Tomorrow's Treasure

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  “Yes, he was exploring the cemetery and wound up in the family mausoleum. The wind blew the door shut. He panicked in the darkness and could not get it open again. Master Rogan found him an hour ago. He’s been looking after the boy ever since. They are together now.” The tutor stepped aside from the open doorway and looked down toward the Chantry coach, parked in front of the rectory. The flames in the lanterns beside the coach doors were flickering.

  Evy’s cheeks burned and her hands were cold and clammy. Why that scamp, Rogan Chantry! He locked Derwent in the mausoleum, with all those old family coffins. What a dreadful boy he was! She had half a mind to tell on him.

  She watched the coachman open the door, and Rogan stepped out, decked in his fancy coat with gold buttons and matching blue hat with a feather in it. He helped Derwent down, and holding to his arm walked him with what had to be feigned gentleness and concern up the path to the front door.

  Derwent looked sick, his wide eyes going from his father to Mrs. Croft. His red hair was damp and drooping. Rogan looked calm and grave. He released Derwent, who wobbled toward Mrs. Croft.

  “My, word! Why—he has seen himself a ghost.”

  “Nonsense!” Mr. Brown’s tone was as stiff as his back. “I shall speak with you later, Derwent. Go to your room at once.”

  “Yes, Father.” He looked anxious to get away. Mrs. Croft went with him, and Evy was willing to bet the woman could hardly wait to hear what the boy would tell her. She could imagine the wild tale that would grow in Grimston Way through the years. In another generation the old ghost story of Master Henry Chantry would increase by leaps and bounds.

  Rogan removed his hat and bowed to acknowledge Evy, but not before she saw the slight smile he wore. “Miss Evy.”

  “Master Rogan, how can I thank you for helping my son?” At the vicar’s expression of warm gratitude, Rogan inclined his head. “It was all my pleasure, Vicar.” He glanced toward Evy. “Fortunately, Derwent was not caught inside very long.” Rogan stepped over the threshold into the hall—clearly he was not anxious to leave. Left with little choice, Mr. Whipple came inside and removed his hat.

  “Please, come in.” The vicar gestured toward the drawing room. “Would you care for cider or tea, gentlemen?”

  “Thank you, Vicar.”

  Evy stared hard at Rogan. He can be as fancy in his manners as one would like, but it is a sham. And yet for all her irritation, she could not deny the spark of excitement at Rogan’s presence there.

  When the vicar led the way, and Tutor Whipple followed, Rogan held back and turned to Evy. He started to speak but saw that the door was open and that the two serving men were standing with Mr. Bixby, the footman, by the coach. Rogan reached up and closed the door. He leaned against it and grinned, arms folded.

  “I think you are horrid!” Evy stamped a foot.

  “Can I help it if your beau is a bit of a coward, besides a bore?”

  “Derwent is not my beau.”

  “He was only in there ten minutes, and he nearly spooked himself into a tizzy”

  It was true that Derwent could work himself up into an excited state, but—ten minutes? She eyed Rogan. “Have you no heart?”

  “Depends.” He smiled.

  “You know very well how superstitious the villagers are.”

  “He should know better. Is he not the vicar’s son?”

  “He is gullible.”

  “Granted.” He looked to the ceiling, as though it were infinitely more interesting than their current topic of conversation. “I should think you would have more sense than to fall for a youngster like him.”

  “I have not fallen for him. He is a friend. A very dear one. As for being but a youngster—as you put it—he is a year older than you.”

  “One would hardly realize that.” He studied her for a moment. “So you ran away from me.”

  A strange spark of excitement danced across her arms at the warm challenge in his tone. She tried to sound as bored as he did when discussing Derwent.

  “I have no interest in being locked inside your family mausoleum.”

  The corners of his mouth turned upward. “I was not going to lock you inside. I was angry when you ran away, so I locked Derwent in to show you what a clod he is.”

  “So you did lock him in.”

  He placed hand on heart and bowed. “I confess to my warped sense of humor, Miss Varley.”

