by Mary Balogh
"No, I do not know," Rebecca said. She was so irritated by the presumption of the man in calling Cyril his protege that she was not prepared to listen to reason. "If he has so much money to give to charity, where was he when we needed a school here, and where was he when we were puzzling over the problem of purchasing eyeglasses for Cyril? It is said that charity begins at home, Mr. Carver."
"Oh, lord," that gentleman said, mopping his brow with the handkerchief that he still clutched in one hand, "I should not have started this, ma'am. Sinclair wouldn't like it. But I hate to see m'friend maligned. I think you should ask your betrothed, ma'am, about Sinclair's connection with your school."
"I would not think Philip would have much knowledge of Mr. Sinclair and his charitable endeavors," Rebecca said. "Anyway, sir, it is easy enough, I suppose, to be charitable with someone else's money." She was feeling thoroughly out of sorts and beginning to say things that were really none of her concern. She did not stop even when a remote corner of her mind reminded her that she would regret having spoken later when she had had time to cool down and consider.
"Mr. Sinclair had no money of his own," she said, "until he married. Is one supposed to admire him now for spending a small portion of his wife's money on the poor?"
"Eh?" said Mr. Carver. "Many men marry rich wives, Miss Shaw. And many of them never give a penny to the poor."
"Many of them do not treat their wives abominably, either," Rebecca said incautiously.
"Are you referring to Sinclair?" Mr. Carver asked, stopping and turning to look full at her.
Rebecca had the grace to blush. "Forgive me, sir," she said. "I really have spoken quite out of turn. It is none of my concern how Mr. Sinclair treated his wife. I never even knew the lady."
Mr. Carver's eyes narrowed as he continued to look closely at her. Rebecca almost squirmed witb mortification. How could she have given in to such childish spite?
"Is this Bartlett's doing?" he asked. "Has he been talking to you, Miss Shaw?"
Rebecca blushed again. "I would much prefer to say no more," she said. "Please forgive my impertinence, sir."
Mr. Carver ignored her plea. "You would do well to ignore Bartlett, Miss Shaw," he said. "He is a viper in the guise of a man."
"Oh, come now," Rebecca said, recovering herself. "I can see that you would dislike him if you are Mr. Sinclair's friend, but even you must admit that he was a much wronged man. At least, it must have been painful for him to see the woman he loved so mistreated by her husband."
Mr. Carver frowned. "I don't know what you are talking about," he said, "but it sounds as if he has been telling you some Banbury tale. My only criticism of Sinclair was that he treated that baggage of a wife of his with unfailing courtesy even when she was so obviously…I'm sorry, ma'am. Am being indiscreet too, talking about matters that are none of my concern. But I will say this. If you want to know the truth of Sinclair's marriage, Bartlett ain't precisely the one to talk to."
They walked on in silence after one attempt to talk on a different topic. The new subject sounded so artificial that they both seemed to prefer not to talk at all. When they came to the stile that led into the pasture and Rebecca suggested proceeding alone, Mr. Carver made no objection but helped her over the stile and then swung himself into the saddle and rode away in the direction of the Sinclair home.
***
Rebecca had plenty of time to think. She slowed her pace and resolved to take as long as possible to reach home. She knew that she would in all probability miss tea, but tea meant visitors more than likely. Yesterday she had invented some errands to keep her away during the afternoon, but when she returned the Sinclair party had still been there and she had been forced to tiptoe to her room and hope that no one realized that she was at home.
She had not seen Christopher since the disastrous afternoon at Cenross Castle, and she was willing time to pass quickly so that the fair would come and go and he would leave her life forever. The week after that she would be married, and soon, probably, she and Philip would move away to begin life anew somewhere else, he to kill his memories of Maude, she hers of Christopher. It was not a satisfactory way to begin a marriage, she supposed, but it seemed to be the only way out of problems for both of them. She had no doubt that Philip and Maude really did harbor a deep and hopeless love for each other.
Rebecca was more disturbed than she would admit over what had happened at Cenross. The memories themselves had been bad enough. It was almost unbearably painful to remember how close they had come to giving themselves to each other, how deep and lasting their love had seemed to be. It was impossible to understand how he could have changed so utterly and in such a short time. She shuddered at the memory of his coldness and callousness when he broke the news of his impending marriage.
And then there was the other thing that had happened at Cenross-that very disturbing encounter with Christopher himself. Why had he been there? Why would he want to resurrect the memories of what had happened in that place almost seven years before? It was hard to remember what he had said to her. She had been in such an emotional state herself that her brain had not been functioning with great clarity. And he had stood so close to her, his hand beside her head against the trunk of the tree, his blue eyes on a level with her own and gazing into them. She had been too disturbed by his physical nearness to understand his words.
She had heard them, of course. They were waiting somewhere in the jumble of her mind to be brought forward, fitted together, and comprehended. He had wanted to tell her something, had taken great pains to say it slowly and clearly. He had loved her when they visited that place before. That was what he said. He had loved her with his whole being. How could that be? How could he have loved her and married someone else just a few months later? It was not possible. Love could not be very strong if it could be displaced so easily by greed for money. She could not believe him.
