“You and your curiosity, my girl. Yes, Kimberly is in South Africa, but that map is a very old one. It was not called Kimberly back then. The first diamond was not found there until 1867. At that time it was called the diamond diggings at Colesberg Kopje. It was renamed Kimberly after the colonial secretary who accepted the area into Her Majesty’s dominions. After the big diamond was found on the river’s bank, Kimberly grew by leaps and bounds. Miners came from all over the world to search for diamonds.”
“Did my parents ever visit Kimberly?”
She noticed that her aunt watched her carefully. Did her continued interest disturb Aunt Grace … and if so, why?
“Junia never mentioned going there. Why do you ask, Evy?”
She laughed. “Would it not be a wonder if they had found a diamond of their own? I would be their heir, and we would never need to worry about paying bills again.”
Aunt Grace spilled water from the glass she held, and Uncle Edmund reached quickly with his napkin and blotted his wife’s sleeve.
“Oh dear,” Aunt Grace breathed.
“No harm done, my dear,” came Uncle Edmunds soothing tone.
Evy pressed on. “The squire’s son isn’t so interested in diamonds. He hopes to look for gold in South Africa when he grows up.”
Uncle Edmund raised his brows. “You have been talking with Master Rogan, have you?”
“Only a little. It was quite by accident. He came to the cemetery with his dog and overheard Mr. Croft telling me about Master Henry Chantry. Mr. Croft thinks he may have been murdered.”
Aunt Grace stiffened, a look of consternation on her face. Evy’s uncle was more calm. His tufted white brows shot even higher. “Does he, now! And I suppose he told you Master Henry was murdered for diamonds?”
“He was not certain, just thought he was probably murdered. He did not say why, or who may have done it.”
“Well, that’s a blessing,” he said wryly, exchanging looks with Grace. “There is absolutely no proof Henry was murdered.”
“Then he killed himself?”
“Evy!” Aunt Grace’s sharp tone startled her. “Spreading tales is an evil in which you must not indulge.”
“But I did not spread them, Aunt.”
“Listening can be just as bad. Words can hurt. Loose tongues can destroy people.”
“Yes, and I would never mention this to Meg, Emily, or Alice. They would tell their brothers and it would soon be all over the village.”
“I fear it already is.” Uncle Edmund sighed. “That tale about Master Henry has been loitering in Grimston Way for many years now. I’m afraid there is not much we can do about it. The Chantrys are deemed mysterious at times by people, and all sorts of tales can spring up about them and grow like weeds.”
“He said that Master Henry’s ghost walks in the cemetery on Allhallows.”
“Very unwise of him. Nonsense.”
“That is what I told him, but then Rogan came along and said that his uncle wasn’t even buried in the cemetery, so how could he haunt it? Then he told us his uncle Henry was buried in the family crypt at Rookswood.” She considered telling them how Rogan offered the challenge to bring her there to see the crypt, but held back. Aunt Grace especially would tell her she could not go, and then she could not prove Rogan wrong about squealing like Arcilla.
“Master Rogan said that Henry’s ghost haunts the third floor of Rookswood.”
Grace tossed her napkin down on the table, frowning. “Edmund, you simply must do something about allowing this sort of chatter. It’s unhealthy.”
He reached over and laid his hand over hers. “I might as well try and bottle the north wind as end loose talk in the village. Do not fret so,” came his soothing tone. “She will hear these tales regardless of our attempt to stop them.” He looked across the table at Evy. “I trust you will be wise enough to sort the wheat from the chaff when it comes to truth and foolish chatter.”
He trusted her, and Evy felt warm seep through her at the thought. But her aunt’s reaction troubled her as much as her uncle’s pleased her. Evy disliked worrying Aunt Grace. Lately, she fretted at the drop of a hat. What was worrying her so?
“I suppose you are right,” Aunt Grace said uneasily, “but …”
“Aunt, I did not believe what they said about ghosts. How could I? It is silly. I merely thought it was strange about Master Henry. Do you remember him, Uncle?”
