Apparently the adventure turned out well. They had returned safely, and Rogan had made certain Derwent was home in time for supper. Certainly he was on his best behavior. Had her rebuke stung his conscience after all?
Derwent brought home a dead rabbit for the sexton to make a favorite stew, which he remembered from childhood (and which Mrs. Croft loathed and would not cook). Derwent confessed he was not sure whether he had shot the rabbit or Master Rogan had. At any rate the sexton, grinning, had been very pleased.
Recently Derwent was walking around with his head higher and his shoulders straighter than ever before, proud that he should have made friends with Rogan Chantry, who, he said, “rides better and shoots straighter than anyone else in Grimston Way.”
“Derwent’s unexpected friendship with the squire’s son seems to be doing him much good,” Aunt Grace agreed as they continued their walk. “He is gaining more confidence.”
“Maybe, but Rogan orders Derwent about mercilessly.”
Her aunt angled her a glance. “Derwent does not appear to mind. He has been a lonely boy most of his life. Not even the other village boys liked him.”
“That is true.” Now, of course, the other boys were treating Derwent differently. They gathered around to ask about his latest adventure with the squire’s son, and could he use his influence with Master Rogan to allow them also to accompany Derwent on the next hunting adventure? Since the friendship had begun, it was as though Rogan had raised his scepter and knighted Derwent Brown.
Of course, Rogan’s friendliness would not last. Rogan was to be sent away to school in London in February, and that would be the end of it. She hoped Derwent would not be too disappointed when the princely horse turned into a pumpkin at precisely the hour Rogan left Grimston Way.
So the incident at the Chantry mausoleum was to be dismissed as a boyish prank. She believed her aunt said this because she understood that Evy’s persistence would hurt her more than it would teach Rogan a lesson. It was just as Rogan had warned her that evening in the front hall: No one in the village in his right mind would win anything by butting heads with the Chantry family.
Her aunt was right. Better to leave things as they were. Evy could just imagine Alice whispering, “Fancy that Evy just trying to get the squire’s son into trouble. She’s tattling about him because he won’t pay her the slightest bit of attention is what I say. My mum says …”
Yes, she could imagine what her mum would say. Mrs. Tisdale, too, had influence in the village. Recently she had been trying to win Lady Camilla Brewster with flattery. So that was that. Evy would not go up against Rogan Chantry.
He has won, but I will be even more cautious of him now. She remembered what Mrs. Croft had once warned her. Evy could not forget the words: “Every decent girl in Grimston Way had better watch out. Squire’s two sons can do no wrong, so says Sir Lyle. So if there’s any mischief to happen, who do you think will be blamed, eh?”
Yes, she would beware indeed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Christmas Day arrived chilly and damp, but the sky was clear of mist. The eve before, villagers from all over Grimston Way had continued their tradition of visiting the parish to enjoy platters filled with ginger cookies, mince pies, and a special cider that Mrs. Croft made each year. This time they also came to call on the new vicar and his son and to pay their respects to dear Edmund’s widow and niece.
Evy found it a little odd to hear Christmas wishes and condolences in the same breath, but then, nothing seemed normal these past months. Her heart ached for Uncle Edmund, and she knew Aunt Grace grieved as well. Despite the loss, though, her aunt was determined not to spoil the holy day with her own sorrows.
“At Christmas we should not think only of ourselves, but we should also remember our Savior’s birth and how it means good news of great joy for all people.”
On Christmas Day, Aunt Grace gave Evy a light blue, barred muslin dress trimmed with eyelet lace, assuredly her prettiest and most adult frock ever—although her aunt admitted that the style was a bit behind the present fashion. There was even a pair of heeled slippers, and Evy admitted she looked quite grown-up. She threw her arms around her aunt. “Why, this is not the same dress you have been working on in the evenings!”
“So I fooled you. Well, good, that was my intention. And here is the one I was working on. Now you have two.”
Evy, with the help of Mrs. Croft, had made her aunt a lace bookmark and a small reading pillow with tassels. The pillow had a small pocket in which to tuck away her book and reading spectacles.
