Tomorrow's Treasure (19 page)

Evy felt a rush of disappointment. “Oh … I see.”

“Do not worry so. I shall find work. God is our Shepherd. He will provide. If not in London, then elsewhere. Your uncle had many friends and associates in the church. Perhaps the bishop will recommend me to some genteel family.”

But Evy's troubled thoughts remained. “And my mother's family and yours?”

A cloud seemed to pass over her aunt's countenance, as though her memories were sad ones. “Our father died when Junia and I were children. I was thirteen and she was seven. There was no one else. Our mother—your grandmother, Victoria—died soon after Junia was born. Father never mentioned her family. When I was nineteen I worked as a nanny for the bishop's daughter in London while also caring for Junia. The bishop introduced me to Edmund, who was a young curate. Edmund and I married, and the bishop arranged for him to come to St. Graves. In due season he became its rector. That was many years ago.” Her heavy sigh seemed to fill the room.

It was no use. Evy had heard most of this before. It was like knocking at the door of an empty house. Her aunt was never unkind about Evy's questions, but she was ever and always reluctant to talk freely. Perhaps Evy merely imagined that there was more to understand.

Before Aunt Grace left on the train for London, Evy overheard her talking with Vicar Brown. “We had such fine plans for her. Edmund wanted so much for her to attend music school in London. As you know, she loves the piano, and we both recognized her talent. To have
become a music teacher would have suited her well. Now I wonder if I shall be able to manage it.”

“These things can only be left to the Lord, Mrs. Havering. Surely God knew all this when He permitted the beloved vicar to meet with his tragic accident. In God's wisdom, what we now view as dark tragedies may be necessary for the final glorious design.”

Evy eased the kitchen door shut, and behind her she heard Mrs. Croft sniff. Evy turned around to see the woman wiping her eyes with the edge of her apron. Her heart warmed toward Mrs. Croft.
She does actually care about us.
Rather awed at the thought, Evy walked up and put her arms around the woman's waist, and Mrs. Croft awkwardly patted her back. “There, there,” she murmured, “there, there, Evy dear. Its all going to be all right. I daresay the future be brighter than any of us think now.”

Evy and Mrs. Croft saw Aunt Grace off at the train depot.

Her aunt kissed Evy's cheek. “Good-bye, dear. Take good care of her, Mrs. Croft.”

“Oh, I will indeed, Missus Grace,” she said, holding the reins to the jingle tightly.

“And remember, Evy, study hard in Mr. Browns classroom while I'm gone. It is even more urgent now to make good use of the three
R
s.”

Evy blinked back tears. “I will, Aunt. Oh, good-bye, good-bye, and may God give you a wonderful post as governess.”

She sat beside Mrs. Croft on the seat in the jingle watching her aunt wave as she boarded the train. A few minutes later the big steam engine pulled out of the way station, and the whistle pierced the cold morning air. Evy covered her ears. They watched the train leaving Grimston Way until it rounded the bend and was blocked from view by a stand of weathered oak trees.

The whistle continued to blow, growing fainter. Evy watched the boiler smoke on the horizon as stillness settled about her.

Finally Mrs. Croft flipped the reins, and the horse turned and started back toward the village rectory.

During the next few weeks life proceeded as normally as could be expected in such circumstances. Mr. Brown and some of the ladies in the village decorated the hall and church for the Christmas celebration, though the mood was anything but cheery. On the great table beside the host of inscribed names belonging to rectors of St. Graves Parish stood a Christmas bush in a pot. The decorated bush was an old tradition begun by the Cornish, and many in this area of England adopted the festive decoration instead of using Christmas trees. The bush had been sent down from the Chantry family with a hand-decorated card signed by the entire family, from Lady Camilla's elegant script to Arcilla's lopsided handwriting. At the top of the card were the words
Merry Christmas.

A few days before Aunt Grace's return Evy went with Derwent to the woods near the rectory to hunt for mistletoe and holly. She had spotted a large cluster of mistletoe in an oak tree, and Derwent shimmied up the trunk and onto a branch to reach it. When her basket was past half full he climbed down to rest, and they sat for a few minutes on a fallen log beside the dirt road. They agreed that after resting they would search for holly branches with red berries, then return to the rectory.

Derwent ran his fingers through his russet hair and looked at her. Red suddenly tinged his cheeks.

“Seems to me, if you go away to London to live, Miss Evy, I won't be seeing you anymore. Does it seem so to you, too?”

It did, but Evy tried not to think about it. Still, she couldn't keep her mind from traveling that path. What if she had to move to London? She would be taken away from her friends and from all she was comfortable with! Uncertainty was a constant companion as she wondered what would happen if she
did
move away. Would she and Derwent continue as friends, perhaps through letters? What a poor substitute for being with her lifelong friend!

She pushed aside these gloomy thoughts. “Oh, surely we will see one another. After all, you will be coming to London to attend divinity school in a few short years. And Aunt and I have so many friends in Grimston Way we could never simply turn our backs and disappear into the London throngs.”

“Then you will come back and visit the rectory sometimes?”

Evy smoothed a tendril of her hair back into place, wondering why his question brought her a feeling of uneasiness. Perhaps because she noticed the hope in his eyes—a hope that appeared to question her more deeply than she was ready to answer.

“Quite often, I daresay. Aunt will see to that.”

He cleared his throat. “I find myself hoping—”

A sudden thundering of hooves drew Evy's attention to the road, where she saw Rogan riding his horse. As usual he looked the squire's son, dressed handsomely in shiny polished boots, a neat hat sitting to one side of his head in a rather cocky manner. He looked surprised to see them sitting together on the log, and he rode up and took in the scene, noting the mistletoe in the basket at her feet. He studied Derwent, then looked at her, as though he had come to some conclusion.