Rebecca's footsteps lagged. She gazed down at her feet as she walked slowly across the pasture. What had made him leave so hastily at the end? She could remember now how he had gone crashing through the trees, leaving her still standing against the tree. She could recall her own pain, the almost overpowering urge to call him back. It had been the universal maternal need to comfort. Comfort for what? What had he said? Whispered, rather. He had whispered, as if his voice was not steady enough for the words to be spoken. She could not remember.
What had Mr. Carver meant by suggesting that she talk to Philip about Christopher? The two men had become surprisingly friendly, and Christopher had apparently been spending some time at the school when it was Philip's day to teach. But what would Philip know about Christopher's life beyond these few weeks? Probably nothing. He was doubtless impressed by the visitor's behavior and interest in his work. But he could not know the man as she knew him.
It seemed, though, if one were to believe Mr. Carver, that Christopher was a charitable man. He always had been, of course, until greed had changed the course of his life. If he had turned back now to his old ways, there was perhaps a chance that he felt remorse for what he had done and that he was determined to make up in small part for the wasted years. She hoped so. She was finding it increasingly painful to hate him. She hoped he would be able to rise above his past.
My life came to an end the day I left you. I have lived in hell since then.
Rebecca stopped walking completely. She could almost hear him saying those words. Whispering them. Oh God, that was what he had said to her before rushing away up the hill. He had lived in hell, he had said. He did not need to die. She closed her eyes and put her hands over her face. Dear God, he had suffered too. He had never been happy with his wife despite all the money.
Then why had he done it? Why had he married Angela? Why had he abandoned her?
Why, Christopher, why?
Rebecca removed her hands from her face after a while and gazed wearily ahead. She started to walk again. Mr. Carver had been puzzled when she had alluded to the shabby way Christopher
had treated his wife. He had always treated her with unfailing courtesy, Mr. Carver had said, even when… He had not completed the thought. Even when she was with child? Had Christopher not wanted a child? She supposed it was possible to be unfailingly courteous to someone and still neglect her shamefully. Perhaps both Mr. Bartlett and Mr. Carver were right. A viper, Mr. Carver had called the other, though, a viper in the guise of a man.
Whom was one to believe? Life had become so complicated in the last few weeks that there seemed to be no certainties any longer. And she did not feel that her mind could cope with what was happening. She clung as to a lifeline to the knowledge that in two weeks' time she would be married to Philip and could devote herself wholeheartedly to making him a good wife and helpmeet. She would be able to stop worrying. Life would become simple and tranquil again.
Rebecca looked ahead to the house, which was quite close now. A group of people was gathered outside the front door, four on horseback, one on foot. Three of the riders raised their hands and waved in her direction as they rode off. Christopher affected not to see her, or perhaps he really did not. He was bent forward talking to Maude for several seconds after his brother and sisters had moved off in the direction of home.
Maude saw Rebecca approaching and waited for her to come up before returning to the house. "Oh, Rebecca," she said, "you have been working too hard, dear. We have already finished tea and sent the tray back to the kitchen. You really must be careful for your health. You have been gone since early this morning."
"I walked home in disgracefully' leisurely fashion," Rebecca said cheerfully, "with Mr. Carver as far as the stile and then alone. The weather seems too lovely to be cooped up indoors. Do you think Cook will be dreadfully cross, Maude, if I ring for a cup of tea?"
"Of course not," Maude said, "and what does it signify if she is? But do please take it in the morning room, Rebecca. Harriet and Stanley are in there, and I must return to his lordship's room. He is sure to be waking up soon, and he frets if I am not there."
"You must be careful not to overwork too, Maude," Rebecca said, taking in the pallor of her uncle's wife. Surely Maude had lost weight too in the last little while.
Maude smiled rather wanly. "I shall be fine, Rebecca," she said. "But I am afraid that the excursion to Cenross Castle really did tax his lordship's strength too much. I believe he is feeling definitely unwell this time. Oh dear, and I was uncharitable enough to say to you only recently that 1 thought that sometimes he imagined his maladies."
She hurried up the staircase ahead of Rebecca and continued on up to the third floor and her husband's bedchamber. Rebecca reluctantly turned in the direction of the morning room. The very last thing she felt like at the moment was a dose of Harriet's peevishness and even- surprisingly-of Mr. Bartlett's charm. Sometimes, she reflected, one could have too much even of a good thing.
Chapter 13
Two days before the fair, Philip came into the schoolroom while Rebecca was teaching and announced that school would finish early. It was the last day before a month-long holiday. The harvest would begin soon; the fair had always been set at the end of August to give the laborers a last fling, so to speak, before the hard work of gathering in the grain began. And when the work did start, as many hands as possible would be needed. There would be no excusing the boys then for matters of such peripheral importance as education.
The boys cheered and rose to leave. Rebecca had not quite finished the history lesson she was giving, but she smiled and closed her book.
"One good thing about history," she said, "is that it will always wait for another occasion. Well, boys, I have been proud of your progress in the last few months. Did you believe then that by the end of summer you would all be able to read?"
Some of the boys grinned; others looked sheepish.
"Me dad said that if the good Lord had meant for me to read, he would have made sure I was born to the quality," one lad said.