There was a mince pie sent over from Mrs. Matheson and Tom, who had tried to be nice to Evy. Emily had wrapped up one of her favorite books of poems and gave it to Evy. Everyone was thoughtful and kind. But perhaps the biggest surprise of all came when the Chantry carriage pulled up in front of the rectory and Mr. Bixby got out, sporting a new shiny hat and looking quite proud of it. He came to their door, arms laden with gifts.
Evy and Aunt Grace each received a new hooded cloak and mittens from Lady Camilla. There was a box of bonbons from Switzerland, fruit-shaped marzipan from London, and tins of various cakes and puddings. And Derwent, to his delighted shock and everyone’s surprise, had been sent hunting apparatus from Rogan Chantry.
It would be Evy’s last Christmas dinner in the rectory, and they had bought a fat hen from Farmer Gilford so that there could be a feast, with Vicar Brown and Derwent as their guests.
“He shall come down like rain upon mown grass,” Aunt Grace read from the Psalms before their meal.
The day became a very special Christmas, one Evy knew she would always look back on with fondness and sorrow mingled. They had known the sharpness of God’s pruning, but God’s kindness could also be depended upon to send soft, healing showers in this new season of their lives. Tomorrow they would set out once more on a different road, but Evy knew wherever that journey might lead, God would be faithful. Amid their loss had come blessing too.
A few days after the New Year of 1891 began, Evy came home one afternoon from her music lesson at Mrs. Tisdale’s and noticed something different about Aunt Grace. Her aunt stood before the window, her small pince-nez clipped to the bridge of her nose, contemplating a letter with some uncertainty—yet also with obvious excitement. A fire glowed in the fireplace where water sizzled on the hob. Evy set her bag and cape down on the wooden bench and went to prepare some tea.
Finally she could stand it no longer. “Aunt Grace, what has happened?”
Her aunt looked up, startled. “Hmm? Oh yes. Yes, everything is going quite well, dear. How was your lesson?”
“It was wonderful. Mrs. Tisdale says I’m nearly as good as her Alice. Meg and Emily are all thumbs, she says. She becomes quite irritated with them because they have calluses on their hands and their fingernails are soiled.”
“I hope she did not say such things to their faces.”
“No.” Evy looked at her own fingernails and was pleased they were clean and filed neatly. But Meg and Emily could not help it. They worked so hard helping their poor families …
“Is that a letter from the London bishop, Aunt Grace?”
“No. It is from Rookswood.”
Rookswood!
“Something unexpected has happened.” Her aunt’s eyes glowed. “Lady Camilla writes me that Arcilla needs a governess. Miss Hortense has retired to the servants cottage, which is no surprise. Her retirement has been expected for some time.”
Evy swallowed. Could that possibly mean …?
Aunt Grace’s eyes twinkled. “Lady Camilla wishes to procure me for that position.”
Evy caught her breath and stared at her aunt. “Are you going to accept?”
“I will be meeting with Lady Camilla on Wednesday afternoon.” Aunt Grace touched her hair. “I will need to wash and arrange it nicely,” she murmured to herself. “And I shall wear my gray organdy dress. If all goes as expected, Evy, we shall be moving up to Rookswood. We shall have two adjoining rooms on the th
ird floor, vacated by Miss Hortense. I know that will please you.”
Evy clapped her palms together, laughing. “Oh, how exciting! Living inside that splendid house. What would Uncle think if he knew?”
Aunt Grace’s face lost some of its glow, and her eyes became grave. “I wonder.”
Evy could have bitten back her words. Even so, what choice did Aunt Grace have but to go? Evy clasped her hands together. Her aunt, the new governess at Rookswood! It appeared to be the perfect solution to their present need and would even allow them to remain in the village of Grimston Way, among friends. Their prayers were answered.
And yet … Evy watched her aunt’s face and was nearly certain that despite her own enthusiasm for the coveted position, Aunt Grace seemed troubled. It could not be over becoming a governess, since she already desired to do so in London. Nor could it be the wage, since it was known that Sir Lyle paid well. So what was it about going to Rookswood that caused Aunt Grace anxiety?
