Tomorrow's Treasure

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Rogan nodded, and Evy thought there was sympathy in his eyes for Aunt Grace’s health. But there seemed to be a question as well. “I suppose Derwent has written you of his plans now that the vicar has died.”

  Derwent! She hadn’t thought of him once that night. She looked away, wondering what that meant. “I. think it far too soon for him to make any decisions.”

  “He only has two choices, as I see it. Return to divinity school and hope for a vicarage, or find other employment.”

  “He might get the curate’s job in Grimston Way.”

  “At St. Graves Parish, you mean?”

  “He mentioned it in his last letter.”

  “I suppose that would please you. You could remain in Grimston Way. That is, unless you’re the adventurous sort who wishes to travel and see something of the world.”

  Was there a question behind this casual statement?

  Evy didn’t hesitate. “Unlike Arcilla, I think I would very much like to go to South Africa. But … I suppose I shall settle in Grimston Way and carry on as I always have.”

  “Ah, well, there is still this year of studies to complete, isn’t there—for both of us. That reminds me, I have horrendous exams in the morning. I had better get back to the university. If not, I may be out on the streets playing my violin for a tuppence.”

  She laughed at that. “I hardly think you’ll need to worry about such a thing.”

  He opened the door, his thoughtful gaze lingering on her face. “One never knows. Especially if I end up balking against Julien’s will and plans.” He smiled. “Good night.” The door closed behind him.

  Evy stood there, wondering. What did Rogan mean? Contesting Sir Julien Bley’s will and plans? Did Rogan have Arcilla’s marriage to Peter Bartley in mind, or something else? His own marriage, perhaps? Could there be someone special that Sir Julien wanted Rogan to marry? Maybe a girl in Capetown?

  Evy realized she’d been biting her thumbnail and lowered her hand.

  Or maybe the confrontation would come over Henry’s Mashonaland map? It was no coincidence, was it, that Cecil Rhodes’s ambition for a new colony was directed toward Mashonaland?

  She pushed all this from her mind, determined instead to remember and relish every moment of the exceptional evening. She wrapped her arms around herself and stood there, basking in the warm afterglow. She could still feel the pressure of Rogan’s hand holding hers as he had helped her from the coach.

  But it was another moment they’d shared—one long ago in a darkened library before a blazing fire—that was indelibly burned upon her lips. And her heart.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Evy returned home to Grimston Way for the Christmas holidays. She had expected Derwent to meet her at the train depot but he did not appear. It was Mrs. Croft who was all smiles, driving the jingle. Strange … that Derwent did not come.

  “That Derwent be a foolish young man,” she snorted, but would say no more when Evy questioned her. She spoke instead of Aunt Grace’s deteriorating health. “Though she won’t be admitting she’s failing to anyone, leastwise to you, Miss Evy.”

  Evy suspected her aunt wished to keep Christmas a joyful and hopeful season for them both. When she arrived at the cottage, Aunt Grace met her on the porch with a smile.

  “Welcome home, Evy dear.”

  “Aunt Grace.” Evy took hold of her shoulders and looked at her thin, pale figure. “You haven’t worn yourself out getting everything ready for Christmas, have you? You know I would have enjoyed doing the decorations and baking with you. You must not tire yourself.”

  “No, no, I am fine now.” She laughed. “I’ve been so looking forward to your coming home since last month. Just a mild winter cold again.”

  Evy looked about the cottage with warm pleasure, well aware that their home came from the generosity of the Chantrys. “Everything is just as I remembered it. Oh Aunt, it’s so good to be home again.” She threw her arms around her. “I only wish you could have been there the night of my recital. It was thrilling, stunning, and even Arcilla came—and Rogan.”

  Aunt Grace’s brows shot up. “Indeed? Rogan? My! Well—I shall need to hear every exciting detail. I’ve got a nice pot of tea on, and Mrs. Croft brought over some peppermint cookies.”

  Evy smiled her pleasure. They stayed up late talking about everything while slowly decorating the cottage with baskets of fresh pine and berries.

  “Where did you get the pine?” Evy did not think her aunt could go foraging in the woods as she used to when stronger.

  “Alice brought them over. Very kind of her, I thought.”

