Tomorrow's Treasure

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  “Ta, ta,” Meg said, mimicking her lofty voice.

  Alice fixed Evy with a cool stare. “It is quite unkind of you to have taken my place as Miss Arcilla’s best friend.”

  “I have not been up to Rookswood yet. Really, Alice, you’re being very unfair. Arcilla makes her own decisions as to whom she befriends. I had nothing at all to do with her choice.”

  Alice shrugged. “The doctor’s daughter and the vicar’s niece could be on the same social stratum, I suppose. But—”

  “Always putting on airs.” Emily shook her head. “You’re really no better than the rest of us, Alice.”

  “That’s not what my mum tells me. But never mind, both of you. Because now that the vicar has—well, now that he’s not here any longer, Mum says Lady Camilla will ask me to return because I play the piano so well.”

  It was true that Alice was very good at the piano, and Evy longed to become as proficient. Alice was blessed to have Mrs. Tisdale for her mother, but Evy knew better about Alice being asked to return to Rookswood.

  Emily looked at Evy and rolled her eyes, and Evy stifled a giggle. It vanished quickly enough, though, when Evy thought again about what she and Aunt Grace were to do.

  Whatever was to be decided about the future, there was no question that they would need to find a new home soon.

  Uncle Edmund had left Grace a small benefice, but Evy had learned die money would run out in the years ahead. The bishop in London had taken a sympathetic interest in their plight and written a letter to Grace, in which he told her that he would try to arrange something suitable for their sustenance. Grace wrote back that she preferred to find work in a household, perhaps in London.

  Taking work in London loomed large in her aunt’s thinking these days, when, on the wintry heels of change, the expected announcement arrived that the bishop had indeed awarded the St. Graves Parish to its curate, Mr. Brown. He had been faithful to Uncle Edmund, and, as Aunt Grace told her, it was fitting that he should become the new vicar.

  “Your uncle would be pleased if he knew the position went to Mr. Brown. It will be good for Derwent, too, and ultimately for your future as well, Evy.”

  Evy understood what she meant. She was to marry Derwent.

  Mr. Brown immediately offered to let them continue to live at the rectory for as long as they wished, but both he and Grace recognized the arrangement would not be wise. Her aunt declined. As she told Evy, Mr. Brown had lost his wife many years ago, after Derwent’s birth, and it did not bode well for a widowed woman to be living in the same house with a widower.

  “Besides, if we are to make a match between you and Derwent, we cannot have the two of you growing up in such close confines. You would soon begin looking upon one another as brother and sister.”

  Evy felt that way now. She had known Derwent all her life. The older she grew, the more difficult it became to imagine herself married to him. Her aunt assured her she would feel differently once she reached her teen years.

  “Everything changes when you begin growing up. You will think Derwent handsome and wise.”

  Evy studied the quiet boy when they gathered for Sunday services the next day and wondered if such a miracle could happen. He was far from handsome, not that his appearance was of primary concern. A heart for God could supplant a handsome body. She thought this because her uncle had told her so. Evy hoped she would be wise enough one day to know this for herself.

  Unfortunately, Derwent was not especially bright either, and that worried Evy. Although he was the son of the curate and so was expected to be interested in matters pertaining to the parish church, Derwent took more interest in hunting possum and rabbits and dreamed about searching for diamonds and gold in South Africa. He was quite good-natured, rather gullible about most things, and continued to look on Rogan Chantry with hero worship even though Rogan was a bit younger than he.

  Perhaps Derwent would change?

  Evy counted the years until she would turn fourteen, clearly expecting that she would wake up on that morning and find herself a new person, and Derwent—the fairy tale prince.

  “I shall be taking the train into London to look for work.”

  Aunt Grace’s words snatched Evy from her thoughts.

  “Mrs. Croft has volunteered to look after you for the time I am away. I promise to return before Christmas.”

  Evy pondered this. “What kind of work will you seek?”

  “Well, I was a governess before I married Edmund, so I can fall back on that. The difficulty will be in finding a family willing to take us both. We will make this a matter of prayer, Evy.” Grace put her arms around her. “You are all I have left. It would not be good for either of us to be separated at this time.”