“Is not that mistletoe?”

Evy stood quickly at Rogan's question and picked up her basket. “Yes. For the rectory hall.”

“Mistletoe for the rectory hall?” He looked amused and then laughed. “I never thought of the rectory as a place for kissing.”

“It's—It's not.” Curse his mocking tone and the heat in her face! “It is simply—a decoration.”

He held out his hand toward her. “I should like a piece of it, thank you.”

Fighting the urge to throw the basket at him, Evy broke off a small twig with three leaves and handed it to him, eyes averted.

“Are you not going to ask me what I shall do with it?” Rogan's dark eyes were dancing.

“Its naught of my business.”

Rogan looked at Derwent. “What do
you
do with this?” He waved the twig about, deliberately holding it over Evy's head.

Derwent turned pink, frowned, and shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Nothing! I am disappointed in you.”

Derwent looked at Evy. “What were you going to do with it, Evy?”

“Evy?” Rogan's tone showed his surprise. “Not
Miss
Evy, but just—Evy. Looks like I have interrupted a little rendezvous by the roadside, after all.”

Derwent did not seem to know what to say. He stood and shoved his hands into his pockets, his gaze fixed on Rogan's purebred. Rogan leaned forward and patted the horse's muscled neck. Upon spying their picnic basket, he grinned.

“A little picnic. How charming. Shall I join you for lunch?” He swung down and appeared not to notice Evy's silence.

“Aye, help yourself, Master Rogan.” Derwent went for the basket, all too willing to share. When Rogan smiled at Evy, she had the distinct impression he knew she did not want him to stay.

He sat down on the log beside Derwent, who opened the basket.

“Are you not you going to sit between us—Evy?” Rogan moved aside, providing a space.

Evy ignored him and pretended she had not noticed his using her first name. Why did he have to come along and spoil a perfectly lovely afternoon?

She walked over and stood across from them.

“Ah, my favorite!” Rogan seemed to be enjoying himself as he dug out a ham sandwich.

“Do you not get ham sandwiches up at Rookswood?” Evy crossed
her arms and slanted him a glare. “I should think you could have anything your heart wished for.”

“Of course”—he waved his hand as he talked around the sandwich—“but I do not get to eat my lunch in Grimston Woods.” He smiled. “I like picnics. Perhaps I shall have my own one day. I know of a special place on a hill. Its perfect.”

“In Grimston Woods?” Derwent glanced about them.

“No. On Rookswood land. There is a grand view from the hill.”

Derwent held out a second sandwich and an apple for Evy to choose. She knew he was hungry, so since Rogan was eating
her
sandwich, she took the apple and bit into it. She nodded to Derwent. “You eat the sandwich.”

“What fun,” Rogan said, leaning back. “Maybe I shall decide to have a picnic of my own. Let me see … Whom shall I invite?” He looked at Evy, studying her.

“All your friends?”

At Derwent's suggestion, Rogan nodded. “Of course. That definitely means you … What was your name?”

“Derwent.”

He sounded so anxious to please the great Rogan that Evy wanted to stamp her foot.

“So it was. How stupid of me to forget my friends' names. Derwent Brown.” He looked at Evy, his zesty dark eyes amused. “And Evy Varley. Let us think—where shall we have this picnic?” He hung his velvet hat on a twig above him and leaned back, watching Evy steadily as he ate.

“The hill you mentioned?”

“Maybe the crypt.” Rogan ignored Derwent's idea. “Did I not say I would bring you there?” The look he leveled at Evy was replete with challenge. “Perhaps I will take you there after we eat.”

What was he up to? He had never showed interest in either her or Derwent before now. A dart of apprehension shot through her secret pleasure over the way he was noticing her. “It looks like rain this afternoon.” She spoke quickly, hoping to cover how unsure she was of Rogan—and herself. “We had better return to the rectory soon, Derwent.”

“Your aunt went to London, did she not?”

She met Rogan's questioning gaze head-on. “Yes. She will be back before Christmas.”

“The crypt?” Derwent looked like a puppy promised a treat.

Rogan read the other boy's interest, and the smile that crossed his features was definitely smug. Clearly, he was enjoying how Evy's own friend was foiling her attempts to leave.

“Yes. My uncle's crypt. Henry Chantry is entombed there. I know all about the village gossip. They say he was
murdered.
”

Derwent stopped eating his sandwich and swallowed hard. “Murdered? I never heard about that.”

“You would not,” Rogan said meaningfully, “but the rectors niece has, have you not—
Evy?
”

“There is always talk.” Rogan was beginning to irritate her in earnest.

He stood suddenly, wiping his hand on a napkin, still looking at her and Derwent. He caught up his hat and put it on. “We will go there now. I always have my way. Up, Derwent. Do not linger.” He looked up at the sky and smiled. “Though rain it may, I would say we have at least two hours. That is still enough time.”

Derwent was rushing, stuffing the picnic remains into the basket, anxious for the adventure with the future Sir Rogan. Evy, on the other hand, was far from pleased at the glint of mischief in Rogan's steady gaze. “I do not think—”

But Rogan had commandeered the moment, and Derwent was all too willing to follow him in whatever he wanted to do.

“Derwent, you can walk.” Rogan nodded at the boy. “It is not that far. Evy and I will wait for you at Rookswood by the gate.”

“Walk?” Derwent blinked.

Rogan's smile was tolerant. “You would not want to put the load of three on my excellent horse! It will be better if only Evy rides with me.” He looked at her, his smile deepening. “You are not afraid to ride with me, are you?”

“Absolutely not,” she said, though too forcefully. “Should I be?”

“Absolutely not,” he repeated with that upturned smile of his.

Funny how she got the opposite impression from his words. “I will walk with Derwent.”