Tomorrow's Treasure (47 page)

Rogan listened, growing ever more thoughtful. “I suppose Heyden wanted to learn what it was you hoped to destroy in the fireplace that afternoon the three of us met.”

“Why would he not be curious after such a dramatic, shocking scene?”

A small smile tipped his lips. “True, but he was far too curious long before that day. What did you tell him?”

“He already suspected that I wanted to destroy a letter. I told him it was from Lady Brewster.”

“You told him what the letter was about?”

“Yes.”

A frown drew his brow down. “That was a mistake.”

“He believes in my mother's innocence. I saw no reason not to trust him.”

“I
gave
you reasons. He wishes to use you for his own political purposes.”

“But—”

“Never forget he's a ruddy Boer, disloyal to the British Crown. If a war breaks out in South Africa, which I fully expect, and perhaps sooner than anyone thinks, Heyden will support Dutch rule under Paul
Kruger. I've no intention of cooperating with him about the Black Diamond. Or”—his burning gaze swept her face—“about you.”

After a moment of charged silence, he smiled. “Well, I'd best be on my way.”

Evy followed him into the hall to lock up for the night.

“I regret you are not having dinner with me.”

Swift pleasure warmed her, but she schooled her features, careful not to give him the notion that she, too, was disappointed. “It would have been pleasant.”

“Another time perhaps, when you are not so limited by Madame.” He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, but rather than kiss the back as she expected, he turned it over and pressed a kiss to her palm. At the warm pressure on her skin, she caught her breath, suppressing a shiver. His smiling eyes told her he was well aware of her reaction. And pleased by it.

“Au revoir,” he murmured and went out the door.

Evy watched as he entered the coach and shut the door. A moment later she heard the clop of hooves as the coach pulled away. Her gaze followed the coach down the cobbled drive until it disappeared into the London fog.

She bolted the front door and turned to the staircase. How Rogan disturbed her. She could still feel the touch of his lips on her hand. There was more to Rogan Chantry than the surface revealed. He disapproved of Heyden, but there was much he was not telling her. Somehow she was sure it involved her—and her parents.

But Heyden had a side to him that she found rather comforting; he had been sympathetic about her mother, and he lacked the social status—and the accompanying arrogance—so nettling in Rogan.

Evy went back upstairs to her dormitory room and tried to concentrate on her language studies, but Rogan's words echoed in her mind:
I've no intention of cooperating with him about the Black Diamond. Or about you.
What had he meant? Could he have found out about her upcoming meeting with Heyden?

On Friday a letter arrived from Aunt Grace.

Vicar Brown died peacefully in his sleep of heart failure on November 3, and the new vicar has arrived. It is all quite sad for our sakes because we will miss him, but not sad for Vicar Brown, who has joined your uncle in the presence of Christ.

At the end of the letter, she wrote part of the verse from the first chapter of the epistle to the Philippians: “… to depart, and to be with Christ; which is far better.”

Evy wrote her condolences to Derwent. It was far too soon after the loss of his father to inquire about his plans for the future. Though she fully expected that in time he would become the new curate, he would first need to return to divinity school for his final year.

Life was definitely changing by large steps and small. Sometimes it seemed the most significant changes came by way of the most unlikely events. Yet over all things, great and small, the Lord God reigned supreme. Only in moments of human weakness did doubt and fear steal away her confidence and set her heart beating uncertainly.

If only those moments did not center so very often on Rogan Chantry.

The end of the school term and the Christmas holidays drew near … as did the night of Evy's concert. The other girls were as excited as though they had been chosen to do the solo performance for an audience of London's avid music lovers.

“I know you'll do well,” Frances told her. “I have listened to your practice, and it's flawless.”

Evy laughed. “I think you're too generous. I'm far from becoming a concert pianist, and this whole thing has put butterflies in my stomach.”

“You will do well,” Frances said again, and left Evy to her practice.

She was having a new dress made in a London shop for the occasion. Aunt Grace had known of the honor since October and had written Evy insisting a gown be made for the evening of Evy's performance:

Do not concern yourself for the expense, dear. To have been selected from among the students to be the featured pianist is obviously a thrilling event, and I want you to have the best. You have worked hard indeed and deserve a special gown. I only wish my strength were such that I could be there to hear you play. My prayers will be with you, and I'll be waiting anxiously for you to come home for the holidays to tell me all about it.

Evy was thrilled. She had worried about what dress to wear, for she had nothing elegant enough for the occasion. She wasted no time in trying to find the right shop and seamstress. Madame Ardelle recommended a French shop, for she was acquainted with its widowed owner.

“You are making a mistake,” Frances said. “Do what Madame says, and you'll be wearing stiff black taffeta on stage. I can hear it now as you
bow before the audience and sit down at the piano. Then you'll begin to play the funeral dirge,” Frances began humming a doleful march.

“Oh Frances, you are being silly,” Evy said, laughing. “Just because Madame wears black doesn't mean her friend cannot work with colors. What color do you think I should choose?”

“Burgundy,” Victoria sighed.

“Emerald velvet,” Frances countered. “It suits your eyes.”

Evy pursed her lips. “Emerald green. Velvet, yes. Luxurious velvet.”

And so it was. Accompanied by her roommates, Evy went to the shop in downtown London and chose from the available patterns and materials. When she returned two weeks later to collect the gown, Evy tried it on before the mirror to make certain everything fit. It was all Evy could do not to echo the
oohs
and
ahs
of her two friends. She turned before the mirrors as the seamstress looked on proudly at her handiwork. The skirt was long and flowing; the tightly fitting bodice, according to the latest style, had a lower neckline for evening wear, and the popular sleeveheads were large and puffed. “Do you think it's a bit too daring?” she whispered to Frances and Victoria.

