To Loveand To Cherish

by Patricia Gaffney

  She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “My head is splitting! I couldn’t eat a thing, I need complete rest and quiet, I won’t be disturbed on any account whatsoever—at least until morning.” She wriggled her eyebrows suggestively. “I’m sure everyone believed me; I quite threw myself into it.” She waved her hand in a gesture that took in the room, the whole house. “And what did you say to accomplish this miracle?”

  “Well, when I heard the Ludds wanted the long weekend off to visit their son, I immediately began making noises about going to Mare’s Head and staying the night with my deacon, Mr. Creighton—which I will do, only tomorrow night instead of tonight. This way I’ve gotten rid of the housemaid, who would’ve thought it strange if I’d banished her for two nights. Thank God it’s snowing; now I can tell her I postponed the trip and muddled through in my bachelor way tonight without her.”

  He looked so pleased with himself, she bit back the exclamation on the tip of her tongue—You mean all this circumspection is for the benefit of the sensibilities of one trifling housemaid? Besides, on further reflection, she could see that one trifling housemaid’s knowledge of what they were doing, innocent though it was (so far), could have catastrophic consequences for a man in Christy’s position, in a place like Wyckerley. “How clever of you,” she said instead, and his satisfied smile widened.

  “Mrs. Ludd’s left a cold supper in the kitchen for me to heat up tomorrow. I told her I’d be starving after my long day in Mare’s Head, and to be sure to leave plenty. She did—I checked.”

  She shook her head at him in awe. “You think of everything.” The guilty delight he was taking in this simple deception made her heart ache with love for him.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes, but this is so nice, just sitting here talking. Let’s not eat yet.”

  She’d said the right thing. He grinned and took her glass from her, set it on the low table. Her heart began to pound—until he reached for her hand and pulled her to her feet. “You’ve never really seen the house, Anne. Let me show it to you.”

  “The house? Now?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t you want to see it?”

  “Well—all right. Fine. Let’s see the house.”

  He showed it to her by candlelight, carrying a three-candle holder from room to room, since a brighter light could have been seen from the street through the closed draperies. It took her an unconscionably long time to figure out what he was up to. The clue came when he began to use words like “commodious” and “convenient” to describe the rectory’s perfectly nice dining and living rooms. The sitting room, she learned, was “free of drafts.” When he called the entrance hall “welcoming,” she gave a whoop of laughter, cutting him off. “Christy, are you showing me the house or selling it to me?”

  That made his ears turn red, a reaction that always delighted her. “What do you mean?” he blustered, trying to sound hurt. “I’m showing it; I thought you’d be interested.”

  She laughed again, enchanted by his transparency. “This is a plan, isn’t it?” she accused, leaning against him. “A plot! You smuggled me in here with an ulterior motive, admit it.”

  “I did not.”

  “Yes, you did. You’re trying to seduce me with a golden vision of what married life could be. Honestly, Christy, this is worse than the marriage vows.”

  He caved in without a fight. “All right, it was a plan. Do you mind? Would you have stayed away if you’d known?”

  “Of course not, I’d have come under any circumstances, you know that. But, darling, let’s not have our old argument tonight.”

  “Absolutely not. We won’t argue about anything tonight.”

  “And your house is beautiful. I’ve always liked it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, of course—but don’t let’s talk about me moving into it permanently, all right?”

  “All right. You’d be happy, though. You could change anything you wanted. And you’d like Mrs. Ludd—”

  “Christy—”

  “And she’d love you. Arthur does all the gardening, so you couldn’t kill anything. The kitchen’s huge, I’ll show you.”

  “Christy—”

  “There’s plenty of room for more servants if you want them. I always ride Doncaster, but there’s a gig in the stables and Arthur could fix it up, paint it or whatever it needs, and I’d buy a nice hackney to pull it. All right! I’m finished.” He rubbed his shoulder, where she’d just punched him.

