To Loveand To Cherish

by Patricia Gaffney

  She crossed the empty room to him. He was mashing his thumb against the door latch, pressing it into the bolt hole over and over, making a monotonous clicking noise. He had on his “full holy blacks,” having come directly from a funeral in Princetown. His bright blond hair made a striking contrast to his dark clothes, and Anne doubted if there was a handsomer soldier in the Lord’s army. “Well?” she said archly. “Shall we adjourn? I’m dying to find out what your latest conquest has made us for our tea this time.” When he looked up, his somber expression brought her up short.

  “It’s not a good night,” she said quickly. “It’s all right, it doesn’t matter in the least.” He didn’t answer, only stared at her with an emotion in his eyes she couldn’t decipher. It occurred to her that she had never once asked him about their weekly tête-à-têtes; she’d taken them for granted, and now her presumption embarrassed her. “You’re tired—you have such long days. I’m tired myself. We can do it next week—or not, that’s fine, there’s certainly—”

  “No, Anne, I want to talk to you. In fact, there’s something in particular I have to say to you.” He opened the door wider, standing back to let her pass. She went by him uncertainly but said no more, and, in a curious state of dread, she led the way up the stairs to his study.

  Mrs. Ludd brought their tea almost immediately and then retired, leaving them alone. Anne tried to make small talk. Jokes fell flat about the hopeful young lady who had prepared their feast this evening—codling tarts with churned cream. Christy ate nothing, only sipped his tea and stared into the cup, not speaking a word.

  When she couldn’t stand the suspense any longer, she said directly, “Something’s on your mind. Tell me what it is, Christy, and let’s get it over with.”

  He set his cup down and looked at her. “I’m finding it very hard to say this to you.”

  “Yes, I can see that. All I can think is that you’ve found out my dreadful secret,” she said with a shaky laugh—“that I’ve sold my soul to the devil.”

  He couldn’t even smile. He stood up and went to his desk, turned around and leaned against it—as if he needed the distance from her and the desk for support. Her nerves stretched tighter; she pressed back into her chair and waited for the blow, whatever it was, to fall.

  “I won’t be able to see you anymore.”

  “What?” she said stupidly.

  “I mean—like this. The two of us, alone.”

  She continued to blink at him. When the words sank in, her first impulse was to laugh—bitterly, giving away her deep disappointment in him. But she curbed it and tried to make her face patient. “So, there’s been talk about us,” she said quietly. “I should have expected it. I’ve lived in small towns, but never in an English small town, and that’s quite a different thing, isn’t it? But—I have to tell you, Christy, it makes me tired to think that anyone could see impropriety in our innocent evenings. And truly, I think it’s unworthy of you to give it a second’s thought.”

  His expression only grew bleaker. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, as if his head hurt.

  A thought struck her. “Oh—now I think I understand.” All the bitterness disappeared. “Oh, Christy, you’re doing this for me, aren’t you? It’s my reputation you want to protect, not yours.” She shook her head, laughing with relief. “My dear friend, don’t you know me well enough by—”

  “It has nothing to do with impropriety,” he cut her off in a pained voice. “Nothing to do with what other people think of us. Nothing to do with you.” He was gripping the edge of the desk on either side of his thighs, watching her with a tense sadness that made her heart start to pound. “Anne, it’s me.”

  “You? Christy, what do you mean?” But then, all at once, she knew.

  And he saw that she did. She could tell that it hurt him, but he said the words anyway, so there could be no misunderstanding. He said, “I care for you.”

  She had to close her eyes. A slow, gentle warmth filled her, soft and soothing, like healing water. I care for you. Excitement and trepidation came next, and she took turns thinking, It can’t be true, and I knew it all the time! But it was too big, too much—she couldn’t think about it now. Later, she promised herself fearfully, and got up from her chair.

  He’d turned his head to the side. His strong profile moved her powerfully. She wanted to go to him and touch him, hold him, but the obstinacy in his features kept her motionless. And, with a sinking heart, she realized he meant exactly what he said. He was going to put an end to their friendship.