  Evy paused, turned, and looked at her. “Alice? Yes, I’m surprised, too. How is she?” Evy had never quite understood why it was that Dr. and Mrs. Tisdale, who were comfortably affluent, had held back from sending Alice to pursue her music. They could afford to send Alice to France, considered to have the crowning glory of music schools.

  “Oh, Alice is well enough.”

  Evy waited, expecting more explanation, but it did not come. “She is not ill, is she?”

  “Oh, my no. She is—just the same girl she always was. More grownup, of course. She is quite a young woman now, a year older than you.”

  “Yes, she’s Arcilla’s age. I suppose I’ll see her during the season.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Aunt Grace added a red bow to the pine garland she had strewn atop the fireplace and stood back to judge its effect. “The new vicar and his wife are giving the traditional afternoon Christmas tea on Saturday. You’ll like Vicar Osgood and his good wife, Martha. She is just as busy and hard-working as Martha of Bethany. Vicar Osgood served a parish in Runnymeade before being sent here to us after Vicar Brown’s departure. You’ll like them, dear.”

  “I’m sure I shall.” Evy was still wondering about Alice. What could have happened to her? Aunt Grace did not seem to want to discuss it, and Evy thought it wise to drop the subject for now. She was sure she would learn more in the days to come.

  They baked ginger cookies and mince pies and placed them in the little pantry to cool. They would wrap them up and tie them with ribbons and then go calling on the villagers to wish them Merry Christmas on Sunday. She had joined Aunt Grace on this traditional outing since she was a little girl riding along in the jingle, the big basket of goodies on her lap. Oh, the happy days of childhood. And yet how the holidays, so precious in their Christian foundation, could also bring painful memories of lost loved ones and a world no longer sunny with childhood expectations!

  Dear Uncle Edmund. Evy could see him busy at his rectory desk preparing his sermons, smiling at her with such patience if she loitered in the doorway of his office hoping for attention. Evy sighed. She missed him terribly at times like this. And it brought a qualm to her heart as she looked at her aunt and saw the visible decline in her health, clear warning that their time together was drawing to a close.

  Don’t think about it, she told herself. Enjoy the time God has graciously given you. Who knows what a day may bring forth? But my heavenly Father does, and that’s my consolation.

  This year would be a special holiday, one that she would always look back upon with fondness. She would make sure of it and enjoy it to its fullest.

  The next day she did not see any of the Chantrys, though Arcilla and Rogan had both returned to Rookswood within a day of Evy’s arrival from London. Peter Bartley was to have come back with them to meet Sir Lyle and Lady Elosia. Evy wondered about Heyden van Buren. She was disappointed that he had not gotten back in touch with her yet, but she fully expected him to do so.

  The next day the Chantry coachman, Mr. Bixby, delivered the yearly goose for Christmas dinner. And for Aunt Grace there was a sealed envelope containing a generous gift of money from Lady Elosia.

  “Bless her! Now we can buy presents.” Aunt Grace’s features lit up. “Its a sunny day too. Perfect for a bit of shopping in the village. We will have a few days for wrapping as well.”

  “It should be enjoyable, but a
re you sure you’re feeling strong enough?”

  “I’m feeling fine,” Aunt Grace said with determination.

  “I’ll drive the jingle. And maybe we can stop afterward at Miss Henny’s shop for tea and some of those honey cakes I remember from childhood. It seemed back then the cakes were the most wonderful in all England.”

  Aunt Grace laughed. “I suspect you will still enjoy them, even though they may be a bit lumpy at her age.”

  The shopping trip was as fun as expected, and they laughed riotously as they tried to buy a gift for one another while the other turned her back and pretended ignorance. Afterward they stopped at Miss Henny’s tea shop and enjoyed a pot of the best tea in Grimston Way along with the slightly overdone honey cakes baked by the eighty-year-old proprietress, who was delighted to see them.

  “Bless my soul, but you’re getting prettier with every year, Evy. And so talented with that music learnin’ of yours that Grace tells me you’re studying.” She shook her gray head. “I just can’t understand the likes of the vicar’s son.”

  Before Evy could ask what she meant, the door opened, and Mr. Croft came shuffling in. He looked unchanged since the days of Evy’s childhood, when she watched him digging graves. He saw her but did not appear to recognize her. He grinned at Aunt Grace, however, and removed his sock cap. “Afternoon, Mrs. Vicar. A pleasure to see ye out and about on such a sunny day … ah, that be you, Miss Evy? Praise the Lord, it is!”

