Tomorrow's Treasure

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Funny how she got the opposite impression from his words. “I will walk with Derwent.”

  Rogan’s gaze narrowed, but before he could argue, Evy snatched her basket of mistletoe from below the tree and started up the dirt road toward Rookswood.

  Just what was Rogan up to? Perhaps she ought to turn right around now and go back to the rectory. Yes, that was a good idea. If Rogan let Derwent ride with him on the horse, she would turn back to the rectory as soon as they were over the hill and out of sight.

  But Rogan did not ride ahead, nor did he ask Derwent to ride with him. He brought the horse behind them allowing Evy and Derwent to lead the way.

  Evy leaned close to Derwent. “Now, why is he doing this?”

  “He is nice and friendly.”

  “I am not so sure.”

  Derwent’s eyes shone, so impressed was he. “This will be quite merry, Evy. I always wanted to see a crypt, especially the Chantrys’.”

  “Whatever for, Derwent? Rogan Chantry will never make friends with you the way you hope.” She tried to make the whispered observation as kind as she could, but Derwent was unaffected.

  “Oh, I know that, but I’d sure like to hear about how his uncle found gold and diamonds in South Africa. Hunted rhinos, too. Heard there’s a big rhino head and a Boer whip in his uncle’s rooms.”

  Evy grimaced. “What uncle was that?”

  “Oh … I don’t know which one … the one that died here when we were just babies. He came from South Africa.”

  “Rogan Chantry is so arrogant he will never tell you about the family gold and diamonds.”

  But Derwent would not be turned aside. “Come on, Miss Evy, he was polite enough to invite us. Besides, I want to see the gargoyles again.”

  “You know you are afraid of them.” She glanced over her shoulder. Rogan was a little way behind them, his posture in the saddle erect but relaxed. He certainly looked at home astride his horse.

  The huge gate leading to Rookswood stood open between two ancient stone arches, which allowed them to look through what appeared an exceedingly long avenue that bent around some dark, wet fir trees.

  “Sometimes I climb that tree behind us and crane my neck just so,” Derwent confided in a low voice. “Then I can just glimpse the mansion. Its all gray, with three stories to it.”

  Evy looked toward the chestnut tree he was pointing out. “Uncle Edmund always said the mansion has leaded windowpanes, thick walls, gables, and all sorts of interesting porticoes and pillars. And he said there’s a great iron-studded door built in the days of the Norman knights. There is a splendid polished suit of armor near the staircase, too, and even Norman swords on one wall.” Evy couldn’t help a little surge of pride at her knowledge.

  Derwent’s pale eyes bulged. “Knight’s armor? Oh, to see that.”

  Evy too wished to see it, though she’d never admit it to Derwent. Or to Rogan. Better to change the subject so she didn’t stir Derwent’s hopes. “Christmas is the time to be invited to the mansion. Those who went caroling there last Christmas with Uncle Edmund got to see grand decorations. There were lots of candles adorning the baronial hall, and the carolers got cups of mulberry punch and sweet cakes. Mrs. Croft’s family all came home with bags of tasty tidbits to eat.”

  Derwent gulped. “I remember. We were sick. Worst luck. How come Mrs. Croft’s relatives get to partake and we don’t?”

  “Because they clean the rooms—so many you can’t count them, so Mrs. Croft says. Everyone who works there got a gift, too.”

  Derwent looked as though he might have traded his position as son of the vicar to be the son of the chief stableman. Evy tried to imagine how each of the squire’s children had their own big room with servants looking after them. There was a governess, an intelligent woman indeed, but she was soon to retire. So Mrs. Croft said that Squire was looking for just the right woman to be the new governess to his lovely Miss Arcilla. The old governess had served the previous generation of Chantrys and was to be given a small cottage on the estate where she would live out her final days with a comfortable pension. As for Rogan and Parnell, they had a male tutor, a young man who had studied in Paris and could speak several languages. He was preparing the two boys to be sent away to an exclusive school in London.