“It fits you so well, Evy. Anything else would make you look stuffy and disapproving. Besides, it is just a
wee
bit off the shoulder.”

“And you
did
choose that pattern.” Frances eyed her. “So you must have wanted that style.”

“Yes, it is so lovely … I saw Patricia Bancroft wearing a style like this at the diamond show at the museum some weeks ago.”

“There! You see?” Frances clapped her hands. “You are all set for the musical. Hurry now, let's go back to the school to show the other girls. I cannot wait to see their faces. And wait until we do your hair the night of the concert.” She sighed. “ 'Tis a pity Rogan Chantry won't be there.” She cast Evy a sly glance, but Evy avoided her eyes in the mirror.

Now the night of the concert had arrived. Evy had had one disappointment that morning—a letter from Heyden. It had read quite simply:

Dear Miss Varley
,

I regret that I cannot keep our appointment at Regents Park for this Saturday. Urgent political concerns demand that I accompany Paul Kruger
to the country home of the Officer of Colonial Affairs. I look forward to contacting you as soon as possible.

H. van Buren

But she scarcely gave him a thought now. Dressed in her gown, her hair meticulously upswept in curls and waves, Evy had to admit she felt like Cinderella going to the ball. Victoria had lent Evy her mother's pearls and matching fan comb. And Claudine, who hailed from a wealthy London family, lent her a darling pair of velvet slippers and a feather fan. Victoria, who had as little as Evy, kissed a lace handkerchief and turned it over, a twinkle in her eye. “From great-great grandmother Fanny Wilshire, for blessing.”

Fifteen minutes before Evy went on stage, she waited near the entrance to the raised dais in the great hall. She was shocked to see Arcilla, adorned in a lovely outfit of blue satin, come floating into the room.

“Arcilla!” Surprised delight filled Evy at the sight of her friend. “What are you doing here?”

Arcilla's tinkling laughter was warm as she came up to take Evy's arm and turn her about.
“C'êst magnifique.
Evy, I hardly recognize you. What do you mean, what am I doing here? Would I miss your crowning moment?” She grimaced. “Mr. Bartley is here with me. He's my escort tonight. We were to attend a dinner party, but once I knew this was your night to shine, I insisted he bring me to hear you play. Afterward we are all going to our family townhouse on the Strand for a little dinner—and you are coming with us. We must toast you and make a fuss over your success, you know.”

We?
Evy's heart thumped irregularly. Was Rogan actually there?

The butterflies in her stomach were getting worse. Even her hands felt cold and clammy. Suppose her fingers fumbled over the keys?
Dear Father, please help me to play for Your honor tonight.

She tried to focus on Arcilla. “Me? Go to the Chantry Townhouse?”

“But of course. We think highly of you, you know.” She laughed. “We have a surprise for you there as well, but you won't learn what it is until you get there. We'll take you in the carriage. That way you can
meet my Prince Charming, Mr. Bartley.” She looked toward the ceiling, as though he were anything
but
Prince Charming.

But Evy's mind was too full to think about Arcilla's problems right now.
“We
have a surprise? Who is
we?”

“Rogan, of course,” she said airily. “Most of this was his idea. He was the one who told me you were playing solo tonight, chosen from among all the students at the school. And this”—she produced an orchid—“is from both of us. Here, let's pin it to your gown, it goes so well.”

Rogan
was
here! Evy's agonies increased at the thought. What if she gave less than her best performance?

Madame Ardelle appeared and drew Evy from among her well-wishers. It was time. A few minutes later, Evy stood beside Madame in the dimly lit utilitarian backstage area behind enormous curtains. She must be calm, Madame told her quietly. Yes, she would be confident, and play from her soul. Madame would not have chosen her if she thought otherwise.

With these words in her mind and a prayer on her tongue, Evy waited for the end of her introduction. She found herself leaving parted curtains and walking onto the stage, something she had practiced scores of times. She walked to the grand piano, turned to face the large audience, whose faces she could not see, offered the practiced little curtsy, then sat down on the bench. The keys stared up at her, waiting, as though holding their breath.
Play us well
, they seemed to implore,
with all your heart.

Evy's fingers took command of the keys, and glorious notes resonated throughout the hall. It was no accident that she had chosen Beethoven's Piano Concerto no. 4. She smiled as she imagined Rogan's reaction. He would have no doubt that she had fulfilled her part of their music bargain made on the windy hill overlooking Rookswood, when he had challenged her to play this very concerto for him.

But she dared not imagine him sitting out there, watching her and listening. Not unless she wanted her nerves to go out of control. Instead, she gave herself up to the piece, and soon she forgot everything but the glorious images in her soul that the music stirred to life.

She went on to play a number of pieces for her finale, including some Chopin nocturnes. When her fingers stilled and the last notes drifted on the still air of the room, there was a moment of hushed silence. She held her breath—and then it came: applause, breaking out in waves of wholehearted approval, but she understood it was for more than her ability. The enthusiasm was for the matchless music itself filling the listeners' souls with wondrous joy, even as it had her own. And if she had been able to elicit this emotion in the audience, she had accomplished her goal.

Evy stood, blinking back tears, thankful to her Creator for endowing her with the abilities she had been able to cultivate and use tonight. This achievement had been years in the making, and many were her enablers, not least Aunt Grace at home in Grimston Way, praying for her as Evy knew she would be. Aunt Grace, ill, yet whole-heartedly involved.