Tomorrow's Treasure (49 page)

After Paganini, he broke into “La Campanella.” She would never have guessed Rogan had such drama and beauty of interpretation in him. The rendition called for a quivering command of the strings. She envisioned a lone violin player late at night on the streets of Paris telling a story of love, danger, and loss with just a touch of wry humor. How well that piece fit Rogan's personality.

When he finally lowered his bow, Evy stood with the others, applauding madly.

Rogan's questioning gaze held hers, and she knew what he wanted. She did not hesitate to give it to him. “It was marvelous.”

“Encore!” Arcilla's eyes shone as she looked at Evy.
This is my brother
, they seemed to say to her.
He is a Chantry. He is exceptional.
“Encore.”

He gave his sister a small bow and played Bach's Violin Concerto
no. 1. And as Evy sank back into her chair, she thought she would never know another night such as this.

The evening ended as it had begun, at Parkridge Music Academy. Rogan escorted her to the door and inside to the front hall, while Arcilla waited with Peter in the coach.

She gave him a warm smile. “Good night, Rogan. Thank you for the lovely evening. I enjoyed it very much—especially your violin.”

“It is you who are the musical talent. You won accolades tonight, you know. I suppose you'll go on for your final year. What then? Have you any special plans?”

“Everything depends on my aunt's health.” And their finances, but naturally she did not tell him that. Aunt Grace wanted to keep her in Parkridge, but the final year would be almost twice as expensive, since Madame Ardelle's graduates would attend classes at Eldridge Music School under the direction of Master Eldridge himself, a very demanding instructor.

Rogan nodded, and Evy thought there was sympathy in his eyes for Aunt Grace's health. But there seemed to be a question as well. “I suppose Derwent has written you of his plans now that the vicar has died.”

Derwent! She hadn't thought of him once that night. She looked away, wondering what that meant. “I. think it far too soon for him to make any decisions.”

“He only has two choices, as I see it. Return to divinity school and hope for a vicarage, or find other employment.”

“He might get the curate's job in Grimston Way.”

“At St. Graves Parish, you mean?”

“He mentioned it in his last letter.”

“I suppose that would please you. You could remain in Grimston Way. That is, unless you're the adventurous sort who wishes to travel and see something of the world.”

Was there a question behind this casual statement?

Evy didn't hesitate. “Unlike Arcilla, I think I would very much like to go to South Africa. But … I suppose I shall settle in Grimston Way and carry on as I always have.”

“Ah, well, there is still this year of studies to complete, isn't there—for both of us. That reminds me, I have horrendous exams in the morning. I had better get back to the university. If not, I may be out on the streets playing my violin for a tuppence.”

She laughed at that. “I hardly think you'll need to worry about such a thing.”

He opened the door, his thoughtful gaze lingering on her face. “One never knows. Especially if I end up balking against Julien's will and plans.” He smiled. “Good night.” The door closed behind him.

Evy stood there, wondering. What did Rogan mean? Contesting Sir Julien Bley's will and plans? Did Rogan have Arcilla's marriage to Peter Bartley in mind, or something else? His own marriage, perhaps? Could there be someone special that Sir Julien wanted Rogan to marry? Maybe a girl in Capetown?

Evy realized she'd been biting her thumbnail and lowered her hand.

Or maybe the confrontation would come over Henry's Mashonaland map? It was no coincidence, was it, that Cecil Rhodes's ambition for a new colony was directed toward Mashonaland?

She pushed all this from her mind, determined instead to remember and relish every moment of the exceptional evening. She wrapped her arms around herself and stood there, basking in the warm afterglow. She could still feel the pressure of Rogan's hand holding hers as he had helped her from the coach.

But it was another moment they'd shared—one long ago in a darkened library before a blazing fire—that was indelibly burned upon her lips. And her heart.

Evy returned home to Grimston Way for the Christmas holidays. She had expected Derwent to meet her at the train depot but he did not appear. It was Mrs. Croft who was all smiles, driving the jingle. Strange … that Derwent did not come.

“That Derwent be a foolish young man,” she snorted, but would say no more when Evy questioned her. She spoke instead of Aunt Grace's deteriorating health. “Though she won't be admitting she's failing to anyone, leastwise to you, Miss Evy.”

Evy suspected her aunt wished to keep Christmas a joyful and hopeful season for them both. When she arrived at the cottage, Aunt Grace met her on the porch with a smile.

“Welcome home, Evy dear.”

“Aunt Grace.” Evy took hold of her shoulders and looked at her thin, pale figure. “You haven't worn yourself out getting everything ready for Christmas, have you? You know I would have enjoyed doing the decorations and baking with you. You must not tire yourself.”

“No, no, I am fine now.” She laughed. “I've been so looking forward to your coming home since last month. Just a mild winter cold again.”

Evy looked about the cottage with warm pleasure, well aware that their home came from the generosity of the Chantrys. “Everything is just as I remembered it. Oh Aunt, it's so good to be home again.” She threw her arms around her. “I only wish you could have been there the night of my recital. It was thrilling, stunning, and even Arcilla came—and Rogan.”

Aunt Grace's brows shot up. “Indeed? Rogan? My! Well—I shall need to hear every exciting detail. I've got a nice pot of tea on, and Mrs. Croft brought over some peppermint cookies.”

Evy smiled her pleasure. They stayed up late talking about everything while slowly decorating the cottage with baskets of fresh pine and berries.

“Where did you get the pine?” Evy did not think her aunt could go foraging in the woods as she used to when stronger.

“Alice brought them over. Very kind of her, I thought.”