Evy soothed herself by believing that perhaps it was just the difficulty of being governess to spoiled Arcilla. It was well known that Miss Hortense had struggled for years, first with Parnell and Rogan, and then with Arcilla who was far worse than her brothers.
Aunt Grace handed Evy Lady Camilla’s letter to read for herself. The silver lettering on the rich stationery bore the insignia of the Chantry family, and Evy fingered the linen texture of the paper with a degree of awe.
It was known among the village, wrote Lady Camilla, that Mrs. Havering was properly educated for the task of becoming Miss Arcilla’s new governess. Grace was a woman of upstanding character and devotional discipline, having produced such a well-behaved young girl as Evy Varley. Therefore she appeared to be the “godsend” Lady Camilla had been praying for to teach Arcilla, who was not handling the loss of her mother well. Added to that grief was the absence of her father, Sir Lyle, still away in South Africa. Then there was the retirement of Miss Hortense, who had been like a grandmother to Arcilla. Lady Camilla remained in charge, and she was confident that offering Mrs. Havering the post, which would include room and board for herself and Evy, plus a decent wage, would please Sir Lyle.
The letter continued: As we discussed before the vicar’s untimely death, it comes to my attention that the calming influence of your niece as a companion for Arcilla will also benefit Evy herself, as she can attend the schoolroom here at Rookswood. The piano lessons would continue under the doctor’s wife, Mrs. Tisdale, who has already agreed to hold the music lessons here, bringing her own daughter, Alice. And Evy would further benefit by joining Arcilla in riding lessons and other nurturing events, all of which would stand Evy in good stead in society.
Arcilla would have another loss to face too. Rogan would be leaving soon to attend a private boys’ academy in London for the next few years, and then he would go on to graduate university. Arcilla was especially close to Rogan, and so her brother’s departure would certainly sadden her. Since he would be leaving in late February, it was imperative to have Mrs. Havering and Evy at Rookswood beginning the first week in February. That would leave the month of January for Mrs. Havering to conclude her affairs at the rectory.
Lady Camilla went on to write that she was quite sure that Vicar Brown would do all he could to aid them in moving to Rookswood. Camilla would also send two of her servants to help bring their belongings to the suite of rooms they would share on the third floor.
Lastly, Mrs. Havering’s influence was deemed to be beneficial as she would be bringing with her the experience of having been a beloved and respected vicar’s wife. The teachings of the church were to be used generously during the school day, for Miss Arcilla “is such a willful girl.”
Evy frowned. Maybe her new life at Rookswood would not be as thrilling as she thought. She would need to get along with Arcilla regularly! To be her companion for a few hours a week was one thing, but living at Rookswood was likely to be another matter entirely. And while moving to the estate house would certainly provide adventure, Evy couldn’t help but feel anxious about interacting with the other Chantrys either. Parnell remained a mystery. Perhaps she need not worry about him, who, being the eldest, would look on anyone younger with disdain—especially a girl from the rectory. Rogan, on the other hand …
Evy grimaced, then comforted herself with the thought that even he would soon be gone. And who was to say that she would even see him before he departed for London? He had, after all, been ignoring her ever since the incident over Derwent at the family mausoleum.
Perhaps that was best, since their previous two meetings had convinced her to tread with great caution where he was concerned. She was a little afraid of his dominant disposition, not knowing what to expect from him or how far his intentions would take him. Although locking Derwent in the mausoleum had been a prank, what else could he get by with if he chose to? She was sure Rogan’s arrogance convinced him that he deserved to be obeyed just because he was a Chantry, and that she and everyone else should treat him with complete deference.
And that was one thing Evy knew she simply would not do.
Evy would always remember the day when Mr. Bixby arrived at the rectory in the shiny Chantry coach to bring her and Aunt Grace to Rookswood. As they departed that February for the last time, even the weather mirrored her emotions: temperamental, as though it could not decide whether to turn sunny or cloudy.
She and Aunt Grace had packed the last of their belongings the evening before. Their trunks and a few special pieces of furniture, going back to the youthful beginnings of her aunt’s marriage to Uncle Edmund, had already been sent over to Rookswood two days before in a wagonette. So today she and Aunt Grace carried only a small portmanteau.