  Evy looked up at the familiar gargoyles guarding the gate with their stone pitchforks. The rainwater still dripped from their mouths, and they looked like slobbering fiends. Uncle Edmund had told her they were medieval. Evy shuddered as she stared up at their leering faces. They seemed to challenge her, as though they knew something about her that she did not. Remembering the stranger in the dark woods, she trembled as the chill wind blew against her frock.

  “Reminds me of the walls of Jericho,” she told Derwent.

  “Them gargoyles …”

  She grimaced. “If I owned Rookswood, I would have angels instead.”

  “But it would be a pity to destroy them. They are ancient.”

  “You just say that because anything bearing the Chantry name leaves you awestruck,” she half scolded. “I don’t think you really like gargoyles.”

  Derwent’s sheepish smile told Evy she was right. She knew he was afraid of the dark and prone to believe in the foolish tales of ghosts.

  “Are you not afraid of the gargoyles, too?” Derwent’s wide-eyed gaze searched her face.

  She looked at the statues again. “They are ugly and—evil looking.”

  Rogan came up to them, leading his horse by the reins. “Those beastly things are all over Rookswood.”

  Evy studied him out of the corner of her eye. “When will you be joining Parnell in school in London?”

  “Soon. Except I will not go to Oxford. I want to attend a special geological school.”

  That piqued Derwent’s interest. “So you can better find gold and diamonds in South Africa, I suppose.”

  “Yes. What of you?” Rogan eyed the other boy. “I suppose you will go to divinity school?”

  Derwent shoved his hands in his pockets. “It’s expected.”

  “Can you shoot straight?”

  Evy frowned. Why was Rogan drilling Derwent like this?

  Derwent shook his head. “No, but I’d sure like to—”

  “Can you ride well?”

  “No, never been on a horse.”

  “That is what I thought.”

  At Rogan’s bored dismissal, Evy spoke up. “Some ordinary people do not have the opportunity to do such things.”

  Rogan’s mouth curved. “Such things as the Chantrys do, you mean?” He gave his horse to a boy who ran up to lead it away, then turned toward them. Evy didn’t quite trust his smile. After all, he’d never shown such interest in her before, and she did not know how to respond. Perhaps it would be wiser if she did not.

  Apparently Rogan realized she was not going to answer. “Follow me.”

  Derwent was quick on Rogan’s heels, but Evy held back. “How far is it?”

  “Not far.” Rogan paused and looked back at her, that same irritating, amused glint in his eyes. He stopped when she merely stood there. He folded his arms across his chest. “So all your brave talk at the cemetery with old Hiram was boast. You are just like Arcilla and all her girlfriends.” He seemed bored by the thought.

  Evy’s eyes narrowed and she set her mouth and followed. With another infuriating smile, Rogan led the way into what looked to her like a huge garden.

  “Aye”—Derwent let the word out on a breath of awe—“its beastly big, I daresay.”

  “Big enough,” Rogan said.

  “Too big.” Evy knew she was being contrary, but she didn’t care. “There’s little reason for anyone to have such a big garden.”

  “Unless you are a Chantry.”

  Evy could have boxed Derwent’s ears for his defense of Rogan.

  “Squire can have anything he wants—and so can his family.”

  “I usually get what I want,” Rogan agreed cheerfully.

  “Must be like getting
Christmas pudding every day,” Derwent said with a sigh in his voice.

  “And roast goose, too.”

  “I would not want Christmas pudding every day.” Evy set her jaw. “It would soon become tiring. Then Christmas would seem like any ordinary day.”

  “But on Christmas we get a lot of other special things,” Rogan parried. “So Christmas is never boring.” He smiled at her. “You will have to spend Christmas at Rookswood sometime.”

  Evy said nothing to that. She watched Derwent following Rogan as though he were a prince. Rogan seemed to accept the other boys sudden devotion as merely proper. That only reinforced Evy’s determination to resist Rogan’s arrogance—although, if she was honest with herself, she had to admit she could easily have gone to the other extreme and thought him special, too. In fact, he was quite out of the ordinary. She liked his dark, shiny hair much better than Derwent’s russet hair. And those unusual dark eyes seemed to sparkle with a challenge of warmth. His smile was charming, yet it was mischievous at times, making him mysterious and a little dangerous—all of which was most intriguing.

