Tomorrow's Treasure (39 page)

“A month?” She frowned. “It was longer than that. More like a year. Why do you say a month?”

He rested his shoulder against the bookcase and studied her. “All right, a year. Let's not discuss that now—you keep looking at the door—are you expecting someone? Derwent perhaps?”

“No, he has work to do this morning. Is there anything I can help you with?” She made her tone quite businesslike.

“Yes, remember how you told me you were going to select the hymns? Well, there is quite a history behind church music. Were you aware that eighteenth-century hymnbooks were usually only collections of texts which did not include musical notes?”

That did interest her, which she fully believed he had expected. “No, I was not aware of that.”

“Or that the first American hymnal to place music together with text didn't appear until 1831? In fact, there weren't many hymnbooks at all, even here in England. The usual way of singing was called lining out. The leader would say one line, and the congregation repeated it. Hymnbooks were rare and too expensive.” He turned the book over in his hands, as though savoring the feel of it. “What's more, most parishioners could not read, so they did not sing one verse immediately after another as we do now.”

She studied him as he put the book down and picked up another, noting the open page she had chosen.

“Charles Wesley … It might surprise you to know how many hymns he wrote in his lifetime.”

She folded her arms. What a fount of information Rogan had become. If only she could believe it was out of true interest in the subject rather than out of a desire to entice her. “I suppose you know?”

“Of course. I told you of my renewed interest in music, did I not?”

Her bewilderment must have shown on her face, for he broke into a teasing grin.

“Really, Evy, you must learn to trust me. As for Wesley, he wrote
8,989 hymns! And even more poems than William Wordsworth. Charles completed a poem about every other day. Prolific, wasn't he?”

“I must say, I am quite surprised when I thought—”

“When you thought I'd no appreciation for the finer things of life, which in your opinion would be music and religion.”

She walked to the desk and straightened the hymnbooks, dismayed to see how her fingers trembled.

“So hard-working and dedicated. I think a change of routine, a bit of relaxation, would not harm you. Why not dine with me tonight at Rookswood?”

Her brows lifted, and she struggled to keep her pleasure from showing. “I hardly think Sir Lyle and Lady Elosia would approve.”

“By now it should be clear that I keep the company I choose.”

“Still, it seems hardly suitable …”

“Let me be the judge of what is suitable. Tomorrow night?”

“I can hardly accept such an invitation.”

He came up beside the desk, standing next to her, speaking in a low tone of what sounded for all the world like entreaty. “Come riding with me, at least.”

She wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to. “Thank you, but I cannot. Not today.”

“Why are you afraid of me?”

“I am not!” But as she spoke, she made the error of looking up, and her protest fell as his gaze held hers. She wasn't certain how long they stood thus, but when she grew aware of the warmth in her cheeks, she looked down at a book again. She picked up her pen and drew a piece of stationery toward her. “Whatever gave you the notion I was afraid of you?”

“It's obvious. No use denying it.”

“That is quite absurd.”

“It is quite accurate.” There was laughter in his voice. “You look as though you're being stalked by the big bad wolf.”

Which may not be far from the truth.

“You must not be afraid of me, you know.” His smooth voice did
odd things to her heart. “There is no reason for it, really. In fact, I am fond of you.”

She caught her breath, but refused to look at him. “Indeed?”

“Yes. And we have known each other for so long that I take a particular interest in you.”

“I did not know I was of concern to anyone at Rookswood.”

“Then I must try harder to convince you.”

She straightened and met his eyes. “Why should I suddenly be convinced of something that has never been so?”

“Your question shows how little we understand one another. Surely a matter deserving of remedy. In fact, I admire you and your dedication to things Christian, such as your attendance at music school.”

“I am pleased you approve, though I have my own reasons for doing so.”

“Which is as it should be. You see, that is one of the things that interests me about you. Most young ladies seem so shallow in their attempts to impress me.”

True … and a goodly number of young ladies at that.

“I was serious yesterday when I said that we should go riding together. There are areas where you could improve in riding, and I would enjoy helping you.”

She picked up her pen and shuffled the books on the desk. “I am certain anyone who will be riding in the Dublin show, such as yourself, would be well qualified as a teacher, but as I have said—”

“There is so very much work to do for our dear and humble Derwent.” His smile was close to being derisive. “Then I dare not keep you any longer. I must say our little confab has been informative, however. I think I understand you a little better now. I will see you again—soon.”

When he had gone, she found it difficult to stop thinking about him. She recalled his interest in the violin—or so he had claimed—and his knowledge of Christian worship hymns. He had seemed genuine there. Was she being unfair with Rogan?

When she returned to the cottage she was surprised to find Aunt Grace sitting at the kitchen table waiting for her. She held a sheet of Rookswood stationery in her hand and looked up as Evy came in through the kitchen door. Pale and thin, nevertheless her aunt was cheerful.

“There you are, Evy. I've a message from Rookswood. From Lady Elosia. She wishes to see you for tea this afternoon.”

“Lady Elosia invited me to tea?”

“Yes, a lovely invitation, I daresay. It will do you good. I fear I've demanded too much of your time. A young girl such as yourself needs some diversions.”

Evy looked at the sheet of Rookswood stationery. Aunt Grace's words sounded vaguely familiar. Had Rogan suggested to Lady Elosia that she invite her? “Rather odd she would suddenly find time and desire to invite me to tea.”

“Perhaps not so odd. I understand she has heard from Arcilla in London. Arcilla would surely have asked about you and perhaps even sent you a letter.”