  A subdued sort of panic engulfed her. “My marriage is a farce,” she blurted out, the words tumbling over each other. “A farce, you must know that, must’ve seen it. It’s a blasphemy, not a sacrament. If I . . . if I cared for you, I would not let that obscenity stand in my way.”

  He looked straight at her and said, “But it must stand in my way.”

  Oh, God. She could see it happening, the lifeline he’d flung to her being pulled out of reach, leaving her to drown in loneliness. “Damn it,” she whispered fiercely. “Christy, I don’t like your God!”

  He came away from the desk and stood straight, arms stiff and awkward at his sides. “There’s nothing else I can do. Believe me, I’ve . . .”

  He stopped, and she knew he’d been going to say, I’ve prayed. But he was afraid she would laugh at him. Oh, Christy! she thought.

  “Anne, please don’t be angry.”

  “I’m not angry, I’m—yes, all right, I am! I’ve done nothing wrong, you’ve done nothing wrong, and you tell me we can’t see each other anymore. How do you expect me to feel?”

  He shook his head hopelessly.

  It was happening, he was really going to do it. “Do you think it’s a sin to love me?” she all but taunted him. “Is that what your religion teaches you?”

  “If it is,” he said quietly, “the punishment is built in. I won’t have to wait for Judgment Day.”

  She made a scornful sound. “What does that mean?”

  He smiled and put his fist on his chest. “I mean that the pain is here. Now.”

  It took the fight out of her. She felt like crying. And she was longing for him to say why he cared for her, when it had begun, all the lovely, seductive details—but she knew that if even one word were spoken of that now, she would lose all hope of keeping him. Above everything, she had to leave her emotions out of it. Pretend to, rather.

  “Christy,” she began again, trying to sound calm and rational. She moved closer, keeping her hands clasped, so he would know she had no intention of touching him. “Do you think I could ever deliberately hurt you?”

  “No, of course not. This isn’t anything you’ve done, Anne. It’s all me. I’m—”

  “Wait, wait—listen to me. If seeing me causes you suffering, then I’ll keep away, I swear I will, because I’d rather hurt myself than you. But—couldn’t we just go on as we have? Friends, Christy—friends and companions, nothing more? We wouldn’t let it be anything more. We’re both strong—you’re the strongest man I’ve ever known! And you can trust me, I would never . . . I would never let anything happen—between us . . . oh, you know what I mean!”

  He stared at a spot on the floor and said in a monotone, “I just think it’s better if—”

  “Anyway, what would I do without you? Who would I talk to?” She tried to laugh. “Christy, who else would put up with me?”

  “That’s nonsense and you know it.”

  “I don’t know it at all! You’re the only one I can be myself with. Like it or not, you’re the best friend I have in England. If I couldn’t see you, couldn’t be with you . . .” She left it at that; the rest would sound too dire, too pathetic, and she still had a little pride left.

  Christy looked miserable. He was weighing his unhappiness against hers, and she knew with a giddy, guilt-ridden surge of hope that, in such an equation, she would always
be the winner. There was a long, excruciating pause she was afraid to break before he said, “All right.”

  But she had to hear the words. “All right, what? We can still be friends?”

  He nodded. The mixture of defeat and tenderness in his smile devastated her.

  “Promise?” She smiled back, on the edge of tears again.

  “Yes, I promise.”

  Best not to let him see her relief, the full, delirious extent of it. But she was trembling inside, as if she’d narrowly avoided a catastrophe. She would rejoice later, when she was alone. “You won’t be sorry,” she vowed rashly, hoping it was true. He looked skeptical. She thought of saying, Anyway, it’ll go away. If you really knew me, Christy, you wouldn’t like me. But the whole subject was off limits—that was part of their bargain—and anyway, she didn’t want him to know that about her. Not yet.