“Not well. He spent a good portion of his time in Capetown, as I recall. As to whether he shot himself, I cannot say. There was much confusion at the time.” He glanced at Grace, as though to assure her all was well before he went on. “Henry had unwisely permitted himself to become entangled in some diamond scandal or other.”
Evy saw her aunts mouth tighten, and she hastened in another direction. “Master Rogan insists that when he grows up he is going to find a gold mine.”
“He does, does he? Ambitious, like all the Chantrys.” Uncle Edmund smiled. He took out his vest watch and glanced at the time. “I will be calling on Withers today, my dear,” he said to Aunt Grace. “Would you care to come along?”
“I would, except the wind is so chilly. Looks like rain again too. I had better stay and work on Evy’s dress. Saturday draws near, when she will visit Rookswood.”
He pushed his chair back and stood. Aunt Grace went for his hat and gloves.
Evy came up, placing her arms around her uncle’s pudgy middle. “Is it wrong to be ambitious the way Master Rogan is?”
He looked down at her with the kindly smile she loved and patted her back. “Not unless you allow your ambition to rule your heart. God must always have all your heart.”
Evy wondered if Rogan would allow his ambition to rule him. “Is there lots of gold in South Africa?”
“I daresay there is a great deal. If you can find it.”
“I suppose if you could find it, you would be very rich.”
“Very rich indeed. And very prone toward trouble. Too much love for gold and diamonds usually brings out the worst in people. Some hoard diamonds and gold because it brings them power. Others put great trust in riches and never learn that possessions cannot give meaning to life. Only a relationship with Christ brings true security and satisfaction.”
“Like the rich fool.”
His smile deepened. “Like the rich fool, indeed. And we are wise to use Christ’s parables to keep us from greed.”
“I wonder if Master Henry was murdered for his diamonds and gold?”
“Evy!”
She turned to find Aunt Grace entering the room with Uncle Edmund’s hat and gloves. “You are becoming altogether too involved in this sort of chatter.”
Quick remorse swept her. She did not want to distress her aunt. “Yes, I am sorry.” With that, she hurried to gather the soup bowls into the kitchen.
When she entered the kitchen, she thought Mrs. Croft might have overheard, or rather had listened, for the woman stood by the door, her fingers clutching and unclutching her apron. Evy found her response curious. Why should Mrs. Croft be fidgety?
As Evy stacked the dishes, she began thinking of Saturday and her visit to Arcilla at Rookswood. Her excitement stirred to new life. She hoped it would be a clear and sunny afternoon. It would be such a shame to get her new dress rained on. Sure enough, before the dishes were even dried and put away, it begin to rain. Evy remembered the sexton and wondered if he had finished digging the trench before it became a slippery bed of mud. Mrs. Croft must have been worrying about her husband too, for she went to the window several times and scowled.
Thinking of a grave brought her mind right back to Master Henry. If he had not shot himself, then someone had to have murdered him. But why would anyone wish to murder Master Henry … if not for the Black Diamond?
CHAPTER EIGHT
The wind moaned throughout the rainy afternoon and evening. Though Aunt Grace had sent Evy up to her bedroom over two hours ago, she could not sleep, and so knelt to pray on the newly laundered ra
g rug beside her bed. She could hear her aunt downstairs in the rectory hall and knew how worried she was. When Uncle Edmund had not returned by supper time, Mrs. Croft told a few of the village men. They had ridden out toward Mr. Wither’s farm to see if the vicar’s jingle was caught in a bog. They had been gone longer than Aunt Grace thought necessary, and her concern had now turned to gravity.
Evy was still dressed, except for her stockinged feet. Her hands were cold, her stomach had butterflies, and her heart thumped with irregular little beats. She looked up from her prayer book toward the small window, shielded by eyelet curtains. The rain pelted against the leaded pane. A sweeping flash of lightning over Grimston Woods was followed by deep thunder.
“Like the death angel passing over Egypt,” she murmured. Above the needling rain, there followed the sound of thudding horse hoofs in the rectory yard below. The jingle and Uncle Edmund!
