Tomorrow's Treasure

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  He shifted. “I would not say it that way, but, well, I would rather just get on with the news that brought me here.”

  “Well, all right.” She sat down on the kitchen stool. “What is it?”

  He cleared his throat. “I will get right to it. I won’t be returning for my final year at divinity school.”

  Evy stared at him, not sure she’d heard right. Her first thought was that Rogan must have had something to do with this. He had already planted a song of high adventure in Derwent’s mind. South Africa again, she thought shortly. Gold fields and diamond mines!

  “So you are going to Capetown.”

  “No … That’s not how it is, Evy. It is my father. I’ve been noticing it all summer, and maybe you have too, but it is getting unmanageable. He is just growing old, I expect. He forgets things. That’s all right, if it does not hurt anyone, but that’s the pain of it, you see. Last night he decided to make himself a mug of tea before bed. Next thing I knew, I woke up smelling smoke.”

  “Oh no! Derwent!” She reached out to take his hands.

  “That’s what I told myself. ‘Oh no!’ I went rushing down to the kitchen not knowing what to expect and found the water in the kettle had boiled away. The kettle was black and smoking up the kitchen. I took care of things, then checked on him. Do you know he was fast asleep! If I hadn’t been home and smelled smoke, the rectory could have caught fire. And that isn’t the first time … Two weeks ago he left some candles burning off the holder. Mrs. Croft found them.” He squeezed her hands. “He is getting worse, you see. You know what that means.”

  “Is there any damage to the kitchen?”

  “Oh, some smoky darkened areas by the stove. Mrs. Croft says she won’t attempt cleaning up unless I help, so naturally I will. Wouldn’t think of leaving the mess all for her, especially the ceiling. We’ll do it tonight.”

  She almost smiled when he released her hands to reach for the plate of sweet biscuits. He frowned as he chewed. “My father’s losing his clarity, that’s plain to see. It is getting worse by the week. Seems to be coming on awful fast. He can no longer prepare his sermons. No one knows that yet. I’ve been helping him all summer. He has merely been reading them from the pulpit. So you see”—his tone was heavy, resigned—“I wouldn’t feel good about myself if I just up and left him for school. You understand, don’t you, Evy? You feel that way about Miss Grace sometimes. But she’s not half as bad off as my father.” He searched her eyes, as though seeking some kind of confirmation from her. “If it were just his leg or a knee, I could handle that. I could just get the sexton to come and help him with personal matters while I was away at school. But his mind … well, it is different. Sometimes he gets frustrated and cross about it. And he says I imagine it all.”

  Her heart nearly broke for him. “Derwent, I am so sorry. Of course I understand your dilemma. I wish there were something I could do to help.”

  “There’s nothing anyone can do. He is my father, and I will look after him. But it does throw a corker into matters, doesn’t it? I will need to delay graduation, and if I must do that, then I’ll need to delay—well, a lot of other things.” He took her hands again. “You know what I mean, Evy?”

  “Yes, of course I do.” And she did. But what she didn’t fully understand was the rush of relief the news brought her. “That is very understandable. You must not worry about any of that now. You have enough on your shoulders.”

  “It is not that I was worried, or that I’m thinking things are too burdensome. It is just that setting future things by the stovepipe is inevitable right now. I worry something dreadful could happen. If I went away now, the rectory could burn down, or he could take a fall and break a hip.”

  “That would be dreadful indeed.”

  “So, at least until the bishop appoints someone to take over the rectory, I cannot return to school.”

  As he spoke she had the oddest impression that he was just a trifle relieved over the postponement.

  Derwent gave a deep sigh. “When a new rector comes, then I can carry on at divinity school.”

  Evy nodded, but Aunt Grace’s warning drifted through her mind, about the difficulty of getting back on the path to learning once one stepped off the narrow way.

  Derwent stood, then hesitated, as though he wanted to say something more and could not find the words. He shuffled his feet and put the collar up on his coat. “Well … you will be leaving soon for music school, I daresay.”

  “Yes, in three days now.”

  “I will write you about how things are going here.”