Vicar Brown, Derwent, and Mrs. Croft stood out in front of the rectory garden gate to see them off. Mrs. Croft tearfully reminded Evy that it wasn’t as if they’d never see each other again, “The walk down from Rookswood to the rectory, and coming to my cottage for tea, isn’t far at all.” Evy agreed, trying to dispel the nagging sadness that all goodbyes tend to bring when what was shall never be again.
The coach wound its way up the road bordering Grimston Woods, and the estate gate came into view. Evy heard the eerie squabbling of the rooks seeking a perch in the gray branches.
Evy sat across from her aunt, who wore her best gray linen dress with matching hat and gloves. Evy, too, was appropriately clothed in her new dress with its frills. It made her feel quite adult and special. All her other dresses were so plain, or, as her aunt said, sensible. How Evy had grown to dislike sensible. Such dresses lasted too long—until Evy outgrew them—and most were out of fashion, too. Then the frock was taken apart, and the best cloth was recut into a blouse or petticoat. The dresses were all in the darker shades: blues, browns, and even one black dress, which she did not like.
Arcilla’s dresses were always bright colors with lots of ruffles, bows, gold and silver threading, some with pearl buttons and trimmed in velvet. They weren’t sensible at all. But then, Arcilla was not the one who had to worry about washing them. Some people could afford not to be sensible.
The Chantry horses trotted through the tall, arched gateway beneath overhanging oak branches. Harley, the old gatekeeper, stood near the small rose-covered cottage he occupied and lifted his cap before shutting the gate after them. He was Mrs. Croft’s cousin and had been gatekeeper for as long as Evy could remember.
Once inside, the road changed from dirt to small cobbles. Evy looked upon mounds of green turf that gently rolled toward a horizon of trees on the perimeter of more private woods. Was that where Rogan had taken Derwent to hunt? The land went even farther back beyond the woods to farmland cultivated by workers employed by the squire.
The shrubbery along the lawns was meticulously manicured, the handiwork of Mr. Tibbs, Rookswood’s main gardener. Not far from the entry gate was a narrower lane that she remembered well. It was the route along which Rogan had taken her and Derwent to the huge garden near the Chantry family mausoleum.
They drove the long S-shaped carriageway to the mansion, rimmed on one side with white birch and on the other with elm. When the horses at last came to the end of the S, Mr. Bixby stopped. Evy stared at the biggest house she had ever seen. And the most forbidding.
Why, it’s more like a castle than a home!
A Chantry footman came to open the coach door, and Aunt Grace stepped down to the carriage block. Evy followed, unable to pull her gaze from the crenelated towers and turrets. She had learned from Uncle Edmund during her history lessons that they were from the twelfth century, as was the thick, high wall surrounding the main grounds.
What excitement she’d brought with her mingled with dread as gargoyles with bulging eyes and evil scowls glared at her. Evy imagined soldiers dumping boiling pitch down the castle’s machicolations while fiery arrows flew from the tower heights to invading enemies scaling makeshift ladders against the walls. In one lesson at the rectory the curate had told of an early Chantry family fleeing into the woods and hiding for weeks while the enemy took over the castle. Someone in the family had been beheaded, but she could not remember who. Evy shuddered.
There was more than one door to Rookswood, and they were all studded with massive iron nails. Many windows included leaded panes, and Aunt Grace pointed out the intricate Gothic tracery on the stone mullions and arched transoms, looking so delicate in contrast to the grotesque faces of the stained gargoyle rainspouts.
No wonder Rogan behaved as he did. It was quite a change to leave Rookswood with its renowned family history and ride down to the humble village with its farm bungalows.
“What a … wondrous castle,” murmured Evy as she followed Aunt Grace from the coach up stone steps that rose to a walled courtyard:
“Yes, indeed. Did you know that the first Lord Chantry went with King Richard to the Holy Land to fight the Saracen?”
“Yes, Vicar Brown taught us last year that Lord Chantry was killed in Jerusalem.”
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