She scrambled to her feet and rushed to the window, pushing aside the curtain. Even on sunny days the leaded panes kept the rooms dim, and now, with the darkness and rain, it was nearly impossible to see anything. She wiped the moisture from the pane and tried to peer into the darkness below, but she could not see who was hurrying across the muddy yard toward the door. Even up here in her small room she heard the loud rapping. Her heart sank like a stone. It could not be Uncle Edmund.
It was after eight o’clock, and Evy could not imagine a parishioner calling upon Aunt Grace now for any reason except unhappy news. With growing apprehension, Evy let the curtain fall into place and turned to look toward the open bedroom door.
She hurried into the narrow hall and leaned over the rail.
Aunt Grace stood below, Mrs. Croft beside her. Coming in through the front were the curate, Mr. Brown, and Derwent. Curate Brown had taken hold of Aunt Grace’s shoulders, and his wet face was set with sadness. Evy saw Aunt Grace stiffen, then her head dropped and her body shook.
“Something has happened to Uncle?” Evy couldn’t hold back the cry. She held tightly to the rail, and Derwent looked up at her. His wet face looked drawn and white, and his russet hair was plastered to his cheeks. He tugged at his father’s arm and pointed toward Evy, and Mr. Brown looked up. The curate’s expression confirmed her fears. He said something to Mrs. Croft, who left the others and moved up the stairs toward Evy.
Evy could not move. Her tearful eyes searched Mrs. Croft’s pitying gaze.
“Oh, Evy, my poor lamb,” she said gently. “I’m afraid the good vicar has met with a terrible accident. It was the rain and wind, no less. His horse must have bolted from the lightning. Dear Vicar has been taken to heaven.”
Evy felt the room start to spin, and the last thing she heard was Mrs. Croft’s alarmed cry as she plunged into darkness.
The rains continued on and off, and the perpetual dampness penetrated the old stone rectory. How strange that Lady Honoria would die in October and Uncle Edmund would die just a few weeks later.
Evy stared out the window at the rain. Maybe there really was some sort of curse connected with Master Henry and Rookswood. She could almost believe it if she did not know for sure that Christ was in control of life and death.
The names of the rectors for the past century were inscribed on a tarnished bronze plaque on the stone wall in the front hall, and now Uncle Edmund’s name was to be there as well, freshly inscribed by the village engraver.
The Saturday appointment that Evy was to have had with Arcilla at Rookswood was postponed until after Christmas. Evy was confined to the rectory in the traditional state of mourning alongside Aunt Grace.
Though the kindly parishioners rallied to their needs and took turns bringing food, it was evident that in due time Aunt Grace would need to seek employment for the many years that loomed ahead. After all, she was still a relatively young woman.
“Times are changing, Evy,” Aunt Grace told her two weeks later. “It’s highly probable that you, too, will grow up with the need to seek employment. If that happens you will be aided by a good education. Even if you marry Derwent Brown, life is uncertain. We can depend upon the Lord to care for us, though He surely expects us to use our talents wisely. Consider how He gave the ant the instinct to prepare for winter. If we do nothing, and merely say we are depending upon our heavenly Father to provide, we are close to presumption.”
Evy could see how grave and serious her aunt had become, and this affected her as well. After tasting pain and loss, Evy had made a terrible discovery: Life was dangerous.
The parishioners were helping with the many duties that were temporarily in the hands of the curate. No one had much doubt Mr. Brown would become the new vicar of St. Graves. He was well thought of by both the villagers and the bishop, and he was making quiet plans to move into the rectory house with Derwent, doing his best to do so without offense to the vicar’s sorrowing widow.
Evy had no idea how this delicate situation would be worked out. It was obvious that once a new vicar was appointed, she and Aunt Grace would have to leave the rectory and find another place to live. The uncertainty was taking its toll on Aunt Grace, coming so soon after Uncle Edmund’s death, and Evy felt great sympathy and concern. Life had suddenly become more difficult. The hard places had not been filed smooth. Tears were a portion of her cup. She wished she were older so that she could help bring in financial support. There was also some talk that Dr. Tisdale might arrange for Aunt Grace to live in a cottage on his farm for a monthly pittance, but Evy hoped that would not happen. Alice Tisdale was patronizing enough. She was going about whispering to the other girls that her father would be taking on the care of the vicar’s widow and niece, even going so far as to imply that they would be receiving charity. Alice had sounded positively smug when she revealed she might need to go through her frocks to donate garments to Evy so she could continue to attend school. “Perfectly good frocks, too—ones that I want to keep. But Mum says I must be charitable to the poor and deprived.”