Evy paused, turned, and looked at her. “Alice? Yes, I'm surprised, too. How is she?” Evy had never quite understood why it was that Dr. and Mrs. Tisdale, who were comfortably affluent, had held back from sending Alice to pursue her music. They could afford to send Alice to France, considered to have the crowning glory of music schools.

“Oh, Alice is well enough.”

Evy waited, expecting more explanation, but it did not come. “She is not ill, is she?”

“Oh, my no. She is—just the same girl she always was. More grownup, of course. She is quite a young woman now, a year older than you.”

“Yes, she's Arcilla's age. I suppose I'll see her during the season.”

“I'm sure you will.” Aunt Grace added a red bow to the pine garland she had strewn atop the fireplace and stood back to judge its effect. “The new vicar and his wife are giving the traditional afternoon Christmas tea on Saturday. You'll like Vicar Osgood and his good wife, Martha. She is just as busy and hard-working as Martha of Bethany. Vicar Osgood served a parish in Runnymeade before being sent here to us after Vicar Brown's departure. You'll like them, dear.”

“I'm sure I shall.” Evy was still wondering about Alice. What could have happened to her? Aunt Grace did not seem to want to discuss it, and Evy thought it wise to drop the subject for now. She was sure she would learn more in the days to come.

They baked ginger cookies and mince pies and placed them in the little pantry to cool. They would wrap them up and tie them with ribbons and then go calling on the villagers to wish them Merry Christmas
on Sunday. She had joined Aunt Grace on this traditional outing since she was a little girl riding along in the jingle, the big basket of goodies on her lap. Oh, the happy days of childhood. And yet how the holidays, so precious in their Christian foundation, could also bring painful memories of lost loved ones and a world no longer sunny with childhood expectations!

Dear Uncle Edmund. Evy could see him busy at his rectory desk preparing his sermons, smiling at her with such patience if she loitered in the doorway of his office hoping for attention. Evy sighed. She missed him terribly at times like this. And it brought a qualm to her heart as she looked at her aunt and saw the visible decline in her health, clear warning that their time together was drawing to a close.

Don't think about it
, she told herself.
Enjoy the time God has graciously given you. Who knows what a day may bring forth? But my heavenly Father does, and that's my consolation.

This year would be a special holiday, one that she would always look back upon with fondness. She would make sure of it and enjoy it to its fullest.

The next day she did not see any of the Chantrys, though Arcilla and Rogan had both returned to Rookswood within a day of Evy's arrival from London. Peter Bartley was to have come back with them to meet Sir Lyle and Lady Elosia. Evy wondered about Heyden van Buren. She was disappointed that he had not gotten back in touch with her yet, but she fully expected him to do so.

The next day the Chantry coachman, Mr. Bixby, delivered the yearly goose for Christmas dinner. And for Aunt Grace there was a sealed envelope containing a generous gift of money from Lady Elosia.

“Bless her! Now we can buy presents.” Aunt Grace's features lit up. “Its a sunny day too. Perfect for a bit of shopping in the village. We will have a few days for wrapping as well.”

“It should be enjoyable, but are you sure you're feeling strong enough?”

“I'm feeling fine,” Aunt Grace said with determination.

“I'll drive the jingle. And maybe we can stop afterward at Miss
Henny's shop for tea and some of those honey cakes I remember from childhood. It seemed back then the cakes were the most wonderful in all England.”

Aunt Grace laughed. “I suspect you will still enjoy them, even though they may be a bit lumpy at her age.”

The shopping trip was as fun as expected, and they laughed riotously as they tried to buy a gift for one another while the other turned her back and pretended ignorance. Afterward they stopped at Miss Henny's tea shop and enjoyed a pot of the best tea in Grimston Way along with the slightly overdone honey cakes baked by the eighty-year-old proprietress, who was delighted to see them.

“Bless my soul, but you're getting prettier with every year, Evy. And so talented with that music learnin' of yours that Grace tells me you're studying.” She shook her gray head. “I just can't understand the likes of the vicar's son.”

Before Evy could ask what she meant, the door opened, and Mr. Croft came shuffling in. He looked unchanged since the days of Evy's childhood, when she watched him digging graves. He saw her but did not appear to recognize her. He grinned at Aunt Grace, however, and removed his sock cap. “Afternoon, Mrs. Vicar. A pleasure to see ye out and about on such a sunny day … ah, that be
you
, Miss Evy? Praise the Lord, it is!”

“Hello Mr. Croft,” she said with a warm smile. “How are you?”

“Oh, I be fine, yessir, just fine. Ye be coming to the new vicar's Christmas tea, miss?”

“I'm looking forward to it.”

“Mrs. Croft be helping out the new vicar's wife that day. She be glad to hear you'll be there, miss.”

He went to order his lunch of milky tea and sweet biscuits, and Miss Henny went to wait on him.

Evy studied Aunt Grace as they drank their tea. “Why did Miss Henny say that about Derwent?”

Her aunt contemplated her tea as though it were quite profound. She gave a heavy sigh. “Because Derwent has been seeing a great deal of
Alice. Let's not worry about that now. Derwent will come to his senses. His mind is filled with South Africa, and I feel certain Alice is encouraging him in this.”

Evy set her teacup in its saucer, giving a slow nod. “I thought it might come to this. He has always wanted to go there, since we were children.”

“Nothing is certain yet.”

She thought she should feel something, some disappointment perhaps. But she didn't. It was strange … She felt so little concern about Derwent and Alice, so little disappointment that her old friend hadn't come to see her. But let her wayward mind conjure one image of Rogan Chantry paying close attention to Patricia Bancroft—perhaps kissing her palm as he had Evy's, or—
forbid it!
—kissing her the way he had kissed Evy in the library that day …

She closed her eyes.
I not only feel like I've swallowed a rock but as though I could cry my heart out! Drat Rogan Chantry!