She refused to let his nearness unnerve her. “What do you think Mr. Bartley might have done if they had come back into the museum together?”
“I’d rather not imagine. But ol’ Bartley does seem to be rather a sport. Like someone who would dutifully drink poison for the cause, rather than lose favor.”
She laughed.
“In this case, it’s Sir Julien whose favor Bartley fears losing. Not that matters are anywhere near being resolved where Arcilla and Charles are concerned. It’s a gummy situation. Two men want to marry her, and the family must decide, but not according to which man will make her life most contented. That would be too simple. The choice must be based on social agendas.”
And on what will bring more success to the diamond dynasty, she thought, remaining silent. She was a little surprised at Rogan’s cynicism for his own social stratum.
He leaned against the wall near her. “I’m relieved the decision is in my father’s hands. Naturally, I’ll give him my opinion. I’ve promised Arcilla I would. I like Charles”—from the sincere tone of his voice, Evy believed this—“though he’s a bit of a lockjaw. He can be very pompous sometimes. But I do trust him. We’ve been friends since we were boys. But Bartley …” His gaze drifted to the far wall. “He is Sir Julien’s golden boy. I don’t see a bright outcome for Arcilla and Charles. Julien holds the purse strings to the family cache of diamonds—and mines.”
“I’m surprised you can view the situation so clearly.”
A brow lifted. “You think I am blind to the sins and foibles of the aristocracy? Only one who has never studied the French Revolution could be so. Sir Julien has feet of clay, as do we all, including the poor and downtrodden, by the way. I’ve never been one to believe in the righteous poor and the evil rich. What is that old saying? ‘The Colonel’s lady and Rosie o’ Grady are sisters under the skin’?”
“I don’t doubt that Rosie might pass herself off as the Colonel’s lady if given half a chance,” she said. “Anyway, I should hate to be forced to marry a man I did not love because his family had a stake in my marriage—and in the cache of diamonds.”
“You are not suggesting that the aristocracy are the only ones who hold to the opinions of family and society, are you?”
She met his challenging gaze. “Yes, indeed. It does appear to be so. Arcilla has little to say about her marriage.”
“You think she would make a wiser choice if it were left up to her?”
That stopped her. She had to be honest. “Well … in Arcilla’s case—”
He smiled. “And in your case?”
“In my case”—she rose from the window seat and turned to look outdoors—“the same criteria do not apply. Your sister and I are worlds apart.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw him contemplate the small explosion of wood and flames in the fireplace. “So your world is more generous with its young daughters, you think?”
She hesitated. She could see a trap coming, but she would not retreat. “Yes … I believe so.”
His gaze came back to capture hers, and she thought she saw a fire reflected in the depths of his eyes. “Then why, unless something happens to force a change, is your future all but chiseled in stone? Why will you return to Grimston Way, become Mrs. Brown, and carry on in your aunt’s footsteps?”
She started to respond, but he cut her off.
“And please do not tell me it is because that is what you wish, for I will not believe it.”
Evy walked to the settee and sat down, refusing to let his taunts ruffle her. “I did not realize I was being forced to marry Derwent.”
His cryptic smile set her nerves on edge. “Then am I wrong in thinking a match was made between your uncle and Vicar Brown when you and Derwent were still babes in arms?”
She had no answer for that—it was, of course, quite true—and so she simply remained silent. But when the stillness in the room grew oppressive, she gave a sigh. “Perhaps I wish to be a vicar’s wife.”
One brow arched. “Derwent and you, the perfect vicar’s wife … I wonder. Ah, well. Life can be full of little surprises, can it not?” His unexpected smile was disarming. “Despite all the plans of mice and men, and, I might add, despite the promise of diamonds, people are known to do very strange things.”
“I indeed hope so. I should be disappointed to think otherwise.”
“Love wins out in the end, is that it?”
“I think so, yes.”
“A man throws away everything for the woman he loves. Very romantic, but do you really believe that can happen?”