It took all of Evy’s control to not walk up and confront Alice with her silly lies. It wasn’t so dreadful for her to say these things to Meg and Emily because they knew what poverty was and they knew better. But Alice was also spreading the tale among the boys. It was horribly embarrassing! Evy shuddered to think just how condescending Alice’s manner would become if she and Aunt Grace did end up living in the old cottage on the Tisdale farm. Oh, spare me! I will wear a potato sack before I ever wear a discarded frock from Alice Tisdale!
Despite all this, as the days inched by, Evy was able to continue her piano lessons twice a week under Mrs. Tisdale, who had studied music when she was young, and whose contribution to the community was noted by the villagers.
“I’m in complete agreement with Mrs. Tisdale. Music is nourishing to the spirit,” Aunt Grace said. “I see no reason why your uncle’s death should deprive you of your piano lessons. Especially when you enjoy them so much.”
There were four students: Evy, Meg, Emily, and of course, Alice. Although the other students paid, Evy was now allowed to attend at no charge since she had been the niece of the dear departed vicar.
Evy knew that Alice did not particularly like her. Alice blamed Evy for losing the chance to go up to Rookswood several afternoons each week to be companion to Arcilla. After all, Alice never ceased to remind Evy, she was the doctor’s daughter. Though Evy thought her pallid and sullen, she considered herself quite pretty. Besides which, it was no secret that Alice dared to imagine herself romantically involved with Rogan Chantry. Emily and Meg would giggle about the girls vanity.
“As if he’d ever look at her. He’ll have someone special, like Lady Bancroft’s daughter, Patricia. Have you seen Miss Patricia?” Meg asked Evy in a whisper.
Evy admitted she had not, nor did she wish to see another pretty girl romping about in fancy clothes and carrying on something awful in front of Rogan.
“She’s very rich. She would be, of course; her parents are of the nobility, living in London. They even met Her Majesty at court. Patricia is thirteen now
and wears gowns made in Paris. Her hair is auburn and she has what Tom calls forget-me-not blue eyes.”
“Rogan is only a boy.” Evy gave a sniff. “He is too young to marry.”
“They make plans early for marriage among the nobility.” Meg nodded, eyes wide and sober. “They even have someone chosen for Arcilla already.”
“Oh, do not say so,” Evy groaned.
“Indeed, so. Patricia’s brother, Charles Bancroft.”
“Pity the young man,” Emily said.
“How do you know all this? About the Bancroft children I mean?” Evy had heard nothing of the sort from Mrs. Croft.
Meg shrugged. “Because Mum now works in the kitchen at Rookswood.”
That appeared to explain everything from Meg’s viewpoint.
Emily sighed. “If only I knew I was going to get a handsome husband, I’d be happy.”
“Handsome! I should be happy if I get a husband at all,” Meg said. “At least you’re the blacksmith’s daughter. Pa is a groom at the Rookswood stables.”
“You’ll marry Tom, Emily’s brother.” Evy patted her friend’s hand.
“And you’ll marry Derwent,” Meg told Evy. “You’re lucky. He’s so handsome.”
Evy’s brows lifted. Derwent? Handsome?
Alice had finished her piano lesson and walked up. “You three are always whispering,” she said crossly. “It’s quite rude you know.”
“So it is,” Evy agreed, and stood, shaking out her skirts. It was time to start back to the rectory.
“We were talking about the squire’s son.” Meg’s malicious tone made it clear she did not like Alice’s superior ways of lecturing them. “Rogan’s going to marry Miss Patricia Bancroft. She’s rich and beautiful.”
Alice’s lips tightened. “Gossip … probably only from the kitchen of Rookswood. He’ll marry whom he wishes to marry. He’s very independent.” She smoothed her strawberry blond hair with the palm of her hand. She looked at her fingernails with a secretive smile. “He talks to me all the time.”
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