“I doubt if Arcilla has time in her thoughts or schedule to be wondering about me. But I shall enjoy tea at Rookswood.”

As Evy entered Rookswood Manor that afternoon it was like old times. Gazing about the halls stirred to life memories of living upstairs, of days spent with Arcilla, of Rogan …

The leaded windows still lent their aura of shadow and secrets to the dim corners of the baronial hall, and the solid, ironwork grandeur carried her imagination to another century of Chantry dominance over the village serfs.

Her steps echoed in the stone chamber beneath the vaulted ceiling. Above the stairs in the upper gallery, paintings of ancestral Chantrys gazed down upon her with robust disfavor and amused superiority.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Wetherly, had since retired, so this was Evy's first meeting with the new butler, Mr. Ames. The man's thin, angular face remained unaltered as he led her across the hall to her audience with Lady Elosia.

“This way, miss,” he stated in a lofty voice, and led her from the hall toward what Evy knew to be Sir Lyle's large library. The butler discreetly tapped on the solid oak door, opened it, and stepped in with a slight bow.

“Miss Varley is here, sir.”

Sir?
Evy started as Rogan's voice drifted to her: “Show her in, Ames.”

Evy entered the library, rich with polished dark mahogany, wine-colored carpet, and walls of leather-bound books. The door clicked shut behind her.

Rogan stood near the fireplace, looking satisfied with himself. He stood with hands behind his back, feet apart, and wore a faint smile as he glanced over her Sunday afternoon dress.

“How good of you to come.”

Could he mean it? Since when did Chantrys welcome someone of lesser social stature to Rookswood, as though that person's presence favored them? She glanced around the room for Lady Elosia. She was not there.

The log in the fire crackled invitingly and emanated a woodsy aroma. Rogan walked toward her, gesturing for her to take a comfortable chair near the marble fireplace, and he did the same.

“Where is Lady Elosia?” The warmth from the fire was pleasant after the chilling walk up from the cottage. She had brought no wrap and shivered slightly.

“She developed an unexpected headache and retired to her room for the afternoon.” He wore a grave face, but his dark eyes danced. “Most unfortunate.”

She resisted the exhilarating excitement that wanted to weave its tempting spell around her. She stood. “I am sorry to hear that. Then I shall go and come again when she calls for me.” She started toward the door.

“Wait—Evy, please.”

She paused in the center of the room, though it was against her better judgment.

He walked up behind her. “I have offended you. Why?”

She turned slowly to face him. “You must ask? Because you arranged this, not your aunt.”

His mouth curved. “Is that so terrible?”

“Need I remind you of your social status, and of mine?”

“No. I told you I was fond of you, did I not?”

“Surely you are aware, a man of your background, that neither your aunt nor your father would approve of your being
fond
of me, as you like to put it. Nothing can come of this so-called fondness, and you know that better than anyone. Your attentions are—are quite unsuitable and—” She bit her lip, angry with herself more than with him.

“I am going away in a week. I wanted to see you alone.”

“So you arranged a ruse.”

“I arranged to see you, yes. But it is not a ruse. I asked you to ride with me this morning at the rectory, but you refused. I at least thought I could help you to select the worship hymns, but you refused that, too.”

“I'll wager Lady Elosia knows nothing about this so-called afternoon tea.”

“I wouldn't wager, if I were you. Your uncle, were he alive, would not approve such an activity.” His smile was warm, teasing.

“Nor would he approve of your deceit.”

“Oh, come. Your reaction is a bit overdone, is it not? You behave as though I have committed some great wickedness by inviting you here. Did I not invite you earlier to dine with me at Rookswood? Then why so shocked over a bit of tea?”

“You did not invite me to tea. Lady Elosia did. At least it was her name on the stationery.”

He smiled wryly. “If I had signed
Rogan Chantry
, you would not have come. You made that clear at the rectory.”

“You deceived my aunt. She believed the invitation was from Lady Elosia.” She turned and walked to the door, but he was there ahead of her.

She had thought he would be frustrated by now, but he was still smiling. “You are a most maddening young woman. I know a dozen brats in London who would be flattered by my attention, yet you shield yourself like a prickly pear.”

“Brats!”

“I can tell, however, that you are not as cool toward me as you like to pretend. Your eyes deny your indifference.”

She was furious. He was right, and she felt unmasked. But he seemed to think she evaded him because she enjoyed being chased.

He leaned his shoulder against the door, looking down upon her, and did not step aside. “I think I shall keep you here.”

She looked at him evenly, wavering in her resolve.

“My aunt did send that invitation to Mrs. Havering. I know that surprises you, but it is true. And she did come down with an attack and take to her bed. I merely took advantage of an opportunity. Fault me for that, if you wish. I confess, instead of sending word to cancel tea as she suggested, I decided it might be helpful to see you before I depart, as there is a matter that I wish to discuss with you.” He reached inside his coat and pulled out an envelope, handing it to her. The envelope bore a London postmark, and she recognized Arcilla's handwriting.

He watched her for a moment, as though trying to discern whether she would cooperate. He must have decided she would, for he straightened from the door and walked toward the center of the room.

Evy turned and watched him. There had been a palpable shift in Rogan's mood. He seemed pensive, as though involved in some internal debate. A minute must have passed before she spoke. “What do you wish to discuss?”

He looked at her, and the gleam in his eyes was grave, even a little intimidating. For once, there was no suggestion of a smile on his face. “Your father.”