The constant heart

Home > Romance > The constant heart > Page 4
The constant heart Page 4

by Mary Balogh


  "They are incredibly ungrateful!" Philip had exploded after the last one had left the building. "Do they not care? Do they not realize what an opportunity is being presented them? I am bitterly disillusioned."

  "Philip," Rebecca had said gently, "most of the boys have made marked progress. If you consider the fact that a mere few months ago they could not even distinguish one letter from another, you would realize the truth of what I say. But you must have noticed that Cyril cannot learn as fast as the others. He knows the letters, but he cannot put them together to create words."

  "If he attended school regularly," Philip had said coldly, "perhaps he would not have fallen so far behind."

  "It is not that," Rebecca had protested. "He has not missed so many days, Philip. He is incapable of learning as fast as the other boys. He needs a great deal of extra help and encouragement."

  "We are here to teach, Rebecca," he had said passionately, "not to coddle and baby these village lads."

  The argument had ended abruptly as the pupils began to file back into the schoolroom. Philip had left soon after, and she had not seen him again. This was his afternoon for visiting the elderly and sometimes, she knew, he did not arrive home until well into the evening. Visiting the sick and elderly for Philip meant more than sitting at bedsides holding hands and saying prayers. Frequently it meant chopping wood or hauling water or even preparing a meal.

  And remembering that fact as she walked along the country lane, still a good half mile from the stile that would lead her into the pasture and across to the house, Rebecca's heart softened. Philip could be a strange mixture of harshness and dedication. He certainly did not spare himself in his devotion to his parishioners. And even his harsher moments, she realized, resulted from his zeal. He wanted these village lads to learn, wanted them to have a better future than they could otherwise expect. Unfortunately, he did not always have enough patience to allow for anyone with less drive than himself. He meant well and that was the important fact for her to remember.

  She had not been in high spirits, though, even before the altercation with Philip. Christopher was coming home today, was probably already with his family, in fact. Tomorrow or the next day he would visit at Limeglade or her uncle's family would visit the Sinclairs. If she was fortunate, she would miss that first meeting. But she could not avoid it forever. The two families lived only two miles apart and had always been on the most intimate of visiting terms.

  Within the next week at the longest she would have to meet him again. And she had no wish to do so. The battle to forget him had been a long and hard one. But she had won eventually. Her life for the last several years had not been a wildly happy one, but it had been of moderate contentment. She had a comfortable home with relatives who treated her with affection even if not with demonstrative love. She was continuing the works of charity that had been dear to her father's heart. And she was betrothed to a man who embodied those ideals for which she lived. She did not want to be reminded of a time when she had desired more of life, a time when she had wanted passion and romantic love. And she did not want to be reminded of how Christopher had changed. She wanted to remember him, if at all, as he had been before.

  Rebecca looked ahead to the stile, not far distant now. She quickened her step. A cup of tea would be very welcome at the end of the walk. She slowed down almost immediately, though, and moved over the side of the road until her dress was brushing against the hedgerow. She could hear the approach of a horse behind her and had no desire to be ridden down. She gazed ahead absently, her mind swinging back to Cyril and his obvious learning problem.

  "G'day, ma'am," a deep masculine voice said as a horse drew level with her on the road.

  Rebecca looked up, startled, into the politely smiling face of a large young man, whose high shirt points pressed into his cheeks as if trying to burst them. He was touching a riding crop to his hat. She smiled in quick relief. She had feared for one horrid moment that it might be Christopher.

  "Good day, sir," she said, inclining her head to him, and he rode on.

  She had not realized there were two horses until the second One drew level with her and the performance was repeated.

  "Good day, ma'am," the second rider said.

  "Good day, sir," Rebecca replied, and glanced up at the speaker.

