Tomorrow's Treasure (22 page)

When Aunt Grace returned to Grimston Way, she did not immediately discuss with Evy what had transpired in London. Several days passed by before she came to Evy's room and suggested they take a walk together into the village.

It was a chilly but otherwise pleasant afternoon, with the sun shining in a grayish-blue sky and the branches empty of the warm golds and reds of autumn. December holly smiled its wintry bloom with flame-colored berries amid waxy green leaves.

Donned in matching hooded capes, they might have been mother and daughter out on an afternoon stroll. Evy glanced at her aunt. She was still an attractive lady, and young enough to remarry. If only Vicar Brown were not so old and gray. But it seemed there were no acceptable widowers or bachelors in Grimston Way. Farmer Gilford had no wife, but his rheumatism was such that his knees were knobby, and he walked bowlegged.

“Will we be moving away to London?”

Her aunt shook her head. “Not yet. We will need more patience.”

Then that was the reason she had not discussed the matter sooner. “You did not get the post you wished?”

“I went to several interviews, one arranged by the bishop, which appeared at first to be quite hopeful. Alas,” she smiled, spreading her palms, “it did not turn out as hoped. Ah, well. We will trust and wait.”

Evy watched her, concerned, and noticed her aunt hesitate.

“I was not what they were looking for in a governess,” her aunt explained. “Lady Mildren wanted someone older.”

“Was it also because you asked that I stay in the house with you?”

“Oh, that,” Aunt Grace said too quickly and placed her hand on Evy's arm. “Perhaps it had a small effect on the outcome. Things will work out in due time. We will rest our need with God. He knows our situation. He has good plans. Bishop will also continue to do what he can to find me a post. In the meantime, I shall try my hand at sewing. Lady Camilla has been talking to Miss Hildegard, the seamstress at Rookswood. Miss Hildegard has kindly suggested she could use a little help now and then.” She smiled. “So you see, we will not starve in the streets.”

Aunt Grace spoke lightly enough, yet Evy could see she was burdened. How like her to try to put a good face on her disappointment. Evy admired her so, and her own conscience was smitten over her deceptive behavior where the vicar and Derwent were concerned.

“Aunt, I feel ashamed about … withholding the truth from Vicar Brown.” She paused on the road, and they faced each other. The breeze tossed their capes. A few clouds blew in and scuttled across the wintry sky.

“It concerns Derwent and the episode at Rookswood mausoleum.” Evy forced the truth out. “I suppose by now the vicar told you what happened?” Of course, Evy knew that he had—as far as he knew the truth. She had heard them talking.

“Yes. It is all over the village.”

Evy saw an odd look on Aunt Grace's features. Had her aunt already suspected her dishonesty?

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

Evy would not, but knew she must if ever she would be free of the burden. She told Aunt Grace what happened when she and Derwent went in search of mistletoe, fully expecting to see her growing look of disapproval. She was heartened when her aunt revealed no shock. If Evy were telling her tale to Alice Tisdale, she would have behaved as though it were a scandal in need of a town meeting.

“Thank you for telling me.”

“I should loathe it if my silence about this caused any excessive difficulties for the vicar.”

“I will see to the matter. Derwent has already told his father everything, including how you were with him when the squire's son took both of you to Rookswood.”

“But Vicar never spoke to me about it.”

She smiled briefly and they walked on. “No. He was waiting for you to tell the truth. He was assured you would once I returned home.”

“Oh dear … I suppose I shall need to go to him, too.”

“Yes. And he will surely accept your apology.”

Evy nodded. This was so humiliating.
And it is all Rogan's fault.
No … She could not blame him for her own response. It would have been much easier to have simply told the truth to begin with.

“Derwent believes the door to the mausoleum was jammed. The squire's son convinced him the wind must have blown it shut.”

Her aunt kept walking. “And you do not think it was the wind?”

Evy drew in a breath. “No.”

“You were not there, Evy It is your word against Master Rogan's. We must understand that the Chantrys have special privileges accorded to their position.”

“Yes. I understand that.” And one of those privileges was that their word was considered law.
More's the pity.

“I am not suggesting such privileges are right, but it has been that way for centuries, and I suspect it will remain so for centuries more.”

Evy had no doubt.

“I think,” her aunt said, “that we may need to dismiss this behavior as a boyish prank and let the matter die down of its own accord. Master Rogan did return to let Derwent out. If he were a really cruel boy, he might have left him trapped there all night.”

Evy shuddered. “I suppose. He did say it was only around ten minutes, but he also said he did it deliberately”

“Did he? Curious … I wonder why. He did not need to tell you.”

“No. I think he had not intended to. I have tried to tell Derwent
that Rogan locked him inside, but he's not willing to accept that the squire's son would do such a thing.”

Evy knew why, too. Rogan had been friendly to Derwent after the crypt incident. That was unusual because she knew that he thought Derwent
unstimulating.
Rogan normally would not choose him as a companion. Both Rogan and Parnell had many friends their own age in the nobility, who shared the same mind-set, abilities, and background. They were accustomed to involving themselves in all manner of exciting activities with well-educated people. Yet Derwent just a few days ago told her with a ringing voice that Master Rogan had brought him to the Rookswood stables and allowed him to choose a horse. And Rogan had brought him to his father's armory closet and had shown him how to handle a rifle so they could go on a rabbit hunt.