“Not often perhaps. I suppose, like Arcilla, more marriages are made to accommodate wealth and position than love and faith.”
“Faith. I wondered if you would bring that into the equation. A vicar’s daughter—in your case a niece—must marry her own kind, just as we must marry our own kind. Or as you would say it, someone socially suitable.”
“One must marry of like faith, yes. Not because one is related to a vicar, but for obedience.”
His head tipped at that. “Explain. I am interested.”
“I am obliged as a Christian to marry a man of the same genuine commitment to the Christian faith as my own.”
“ ‘Be ye not unequally yoked together.’ Is that what you mean?”
She stared at him. Was Rogan actually quoting the Bible? “Yes.”
“So we are back to Derwent. You would marry him because he is … suitable. Very enlightening.”
She did not argue, partly because he was right. But she also was reluctant to give away her doubts about marriage to Derwent. She was not in the least doubtful that it would be a comfortable marriage. But was that enough?
Rogan startled her by pushing away from the wall and going to snatch his coat and hat. Quick disappointment stabbed her that he was so ready to depart. Not, she assured herself, because she wanted his company, but because she had a question.
She leaned forward. “Why do I somehow think—dare I say it?—that you do not like Sir Julien?”
His cool gaze came back at her. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
She shrugged. “When you mention him I’ve noted … a bit of doubt in your voice.”
“I did not realize my feelings showed so easily.” He smiled. “I’d better watch myself around him, or he’ll disinherit me.”
She sat back, hands in her lap again. “Now you are being cynical again.”
“Am I?”
“You did not answer my question. Maybe because you do not want to reveal how you think?”
He hesitated, then pursed his lips. “Maybe dislike is not the right word to describe how I feel about him. Distrust may be closer. I’ve never fully trusted him, not even when I was a boy. Remember when we were children and I brought you to Henry’s rooms?”
“How could I forget? Sir Julien came in, and you told me to hide. It was frightening.”
“I saw Julien search Henry’s rooms the night before we went there. It was very late, so obviously he did not wish to be seen. I sometimes think he came to Rookswood to search.”
To search … for what? She stood and walked toward him. “He was looking for the Black Diamond? Then he does not think Henry was innocent, as Lady Brewster maintained in her letter!”
His gaze held hers, but his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. “I think it was the map he wanted. I wonder if it wasn’t also the letter from Lady Brewster.” He focused on her. “What did Heyden tell you about the diamond?”
She hesitated, then decided to tell Rogan exactly what Heyden had said. He needed to know there was at least one person in his family who did not hold her mother to blame.
Rogan listened, growing ever more thoughtful. “I suppose Heyden wanted to learn what it was you hoped to destroy in the fireplace that afternoon the three of us met.”
“Why would he not be curious after such a dramatic, shocking scene?”
A small smile tipped his lips. “True, but he was far too curious long before that
day. What did you tell him?”
“He already suspected that I wanted to destroy a letter. I told him it was from Lady Brewster.”
“You told him what the letter was about?”
“Yes.”
A frown drew his brow down. “That was a mistake.”
“He believes in my mother’s innocence. I saw no reason not to trust him.”
“I gave you reasons. He wishes to use you for his own political purposes.”
“But—”
“Never forget he’s a ruddy Boer, disloyal to the British Crown. If a war breaks out in South Africa, which I fully expect, and perhaps sooner than anyone thinks, Heyden will support Dutch rule under Paul Kruger. I’ve no intention of cooperating with him about the Black Diamond. Or”—his burning gaze swept her face—“about you.”
After a moment of charged silence, he smiled. “Well, I’d best be on my way.”
Evy followed him into the hall to lock up for the night.
“I regret you are not having dinner with me.”
Swift pleasure warmed her, but she schooled her features, careful not to give him the notion that she, too, was disappointed. “It would have been pleasant.”
