Today's Embrace (12 page)

“My dear,” he said in a labored voice, “I assure you I know babies exist and where the sweet little bunchkins come from. That doesn't mean I want one this instant.”

A pain flashed through her heart.

She looked at him, searching his face, seeing little except frustration. She had done this to him; she knew that. She had handled matters badly.

“I know you don't,” she said stiffly. “Anyone can tell that.”

“Now, wait a minute. What do you mean to suggest by that?”

“I mean that you think I'm burden enough.” Feelings of self-pity bubbled up from her heart. “Me and my limp, my silly chatter, my inconsequential difficulties with your oh-so-beloved aunt. Oh yes, I know it all very well.”

“Evy, what has come over you?” he gritted. “You're … different.”

“That's not true.” Was she? More sentimental perhaps? Was it physiological?

“You like provoking me into conflicts, is that it?”

“Conflicts? You think I want to have conflicts with you?”

“I'm beginning to wonder,” he said coolly. “You keep pushing me against a wall, Evy, and if there's one thing I don't like, it's being pushed.”

Stunned that he would think that was what she was doing, she felt tears fill her eyes.

“I'll tell you what
you
want, Rogan Chantry. You want to be independent. You want marriage as it suits you. When it ceases to be that, you feel trapped. You want to go to South Africa without me. You have from the beginning.”

The muscle in his jaw twitched. “Yes. Because what I need to do can best be done on my own without worrying about your safety.”

“You will always find an excuse to need to do something on your own without wishing to deal with a wife and baby! I know that now.”

“You know nothing of the sort. You're hurling accusations wildly and not thinking about—”

“I am thinking!”

“Don't interrupt me,” he gritted.

“I think you're sorry you married me!”

“Evy, you're being unreasonable and childish.”

“Oh! So now I'm unreasonable and childish.”

He heaved a sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. He looked away toward the boulders, and she saw his jaw flex. Her heart thumped loudly in her ears, and her hands were sweating. She was on the verge of bursting into tears but felt that would only reinforce his accusation that she was emotional and unreasonable. She swallowed hard, easing the cramp in her throat.

“You're wrong,” he said at last in a controlled voice. “I want to go to the Zambezi, yes. That's certainly no secret. But you're not holding me back. We have already agreed that if Dr. Jackson says that you're strong enough, you'll be coming with me. I married you now instead of waiting until matters in Rhodesia were concluded because I wanted you. I still want you—I will always want you. But it's troubling that you are suddenly analyzing my thoughts in new areas that you've never wanted to discuss before—especially on babies.”

“You're wrong.” She sniffed loudly, because a few tears had broken through after all. “I did …”

“How interesting … when?” He took a handkerchief from her jacket and handed it to her.

She dabbed at her eyes. “It would have been very forward of me to say so, don't you think?”

“I would have found your interest in the stirrings of my mental processes on the subject quite stimulating. Do you want to discuss babies? Is that my great failure? I'm not talking enough about babies—”

“I didn't say that. It's merely one of several topics we've never discussed, that's all.”

“All right, then. Let's talk about babies.”

“No, not now,” she said stiffly, hurt.

“Wait a minute. You've just made it clear I don't talk enough. I don't tell you how I
feel
about things, including babies. Then we're going to
talk
about it now.”

She glared at him. “I won't talk about it now. You're unfeeling and hardhearted. And you're being derogatory about babies.”

“Derogatory!”

“You don't want a baby. My baby, your baby. You don't want it.”

He stared at her. “What is this? Have you gone daft?”

“Forget it, Rogan,” she gritted, gripping the reins tightly and staring straight ahead. “You don't understand. You don't even try to understand. There will be no talk about babies.”

“No?” His eyes narrowed.

“No!”

He leaned toward her. “Is that a challenge? I wouldn't go around repeating that too often, or too firmly, Mrs. Chantry. But if you want to know what I think, neither of us is ready for babies, not for a long, long time.”

She must have blanched, for he looked startled. He reached a hand toward her, but she avoided his touch and turned her horse sharply away.

“Evy, I'm sorry. This is no good, raising our voices like this—”

Before he could see the tears in her eyes, she flipped the reins, and her horse sprang forward. She rode back toward Rookswood. The tears wet her face and dried in the chill wind. Her heart stung, as though slapped.

Rogan held his mount steady as the wind ruffled the shiny black mane on King's Knight. With his face set grimly, he watched Evy ride off in the direction of Rookswood.

Things had gone wrong between them again. He had thought he understood her. He was confident he did. Then why couldn't he figure out what was lacking? What did she want him to do? He was committed to her. Didn't she realize that? He'd do anything to make her happy, to make her feel satisfied and fulfilled, and yet—he was irritated that she wasn't happy. Was it his pride? He had given her everything he could think of. He'd even taken the first diamonds he'd bought at Kimberly and had them made up into a cross pendant, thinking the cross would tell her what he thought of her character growing up in the rectory. From her childhood she had been faithful to her Christian standards, and she'd made more of an impression on him than she had understood. Hadn't she realized what the pendant meant?

What does she want of me?
he wondered again.

“
You don't share your feelings
,” she had said.

Frustrated, he gripped the pommel and stared after her, deep in thought. What kind of overly sweet nonsense was that? “Sharing feelings,” like old teddy bears and gumdrops.