  Evy agreed and choked back her tears. What if she needed to live in an orphanage for the next five years? She asked the question that was uppermost in her mind, the one that was usually glossed over with indifference. “Aunt Grace, would not my father have had relatives? The Varleys, I mean? Someone we could turn to for help?”

  Evy felt the familiar barrier slip between them. She guessed her aunt’s response from the veiled look that came over her tired face.

  “No, dear. I believe he had an older brother somewhere in the Cape, but we’ve never heard from him. He was quite a bit older than your father, so he may have departed this world by now. I believe he was a heavy drinker and a gambler.”

  Evy felt a rush of disappointment. “Oh … I see.”

  “Do not worry so. I shall find work. God is our Shepherd. He will provide. If not in London, then elsewhere. Your uncle had many friends and associates in the church. Perhaps the bishop will recommend me to some genteel family.”

  But Evy’s troubled thoughts remained. “And my mother’s family and yours?”

  A cloud seemed to pass over her aunt’s countenance, as though her memories were sad ones. “Our father died when Junia and I were children. I was thirteen and she was seven. There was no one else. Our mother—your grandmother, Victoria—died soon after Junia was born. Father never mentioned her family. When I was nineteen I worked as a nanny for the bishop’s daughter in London while also caring for Junia. The bishop introduced me to Edmund, who was a young curate. Edmund and I married, and the bishop arranged for him to come to St. Graves. In due season he became its rector. That was many years ago.” Her heavy sigh seemed to fill the room.

  It was no use. Evy had heard most of this before. It was like knocking at the door of an empty house. Her aunt was never unkind about Evy’s questions, but she was ever and always reluctant to talk freely. Perhaps Evy merely imagined that there was more to understand.

  Before Aunt Grace left on the train for London, Evy overheard her talking with Vicar Brown. “We had such fine plans for her. Edmund wanted so much for her to attend music school in London. As you know, she loves the piano, and we both recognized her talent. To have become a music teacher would have suited her well. Now I wonder if I shall be able to manage it.”

  “These things can only be left to the Lord, Mrs. Havering. Surely God knew all this when He permitted the beloved vicar to meet with his tragic accident. In God’s wisdom, what we now view as dark tragedies may be necessary for the final glorious design.”

  Evy eased the kitchen door shut, and behind her she heard Mrs. Croft sniff. Evy turned around to see the woman wiping her eyes with the edge of her apron. Her heart warmed toward Mrs. Croft. She does actually care about us. Rather awed at the thought, Evy walked up and put her arms around the woman’s waist, and Mrs. Croft awkwardly patted her back. “There, there,” she murmured, “there, there, Evy dear. Its all going to be all right. I daresay the future be brighter than any of us think now.”

  Evy and Mrs. Croft saw Aunt Grace off at the train depot.

  Her aunt kissed Evy’s cheek. “Good-bye, dear. Take good care of her, Mrs. Croft.”

  “Oh, I will indeed, Missus Grace,” she said, holding the reins to the jingle tightly.

  “And remember, Evy, st
udy hard in Mr. Browns classroom while I’m gone. It is even more urgent now to make good use of the three Rs.”

  Evy blinked back tears. “I will, Aunt. Oh, good-bye, good-bye, and may God give you a wonderful post as governess.”

  She sat beside Mrs. Croft on the seat in the jingle watching her aunt wave as she boarded the train. A few minutes later the big steam engine pulled out of the way station, and the whistle pierced the cold morning air. Evy covered her ears. They watched the train leaving Grimston Way until it rounded the bend and was blocked from view by a stand of weathered oak trees.

  The whistle continued to blow, growing fainter. Evy watched the boiler smoke on the horizon as stillness settled about her.

  Finally Mrs. Croft flipped the reins, and the horse turned and started back toward the village rectory.