“Another time perhaps, when you are not so limited by Madame.” He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, but rather than kiss the back as she expected, he turned it over and pressed a kiss to her palm. At the warm pressure on her skin, she caught her breath, suppressing a shiver. His smiling eyes told her he was well aware of her reaction. And pleased by it.
“Au revoir,” he murmured and went out the door.
Evy watched as he entered the coach and shut the door. A moment later she heard the clop of hooves as the coach pulled away. Her gaze followed the coach down the cobbled drive until it disappeared into the London fog.
She bolted the front door and turned to the staircase. How Rogan disturbed her. She could still feel the touch of his lips on her hand. There was more to Rogan Chantry than the surface revealed. He disapproved of Heyden, but there was much he was not telling her. Somehow she was sure it involved her—and her parents.
But Heyden had a side to him that she found rather comforting; he had been sympathetic about her mother, and he lacked the social status—and the accompanying arrogance—so nettling in Rogan.
Evy went back upstairs to her dormitory room and tried to concentrate on her language studies, but Rogan’s words echoed in her mind: I’ve no intention of cooperating with him about the Black Diamond. Or about you. What had he meant? Could he have found out about her upcoming meeting with Heyden?
On Friday a letter arrived from Aunt Grace.
Vicar Brown died peacefully in his sleep of heart failure on November 3, and the new vicar has arrived. It is all quite sad for our sakes because we will miss him, but not sad for Vicar Brown, who has joined your uncle in the presence of Christ.
At the end of the letter, she wrote part of the verse from the first chapter of the epistle to the Philippians: “… to depart, and to be with Christ; which is far better.”
Evy wrote her condolences to Derwent. It was far too soon after the loss of his father to inquire about his plans for the future. Though she fully expected that in time he would become the new curate, he would first need to return to divinity school for his final year.
Life was definitely changing by large steps and small. Sometimes it seemed the most significant changes came by way of the most unlikely events. Yet over all things, great and small, the Lord God reigned supreme. Only in moments of human weakness did doubt and fear steal away her confidence and set her heart beating uncertainly.
If only those moments did not center so very often on Rogan Chantry.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The end of the school term and the Christmas holidays drew near … as did the night of Evy’s concert. The other girls were as excited as though they had been chosen to do the solo performance for an audience of London’s avid music lovers.
“I know you’ll do well,” Frances told her. “I have listened to your practice, and it’s flawless.”
Evy laughed. “I think you’re too generous. I’m far from becoming a concert pianist, and this whole thing has put butterflies in my stomach.”
“You will do well,” Frances said again, and left Evy to her practice.
She was having a new dress made in a London shop for the occasion. Aunt Grace had known of the honor since October and had written Evy insisting a gown be made for the evening of Evy’s performance:
Do not concern yourself for the expense, dear. To have been selected from among the students to be the featured pianist is obviously a thrilling event, and I want you to have the best. You have worked hard indeed and deserve a special gown. I only wish my strength were such that I could be there to hear you play. My prayers will be with you, and I’ll be waiting anxiously for you to come home for the holidays to tell me all about it.
Evy was thrilled. She had worried about what dress to wear, for she had nothing elegant enough for the occasion. She wasted no time in trying to find the right shop and seamstress. Madame Ardelle recommended a French shop, for she was acquainted with its widowed owner.
“You are making a mistake,” Frances said. “Do what Madame says, and you’ll be wearing stiff black taffeta on stage. I can hear it now as you bow before the audience and sit down at the piano. Then you’ll begin to play the funeral dirge,” Frances began humming a doleful march.
“Oh Frances, you are being silly,” Evy said, laughing. “Just because Madame wears black doesn’t mean her friend cannot work with colors. What color do you think I should choose?”
“Burgundy,” Victoria sighed.
“Emerald velvet,” Frances countered. “It suits your eyes.”
Evy pursed her lips. “Emerald green. Velvet, yes. Luxurious velvet.”