  “Well.” She turned away from him. “I suppose I’d better go home now. Before you change your mind.” She made a great business of gathering up her reticule, her book, her cape—not looking at him for fear that she would see his unhappiness, or worse, his second thoughts. They said good night at the front door, both of them subdued and constrained. She wouldn’t let him walk back with her to the Hall; it wasn’t very late, she said, and she felt like being alone. But the real reason was because she wanted to avoid any more of the tension they were feeling in each other’s company right now. And although she’d said it lightly, she truly was afraid he might change his mind.

  All the way home, she told herself she’d done the right thing, that it would work out, that she would take care to see that Christy never regretted the selfless act of kindness he’d committed tonight for her sake. Once or twice, she almost convinced herself it would be possible.

  But later, after she’d written it all down in her journal, the truth of what she’d done came back to haunt her.

  Selfish, selfish! Why did I do it? A good woman, a true friend would have taken pity and let him go, not pleaded with him to let her go on hurting him. But I ignored my conscience. Christy and I established our roles a long time ago, after all: He’s the saint and I’m the sinner.

  Anyway, I don’t care, I don’t care, it worked, so I’m unrepentant. He gave in. And I know it wasn’t out of weakness, but because I’d shamelessly convinced him that I needed him—indeed, that he would be the sinner if he threw me away. Oh, selfish! It’s not true, I am repentant! But not enough to take back a single word. I’m miserable; I’m elated. I vow to keep my promise to the letter. Friends, that’s all we are and all we’ll ever be. I pledged it to him, and I’d die before I’d forswear myself.

  But—he cares for me. That stays in my heart. I take that hope out and hold it, look at it, stroke it, and whisper to it, like a child with a pet she’s found in the wild and isn’t allowed to keep. I must hide it out of sight and look at it only in the coldest times, the heartless hours. Thank you, Christy, for this extraordinary gift.

  X

  THE FOLLOWING FRIDAY, Christy didn’t come to the penny reading. Mrs. Armstrong began Ivanhoe for an audience that had swelled over the last few weeks to almost thirty. Anne’s turn was over, and years ago she’d read all the Walter Scott she ever wanted to, but she came to the reading anyway. To see Christy, of course—except for church on Wednesday, and then only to nod to him sedately, she hadn’t seen him in a week—but also because the gatherings had become a pleasant weekly ritual for her, a time to greet the villagers and ask how they did. “Fine, m’lady,” was usually all she got out of them—except for Tranter Fox—but lately she’d noticed an infinitesimal narrowing of the rigid social gap each time she came, and that was incentive enough to maintain her attendance.

  After the reading, she commended Mrs. Armstrong for a job well done, exchanged a few pleasantries with Lily Hesselius, spoke to John Swan about the seeding machine she’d ordered from his blacksmith’s shop—all the while keeping an eye on the door, expecting Christy to come through it at any moment. He never did. Arthur Ludd said as how he hadn’t come to Evening Prayers neither, and like as not somebody in parish was sick or in trouble. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized that Dr. Hesselius was absent, too. Arthur must be right.

  Bitter disappointment flooded her, as if she’d drunk vinegar. Afterward, she felt guilty: she ought to be sympathizing with the anonymous sick person. But all she could think of was that she would miss Christy. Their meeting was bound to be somewhat awkward, especially at first, but she didn’t care. And now that she’d lost the opportunity, she realized how very badly she wanted to see him, how much she’d been counting on it.

  She wandered outside with the others, calling good night to her neighbors. It was an unusually mild night, moonlit and almost cloudless. Standing in the street in front of the rectory, she actually considered going back up the walk, knocking at the door, and telling Mrs. Ludd she would like to wait for the vicar in his study. Certainly there was nothing to prevent her from doing so; she was Lady D’Aubrey—she could say she wanted to wait for him on the roof, and no one would gainsay her. But she didn’t move. After all that had happened, it seemed too forward. Almost as if she were going back on her word.

  An owl gave an eerie hoot from the beech trees at the edge of the green. Anne thought of going home to her empty house, making a cup of tea and carrying it up to her empty room, drinking it in her empty bed.

  It wasn’t to be borne. Not tonight. She had her heart set on seeing him. Skirting the light falling on his lawn from the bow window, she moved toward the shadows in the churchyard. She would wait for him there. Just to see how he did. Just to say good night.