  CHAPTER NINE

  During the next few weeks life proceeded as normally as could be expected in such circumstances. Mr. Brown and some of the ladies in the village decorated the hall and church for the Christmas celebration, though the mood was anything but cheery. On the great table beside the host of inscribed names belonging to rectors of St. Graves Parish stood a Christmas bush in a pot. The decorated bush was an old tradition begun by the Cornish, and many in this area of England adopted the festive decoration instead of using Christmas trees. The bush had been sent down from the Chantry family with a hand-decorated card signed by the entire family, from Lady Camilla’s elegant script to Arcilla’s lopsided handwriting. At the top of the card were the words Merry Christmas.

  A few days before Aunt Grace’s return Evy went with Derwent to the woods near the rectory to hunt for mistletoe and holly. She had spotted a large cluster of mistletoe in an oak tree, and Derwent shimmied up the trunk and onto a branch to reach it. When her basket was past half full he climbed down to rest, and they sat for a few minutes on a fallen log beside the dirt road. They agreed that after resting they would search for holly branches with red berries, then return to the rectory.

  Derwent ran his fingers through his russet hair and looked at her. Red suddenly tinged his cheeks.

  “Seems to me, if you go away to London to live, Miss Evy, I won’t be seeing you anymore. Does it seem so to you, too?”

  It did, but Evy tried not to think about it. Still, she couldn’t keep her mind from traveling that path. What if she had to move to London? She would be taken away from her friends and from all she was comfortable with! Uncertainty was a constant companion as she wondered what would happen if she did move away. Would she and Derwent continue as friends, perhaps through letters? What a poor substitute for being with her lifelong friend!

  She pushed aside these gloomy thoughts. “Oh, surely we will see one another. After all, you will be coming to London to attend divinity school in a few short years. And Aunt and I have so many friends in Grimston Way we could never simply turn our backs and disappear into the London throngs.”

  “Then you will come back and visit the rectory sometimes?”

  Evy smoothed a tendril of her hair back into place, wondering why his question brought her a feeling of uneasiness. Perhaps because she noticed the hope in his eyes—a hope that appeared to question her more deeply than she was ready to answer.

  “Quite often, I daresay. Aunt will see to that.”

  He cleared his throat. “I find myself hoping—”

  A sudden thundering of hooves drew Evy’s attention to the road, where she saw Rogan riding his horse. As usual he looked the squire’s son, dressed handsomely in shiny polished boots, a neat hat sitting to one side of his head in a rather cocky manner. He looked surprised to see them sitting together on the log, and he rode up and took in the scene, noting the mistletoe in the basket at her feet. He studied Derwent, then looked at her, as though he had come to some conclusion.

  “Is not that mistletoe?”

  Evy stood quickly at Rogan’s question and picked up her basket. “Yes. For the rectory hall.”

  “Mistletoe for the rectory hall?” He looked amused and then laughed. “I never thought of the rectory as a place for kissing.”

  “It’s—It’s not.” Curse his mocking tone and the heat in her face! “It is simply—a decoration.”

  He held out his hand toward her. “I should like a piece of it, thank you.”

  Fighting the urge to throw the basket at him, Evy broke off a small twig with three leaves and handed it to him, eyes averted.

  “Are you not going to ask me what I shall do with it?” Rogan’s dark eyes were dancing.

  “Its naught of my business.”

  Rogan looked at Derwent. “What do you do with this?” He waved the twig about, deliberately holding it over Evy’s head.

  Derwent turned pink, frowned, and shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing! I am disappointed in you.”

  Derwent looked at Evy. “What were you going to do with it, Evy?”

  “Evy?” Rogan’s tone showed his surprise. “Not Miss Evy, but just—Evy. Looks like I have interrupted a little rendezvous by the roadside, after all.”

  Derwent did not seem to know what to say. He stood and shoved his hands into his pockets, his gaze fixed on Rogan’s purebred. Rogan leaned forward and patted the horse’s muscled neck. Upon spying their picnic basket, he grinned.

  “A little picnic. How charming. Shall I join you for lunch?” He swung down and appeared not to notice Evy’s silence.

  “Aye, help yourself, Master Rogan.” Derwent went for the basket, all too willing to share. When Rogan smiled at Evy, she had the distinct impression he knew she did not want him to stay.

  He sat down on the log beside Derwent, who opened the basket.

