To Loveand To Cherish

by Patricia Gaffney

  “Good night. I’m glad you came.” She hesitated, looking as if she had something else to say. But then Geoffrey threw an arm around Christy’s shoulders and guided him out the door.

  VII

  THE MAY AFTERNOON was warm and cloudy; it might rain later, but right now it was a perfect day for racing—dry underfoot and overcast above. A fast day, as they used to say. Still did, for all Christy knew; he’d been out of the racing world for years.

  He was trotting his horse past the east front of Lynton Hall, making for the stables, when he chanced to spy Anne through the arched entrance to the courtyard. She saw him at the same time and waved. He turned his horse, ducked his head in the archway, and rode toward her.

  She looked as fresh as the spring in a blue frock, flower-sprigged, with a pretty white apron. Her hands were dirty; she’d been weeding or planting something by the chapel wall. Smiling a greeting, she wiped her hands on her apron, tossing her head to throw a stray lock of hair back from her forehead. “Good afternoon, Vicar.” She looked surprised to see him in his boots and buckskins, without a jacket, not even a collar for his oldest white shirt. “How was your wedding?”

  “Very fine,” he answered, pulling oft his hat. “Everyone wept except the bride.”

  “Indeed!” she said with mock wonder. “And she the one with the most cause for weeping. Tell me, Reverend, do you think they’ll live happily ever after?” Despite her light tone, the question was loaded with cynicism.

  He answered mildly, “I pray they will.”

  She flared her nostrils a bit at that, but made no reply. Moving closer, she reached up to pet the horse’s neck. “What a beautiful animal. What’s his name?”

  “Doncaster.”

  “Doncaster,” she repeated, rubbing his nose with a soft, open palm. “Geoffrey’s horse is called Devil, you know. If he beats you, I expect we’ll have to view it as symbolic of something or other.”

  She arched one of her lovely eyebrows at him, grinning with mischievous good humor. Christy felt a lurch in his chest. And then, to his dismay, he felt himself blushing. “Where’s Geoffrey?” he asked quickly.

  “In the stables, waiting for you.”

  He pulled on the reins, backing his horse up. “Will you watch us off?”

  “No, I don’t think so. But I’ll have bandages and splints ready for your return.” Again the wicked grin, and this time her green eyes twinkled at him.

  He laughed. She was irresistible. “Till later, then.”

  “Good luck,” she called after him softly.

  He thought of knights and ladies, pledges and favors—silly, inappropriate notions that had him flushing again. This time she couldn’t see him, though, which was something. Feeling extremely foolish, he spurred Don to a trot and headed toward the stables.

  Geoffrey was waiting for him in the yard, pacing in his tall riding boots, impatience written in his jerky movements and the tautness of the rein with which he was pulling his horse behind him. As soon as he saw Christy, he leapt onto the black stallion’s back and trotted toward him. Christy had time to wave to William Holyoake, who was standing in the stable doors next to Collie Horrocks, Lynton Hall’s elderly groom. The two men waved back—and then Geoffrey lifted his riding crop high in the air and slashed it down across his horse’s haunch. Devil jumped in surprise; he reared once before his muscular quarters thrust him forward with the power of a stampede. His hurtling feet sent up clouds of grit, and he was around the stable and out of sight before Christy could get his horse turned.

  “Shimmering scarlet hell!” he yelled, which made Collie and William hoot with laughter. Smacking his boot heels into Don’s sides, he told him, “Go,” and they were off.

  Guelder mine lay about two and a half miles from the Hall along the old Tavistock road. Christy and Geoffrey had a different route, one they’d staked out about seventeen years ago and raced their horses over at least a hundred times. Christy couldn’t remember the last time he’d ridden across the sheep pastures and moorland scrub or jumped the stream banks and stone fences crisscrossing the rough fields, but he hadn’t forgotten a single turn, hurdle, straightaway, or curve in the mile-long course, and he knew Geoffrey hadn’t either. Geoffrey rode flat-out at a ground-eating gallop a quarter-furlong ahead of him, using his crop freely. Devil, whose Stud Book name was Tandem, by Touchstone out of a Barb mare called Hermit, stood almost sixteen hands, with the long back and elegant stride of a thoroughbred racer. But he was a little top-heavy from overfeeding, Christy had noticed, a little weak-limbed from overwork. Doncaster, an English blood horse with no known Eastern lines, lacked Devil’s sleek size and beauty; he had thicker bones and a bigger head, and more hair around the fetlocks. A rough coat and a kind eye. And more heart than any horse Christy had ever known. Between them, they were going to beat that Arabian Devil into the ground.