  “I shall tell the vicar—and your tutor.”

  His gaze narrowed. “I would not do that if I were you. They will never believe you.”

  “They will.”

  “My word against yours? Never. In their eyes I can do no wrong.” He smiled. “So you’d best be wary.”

  Evy wanted to throw something at him. “So you admit you can get by with anything just because you are Sir Lyle’s son.”

  He leaned there, watching her, but she thought his amusement grew somewhat subdued. “I would be lying if I said no.”

  “You are forgetting”—she glanced again toward the drawing room—“that it is my word and Derwent’s.”

  That smile again. “No. I have convinced Derwent that the wind blew the door shut and jammed it. It took me ten agonizing minutes to get it open.”

  Evy felt her mouth drop open. What a fib! “He believes that?”

  “I told him so.” He smiled.

  “You are worse than I thought. He believes you only because he is overawed by you. He thinks that giving him a few minutes of your time is a courtesy.”

  “There. You see? He does not think I am so beastly as you say.”

  “Because he trusted you.”

  “And you do not.”

  “I would never trust you now.”

  “Never is a long time.”

  “Not long enough.”

  “Oh very Well, so I admit I took advantage of him a bit.” He shoved away from the door, brushing the lapel of his coat as though to erase the incident. “He is rather dumb, you know.”

  “And to think he likes you.”

  For the first time her words appeared to have stung his conscience, if only briefly. “Very well. I shall be a good boy just for you and apologize.”

  Her brows lifted. “To me?”

  “You are offended, are you not?”

  “Yes, for Derwent’s sake.”

  “What a waste!”

  Evy stiffened. “You need not apologize to me, but to Derwent. And then confess the truth to the vicar and those at Rookswood you got all riled up over this, including your tutor.”

  Rogan touched hand to his forehead and groaned. “Heaven forbid. Anything but confession to the vicar.”

  “He is a nice man. He will likely accept your conduct as a mistaken jest and let it all pass with a subdued smile. That is the only thing we poor villagers can do to the Chantrys.”

  He tipped his head to one side, and his smile turned wry. “I cannot oblige you. You demand too much. I will not don sackcloth and ashes for anyone.” With that, he straightened. “And if I were you, miss, I’d not be foolish enough to accuse me. As I said, I will deny it with great vigor. My word will always prevail over yours or Derwent’s.”

  She felt even more frustration with herself than she did with Rogan. How could she have allowed herself to think for even a moment that he would comply with her wishes? “So you expect this to remain a little secret between us, is that it?”

  “Yes, if you wish to put it that way.”

  For a moment he looked very young as he stood there, a flicker of uncertainty in those hooded eyes, his arms folded, a dark curl falling to his forehead.

  “I make no promise to keep your secret.” At her stiff words, he eyed her, saying nothing.

  She knew she ought to turn and walk away, but she did not. They stood there, looking at each other.

  Rogan broke the silence at last. “I think you will, actually. You could have told the vicar everything before now. Why didn’t you?”

  She had no answer. Footsteps sounded, rescuing her. Imm
ediately Rogan became the perfectly mannered young gentleman. He pushed the lock of hair from his forehead and, hat in hand, put on a smooth expression. By the time his tutor appeared to see what was keeping him in the hall, he was definitely the future Sir Rogan.

  He was deceptive and polished, and Derwent, in comparison, was an innocent child. Evy shuddered to think what this scoundrel was going to be like as an adult!

  “Coming, Master Rogan?” Tutor Whipple asked.

  “I have changed my mind about the cider. I think I shall go back to the coach. I sense that Derwent’s ordeal has affected me more than I first realized.”

  Rogan opened the heavy door. He wore a slight smile as he looked at Evy, and then with a final bow of his head, he went out onto the porch.

  “Good night.” She forced the words through stiff lips.

  “Au revoir,” came his low murmur.

  Somehow Evy thought he had actually enjoyed the standoff between them. He found it entertaining that she refused to crumple at his feet.