  Did time stand still? she wondered later. Probably not. It just seemed to have done so. He was instantly recognizable, though changed in the course of almost seven years. He looked as tall and straight in the saddle as he had always looked then. His hair was as dark and straight and as long. His eyes were as intensely blue, his nose as straight, his mouth as wide. Yet the years had taken away his boyish slimness and left a solid, well-muscled man in his place. And time had taken away the open, pleasant expression that he had habitually worn and replaced it with a controlled, almost stern look. His jaw looked a lot firmer than she remembered.

  He lowered his riding whip from the brim of his top hat and drew his horse to a halt. "Hello, Becky," he said quietly, unsmilingly.

  "Hello, Christopher," she replied. She had stopped walking without realizing it.

  There seemed to be nothing else to say. Both looked for a moment as if sorry they had stopped.

  "How are you?" he asked.

  "Well, thank you," she replied. "And you, Christopher?"

  He nodded. He had removed his hat, and Rebecca could see that his hair was as thick and shining as it had ever been.

  "I am sorry about your bereavement," she said.

  He nodded once more. "Thank you."

  They looked at each other awkwardly again. "You are living with your uncle now?" he said. "I was sorry to hear of your father's passing."

  "Are you on your way home?" he asked. "You have still a long way to go. May I offer you a ride?"

  "Oh, no, thank you," she said hastily. "I enjoy the walk across the pasture. Uncle Humphrey always urges me to take the gig."

  There was another awkward pause. The first rider broke it. He had turned his horse back to find out what had delayed his companion.

  "I say, Sinclair," he said, sweeping off his hat. "Meeting old acquaintances already?"

  Christopher smiled, a rather tight grimace that did not quite reach his eyes. "Miss Shaw, may I present Mr. Lucas Carver?"

  Mr. Carver leaned down.from his horse and stretched out a hand to Rebecca. His shirt points dug even more dangerously into his cheeks, she noticed.

  "Pleased t'make your acquaintance, Miss Shaw," he said.

  Christopher had pulled himself together by the time Rebecca and Mr. Carver had exchanged civilities. "We must allow you to continue your walk, Becky," he said. "It is good to see you again."

  She inclined her head to both men and watched them ride away from her before continuing on her way. She was over the stile and well across the pasture before she came out of her daze. She had met him again, had talked to him. And she had survived. Here she was walking home as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  She stopped suddenly and looked down at herself, aghast. What would he have seen? How had she appeared to Christopher after six and a half years? She had been a girl of nineteen last time he saw her. She was a woman of six-and-twenty now. She had changed, she knew. She was still only of medium height, still very slight in figure. She sill wore clothes of simple, unfashionable style. But her face and her hair must have appeared very different to him. Her face had paled and thinned over the years. She had lost her youthful look and sparkle, she knew. Her gray eyes, when she looked at herself in the mirror, looked back at her calmly with the look of a woman who had experienced the vicissitudes of life and not been destroyed by them. Her fair hair was no longer worn in loose curls. Years ago she had grown it longer and confined it in a loose knot at the base of her neck.

  She looked her age, she knew. And her appearance was eminently suited to her station. While she tried always to look neat, she did not feel it appropriate to aim for elegance or prettiness. She was betrothed to a villag
e vicar and she taught at the village school. She was six-and-twenty years old. She was usually unself-conscious about her appearance. Why would she care now? Why care that Christopher Sinclair had seen the changes? If Philip liked her the way she was, why worry about the opinion of any other man? After all, he had changed too. He was clearly now a man of nine-and-twenty rather than the very young man she had known.

  The changes in him were all improvements, though, some inner part of her mind told her, unbidden. He had been a very good-looking boy. Now he was an unusually handsome man. And a selfish, unprincipled man, she must constantly remind herself.

  Yes, he had been a very good-looking boy. She had always been aware of the fact. Being three years younger than he, she had always looked up to him as an older, heroic male. But perhaps she had been fully aware of his good looks and attractiveness only when he had come home after his first year at Oxford. He was nineteen, vastly self-assured, and inclined to patronize the sixteen-year-old daughter of the vicar. He had been friendly, had sought her out whenever circumstances brought them into the same company, and had talked to her a great deal. But perhaps the friendship at that time owed more to the fact that there were very few other people in the area close to his age than to any special preference for Rebecca.