  “Yes. And I will write you.”

  He maneuvered his way to the door. “Try not to worry about Miss Grace. I will look in on her every day, and so will Mrs. Croft.”

  She nodded. “That will be a great blessing for me.” He was such a kind man. Why couldn’t her heart react to him as it did to Rogan? “Thank you, Derwent.”

  He hesitated once more, then opened the door and stepped out to the porch. “G’night, Evy. See you tomorrow.”

  “Yes, good night. And I will be praying for you and the vicar.”

  He smiled. “I knew you would. You are good at that sort of thing. Better than I. It was your upbringing.”

  He shut the door, and she heard his feet leaving the porch. From the kitchen window she saw the chilling purple twilight settling into darkness.

  Soon it was time to pack her trunk, and then Mrs. Croft drove her and Aunt Grace to the train depot in the one-horse jingle. Evy boarded the train and waved good-bye as the train chugged out of the station on its two-hour journey to London.

  Now she would play the piano every day. How she had missed it. Of course, she’d played at the rectory when she had time to walk there, but now music would fill her life, her soul. What joy! Oh, to fill her mind and heart with glorious music and forget everything unpleasant that had plagued her these summer months.

  Everything … and everyone.

  As Grimston Way and Rookswood estate faded into the distance, Evy wondered if even her love of music would be able to free her mind of the dark clouds of suspicion surrounding the Kimberly Black Diamond and Henry’s mysterious death. Or if it could keep her from dwelling on the unthinkable—that somehow her mother had been involved in theft and deception.

  Would Rogan let the ugly past alone? Could she? She did not know. She could only pray for God’s wisdom and guidance.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  On the first day of the new school year Evy and the other students were assembled in the great hall, where Madame Ardelle, who reigned over Parkridge Music Academy as though she were its queen, addressed them. She was clad fully in black, except for a bit of white lace here and there. Though formidable and demanding, she was otherwise a pleasant woman, who commanded the respect of her students, most of whom were pleased to be in this serious learning environment.

  Madame emphasized how fortunate the students were to be here and that they must now live up to the reputation of the school. This seemed to worry her a good deal of the time, for Master Eldridge would teach the final year at Parkridge. She seemed to have no greater chagrin than that her music students would not measure up to his expectations. She constantly reminded them that Master Eldridge had played piano throughout Europe and was considered one of the great musicians in England.

  “I think Madame is in love with Master Eldridge,” Victoria, one of the girls in Evy’s room said.

  Another of the girls, Frances, dismissed this notion. “She’s too old.”

  “Who said old people do not fall in love?”

  “It seems quite obvious that romance and marriage are for the young.”

  “What nonsense!” Victoria grimaced. “Who wrote the great romantic plays, pray tell? Men with gray hair.”

  Frances considered, then shrugged. “Maybe you are right. I never thought of that.”

  Alice Tisdale was not in Evy’s room this year. In fact, Evy had looked for her at all the large gatherings but had not found
her. That seemed a bit odd. Was all well with Alice? She had seemed rather wan and quiet all last summer, as though something had been troubling her. In Evy’s next letter to Aunt Grace, she asked about the Tisdale family and whether Alice had been seen in church.

  The weeks went by slowly because Evy was concerned about her aunt. Also, she could not quite stop thinking about Rogan—and the memory of that moment in his arms would return at some of the most inconvenient times, such as during practice, when her fingers would miss a key and she would instantly glance up to see Madame Ardelle’s sharp black eyes.

  In the second year there was a good deal more freedom for the students. Sometimes in the afternoons and often on Saturdays the students would hire carriages and go to Regents Park, or take boat rides on the Thames and afterward have tea in Piccadilly. Evy enjoyed choosing a bakery treat and taking it out to one of the sidewalk tables, joined by her two roommates, Frances and Victoria.

  Life was molded around a pleasant routine. Besides her music, there were language classes, dancing, and twice-a-week classes on deportment and conversation. Evy took them all, as though she knew her days for such opportunities were short. But piano was a grueling five hours a day, overseen by the watchful madame. Sundays, of course, were worship days. A good many of the students did not attend, but Evy would find her way to St. Paul’s each Sunday morning where she hung on words the minister gave from the pulpit of the great cathedral.