  Arm in arm, they ambled back to the drawing room. This time he drew chairs close to the fire, and they sat beside each other, holding hands sometimes, staring at the flames and talking. “This is so nice,” they took turns saying, interspersed with exclamations of “How lovely to be together and warm.” Christy told her the latest village gossip, and Anne realized with a slight start that, far from being boring, it all fascinated her. Old Mrs. Weedie needed some surgical treatment, unrelated to the hip she’d broken last summer (something “female,” which automatically precluded further medical discussion). It was to be done tomorrow in Tavistock, at the hospital, by Dr. Hesselius. Anne had known of it for days, and offered all the assistance she could think of, including the use of the D’Aubrey coach to and from the hospital. Now Christy told her something she didn’t know. “Captain Carnock took them to Tavistock today in his carriage.”

  “Captain Carnock?” she exclaimed, surprised.

  He eyed her, weighing his words. “I’ll tell you something in confidence.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  “Captain Carnock paid a call on me last week. To ask my advice. He wanted to know what I thought of the propriety of his offering the Weedies the use of his carriage.”

  “The propriety?” Sometimes the intricacies of English social etiquette eluded her.

  “Taking the Weedies to Tavistock for Mrs. Weedie’s . . . procedure . . . will necessitate returning Miss Weedie to Wyckerley tomorrow. Alone.”

  “Aha. Alone. And what did you tell him?”

  “I told him I could see nothing wrong with his kind, apparently motiveless offer.”

  “Apparently?”

  “Apparently.”

  His face gave nothing away, but it set her to thinking. Miss Weedie and Captain Carnock . . . Captain Carnock and Miss Weedie. Yes. Why not? Why, how perfectly lovely! Patting her lips with her forefinger, she repeated meaningfully, “Apparently,” and the gleam in Christy’s eye told her he was way ahead of her. But he wouldn’t say any more, so she let the subject drop, not wanting him to think she was the kind of woman who went in for idle gossip.

  Rather than open the chilly dining room, they decided to have their dinner right where they were, so they pulled a table in front of the fireplace. Mrs. Ludd’s prepared meal was a simple one—luckily, since lighting the stove was almost the extent of their combined cooking skills. “I always ate in restaurants in London,” Anne confided, “or had my meals sent in. When my father and I lived on the Continent, we always had someone to cook for us.”

  “We always had a housekeeper who did the cooking,” Christy said, “although my mother was definitely the one in charge. I wish you could’ve known her, Anne. You remind me of her sometimes.”

  She stopped with a forkful of peas halfway to her mouth. “I remind you of your mother?”

  “You do. She had a sharp mind. Sharp tongue, too, sometimes—I told you she didn’t suffer fools gladly. But inside, she was as soft as a feather pillow.” He took a bite of roast pork, and added with his mouth full, “She was pretty, too.”

  Anne took refuge in the business of meat-cutting for a few moments while she put her thoughts, and her face, in order. That Christy thought she had a sharp mind was, of course, gratifying; that he considered her soft inside . . . she didn’t know what to do with that. She found it unsettling, and inexplicably moving. Of course it was
true, but she didn’t think anyone knew it, not even him. Softness could so easily cross over into weakness, and she’d imagined that life with Geoffrey had toughened and hardened all that out of her.

  Christy had on his “worried lion” look, as she thought of it, the noble brow furrowed, the clear blue eyes studying her. She said brightly, “Well, I don’t remember my mother, but you’re not a bit like my father, so I can’t return the compliment. If that’s what it was.”

  “I suppose that’s what it was, although I didn’t say it to flatter you.”

  “No,” she agreed, “you wouldn’t.”

  He frowned. “Would you like me to? I’d say flowery things all the time if I thought you’d like it. Shall I?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” His poems, she thought in private, did quite enough on that score, and then some.

  He looked relieved. “What could I do, then?” he asked, smiling at her, ingenuous as always. “What would persuade you to come round to my side of the issue?”

  “I thought we weren’t going to talk about this.”