  That had had to wait another two years until he came home after his final year at university. Rebecca had acquired poise in the few years since the death of her mother. She had also recently become more conscious of her looks and had had her hair styled so that the length and heaviness that had pulled it straight were replaced by soft curls over her head and down her neck. She had fashioned herself some light muslin gowns for the summer instead of the usual cotton ones.

  Christopher had noticed the changes immediately. He had looked at her with admiration when they met the day after his return home.

  "Well," he had said, "aren't you the fine lady, Becky! You must be beating back the suitors from the door."

  "Silly," she had replied, pleased. "Where would they come from in a place like this?"

  He had grinned. "I must be thankful that we do not live in a large place," he had said. "Does this mean I have you all to myself?"

  His voice had been teasing. And that manner had set the tone of their relationship through most of the summer. They had met a good deal during various visits, and they had frequently walked and ridden together. But there had been nothing more than a very casual friendship until the night of the annual village fair.

  They had spent part of the day together but had drifted apart several times to pursue their own interests or to mingle with other acquaintances. It had been a hot day, so that by the time the dancing started in the evening everyone was feeling rather tired and very thankful for the coolness that came after sunset. The dance Rebecca had with Christopher had been a particularly strenuous one. They had been laughing but panting at the end of it.

  "Come and walk with me, Becky," he had said, pulling her arm through his and really offering her no choice. "Mrs. Pugh has been eyeing me purposefully for the past half hour. I shall feel obliged to ask her to dance if I stay. I should much prefer to walk with you."

  "I am suitably flattered, sir," she had said with mock primness.

  "I should think so, too," he had assured her. "It is a signal honor, you know, to be preferred to Mrs. Pugh."

  And they had talked on, exchanging light banter, while they strolled along the village street and out onto the country lane that led eventually both to her uncle's house and to his own. They had not noticed leaving the lights of the village behind because the moon was bright. Only when there was a lull in the conversation had they become aware that the sounds of the village too had receded into the distance.

  Christopher had looked down at her and smiled, and she smiled back. The silence was suddenly oppressive. Conversation, which usually flowed between them without thought, suddenly refused to come. And their steps slowed until they stopped walking altogether.

  "I should take you back home," he said, turning to face her.

  "Yes," she agreed.

  But they had not moved. They continued to look at each other. And then his mouth came down to cover hers in a light and slow exploration. It was not the hard, tooth-grinding kiss that she remembered from years before. He did not touch any other part of her. And then he raised his head and they looked at each other again.

  "I have gone and done something very silly, Becky," he said, flashing her a grin. "I have fallen in love with you. You will think me very foolish, will you not, old friend? I have been fighting it all summer."

  "I don't think you are foolish, Christopher," she said, gazing earnestly back at him. "I have loved you for a long time."

  "No. Really, Becky?" He became serious again.

  "Yes, really."

  He had laughed and then reached out to cup her face in his hands. Neither of them said anything for a while as they gazed into each other's eyes and he traced the line of her lips with his thumbs. She smiled.

  And then he had kissed her again, drawing her against him, moving his hands in gentle caress down her spine and around to her breasts, teasing her mouth open with his lips and tongue, and finally kissing her closed eyes, her temples, her chin, her throat. And this time, she knew, he did know how to kiss, and by instinct and by love, so did she.

  They had drawn shakily apart after several minutes, though he still held her within the loose circle of his arms.

  "Oh, God, Becky, I want you," he said shakily. "I must get you back home quickly, love. It is dangerous to be alone like this."

  She had looked at him blankly, not quite comprehending his meaning. She was in love, and it had been her first real kiss. It had been enough in itself. At that early point in their courtship she had not felt any urgent need of anything else. It was only later that she realized that his own reaction indicated that he had had other women before her.