  And yet he had warned her too. It was her word against his. When it came to public opinion, she would never win against him. And when he decided he wanted something, he would persist until he got it.

  Though she could not explain why, that thought sent a shiver down her spine.

  CHAPTER TEN

  When Aunt Grace returned to Grimston Way, she did not immediately discuss with Evy what had transpired in London. Several days passed by before she came to Evy’s room and suggested they take a walk together into the village.

  It was a chilly but otherwise pleasant afternoon, with the sun shining in a grayish-blue sky and the branches empty of the warm golds and reds of autumn. December holly smiled its wintry bloom with flame-colored berries amid waxy green leaves.

  Donned in matching hooded capes, they might have been mother and daughter out on an afternoon stroll. Evy glanced at her aunt. She was still an attractive lady, and young enough to remarry. If only Vicar Brown were not so old and gray. But it seemed there were no acceptable widowers or bachelors in Grimston Way. Farmer Gilford had no wife, but his rheumatism was such that his knees were knobby, and he walked bowlegged.

  “Will we be moving away to London?”

  Her aunt shook her head. “Not yet. We will need more patience.”

  Then that was the reason she had not discussed the matter sooner. “You did not get the post you wished?”

  “I went to several interviews, one arranged by the bishop, which appeared at first to be quite hopeful. Alas,” she smiled, spreading her palms, “it did not turn out as hoped. Ah, well. We will trust and wait.”

  Evy watched her, concerned, and noticed her aunt hesitate.

  “I was not what they were looking for in a governess,” her aunt explained. “Lady Mildren wanted someone older.”

  “Was it also because you asked that I stay in the house with you?”

  “Oh, that,” Aunt Grace said too quickly and placed her hand on Evy’s arm. “Perhaps it had a small effect on the outcome. Things will work out in due time. We will rest our need with God. He knows our situation. He has good plans. Bishop will also continue to do what he can to find me a post. In the meantime, I shall try my hand at sewing. Lady Camilla has been talking to Miss Hildegard, the seamstress at Rookswood. Miss Hildegard has kindly suggested she could use a little help now and then.” She smiled. “So you see, we will not starve in the streets.”

  Aunt Grace spoke lightly enough, yet Evy could see she was burdened. How like her to try to put a good face on her disappointment. Evy admired her so, and her own conscience was smitten over her deceptive behavior where the vicar and Derwent were concerned.

  “Aunt, I feel ashamed about … withholding the truth from Vicar Brown.” She paused on the road, and they faced each other. The breeze tossed their capes. A few clouds blew in and scuttled across the wintry sky.

  “It concerns Derwent and the episode at Rookswood mausoleum.” Evy forced the truth out. “I suppose by now the vicar told you what happened?” Of course, Evy knew that he had—as far as he knew the truth. She had heard them talking.

  “Yes. It is all over the village.”

  Evy saw an odd look on Aunt Grace’s features. Had her aunt already suspected her dishonesty?

  “Would you like to tell me about it?”

  Evy would not, but knew she must if ever she would be free of the burden. She told Aunt Grace what happened when she and Derwent went in search of mistletoe, fully expecting to see her growing look of disapproval. She was heartened when her aunt revealed no shock. If Evy were telling her tale to Alice Tisdale, she would have behaved as though it were a scandal in need of a town meeting.

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  “I should loathe it if my silence about this caused any excessive difficulties for the vicar.”

  “I will see to the matter. Derwent has already told his father everything, including how you were with him when the squire’s son took both of you to Rookswood.”

  “But Vicar never spoke to me about it.”

  She smiled briefly and they walked on. “No. He was waiting for you to tell the truth. He was assured you would once I returned home.”

  “Oh dear … I suppose I shall need to go to him, too.”

  “Yes. And he will surely accept your apology.”

  Evy nodded. This was so humiliating. And it is all Rogan’s fault. No … She could not blame him for her own response. It would have been much easier to have simply told the truth to begin with.

  “Derwent believes the door to the mausoleum was jammed. The squire’s son convinced him the wind must have blown it shut.”