  “I’m not arguing, just asking. Seriously, what would sway you? I don’t feel as if I’m making any headway with you.”

  Oh, Christy, if you only knew. “Well,” she said slowly, pretending to consider it. He leaned closer, alert. “For one thing, you could show me the rest of the house. My tour was incomplete. I haven’t seen the upstairs.” She rested her chin on her cupped palm and batted her eyelashes. “I haven’t seen the room where you sleep.”

  “So you might marry me if you like my bedroom?”

  “Never can tell.” It came out a sexy purr. Where was all this shameless-hussy behavior coming from?

  “I guess I’ll have to take the chance,” he said seriously, but his eyes were dancing. “Right after we have our coffee.”

  “Better say a couple of Our Fathers first, Reverend. For willpower.”

  “Our Father, nothing. I’d better make the Stations of the Cross.”

  ***

  They took their coffee with them.

  On the way, Christy showed her his old nursery, whose cozy virtues he couldn’t resist extolling; that their own children could grow up safe and happy here was the clear implication, but he didn’t say it out loud, no doubt for fear of getting another cuff on the shoulder.

  When they got to his bedroom, Anne took the candle holder and left him leaning in the doorway while she explored. The walls were papered in green and white stripes, with tendrils of some flowery creeper winding cheerfully in and out. A thick carpet lay on the floor, and bright green draperies hung at the windows—two windows, the room being on the southeast corner. The furniture was old and dark, but not oppressive. The massive tester bed had a crocheted white coverlet over a multicolored quilt; solid, sturdy, stable, indestructible—it was the perfect bed for Christy. She could live out her life taking her rest every night in that bed. Why was it, again, that she wasn’t marrying him? Sometimes she forgot. She needed to marshal her forces; if this was going to be a seduction, it was important to be clear at the start about who was seducing whom.

  “This is a bit hedonistic, isn’t it? I thought you’d sleep on a hard wooden pallet, with nothing but religious icons for decorations.”

  He folded his arms and smiled tolerantly, cocking one eyebrow. He wore black tonight—not his full holy blacks, just a black coat and trousers, and a plain white shirt. She’d grown addicted to looking at his strong, straight body, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped; she loved his golden hair, the bones in his face, his serious eyes. “You’re mixing Anglican ministers with Roman Catholic monks,” he explained patiently. “As you see, we have all the creature comforts here.”

  “Mm.” She took her eyes off him to take another turn around his room. His wardrobe door was ajar. “May I?” she asked archly, and he gave a permissive wave of his hand.

  He had three other coats, and four waistcoats, two more pairs of trousers, all clean and neatly pressed—courtesy of Mrs. Ludd, she supposed. Shoes and riding boots were lined up on the wardrobe floor, and an assortment of neckties hung from hooks. She wandered over to his bureau, another massive affair built of dark mahogany; on the dust-free top rested his comb and brush, a stack of clean handkerchiefs, and a little box containing his sparse supply of jewelry: one pair of jet-and-silver cuff links; two stickpins, one pearl and one garnet; and a heavy gold signet ring.

  “Your parents?” She indicated two framed watercolor miniatures, and Christy nodded. She bent closer. So that was the famous old vicar, about whom she had never heard a single disparaging word. She’d thought he would look like Christy, but he didn’t; he was dark, not fair, and frail-looking, and the only extraordinary thing about him was his eyes, which were light brown, penetrating, and uncannily sympathetic. Christy had been influenced powerfully by this man, may even have chosen his vocation because of him. Looking at his portrait, she thought she could understand why.

  “She was pretty,” he’d said of his mother tonight. Anne thought it an understatement. She was a beautiful woman, with her son’s blond hair and ice-blue eyes, and an expression that was, at least in this portrait, at once loving and ever so slightly ironic. She was fond of the artist, but her face said she wished he would hurry and get on with it.

  A thought struck her. “Did you paint these?”

  “Yes.”

  “I should’ve known. Oh, Christy, they’re lovely. How old were you when you did them?”