  “Hello Mr. Croft,” she said with a warm smile. “How are you?”

  “Oh, I be fine, yessir, just fine. Ye be coming to the new vicar’s Christmas tea, miss?”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Mrs. Croft be helping out the new vicar’s wife that day. She be glad to hear you’ll be there, miss.”

  He went to order his lunch of milky tea and sweet biscuits, and Miss Henny went to wait on him.

  Evy studied Aunt Grace as they drank their tea. “Why did Miss Henny say that about Derwent?”

  Her aunt contemplated her tea as though it were quite profound. She gave a heavy sigh. “Because Derwent has been seeing a great deal of Alice. Let’s not worry about that now. Derwent will come to his senses. His mind is filled with South Africa, and I feel certain Alice is encouraging him in this.”

  Evy set her teacup in its saucer, giving a slow nod. “I thought it might come to this. He has always wanted to go there, since we were children.”

  “Nothing is certain yet.”

  She thought she should feel something, some disappointment perhaps. But she didn’t. It was strange … She felt so little concern about Derwent and Alice, so little disappointment that her old friend hadn’t come to see her. But let her wayward mind conjure one image of Rogan Chantry paying close attention to Patricia Bancroft—perhaps kissing her palm as he had Evy’s, or—forbid it!—kissing her the way he had kissed Evy in the library that day …

  She closed her eyes. I not only feel like I’ve swallowed a rock but as though I could cry my heart out! Drat Rogan Chantry!

  When they finished their last cup and the teapot was empty, they said good-bye to Miss Henny and went out to where the jingle was parked and waiting with their packages.

  As Evy walked to the jingle, she saw Mrs. Tisdale and Alice just getting out of the family carriage. Mrs. Tisdale looked over to see Evy and Aunt Grace, and she smiled and waved. “Oh, hello!”

  Evy held the reins while mother and daughter walked up.

  “Well, Grace, you are looking much better today. Must be Evy’s homecoming. Hello, Evy, how are you?” Mrs. Tisdale went on talking to Aunt Grace, so Evy turned to Alice.

  “Alice, hello!”

  Evy had not seen Alice for nearly a year. Aunt Grace was right—Alice indeed had changed, at least on the outside. She was nineteen now. Her strawberry blond hair was elaborately styled under a blue hat with a matching satin rose. The colors made her already pale face look waxen. The narrow chin, the tight little mouth, the rather wide forehead with a coquettish curly lock deliberately arranged there seemed testimony to Alice’s usual self-satisfaction. Her light eyes reflected whatever color she wore, so that they now appeared gray-blue, fringed with reddish lashes.

  “Hello, Evy.” She played with her gloves, looking at Evy’s bare hands holding the horse’s reins. “Congratulations on being chosen to play the solo at the school concert. Mrs. Havering told us about it.”

  “Thank you. I’ll always remember that night.”

  Alice smiled. “I don’t suppose the competition among Madame Ardelle’s students was very rigorous this year. So many of us that would have competed weren’t there.”

  Evy ignored the clearly self-serving remark. It was, after all, Christmas, and the season of goodwill. “Are you still playing, Alice?”

  “Not as seriously as before. I enjoy playing the piano at the rectory each Sunday.” She paused, and Evy thought her look held some special meaning. “Unless you wish the position now that you’re home again? You always used to do it.”

  “I’m sure you do wonderfully.” Evy hoped she showed no curiosity over Alice being involved at the rectory. She had never appeared to like such involvement before. She had changed all right … because of Derwent? But was her faith genuine? Derwent had best find out.

  “Then I shall keep the plans as they are,” Alice said. “I’ll be playing the carols in the chapel on Christmas Eve as well.”

  “Perhaps you should ask Rogan to join you on the violin.” Alice looked startled, and Evy smiled. “He plays beautifully. So serious, yet he has a certain flair for lightness.”

  Alice’s brows went up. “Rogan?”

  Evy felt a small prick of pleasure at Alice’s discomfiture. Now Alice was aware how little she knew about Rogan.