  She’d been truthful the day she’d told him she loved graveyards. The dead were dead, and there was nothing in this moon-shadowed bone garden to frighten her. Still, she couldn’t help remembering the antics of the village children on All Hallows’ Eve two nights ago. Evil spirits roamed the earth on that night, the people of Wyckerley half-believed. They persecuted poor humans, whose only defense was to put on a disguise and pass for members of the spirit world. On All Hallows’, the children dressed up in their parents’ clothes and flew around the village, shrieking, carrying grotesque, hollowed-out turnips with candles inside, holding them up to cottage windows to terrify the inhabitants.

  She smiled to herself, thinking of the thoughtful, sedate, well-reasoned sermon Christy had preached that day—All Saints’, the feast day of his church and thus a fairly solemn occasion. Reconciling modern Anglicanism with still-vital holdovers from pagan rites as old as the Celts must present plenty of interesting challenges to the conscientious clergyman. She never missed Sunday service anymore, because she delighted in listening to Christy’s sermons. Not so much because they were riveting drama—they weren’t—but because they were a window on his mind. And she found Christy’s mind fascinating.

  RUFUS MARKHAM, read a low stone marker beside a border of yew trees. Or possibly MARKUS, it was hard to tell. The date of his death was 2 June 1741, but the date of his birth was too worn to read; seventeen-something, so he hadn’t been a very old man when he died. In that case, he probably wouldn’t mind if she sat down on his tombstone. From here she’d be able to hear Christy’s step on the flagstone path to his door. Across the way, someone had a much grander stone than Rufus had, an angel’s statue on a wide pedestal, with all manner of worn writing chiseled in the hard marble. Dead just the same, though, wasn’t he? A mundane thought: had anyone ever visited a cemetery and not entertained it? Maybe not, but that didn’t make it less true, or less subject to melancholy rumination. She let her mind drift. Her mother was buried in Reims, her father in London. She had no other relatives, at least not to speak of; there were probably cousins on her mother’s side somewhere, but she had no idea where. She’d been on her own since her father’s death. So, except for Geoffrey, no one else could die on her, so to speak. Which was one of those good-bad, ultimately meaningless truisms that cluttered th
e mind and led nowhere.

  She sighed, and lifted her head to watch the moon through the trees. Presently the church clock struck ten. She started slightly; she hadn’t realized she’d been loitering here quite so long. Past the high churchyard wall, a light shone from a second-floor room in the rectory. Christy’s bedroom? Perhaps Mrs. Ludd left it on whenever he was out late at night. It must be a welcome sight to him when he came home tired, sometimes dejected. The home fire burning. She sighed again, dejected herself, and not knowing why. A sound made her sit up straight.

  Slow footsteps, sharp on the cobbled street, now soft on the grass. She stood, brushing at her skirts, patting her hair, aware of an airy feeling in her stomach. The lych-gate creaked on its hinges and Christy came through. He didn’t see her. He moved away from her, his shoulders hunched, toward an iron bench under the giant copper beech by the wall.

  Moonlight through the trees illuminated him in patches, silvering his dark-clad shoulders and even the gold in his hair. As usual, he made her think of an angel. One of the militant kind; a straight-shouldered, level-eyed, sword-wielding soldier of the Lord. Smiling, she took a step toward him—and stopped when he suddenly leaned forward and dropped his head in his hands.

  Her heart began to race. Was he weeping? Irrational fear gripped her as every presumption she’d ever made about him was reversed and turned on its head. He couldn’t be—oh, please don’t let him be crying, she prayed, forgetting that she didn’t believe in God. Full of dread, she crept forward. Even when gravel rasped under her shoe, he didn’t hear her. She stopped a little distance from him, uneasy, not wanting to intrude on his private distress but unable to leave him now. His fingers tangled and clenched in his bright hair, making it stand on end. She felt as if she were seeing something she wasn’t supposed to see. Every second she thought he would sense her presence and look up, but he didn’t. At last she had to say his name, “Christy,” scarcely above a whisper.