  “Twenty, twenty-one.”

  “I’d like to see all of your paintings. You’ve kept them, haven’t you?” He nodded. “Could I see them?”

  He smiled, shrugged. “Someday. If you like.”

  “I would like.” She crossed the room to his bedside table, which was covered with books and papers. Stirring the papers, deliberately nosy, she saw that they contained notes for one of his upcoming sermons. She made a shocked face. “You write your sermons in bed?”

  “When I’m stuck. Which is most of the time.”

  “Oh,” she exclaimed, “you’re really reading it.” One of the books on the table was A Treatise on the Philosophy of Agnosticism; she’d left it for him last week in their hiding place.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

  She hadn’t even read it herself. She felt sheepish. Christy’s faith was based on study and contemplation and who knew how many hours of soul-searching, while her lack of it was based, if she cared to be truthful, on not much of anything at all. “What did you think of it?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Haven’t finished it yet. Mostly I’m impressed by the dreariness of a man’s vision of a world with no God.”

  “Let’s not talk about theology tonight,” she said hastily.

  He smiled his patient smile. “All right.”

  She remembered—had never forgotten—why she’d lured him up here in the first place. On slightly surer ground, she moved to the middle of the bed and sat down at the edge, smoothing her palms over the coverlet. “Soft,” she said—softly, giving him the full benefit of her smile. “Join me?” She raised her eyebrows, daring him.

  He watched her without speaking for a long, long moment. Then he shrugged away from the doorpost and straightened his folded arms. Not smiling at all, he crossed the room to the bed, and by the time he reached her she’d stopped breathing. He put his hands in her hair, tipping her head up. “Anne,” he said, and kissed her with such tenderness, she could hardly bear it. She pulled him down beside her on the bed and put her arms around his neck, and in no time at all they were holding each other, exchanging soft, glad caresses. “I’ve been waiting all night to do this,” he confessed, and she whispered back, “Me, too.” She put her hands inside his coat so she could stroke his broad back and hold him tight against her, savoring the hard, muscular feel of him, all man, all hers. While he kissed her, he whispered in her ear, words that curled her toes and
took her breath away. Was there ever a man like him? She could feel her heart stealing away, deserting her side and going over to his. Uncatchable now; she’d think about it later.

  He held her jaw in his cupped palms and stroked her lips with his thumbs, urging them open with a gentle pressure. A sweet, heavy longing moved over her. Their lips met in the slowest of kisses, warm and damp, as intimate as lovemaking. She wasn’t sure how her hand had gotten on his thigh, but she loved the rock-solid feel of it under her stroking fingers. Christy made a soft sound in his throat and she echoed it, a low hum of sheer appreciation.

  She had on a black lace jabot that buttoned down the front of her blouse. She said, “Oh,” when she realized he was slowly undoing the buttons. She pulled back to see his face—faintly flushed, beautifully intent; when he looked up from his unbuttoning, she saw that his pupils had almost eclipsed the clear blue irises. He spread his hands across her chest, above the frilly chemise, caressing her skin and making her sigh. Bending his head, he put his lips on the bare top of her shoulder. She breathed in the scent of his hair, stroking it, letting it tickle her between her fingers.

  He began to tug at her corset, and she could feel his thrilling impatience through his touch. Her breasts spilled out, the top of the garment pushing them up like an offering, a gift. His strong hands covered her possessively. “My darling,” he murmured. “Anne, my love.” She closed her eyes, giving herself up to the delicious pleasure, feeling wanton—but safe, too, because she was cherished. And she was falling, falling, the coverlet at her back, and Christy’s hair a soft, sweet teasing on her breasts. She felt his lips kiss one sensitive nipple, and she arched her back, sighing his name.

  “Be my wife,” he whispered, trailing kisses up and down the hollow between her breasts. “Marry me, sweetheart.”

  “I can’t. Don’t ask me,” she got out, eyes squeezed shut.

  “Anne . . .”