  The distance between the horses didn’t begin to narrow until Christy spied the tall stacks of Guelder’s steam engines rising high above the trees, belching puffy clouds into the lead-colored sky. Geoffrey thundered around a curve in the sloping scree track, and Christy lost sight of him. Half a minute later, an unidentifiable wailing sound started soft and grew louder very quickly. He said, “Whoa, Don,” and slowed him with his knees to negotiate the slippery turn, and when they rounded it the source of the strange sound burst into view. It wasn’t wailing, it was cheering, and it was coming from at least a dozen men, miners all, clustered around the side of Guelder’s engine house. They were bellowing their lungs out and waving their hats in the air, and as he galloped closer Christy distinctly heard one of them shout, “Give ’em hell, Reverend! Get ’im, Vicar, beat ’is balls off!”

  Geoffrey streaked around the far end of the engine house—the halfway point—and rode straight for him. With a dozen feet separating their mounts, Christy realized Geoffrey wasn’t going to give ground, that he’d ride his stallion straight into Doncaster’s teeth before he’d veer off and give way. Reining sharply, breaking stride, Christy got his horse off the track in the nick of time, and Geoffrey let out a wild cackle as he flew by.

  Tranter Fox was the miner shouting the profane inducements, Christy saw with no surprise as he spurred Don around the sharp engine-house curve. “On, Rev,” he hollered now, jumping up and down. “Drive ’im, bleedin’ drive ’im!” The glee in the little Cornishman’s homely, dirt-smeared face didn’t come just from the excitement of watching a horse race; it came as well from knowing he had the goods on Reverend Morrell, no mistake about it. Christy could only laugh—grimly—as he galloped past him, feeling the swat of Tranter’s hat on his knee for encouragement. No matter how this race turned out, life around Tranter Fox wasn’t going to be worth living for a long, long time.

  Up past the slippery scree slope, he saw Geoffrey in the distance, flailing away with his crop. The black was flagging, for he was only about sixty feet ahead now. Christy bared his teeth into the wind and bent low over Don’s neck, urging him on with soft-voiced imprecations, words he’d have chastised a parishioner for using if he’d heard them. The valiant chestnut understood and responded, finding new strength in the long lunge of his shoulders and his powerful hindquarters. Devil had been foaming already at the halfway turn, but Doncaster was at his peak, the heady, giddy height of his form, racing his heart out for the main job God had put him on earth to do.

  The gap closed. Christy rejoiced, because he would win, and because in two more minutes Geoffrey would have to stop beating his brave, striving stallion. He urged Don over a stony stream in one strong, airy plunge, and they gained on their prey like lions in pursuit of lesser game. Now Geoffrey could hear them; he glanced back, and his mouth formed a weird, skeletal grimace. But Christy couldn’t pity him. He crooned to his horse, calling to him like a lover, and his common country steed strove with all his might. Neck and neck, the horses pounded across the last open field before the park. Filled, intoxicated w
ith the thrill of the race, the glorious winning, Christy laughed as he pulled ahead and reached out to Geoffrey with his right hand and saluted him, his oldest friend, the dearest love of his boyhood. Geoffrey’s face should’ve warned him. He yanked hard on his left rein, and Devil, beaten and obedient, ran sinister.

  No choice, nowhere to go. A low, thick coppice of hawthorn flanked the path, and one fallen beech, split by lightning halfway up, lay like the crosspiece of a lopsided H across the high crotch of its neighbor. To save his horse, Christy reined toward the highest point of the barrier. Doncaster ran through, stumbling in the sudden underbrush. Christy twisted at the last second, taking the brunt of the blow on his left temple. A sharp limb gored his shoulder, but he didn’t feel it; he was already unconscious.

  ***

  A jumble of voices coaxed him back from a very black tunnel, pain-filled and noisy with a sound like bees buzzing. Somebody was shouting at him. He opened one eye and saw Tranter Fox’s monkey face in duplicate, his mouth moving approximately in time to words that sounded like “Bloody blinkin’ ’ell. Ee surely bain’t dead, Christy, or by God, I’ll kill you.” Somebody else had hands on his legs, and now his arms; when they got to his ribs, he let out a yell and opened the other eye.