  Mrs. Tisdale had concluded her chat with Aunt Grace and was bustling herself and Alice off toward the local seamstress shop. “Miss Hildegard has opened her own shop, Evy, did Grace tell you?”

  Miss Hildegard had been sent for by Lady Honoria some years ago to make dresses for herself and Arcilla. At that time Miss Hildegard had lived at Rookswood. Since Arcilla had long ago departed for London and had all her clothes made there, the seamstress had opened up a small shop in Grimston Way. Evy wondered if she received much business other than that of Mrs. Tisdale and Alice—and perhaps Lady Elosia.

  “We visit her shop often.” Mrs. Tisdale’s rather proud tone grated on Evy’s nerves. “Naturally Alice likes to look well. Especially now.” She smiled, and Evy thought, as Mrs. Tisdale glanced sideways at Alice, that the two acted as though they shared some special secret. Alice offered a little smile and touched the rose on her hat. Changed or not, she still had that sidling way about her.

  Evy’s suspicions grew.

  “Well, we’re off, girls. We must run. Toodle-oo. Come along, Alice. I’m anxious to see the lace from Brussels.”

  Evy picked up the reins to drive back to the cottage, smiling at her aunt to show the Tisdale women did not worry her. Aunt Grace, however, was not smiling. She looked ahead, down the narrow village street.

  “Mrs. Tisdale still seems the same,” Evy commented, but not without affection.

  “Yes, indeed. Beatrice has always forged ahead with her plans and needles Dr. Tisdale into using every ounce of his influence in the village to get things done the way she wants them.”

  Evy glanced at her aunt. It seemed Aunt Grace was more disturbed by the Tisdales than she had been in the past. She must not be feeling well.

  “Beatrice has managed to become friendly with Lady Elosia.”

  She pondered this. “That should please both Mrs. Tisdale and Alice. They were always quite concerned about getting on socially with Rookswood.”

  “Oh, it isn’t social, exactly. That is, Beatrice gets on with Lady Elosia on some matters that concern the village and rectory, but the relationship ends there. Neither Arcilla nor Rogan is likely to include Alice in their inner circle. But Beatrice does influence Lady Elosia on some important decisions
connected with the rectory.”

  Evy waited, but her aunt must have decided she had fallen into gossip, because she stopped and said nothing more for the ride back to the cottage. Evy couldn’t help wondering if some of those decisions included Derwent. The gay holiday mood had evaporated. Perhaps her aunt had overdone herself. Evy would insist she rest for the afternoon until she made their supper. Tonight I shall make sausage and eggs, and use some of the sweet white bread we bought at the bakery. Derwent would be coming over as he usually did on Friday evenings. This would be her first time to see him since her return from school. She was anxious to discuss matters with him about divinity school—and his deeper friendship with Alice.

  That evening after Evy wrapped her Christmas presents and put them in the cupboard out of sight, she set about to fix their supper. It was six o’clock when Aunt Grace came out to join her. She looked much more peaceful.

  “Why the third place setting, Evy?”

  “Derwent always comes on Friday nights.”

  “Yes, of course, I should have told you. He’s in London.”

  “London?” Evy turned to her aunt.

  “Yes, he said he had some business there.”

  “When did he go there?”

  “Oh … a day or so before your return.” She shuffled her dinnerware around.

  Evy watched her. “What sort of business could he have?”

  Aunt Grace either did not know or did not wish to discuss it. She simply said, “He will be back before Christmas.”

  Evy dropped the matter and forced a smile, trying to seem cheerful so as not to worry her aunt. “I do not mind the extra sausage and eggs. I can warm them over for breakfast.”

  Christmas drew closer, and Evy could see the various coaches arriving for the drive up the winding road to Rookswood to attend the dinner balls. She did not see Arcilla or Rogan, but she heard from Mrs. Croft that Lizzie had told her that Miss Patricia Bancroft had arrived for the weekend. Her brother Charles was noticeably absent.

  “I hear Miss Arcilla has herself a new beau,” Mrs. Croft said with a curious glint in her eyes. “There was quite a going-on up there, before them guests arrived, there was, says Lizzie. Miss Arcilla is in a weepy state one day, then all stoic, and cheerful as a wee elf the next, but keeping firm company with that Peter Bartley from Capetown.”