  Evy always knew what to expect from Derwent, so someone a little unpredictable seemed … appealing. But I’m not silly like Alice or the rest of them. I shall never swoon for Rogan Chantry!

  The huge lawn was bounded by tall hedges enclosing wide flower beds. Trees behind the hedges made it completely private. Rogan whistled.

  They walked through the garden for perhaps five minutes until passing through an arbor between two sections of a neatly trimmed hedge. They entered a courtyard enclosed on three sides with a high stone wall and three small gates. All three appeared to be locked, and Evy’s imagination could only wonder at what might lie beyond them. At the end of the courtyard she saw what reminded her of an elevated stage with a roof. There were low, wide flat steps that went up. Below were tables and chairs, but they were old and it looked as if they had not been used for years.

  “What is that?” Derwent pointed.

  “Oh, we do not use this court any longer. In my great-grandfather’s day it was for summer fetes, which I think quite boring. There would be an orchestra, and the girls would sit and listen to the music. The boys were supposed to come and keep them company. The best part was the feasting. That is the only part I would enjoy. Unless the girls were very nice to look at, of course. There aren’t pretty girls in Grimston Way.” But he looked over at Evy with a little smile.

  “There is Evy.”

  Evy blushed at Derwent’s innocent assertion. She turned away, steeling herself for Rogan’s disagreement.

  Oddly enough, it never came.

  “They would roast an entire pig and ox on spits in that pit beyond the gate.” Rogan pointed to the western gate. “There were big barrels of ale and wine, too. It became a very noisy celebration after the young girls went home … where they belonged.”

  Evy cast him a glance and saw his calculated smile. He is trying to goad me.

  “Revelry, that is what it was.” Evy nodded. “And debauchery, no less. Like typical lords, barons—and squire’s ruling over the fiefdom.”

  She expected him to get angry, but he looked pleased. “Not lords, barons, and squire’s, but earls and dukes. Now, admit it. You would be as impressed as my sister if a duke took your hand and walked you among the trees—perhaps with a bit of mistletoe.”

  “I would not. And if the duke tried to kiss me, I would slap him.”

  He tilted his head and regarded her, but he looked doubtful—and that worried her.

  Evy turned away and shaded her eyes, turning her attention on the stage while Rogan gave a small push to Derwent’s shoulder and gestured to the northern gate near the stage.

  “That way to the mausoleum.”

  They walked away, leaving Evy standing there. Evidently Rogan was showing her that he did not care whether she followed or not. As she set down her basket she understood his message: She could go just so far in assuming a manner of equality. Any further and she would meet with his disapproval. She pressed her lips together. If he had imposed such boundaries at his young age, what would he be like at eighteen?

  Not that she would ever find out. Nor did she want to!

  Well, it was now up to her to either fall in line with his game or turn around and go back to the rectory. She stood there a moment watching Rogan open the gate and pass through without a glance over his shoulder. Derwent was at his heels, following, the happy puppy.

  Why do I want to see a musty old mausoleum, anyway? She would not be Rogan Chantry’s adoring subject. She was well aware that Alice would have followed him, and so might all the other girls, but—

  Evy set her chin, whirled about, and ran back toward Rookswood gate. She would show Rogan he could not control her as he did everyone else. She would show him that Evy Varley was not like all the other girls in Grimston Way.

  It took her ten minutes to find the front gate, for she had made a wrong turn and then had to retrace her steps. Rookswood was like a village all its own, she thought, looking around through the line of tall trees shadowing the flagstone walkway that circled around to the front of the estate. And now that Rogan was not there, she could allow her awe to come forth. She had never even glimpsed the mansion yet. It must be a good distance from the front grounds.

  She did not see the boy who had been at the gate, so he must have taken Rogan’s horse to the stables.

  At last she found the gate, and with a lift to her chin, she left Rookswood—telling herself she was not the least bit sorry she had walked away.

  It didn’t take long for regret to sidle up alongside Evy. Her steps on the dirt road slowed as she made her way toward the rectory. How could she have let herself miss out on such a great adventure? No doubt Rogan would never ask her to accompany him on another one. You have too much pride, Evy Varley.