And so it was. Accompanied by her roommates, Evy went to the shop in downtown London and chose from the available patterns and materials. When she returned two weeks later to collect the gown, Evy tried it on before the mirror to make certain everything fit. It was all Evy could do not to echo the oohs and ahs of her two friends. She turned before the mirrors as the seamstress looked on proudly at her handiwork. The skirt was long and flowing; the tightly fitting bodice, according to the latest style, had a lower neckline for evening wear, and the popular sleeveheads were large and puffed. “Do you think it’s a bit too daring?” she whispered to Frances and Victoria.
“It fits you so well, Evy. Anything else would make you look stuffy and disapproving. Besides, it is just a wee bit off the shoulder.”
“And you did choose that pattern.” Frances eyed her. “So you must have wanted that style.”
“Yes, it is so lovely … I saw Patricia Bancroft wearing a style like this at the diamond show at the museum some weeks ago.”
“There! You see?” Frances clapped her hands. “You are all set for the musical. Hurry now, let’s go back to the school to show the other girls. I cannot wait to see their faces. And wait until we do your hair the night of the concert.” She sighed. “ ’Tis a pity Rogan Chantry won’t be there.” She cast Evy a sly glance, but Evy avoided her eyes in the mirror.
Now the night of the concert had arrived. Evy had had one disappointment that morning—a letter from Heyden. It had read quite simply:
Dear Miss Varley,
I regret that I cannot keep our appointment at Regents Park for this Saturday. Urgent political concerns demand that I accompany Paul Kruger to the country home of the Officer of Colonial Affairs. I look forward to contacting you as soon as possible.
H. van Buren
But she scarcely gave him a thought now. Dressed in her gown, her hair meticulously upswept in curls and waves, Evy had to admit she felt like Cinderella going to the ball. Victoria had lent Evy her mother’s pearls and matching fan comb. And Claudine, who hailed from a wealthy London family, lent her a darling pair of velvet slippers and a feather fan. Victoria, who had as little as Evy, kissed a lace
handkerchief and turned it over, a twinkle in her eye. “From great-great grandmother Fanny Wilshire, for blessing.”
Fifteen minutes before Evy went on stage, she waited near the entrance to the raised dais in the great hall. She was shocked to see Arcilla, adorned in a lovely outfit of blue satin, come floating into the room.
“Arcilla!” Surprised delight filled Evy at the sight of her friend. “What are you doing here?”
Arcilla’s tinkling laughter was warm as she came up to take Evy’s arm and turn her about. “C’êst magnifique. Evy, I hardly recognize you. What do you mean, what am I doing here? Would I miss your crowning moment?” She grimaced. “Mr. Bartley is here with me. He’s my escort tonight. We were to attend a dinner party, but once I knew this was your night to shine, I insisted he bring me to hear you play. Afterward we are all going to our family townhouse on the Strand for a little dinner—and you are coming with us. We must toast you and make a fuss over your success, you know.”
We? Evy’s heart thumped irregularly. Was Rogan actually there?
The butterflies in her stomach were getting worse. Even her hands felt cold and clammy. Suppose her fingers fumbled over the keys? Dear Father, please help me to play for Your honor tonight.
She tried to focus on Arcilla. “Me? Go to the Chantry Townhouse?”
“But of course. We think highly of you, you know.” She laughed. “We have a surprise for you there as well, but you won’t learn what it is until you get there. We’ll take you in the carriage. That way you can meet my Prince Charming, Mr. Bartley.” She looked toward the ceiling, as though he were anything but Prince Charming.
But Evy’s mind was too full to think about Arcilla’s problems right now. “We have a surprise? Who is we?”
“Rogan, of course,” she said airily. “Most of this was his idea. He was the one who told me you were playing solo tonight, chosen from among all the students at the school. And this”—she produced an orchid—“is from both of us. Here, let’s pin it to your gown, it goes so well.”
Rogan was here! Evy’s agonies increased at the thought. What if she gave less than her best performance?
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