  “Cracked,” rumbled William Holyoake, sitting back on his haunches. “Same as your head. Don’t try to get up, Vicar; your shoulder’s bleedin’ pretty good and your—”

  “Where’s my horse?” He batted away all four of the hands that were trying to hold him down. “Where’s Don?” He looked around in a panic and saw Geoffrey, standing a little ways off beside his winded black stallion. His face was ashen, his black eyes sparking with fear.

  “He’s all right, he’s fine,” he said, coming a step closer. “He ran after me. Horrocks has him, he’s cooling him down.”

  Christy closed his eyes in relief and let William Holyoake press him back to the hard ground.

  “I swear to God, Christy, I didn’t see you fall,” Geoffrey said quickly. “I’d have stopped if I had! I didn’t know you weren’t with me until I got to the end of the park. When I saw your horse trotting after me, I couldn’t believe it. William was there—we came racing back as fast as we could.”

  Christy kept his eyes closed while he explored the egg-size lump above his ear and tried to make sense of what Geoffrey was saying. It was a lie, wasn’t it? How could he not have seen him fall? But his remorse sounded so real, and the worry in his face looked genuine.

  “How did it happen?” Holyoake asked, pressing his handkerchief to the throbbing gash in Christy’s shoulder.

  He glanced sharply at Geoffrey, who was concentrating on swatting his boots with his riding crop. “My horse shied,” Christy said slowly. “I fell.”

  “You fell?” Tranter sounded incredulous. “You fell?”

  “I fell,” he repeated. He’d have it out with Geoffrey later, when they weren’t in front of witnesses. “I’m not hurt badly—help me up.”

  They didn’t want to, but he made them. The dizziness didn’t last long; Holyoake’s powerful arm steadied him when he swayed, and after a few more seconds he felt strong enough to walk.

  “Here, take my horse,” Geoffrey urged, leading the black closer. The winded stallion was taking breaths in gusts through his nostrils and heaving out his ribs to inflate his lungs.

  “No, I’ll walk.”

  “Don’t be daft, take my—”

  “I said I’ll walk.”

  Holyoake and Tranter glanced at one another uneasily. Geoffrey’s sallow cheeks turned red; he tried to sound casual. “Have it your way, then, old sod. Since you don’t need me, I’ll ride home at once. Holyoake tells me I have visitors, London friends I wasn’t expecting. Come straight to the house, Christy, there’s a good lad. I’ll tell Anne you’re coming. She’s a hell of a nurse, she’ll put you to rights in no time.” He waited a moment, but Christy said nothing. “Well, then.” He mounted his huffing stallion, saluted them with fake jauntiness, and trotted away.

  With William and Tranter for crutches, Christy moved along without too much difficulty. Once Tranter realized he really wasn’t mortally wounded, he couldn’t resist teasing him. “Well, yer reverence, I’m that keen on church tomorrow, ee might say I’m slaverin’ for it. Oh, aye, Sunday church’s where I mane t’ be, no mistake. Front and center, mayhap a shade early even, lest I miss a golden moment, so t’ say.”

  “Oh, bottle it,” Christy groused. Holyoake made a strangled sound that turned into a cough when the minister glared at him. “I suppose everybody in the county knows about the terms of the wager,” he muttered, and neither man contradicted him. Geoffrey had even more to answer for than he’d thought.

  “I shouldn’t say all o’ county,” Tranter said presently, with mock solicitousness, “not by any manner o’ manes. Nay, tes more like only the whole parish, reely.”

  Christy rolled his eyes. It was starting. He and Tranter had had a good-humored battle running for years about the status of the little miner’s immortal soul if he didn’t go to church more often, stay out of the public house, and leave the ladies alone. Christy had always considered that he had the advantage, being the ostensible voice of rectitude and moderation, and it was vexing to know he would now be on the defensive indefinitely. “What are you doing here anyway?” he inquired irritably. “Why aren’t you at work?”