"I thought I was nothing but a blockhead, but it was just me eyes,wasn't it, miss?" Cyril said.
"Cyril," Rebecca said, "with your eyeglasses you look so learned that you might easily be mistaken for a young professor."
All the boys roared with laughter and pushed and shoved one another against the benches.
"Mr. Sinclair said that if I work hard he might hire me in a year or two's time to help his bailiff," Cyril said eagerly. "I'm good at figures, and it's getting so as I can read. 'Course, it would mean leaving me mum and dad and going away."
Philip stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back. "Well, young men," he said, "school is dismissed. I just hope that when you come back at the beginning of October, you will not have forgotten all you have learned."
The boys needed no more encouragement to crowd out through the open door into the air and freedom.
Philip turned to Rebecca. "Have we accomplished anything?" he asked ruefully. "They always seem so eager to get away from the learning and back to the very life from which we are trying to free them."
Rebecca laughed. "Philip," she said, "were you such a model pupil during your boyhood that you welcomed all your lessons? Would you not much have preferred to be out riding or climbing trees?"
"No," he said with a puzzled frown.
"Then I assure you," she said, "that you were quite atypical. It seems that one has to be adult before one appreciates the benefits of learning. Unfortunately it is necessary to force youngsters to achieve what they will value only later in life."
She proceeded to pack away her own books in a valise that she had brought with her for the purpose. There was no point in leaving them in the schoolroom for upward of a month. Philip moved to the back of the room and stacked the few books there neatly.
"Philip," Rebecca asked, "has Mr. Christopher Sinclair ever done anything for the school or the boys other than visit a few times?" She did not look at him; she kept busy with her task.
"Why do you ask?" Philip said after a short pause.
"For no particular reason," she said. "Just something Mr. Carver said a few days ago and what Cyril said just now. I have been left wondering."
Philip was silent for a while, his hands still on the books beneath them. "I do not know what to say," he said. "I have promised secrecy, though I have never seen that anything can be served by keeping you uninformed."
"You mean that Mr. Sinclair paid for Cyril's eyeglasses?" Rebecca asked, unconsciously holding her breath.
"Oh, yes," Philip said. "That too."
"That too?" Rebecca's attention was focused full on him now. "There has been more?"
Philip raised his eyebrows and half smiled. "I did not know that you suspected only about the eyeglasses," he said. "But since I have hinted at more, I had better tell you all, I suppose. I really feel you should know, anyway, since you have as close a link with the school as I have myself. Mr. Sinclair is the man who has financed the school from the beginning."
Rebecca really thought she might faint. Everything around her had become unreal. There was only Philip standing there across the room, looking at her almost apologetically, and the appalling words that still seemed to hang in the air between them.
"Mr. Sinclair?" she said stupidly. "We owe all this to him?"
"Yes, indeed," he said. "He arranged an introduction when I was in London for a few days before I took up my appointment here. He explained then that he was interested in my career as I was to succeed a friend of his as vicar in this parish. And he told me that if I ever needed money to aid the poor of the area I was to apply to him. I remembered what he had said when you and I had our dream of the school a year or so ago and I wrote to him. I did not really expect that he would be interested in such an ambitious and expensive scheme, but he was. He knew you too, he said, and seemed convinced that you would be an excellent teacher. He agreed to give as much help as we needed provided no one but I knew of his involvement. I am sure he did not really mean you too, Rebecca. Now, especially, I have wanted you to know so that you might show hi
m your gratitude."
Rebecca finally broke eye contact with him and looked down at the valise that she clutched in her hands. "Yes," she said, "I am glad that you told me, Philip. It is right that I should know. I shall have to find an opportunity before he leaves to speak with him."
Philip excused himself soon after. He still had several visits and errands to accomplish before the afternoon was over. Rebecca was left alone with her bewilderment. Christopher the unknown benefactor of the school! It made no sense at all. She had seen during the past few weeks that he was not the selfish, greedy man that she had expected him to be. But she had assumed that the change back to the way he had used to be was of a very recent date. Yet he had sought Philip out several years ago for the express purpose of offering his help to the needy in his own birthplace.
Several years ago! And it had been no empty gesture… He had given more than generously on the first occasion he had been applied to. And it had been no minor charity that would have made almost no dent at all in his pocket-book. He had provided them with a building as well as all the furnishings and equipment for their school.
She could not even explain his behavior by imagining that it had all been a showy gesture to impress the neighborhood. He had wanted no one to know. Unlike Philip, she was convinced that he had not wanted even her to know. If he had, he had had ample opportunity to tell her in the past few weeks. Yet he had not breathed a word. And he had made it seem as if Cyril's eyeglasses had been all Philip's idea and doing.
The mystery of the last seven years was becoming more and more puzzling. Indeed, until recently she had not even realized that there was a mystery. He had merely seemed a weak man who had given in to the temptations of greed. The explanation could still hold, she realized. A man who gave in to temptation did not necessarily change his whole character as a result. She supposed it had been rather naive of her to imagine that suddenly, almost overnight, as it were, Christopher had turned from a loving, caring human being into a selfish, avaricious monster.