And what was all this about babies? He scowled. Why was she intent on talking about it now? Did he like babies? What a question!
That gossip in London at the Brewsters. That's where it all started. Pregnant! Evy Varley Chantry!

He had said nothing to Evy, but after she'd gotten upset over the gossip, he'd gone to his close friend Charles Bancroft, Patricia's brother, and told him to straighten out his sister, or else he would do so himself. Fortunately, Charles was a young man of good sense. He'd also been angry with his sister's behavior and promised he'd try to put a stop to her venomous talk.

Clouds were moving in, scudding across the sky.

King's Knight shied a little, his head jerking upward, a snort blowing through his nostrils. Rogan thought of his father. No use trying to have a man-to-man talk with him about marriage. He was harder to get advice out of than a gold mine.

There was Vicar Osgood, but … Osgood always wanted to delve deeply into Rogan's dedication to Christ. That made him uncomfortable.

Too bad ol' Derwent isn't here. Putting up with Alice these last few years should have given him a pound of wisdom
.

The wind gusted against him. He felt a droplet of rain on his face. Higher up on the hill, above deep green fir trees, a white face of rock looked as though it had just snowed. It was a tranquil picture. How misleading appearances could be. The tall brush around the boulders swayed as a startled deer emerged, ears pricked nervously, its soft brown eyes alert. The deer suddenly leaped forward, bounding toward the thicket on swift, sure feet, disappearing into the security of darker, denser woods. A moment later Rogan saw why. A wolf dropped silently onto the boulder, whiffed human presence and went down from the boulder into seclusion.

Be vigilant … your adversary the devil walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour
.

Rogan hesitated, then turned his horse back onto the trail and rode toward Rookswood.

When he reached the estate stables he dismounted, tossing the reins to the groom. He didn't see Evy's horse.

“Mrs. Chantry return yet?”

“No, Mr. Rogan, 'less she tied the mare up front by the house. She does that sometimes, and I send one of the boys after it.”

Rogan nodded and strode purposefully across the field toward the castlelike mansion with its menacing gargoyles glowering from the roof. He checked the front of the house. No horse. He suspected she had ridden to the rectory. Evy didn't think he understood her, but he did, far better than she knew. The vicarage was a safe haven for her, a reminder of less complicated days in the spring of their lives. He didn't mind her going there to have tea each day with old Mrs. Croft and to see the vicar's wife, but it did surprise him that she appeared to be running away from Rookswood whenever things upset her. He had thought her more persistent.

He scowled and lowered his hat. She was acting odd. More emotional than he had ever seen her. Little things brought her to tears. This was not as he remembered her. She was looking tired, too, and didn't have much of an appetite. When they were visiting Paris on their honeymoon, she had devoured the French cuisine, and he had even teased her about gaining weight if she wasn't careful.

He neared the front of the house, thinking of another married man, his brother-in-law, Peter Bartley, who was married to Arcilla.

Poor ol' Peter
, he thought grimly, then smiled to himself as he considered the antics of his spoiled, sometimes empty-headed sister. Peter must have gone through the wash after he first married Arcilla and took her to South Africa. For that matter, what poor ol' Peter must still be going through.

Rogan squared his jaw. Well, he himself wasn't going to follow in Peter's footsteps.

His conscience jabbed him. In fairness to Evy, she was not spoiled like Arcilla. Evy had always been serious and astute, with a streak of wisdom that had often surpassed her age. His admiration for her had
grown with time, as he had come to appreciate her faith in Christ, her love for good and holy things, her personal virtue. While growing up she'd been the one girl he hadn't been able to lure into the garden. And now all this absurd talk that he'd
had
to marry her.

Again he scowled as he ducked under a low-hanging branch on an apple tree. He resettled his hat. What does she want of me? That she was disappointed in him stung and agitated him, leaving him bewildered. He felt irritated with himself over his apparent ineptness. He ought to be able to handle this easily enough. Hadn't he been able to deal with the rigors of South Africa, the dangers besetting him and those with him?

And yet—marriage, the blending of his and Evy's desires, the resistance, the need to bring two hearts together, was presenting him with difficulties that loomed as large as ol' Lobengula.

Evy tied her horse by the rectory gate and came up the walkway through what had been a flower and rose garden. It had first been embellished with new rose rootings by Aunt Grace. Feeling unduly melancholy, Evy felt moisture rise in her eyes. Oh, to go back to those warm days of youth when all the world resided in little Grimston Way and her greatest worry was standing up to the young scoundrel Rogan Chantry.

She sniffed. Now he was her husband. And he was more arrogant than ever! She sniffed again and felt a little wave of dizziness as she came onto the familiar front porch.

Inside the rectory hall she stood quite still, remembering, gazing up at the photographs that hung over the landing at the top of the first flight of stairs. There they were, Dr. Clyde Varley and his wife, Junia, who had been killed at Rorke's Drift in the Zulu War of 1879, the missionary couple who had wanted to adopt her from her mother Katie van Buren. Evy recalled how as a young girl she liked to convince herself that she resembled them, even to green flecks in their eye color. A little smile
touched her lips. Well, they were not her parents, though they had wanted to be. They were safe with the Lord Jesus now.