  It was not until she Went through the vicarage gate into the churchyard that she realized she had left her basket of mistletoe sitting in the Rookswood courtyard outside the mausoleum. I hope Derwent notices and brings it back with him.

  But Derwent did not return with the basket—in fact, when Evy and Mrs. Croft went to the rectory to fix supper for Vicar Brown, Derwent had not shown up at all.

  “A bit odd, seeing as how it’s his favorite meal of mutton pie and cider,” Mrs. Croft said to her.

  Now I’ll need to confess about going to Rookswood. Evy bit her lip and glanced from Vicar Brown, who was scowling at the dining room table, to Mrs. Croft, who was clearly worried.

  “Odd, I say, Vicar. Derwent is not one to be missing his meals. He asked me just this morning what was for supper tonight, and when I told him, he was very pleased. And you know how he loves his cider.”

  “Yes, yes, very unusual. I wonder where that boy of mine could be?” The vicar’s eyes glossed over the empty seat at the table and alighted on Evy, who sat with her hands folded in her lap, wishing she could vanish into thin air. His eyes fixed on her, and he smiled indulgently.

  “Now, now, little Evy, maybe you have seen Derwent today?”

  “Of course you did, Evy.” Mrs. Croft smiled. “They went together to the woods to pick mistletoe and holly, Vicar.” She frowned and looked at Evy. “Can’t say I’ve seen where you put it though. Did you and Derwent not get it?”

  “Um …”

  Vicar Brown waited, his brows rising a notch, and Mrs. Croft continued to hold her hands under her apron as though it were a warming muff. When Evy fell silent, Vicar Brown’s white brows climbed even higher.

  “Yes, Evy?”

  Bother. There was no way out of it. Drat Derwent anyway! “Yes. We went to the woods. We gathered the greenery. I … left it behind and … and”—she bit her lip and her eyes went down to her empty plate—“Derwent went back to find it.”

  “Ah, well, then, that explains it.” Vicar Brown’s brow unfurrowed. “He will soon be here, Mrs. Croft. Go ahead and serve supper before it gets cold.”

  “Aye, and I’ll warm him a plateful wh
en he returns.”

  Each bit of food Evy took seemed to turn to sawdust in her throat. She’d lied—and to the vicar!

  After Vicar Brown went to his study, Evy slid from her chair. She had to find Derwent!

  “Not feeling well, Evy?” Mrs. Croft eyed her when she cleared the table and saw her food hardly touched.

  “No, Mrs. Croft. I shall go to my room if it is all right with you.”

  “Yes, you run along now. No doubt it’s from traipsing about the woods in all this damp weather. I’ll be up later with warm milk.”

  Mrs. Croft turned to leave the dining room, and Evy was edging toward the hall to find her cloak when there was a loud rap on the front door. Evy’s heart jumped to her throat. Mrs. Croft went to answer it.

  Evy heard voices, and when she entered the hall she recognized some of the fancy dressed footmen in hats and cloaks from Rookswood. They held bright lanterns.

  A tall, slim young man with fair hair and skin stepped forward to speak to Vicar Brown, who had come out to see who was at the door.

  “Good evening, Vicar.”

  “Hello, Charles, what brings you here tonight? Come in, come in, have some cider.”

  Evy hung back. She recognized the young man from Rookswood as Mr. Charles Whipple, the tutor who had come from London especially to teach Rogan.

  “I cannot stay, sir. It is about your son, Derwent. He is quite beside himself about seeing Henry Chantry’s ghost. We, er, have him outside now … We’ve taken the liberty of giving him something to quiet him down a little.”

  “Good grief! Derwent thinks he saw a ghost? What perfect nonsense. I shall indeed deal with him about this, you can be certain.”

  Evy winced.

  “It might be best if you went gently on the boy, Vicar Brown. He is most upset.”

  “Such poppycock. A ghost! I shall have none of that devilish nonsense in my son. Where is he?”

  “In the coach with Master Rogan. The squire’s son happened to hear him calling for help at Rookswood and rescued him.”

  “Rookswood? You mean”—the vicar paled—“Derwent was up at the estate?”