  “I were comin’ off my core when you an’ ’is new lordship flyed by, yer reverence. The tutmen appointed me, like, t’ go an’ discover which o’ you’d winned, so’s we could settle up our private wagers. Speakin’ for myself, I’m eight shillings out o’ pocket on account o’ yer clumsiness, yer grace. Beggin’ yer pardon an’ manin’ no disrespect, o’ course.”

  Christy put his aching head back and groaned.

  ***

  “A spill,” Geoffrey had said. A bump on the head and a scraped shoulder. When Anne saw Christy tacking slowly across the courtyard, supported by Holyoake and a man she didn’t know, she almost fainted.

  “My God,” she cried, rushing to him. His clear eyes and reassuring smile relieved her anxiety a little, but the blood staining the chest and right arm of his white shirt did not.

  “I’m all right,” he told her, and when Holyoake and the other man let go of him, he stood tall and steady as if to prove it. “It looks worse than it is, I promise you.”

  “Come inside,” she said distractedly, backing up toward the door to the kitchen.

  He turned to the stranger, a slight, dark, wiry individual with a gap between his teeth and mischief in his eyes, and held out his left hand. “My thanks, Tranter,” he said gravely. “I might’ve perished without you.”

  When they shook, the little man said, “Don’t mention it, yer reverence.” He made Anne a rather elegant bow and walked away. When he got to the outer courtyard door he stopped and turned around. She thought he called out “Front an’ center!” before he disappeared through the archway.

  “Come along,” she said again, disguising her distress with briskness, leading the way down the area steps and into the short corridor that led to the kitchen. She stopped, dismayed, in the kitchen doorway: she’d forgotten that every maid in the house had been pressed into service, to provide refreshments immediately and dinner in a while for Geoffrey’s uninvited guests, not to mention overnight accommodations later on. The kitchen was bedlam, with servants jostling each other for space, every flat surface covered with raw ingredients for the coming meal, and poor Mrs. Fruit shouting instructions over the din while the maids shouted back to tell her they’d heard. “Oh, ruddy hell,” Anne mumbled under her breath, turning around. She saw Reverend Morrell’s eyebrows shoot up, and realized what she’d said. “Oh—I’m sorry, that’s—a terrible habit of mine, do forgive me—” He was smiling at her, not with saintly forbearance but with something like delight, and she subsided, relieved and embarrassed. “Come this way,” she
said, shepherding him and William Holyoake back the way they’d come and into the scullery. “Sit down,” she ordered, pointing to a stool, and the invalid obeyed. “I’ll be right back.”

  She returned to the kitchen for the hot water and towels she’d asked for earlier. “Violet, go and get one of Lord D’Aubrey’s clean shirts from his clothes chest and bring it down to me in the scullery, please.”

  “The scullery, ma’am?”

  “Yes, the scullery. Go along, quickly.” Violet made one of her sarcastic curtseys and scurried out.

  In the scullery, Mr. Holyoake was standing around looking ineffectual. When he asked if she needed him for anything more, she said no, thanked him for his trouble, and let him go. “Glad you’re all right, Vicar,” he said gruffly on his way out. “Don’t mind saying you gave me a bit of a fright.”

  Christy waved his hand dismissively. “I shall be right as rain in no time. Thank you for everything, William.”

  “Right, then,” Anne said brusquely after Holyoake was gone. “Off with this, I think, so I can clean you up. Do you need help?”

  “It’s only a little stiffness,” he denied, unbuttoning his bloodstained shirt and shrugging out of it. They examined the wound on his shoulder together. It was extensive but superficial, and the bleeding had almost stopped. “Shallow,” he judged, peering at it narrowly. “No stitches.”

  She agreed. “Nasty, though. I must clean it thoroughly. Let me see your head.” He bowed it submissively, and she slid her fingers gently into his gold-colored hair. “That’s a lovely one,” she murmured, tracing the swelling with light fingertips. “Am I hurting you?”

  “Not at all.”

  His hair was softer than she’d guessed it would be. She thought again of the beautiful, worried lion in the Rubens painting and smiled. She took her hands away reluctantly. “I believe you’ll live,” she said softly.

  He looked up at her. His eyes were an unusual shade of ice blue. She’d seen them burn with earnestness and soften with kindness, but right now they were guilelessly wide and alert, with a particular knowledge that she thought was sexual awareness. Her own eyes dropped to his mouth, and quickly lifted away again. Well, now, a voice in her brain remarked. Isn’t this interesting.