  That night had been the beginning of an idyllic few months. They had already been friends. Now they were also deeply in love. And he talked of marriage almost from the start. He did not know how he would support her. His parents were not wealthy. In fact, they had made great sacrifices just to send him to university. And they had three other children, all considerably younger than he. He talked frequently about becoming a physician. It was not an occupation that would bring him great wealth or prestige, and some would consider it beneath the dignity of a gentleman, but it would suit his wish to serve humanity. He had been very idealistic in those days, and Rebecca had loved him all the more.

  They had not announced their betrothal or even spoken to their families of their plans, though everyone must have suspected that they had an understanding. They did little enough to hide their love for each other. But Christopher had promised to spend Christmas with an old friend from university. It was his chance to see something of London and to make a final decision about his future. When he came home again, he told her, they would announce their betrothal and plan for a wedding in the summer.

  He had been gone for longer than she expected. And it had been an uneasy time for her. At first his letters came frequently and were full of satisfying ardor. But after a while they came more sporadically and finally stopped altogether. At the same time the Sinclairs themselves seemed to change. They stayed at home and kept to themselves more. When they were seen, Mr. Sinclair, usually so placid, looked grim, and his wife looked as if she wept frequently. Later Rebecca concluded that they must have known before she did.

  Christopher came home in March. She had been given no notice of his coming. He called at the parsonage on a particularly raw and gray morning and asked her to walk into the churchyard with him. There he came straight to the point. He was betrothed to a lady from London. They were to be married the following week. He was sorry for any misunderstanding there had been between him and Rebecca. He felt that he owed her an explanation in person. But he was to leave again for London that same day. He wished her well.

  Rebecca had not said a word u
ntil he turned and began to stride away.

  "Christopher," she called then, her mouth and whole face feeling numb. "Why?"

  He smiled then, an unpleasant expression, approaching a sneer. "She is wealthy, Becky," he said. "Her father is loaded with money."

  "I do not understand, " Rebecca said. "Since when has money mattered to you?"

  The unpleasant smile still twisted his mouth. "Since I met Angela," he said. "Good-bye, Becky. I shall never come back here. You need not fear that you will ever have to face your faithless lover again."

  Rebecca was stumbling now in her haste to cross the pasture and reach the safety of the house. Safety from what? From the memories? She had put those in their place long ago. And she would again. It could make no possible difference that he had broken his promise and come back again. He was a stranger to her now. And if she was to believe what Mr. Bartlett said of him, she had been well rid of him. He would not have been the husband that she had expected him to be.

  She must not let him ruin the tranquillity of her life again. She would not let him do so!

  Chapter 4

  For six days following that unexpected encounter with Christopher on the road home Rebecca avoided any close contact with him. She did see him at church on the following Sunday but succeeded in leaving at the end of the service without coming face-to-face with him. He and Mr. Carver were standing on the steps talking to Philip when she left, and she walked behind them down the steps to her uncle's closed carriage, for which she was unusually thankful. It had meant avoiding any greeting with Philip, an omission that he commented upon the next day, but she could not have faced speaking to him and seeing Christopher too turn toward her. He had looked disconcertingly solid and real standing with her betrothed, not quite as tall as Philip, but broader and more athletically built. She had turned her mind from the comparison.

  She heard about him almost constantly, of course. The Sinclair sisters had brought him and Mr. Carver to Limeglade the day after their arrival, and Harriet and Uncle Humphrey had sung their praises for the rest of that day and all of the next. Mr. Sinclair was pronounced to be even more handsome and charming than he had been during their stay in London. Mr. Carver was judged a very genteel kind of man with manners that could not be faulted and a fashionable air. Lady Holmes, too, seemed pleased by the visit and talked with some pleasure about the dinner party that Harriet had planned and that she had approved.

 

‹ Prev