  Her aunt kept walking. “And you do not think it was the wind?”

  Evy drew in a breath. “No.”

  “You were not there, Evy It is your word against Master Rogan’s. We must understand that the Chantrys have special privileges accorded to their position.”

  “Yes. I understand that.” And one of those privileges was that their word was considered law. More’s the pity.

  “I am not suggesting such privileges are right, but it has been that way for centuries, and I suspect it will remain so for centuries more.”

  Evy had no doubt.

  “I think,” her aunt said, “that we may need to dismiss this behavior as a boyish prank and let the matter die down of its own accord. Master Rogan did return to let Derwent out. If he were a really cruel boy, he might have left him trapped there all night.”

  Evy shuddered. “I suppose. He did say it was only around ten minutes, but he also said he did it deliberately”

  “Did he? Curious … I wonder why. He did not need to tell you.”

  “No. I think he had not intended to. I have tried to tell Derwent that Rogan locked him inside, but he’s not willing to accept that the squire’s son would do such a thing.”

  Evy knew why, too. Rogan had been friendly to Derwent after the crypt incident. That was unusual because she knew that he thought Derwent unstimulating. Rogan normally would not choose him as a companion. Both Rogan and Parnell had many friends their own age in the nobility, who shared the same mind-set, abilities, and background. They were accustomed to involving themselves in all manner of exciting activities with well-educated people. Yet Derwent just a few days ago told her with a ringing voice that Master Rogan had brought him to the Rookswood stables and allowed him to choose a horse. And Rogan had brought him to his father’s armory closet and had shown him how to handle a rifle so they could go on a rabbit hunt.

  “I even saw the suit of armor!”

  Evy could still see the way Derwent’s eyes had shone.

  “I think it wise that you not try to convince Derwent otherwise, Evy. He will need to make up his own mind about Master Rogan. And if you speak against him, Derwent may think you are merely envious that you were not asked to go riding with them. They seem to be getting on as well as anyone in Rogan’s position can with peasantry, and that is what we villagers are considered. Not merely b
y the Chantrys, mind you. These distinctions reign throughout English nobility, as they do also in France and many European countries.”

  “In France the peasants overthrew the nobility.”

  “Ah, the Reign of Terror. Thankfully the peasant class of England holds no such vicious vendetta against the royal family. We are not as hotly volatile as the French peasants were.”

  Evy agreed. “We are cool and calm.”

  Aunt Grace laughed. “We hope. Then again, we are not treated as badly as were the peasant class in France at that time.”

  Evy felt a great respect and affection in her heart for the beloved Queen Victoria. She imagined herself, sword in hand, defending Her Majesty from a horde of angry British peasants storming St. James Palace.

  That image was replaced by another, but this one was real. How surprised she had been when Rogan came riding up to the rectory to see Derwent two days after the mausoleum incident. Evy had been picking Michaelmas daisies with Mrs. Croft and pretended not to see him. Rogan had climbed down from his horse and talked with Derwent, who was weeding the garden. Then Rogan gave something to Derwent. Derwent brought it over to her.

  “Fancy you forgot this,” Derwent said with a grin.

  It was the basket of mistletoe. Evy glanced from the now wilted greens across the yard to Rogan, but he behaved as though she were not there. He was either too friendly or not friendly at all. Of course, she had criticized him the night he had brought Derwent back to the rectory. Now he most likely was reminding her of her rightful place.

  “Wager you don’t know what Master Rogan just offered me.” Derwent looked positively giddy.

  “Another look inside the mausoleum?”

  “Evy!” scolded Mrs. Croft.

  Derwent grinned. “No, goose. A horse from Squire’s stables.”

  “A … horse?”

  “For riding. And hunting! Wager you’d never thought to see Derwent Brown going hunting with the future squire.”

  “No, I never did.”

  “You’d best cease using the word wager, Derwent. Your father is set against gambling,” Mrs. Croft warned. “And you be careful how you handle them rifles, young man, lest you go shootin’ your foot—or Master Rogan’s.”