  When Frances told her about Grand Tabernacle, she began attending and was awed and inspired by the preaching of the great Reverend Charles Spurgeon. After hearing him she began taking a greater interest in the Scriptures. Evy had been raised to believe in Jesus and His redemptive work, but through Spurgeon’s eloquent exposition, Christ became more precious and personal to Evy’s heart. She read the Bible before bedtime now, whereas before it was mostly a book for Sunday at the rectory. Her prayer life also became less dependent on the Book of Common Prayer, and hymns took on new meaning. She read about Wesley, Isaac Watts, and Newton, and gained a new appreciation for Bach and Handel as she recognized that their inspiration came from their Christian faith.

  The month of November rolled around, and letters arrived from Aunt Grace explaining that Alice would not be returning to music school.

  She may take her final two years in France, with this year as a sabbatical. She has been such a help at the rectory, taking over many of the duties you performed so well. I must say I’m surprised. Alice never appeared committed to the Lord until this year. Derwent is depending on her help a little too much, I fear. At any rate, we are all so grateful Alice can help since neither I nor Mrs. Tisdale is quite able to do all that we once enjoyed.

  Derwent and Alice?

  Derwent also wrote telling Evy of his father’s regression and of how difficult things were for him. I do my best, but I have always said that I am not as gifted as my father. Miss Alice thinks I should speak of my concerns to Sir Lyle and Lady Elosia.

  Evy looked up from the letter. What was Alice doing advising Derwent like this? He seemed quite satisfied to allow it. What was going on back in Grimston Way?

  She read on …

  We all know what a great influence Sir Lyle and Lady Elosia have over the rectory and what goes on here. Did I write you about the good man and his wife who may take my father’s place as vicar when the hour comes? I daresay, everyone likes him. He was here for a week last month to meet the villagers. The bishop is likely to appoint him. He and his wife will be coming in the spring, around Easter, to hold services and get to know the parishioners better. There is some assurance that I may become the new curate…

  Evy heard from Arcilla now and then. Her Montague finishing school was nearby, so she sent Evy secret messages through one of the staff girls so they could meet at Regents Park. A message came on Friday afternoon, delivered by one of the maids who worked at the prestigious school: Meet me at Regents Park at noon on Saturday. There is news to tell you.

  More than likely there was also someone Arcilla wished to meet. Despite curtailed freedoms, the young woman had managed to rendezvous with several men from the university, all while claiming that her heart belonged steadfastly to Charles Bancroft.

  Evy went to the park and waited for Arcilla by the fountain. It was a sunny Saturday, and a good many Londoners were enjoying the day in spite of the chilly November weather. The lawn was well kept and filled with a scattering of colorful autumn leaves. An array of birds and pigeons were about the square and near the fountain. Evy wondered what kind of news Arcilla wished to tell her. Perhaps it was merely about her holiday plans. Arcilla usually anticipated gala affairs months in advance so she could have her father arrange for additions to her wardrobe. She told Evy that she did not wish to go home to Rookswood this year for Christmas, but preferred Heathfriar.

  “Rookswood is too far,” she had said. “Guests must stay the weekend or at least the night, and this limits many from attending. It’s Rogan who prefers Rookswood; he likes the country setting.”

  “Well, with his dedication to riding, he would.”

  She remembered Arcilla’s mock horror. “Riding! The very thought spoils everything.”

  Evy smiled at her extravagant friend. “You’d prefer dancing with a dozen attentive young men vying for your smile.”

  Arcilla laughed, then sighed in mock ruefulness. “Ah, how well you know me, Evy.”

  Evy was pulled from her musings by the sound of Arcilla’s voice calling: “Evy, over here!”

  She turned from the fountain and saw the parked carriage near the curbside. Arcilla was leaning out the cab window, beckoning her to come.