“I even saw the suit of armor!”

Evy could still see the way Derwent's eyes had shone.

“I think it wise that you not try to convince Derwent otherwise, Evy. He will need to make up his own mind about Master Rogan. And if you speak against him, Derwent may think you are merely envious that you were not asked to go riding with them. They seem to be getting on as well as anyone in Rogan's position can with peasantry, and that is what we villagers are considered. Not merely by the Chantrys, mind you. These distinctions reign throughout English nobility, as they do also in France and many European countries.”

“In France the peasants overthrew the nobility.”

“Ah, the Reign of Terror. Thankfully the peasant class of England holds no such vicious vendetta against the royal family. We are not as hotly volatile as the French peasants were.”

Evy agreed. “
We
are cool and calm.”

Aunt Grace laughed. “We hope. Then again, we are not treated as badly as were the peasant class in France at that time.”

Evy felt a great respect and affection in her heart for the beloved Queen Victoria. She imagined herself, sword in hand, defending Her Majesty from a horde of angry British peasants storming St. James Palace.

That image was replaced by another, but this one was real. How
surprised she had been when Rogan came riding up to the rectory to see Derwent two days after the mausoleum incident. Evy had been picking Michaelmas daisies with Mrs. Croft and pretended not to see him. Rogan had climbed down from his horse and talked with Derwent, who was weeding the garden. Then Rogan gave something to Derwent. Derwent brought it over to her.

“Fancy you forgot this,” Derwent said with a grin.

It was the basket of mistletoe. Evy glanced from the now wilted greens across the yard to Rogan, but he behaved as though she were not there. He was either too friendly or not friendly at all. Of course, she
had
criticized him the night he had brought Derwent back to the rectory. Now he most likely was reminding her of her rightful place.

“Wager you don't know what Master Rogan just offered me.” Derwent looked positively giddy.

“Another look inside the mausoleum?”

“Evy!” scolded Mrs. Croft.

Derwent grinned. “No, goose. A horse from Squire's stables.”

“A … horse?”

“For riding. And hunting! Wager you'd never thought to see Derwent Brown going hunting with the future squire.”

“No, I never did.”

“You'd best cease using the word
wager
, Derwent. Your father is set against gambling,” Mrs. Croft warned. “And you be careful how you handle them rifles, young man, lest you go shootin' your foot—or Master Rogan's.”

Apparently the adventure turned out well. They had returned safely, and Rogan had made certain Derwent was home in time for supper. Certainly he was on his best behavior. Had her rebuke stung his conscience after all?

Derwent brought home a dead rabbit for the sexton to make a favorite stew, which he remembered from childhood (and which Mrs. Croft loathed and would not cook). Derwent confessed he was not sure whether he had shot the rabbit or Master Rogan had. At any rate the sexton, grinning, had been very pleased.

Recently Derwent was walking around with his head higher and his shoulders straighter than ever before, proud that he should have made friends with Rogan Chantry, who, he said, “rides better and shoots straighter than anyone else in Grimston Way.”

“Derwent's unexpected friendship with the squire's son seems to be doing him much good,” Aunt Grace agreed as they continued their walk. “He is gaining more confidence.”

“Maybe, but Rogan orders Derwent about mercilessly.”

Her aunt angled her a glance. “Derwent does not appear to mind. He has been a lonely boy most of his life. Not even the other village boys liked him.”

“That is true.” Now, of course, the other boys were treating Derwent differently. They gathered around to ask about his latest adventure with the squire's son, and could he use his
influence
with Master Rogan to allow them also to accompany Derwent on the next hunting adventure? Since the friendship had begun, it was as though Rogan had raised his scepter and knighted Derwent Brown.

Of course, Rogan's friendliness would not last. Rogan was to be sent away to school in London in February, and that would be the end of it. She hoped Derwent would not be too disappointed when the princely horse turned into a pumpkin at precisely the hour Rogan left Grimston Way.

So the incident at the Chantry mausoleum was to be dismissed as a boyish prank. She believed her aunt said this because she understood that Evy's persistence would hurt her more than it would teach Rogan a lesson. It was just as Rogan had warned her that evening in the front hall: No one in the village in his right mind would win anything by butting heads with the Chantry family.

Her aunt was right. Better to leave things as they were. Evy could just imagine Alice whispering, “Fancy that Evy just trying to get the squire's son into trouble. She's tattling about him because he won't pay her the slightest bit of attention is what I say. My
mum
says …”

Yes, she could imagine what her
mum
would say. Mrs. Tisdale, too, had influence in the village. Recently she had been trying to win Lady
Camilla Brewster with flattery. So that was that. Evy would not go up against Rogan Chantry.

He has won, but I will be even more cautious of him now.
She remembered what Mrs. Croft had once warned her. Evy could not forget the words: “Every decent girl in Grimston Way had better watch out. Squire's two sons can do no wrong, so says Sir Lyle. So if there's any mischief to happen, who do you think will be blamed, eh?”

Yes, she would beware indeed.