owned.”
Evy thought of the diamonds, the Black Diamond. Was that how Master Henry made his money? She did not dare mention that to her aunt.
“That means Rogan is going to be a very wealthy man one day, doesn’t it?”
Aunt Grace nodded. “Since he will receive a great inheritance from his father as well, yes.” She looked over at her husband’s desk, where she’d been going over some papers. The mention of money seemed to deepen the worry lines around her eyes. “Ah, well.”
Toward the holidays an event took place that changed Evy’s life. It was December, and some of the ladies were helping plan for the Christmas festivities at the rectory. Aunt Grace was teaching Evy to weave pine boughs for the garland that would decorate the chapel, and Mrs. Croft was telling the sexton in a low voice to put more pine boughs in the cemetery on the grave of Lady Honoria—“and some on the gate for the late great gentleman, Master Henry Chantry.”
At the mention of Master Henry, Evy looked up, breathing in the pungent fragrance of pine. She had not forgotten what Mrs. Croft said about a curse on Rookswood, or that it somehow centered around Master Henry’s death. The idea of a curse was just superstition; Evy knew it was foolish, but Mrs. Croft wanting her husband to add extra pine to the gate in memory of Henry Chantry’s death convinced her that Mrs. Croft did not think so.
“Better to appease Master Henry,” Evy heard Mrs. Croft whisper to her husband.
The tall, thin sexton nodded and ambled away from the rectory yard in the directi
on of the church cemetery.
Evy stood, about to follow him, intending to ask about Master Henry. But just then the Chantry coach rolled up, as sleek, black, and shiny as anything Evy had ever seen. Mr. Bixby, the footman, always shined it with a cloth, and the yard boy polished the wheels.
Everyone ceased what they were doing, as though royalty had just arrived from London. All eyes were on Mr. Bixby as he climbed down from the drivers seat, his shoulders straight and head high, then opened the coach door.
Though everyone knew Lady Camilla sat inside, they stared at the coach door, breath held, waiting.
Lady Camilla stepped down from the carriage, holding Mr. Bixby’s arm. She was gowned in many yards of black satin, and her skin look like purest ivory.
She is prettier than I thought. Evy admired the woman’s golden hair, which was so artfully arranged. Her large eyes were the color of slate, and Evy started when they looked directly at her.
Her heart jumped. Why is she staring at me like that?
“Good afternoon, Vicar. Mrs. Havering.” Lady Camilla’s smile was gentle. “I should like to speak with you in the rectory, if you have a few minutes to spare?”
Naturally everyone had minutes to spare for Lady Camilla Montieth Brewster, but Evy thought it rather gracious of her to ask rather than expect everyone to stop what they were doing.
“By all means, Lady Camilla, how good to see you.” Uncle Edmund’s smile was genuine.
“We were just about to have afternoon tea,” Aunt Grace told her with an equally charming smile, and Evy had the clear impression that her aunt liked Lady Camilla.
“Mrs. Croft and Evy have baked fresh scones. I do believe they made your favorite, lemon curd.”
Camilla looked over at Evy, and Evy smiled. When Lady Camilla looked quickly away, Evy felt her smile slip. Is there something about my appearance that bothers her?
She noticed there was no one else inside the carriage. Rogan must have stayed at Rookswood with Parnell. Parnell had been allowed to return to a prestigious school he attended in London after his mother’s death, and was now home for the Christmas holidays. Rogan was to join him at school after the New Year. It would seem a little more deserted once they were gone to London. Evy often saw Rogan riding by on his horse. He would glance her way, pretending not to see her, but she knew he did. Once he had slowed down, but then had ridden on toward the woods, his dog close behind.
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