  Now what? Arcilla usually walked down from Montague. Evy hurried across the grass toward the cab.

  “Quickly, inside!” Arcilla scooted over, and Evy climbed in, the cabby closing the door.

  “The gem show,” Arcilla called to the cabby.

  Evy looked at her as the carriage pulled away from the curb. “Gem show?”

  “I’ll explain in a few minutes. First, I’ve other news.”

  Arcilla was a beautiful sight in her stylish frock, hat, and fur-collared coat. She appeared quite the sophisticated young woman on the doorstep of marriage. And yet there was an unusual tension in her voice, and she was absent the hand gestures that she normally used for emphasis. She learned early on that she looked charming with a hand going to her heart as she expressed her sincerity, or up to a stylish hat when flirting, or reaching forth in a gesture of pathos when she wanted one’s help.

  The fact that she’d abandoned her favorite mannerisms told Evy that she was genuinely upset.

  “Everything has gone wrong!”

  “Surely not everything.” Evy tried to smile at Arcilla’s wail. “A few more months at Montague and you will graduate. That is something for you to be pleased about. No more schools, no more guardians—that should make you deliriously happy.”

  “I am serious, Evy. I’ve heard distressing news from Rogan. He came over to the school last night to see me. We talked in the parlor.”

  Evy’s interest picked up.

  “He showed me a letter he received from Parnell, who is in Capetown. Two pages, mind you. That should tell you how seriously Parnell takes his mission.”

  Evy raised her brows. “What mission?”

  Arcilla’s large eyes shone with misery. “Sir Julien is going to convince my father that I should marry Peter Bartley! So dear traitorous brother Parnell wrote Rogan telling him all the reasons why he must convince me, and why I should go through with it! Parnell has met with Mr. Bartley. In fact, Rogan has warned me that the man is here in London. Rogan said he arrived from the Cape a week ago. I’m expected to be introduced to him before we leave London for Christmas holidays.”

  Evy could see the worry in the other girl’s eyes and dropped her teasing. “Parnell wants you to marry Peter Bartley? But why? I thought he and Rogan were both friends with Charles. They’ve certainly spent enough time together at Heathfriar these past
few years.”

  “Well, Rogan is Charles’s friend. It is Sir Julien who wants my father to arrange marriage with Mr. Bartley. Parnell wrote Rogan explaining what was being planned.” Arcilla’s mouth set in the stubborn line Evy knew all too well. “I won’t do it, I tell you. I positively don’t want to marry any man but Charles.”

  Evy was not surprised by Arcilla’s unhappy news. She remembered hearing Sir Lyle discussing Peter Bartley and how Julien believed Bartley was the right man for her. But what did shock her was the role her brothers were playing. Parnell had to know his sister would resist.

  “Why would Parnell want you to marry Mr. Bartley?”

  “Oh, you know Parnell. He is for anything Uncle Julien is touting.” She rested her chin in her hands, clearly despondent. “That’s what he told Rogan in the letter too. It turns out that Mr. Bartley is related in some way to the Bleys, so I suppose he’s in diamonds. Uncle Julien wrote Father that the marriage will bring a certain diamond mine under family control. So it is very important to him—and to the Chantrys. It is all quite involved, you see.”

  Evy could not help but notice that this fact—that it was considered important to the family diamond interests—seemed to appeal to Arcilla’s pride. Evy knew she had always adored being the center of anything important. Well, if such a thing could sway her, then did she really love Charles?

  “Does Rogan agree that it is wise for you to marry Peter?”

  “Rogan told me he favors Charles. They’re such good friends. Of course, Patricia is Charles’s sister, and that has something to do with it, I suppose, since Rogan will marry Patricia. He has not proposed to her yet, but the family expects him to, perhaps before he leaves for Capetown next year. Parnell is also being groomed to marry into Uncle Julien’s family. Even though the girl—I forget her name—is too young now. She is fourteen, I think.”

  She turned to Evy with wide, helpless eyes. “Oh, Evy, it is so dreadful. How lucky you are to be so inconsequential. No one wants to marry you—except Derwent.”