  “Are you not you going to sit between us—Evy?” Rogan moved aside, providing a space.

  Evy ignored him and pretended she had not noticed his using her first name. Why did he have to come along and spoil a perfectly lovely afternoon?

  She walked over and stood across from them.

  “Ah, my favorite!” Rogan seemed to be enjoying himself as he dug out a ham sandwich.

  “Do you not get ham sandwiches up at Rookswood?” Evy crossed her arms and slanted him a glare. “I should think you could have anything your heart wished for.”

  “Of course”—he waved his hand as he talked around the sandwich—“but I do not get to eat my lunch in Grimston Woods.” He smiled. “I like picnics. Perhaps I shall have my own one day. I know of a special place on a hill. Its perfect.”

  “In Grimston Woods?” Derwent glanced about them.

  “No. On Rookswood land. There is a grand view from the hill.”

  Derwent held out a second sandwich and an apple for Evy to choose. She knew he was hungry, so since Rogan was eating her sandwich, she took the apple and bit into it. She nodded to Derwent. “You eat the sandwich.”

  “What fun,” Rogan said, leaning back. “Maybe I shall decide to have a picnic of my own. Let me see … Whom shall I invite?” He looked at Evy, studying her.

  “All your friends?”

  At Derwent’s suggestion, Rogan nodded. “Of course. That definitely means you … What was your name?”

  “Derwent.”

  He sounded so anxious to please the great Rogan that Evy wanted to stamp her foot.

  “So it was. How stupid of me to forget my friends’ names. Derwent Brown.” He looked at Evy, his zesty dark eyes amused. “And Evy Varley. Let us think—where shall we have this picnic?” He hung his velvet hat on a twig above him and leaned back, watching Evy steadily as he ate.

  “The hill you mentioned?”

  “Maybe the crypt.” Rogan ignored Derwent’s idea. “Did I not say I would bring you there?” The look he leveled at Evy was replete with challenge. “Perhaps I will take you there after we eat.”

  What was he up to? He had never showed interest in either her or Derwent before now. A dart of apprehension shot through her secret pleasure over the way he was noticing her. “It looks like rain this afternoon.” She spoke quickly, hoping
to cover how unsure she was of Rogan—and herself. “We had better return to the rectory soon, Derwent.”

  “Your aunt went to London, did she not?”

  She met Rogan’s questioning gaze head-on. “Yes. She will be back before Christmas.”

  “The crypt?” Derwent looked like a puppy promised a treat.

  Rogan read the other boy’s interest, and the smile that crossed his features was definitely smug. Clearly, he was enjoying how Evy’s own friend was foiling her attempts to leave.

  “Yes. My uncle’s crypt. Henry Chantry is entombed there. I know all about the village gossip. They say he was murdered.”

  Derwent stopped eating his sandwich and swallowed hard. “Murdered? I never heard about that.”

  “You would not,” Rogan said meaningfully, “but the rectors niece has, have you not—Evy?”

  “There is always talk.” Rogan was beginning to irritate her in earnest.

  He stood suddenly, wiping his hand on a napkin, still looking at her and Derwent. He caught up his hat and put it on. “We will go there now. I always have my way. Up, Derwent. Do not linger.” He looked up at the sky and smiled. “Though rain it may, I would say we have at least two hours. That is still enough time.”

  Derwent was rushing, stuffing the picnic remains into the basket, anxious for the adventure with the future Sir Rogan. Evy, on the other hand, was far from pleased at the glint of mischief in Rogan’s steady gaze. “I do not think—”

  But Rogan had commandeered the moment, and Derwent was all too willing to follow him in whatever he wanted to do.

  “Derwent, you can walk.” Rogan nodded at the boy. “It is not that far. Evy and I will wait for you at Rookswood by the gate.”

  “Walk?” Derwent blinked.

  Rogan’s smile was tolerant. “You would not want to put the load of three on my excellent horse! It will be better if only Evy rides with me.” He looked at her, his smile deepening. “You are not afraid to ride with me, are you?”

  “Absolutely not,” she said, though too forcefully. “Should I be?”

  “Absolutely not,” he repeated with that upturned smile of his.