Elosia was quick to agree. “Of course you will not. My land, Lyle! Would you send your own daughter to live among heathen just to please Julien?”
“Uncle Julien controls the diamonds.” Rogan’s wry observation drew a nod from his father.
“Unfortunately,” Sir Lyle said with a sigh.
Rogan tilted his head, regarding his father. “Where is this colony to be?”
“Mashonaland.”
Evy noticed the smile fade from Rogan’s face.
“Isn’t that where Uncle Henry had his last expeditions?” Parnell glanced toward Rogan.
“He insists his interest has nothing to do with the map Henry left Rogan in his will,” Lyle said, a little too sharply, Evy thought.
Parnell turned a wicked grin on his younger brother. “Better watch out, Rogan, or Julien will be staking his claim ahead of you.”
“That supposed map of Henry’s was never located,” Lyle countered.
“I agree with Father. It probably does not even exist, Rogan.” Parnell sounded almost gleeful. “You’re wasting your time searching for it.”
Arcilla jumped into the fray. “You are just jealous because Uncle Henry left it to Rogan instead of you, Parnell. Pay no mind, Rogan.” She went to loop her arm through his, then reached up and smoothed his dark hair. “When you find Henry’s Folly, then it will be Parnell who will look foolish. And you won’t get one single gold coin, Parnell.”
Parnell chuckled. “I won’t need it—I will have the diamonds. Remember, Father, Rogan and I have already had our meeting with you and settled our inheritance. I get extra shares in the diamond mines of Kimberly, and Rogan can have Rookswood as he wants.”
“And the title.” Evy marveled at Rogan’s calm tone. He seemed utterly undisturbed by all that had just gone on. “In fact, you can begin calling me Sir Rogan now.” His face broke into a grin.
“You can have the old tide and land. It means little to me. All I want are diamonds! South Africa! And unlike you, Arcilla, I do want Uncle Julien to arrange my marriage—to Darinda Bley.”
“Who carries a tidy inheritance of her own,” Rogan said.
“Listen to you two carry on about titles and inheritance as though I were already gone,” Lyle said wryly.
“What do I get for my inheritance?” Arcilla complained.
“Rogan and Parnell will always look after you, Daughter, and of course you will have your shares in the mines.”
“And Peter Bartley,” Rogan tossed in, glancing his sister’s way.
Lady Elosia put her arms around Arcilla. “I’m leaving everything that is mine to you, Precious.”
Apparently Rogan had had enough, for he parted company with them as Lady Elosia led the way into the dining room, Arcilla on her arm.
When Rogan came bounding up the stairs, Evy started to return to the third floor.
“Running away again!
She didn’t even spare him a glance. “I have my studies to attend to.”
“It did not seem to worry you during my father’s homecoming.”
“I was not eavesdropping—not really.” She hated the way heat rose in her cheeks when he teased her. “Aunt Grace thought your aunt might call us to meet the squire. I was simply prepared to go down if beckoned.”
“As though my father does not know who you and the vicar’s widow are.” He smiled. “What do you think of my family?” His eyes glittered, but Evy thought there was a tinge of hurt in the humor.
“At least you have a family.” She had not meant to sound wistful, but the note, though restrained, was clearly in her voice.
“I’ve been wondering what you thought of Camilla Brewster?”
Aware that he watched her alertly, she wondered if perhaps he understood more of the scandal originating in Capetown than just the part about the stolen diamonds.
“I felt sorry for her.” She met Rogan’s steady gaze. “Your aunt was right about the way your uncle treated Lady Camilla. He commanded her as though she were a prisoner instead of his daughter-in-law.”
“Maybe being married to his adopted son is one and the same thing.”
“At least you do not approve of Sir Julien’s control over the members of your family.”
“I hear Camilla talked to you before Julien burst into the parlor with his sjambok,” he said. “What did she tell you?”
“Very little.” Evy almost smiled at his description of the scene. Sir Julien might as well have brandished a Boer whip. She wasn’t sure what he knew, and for some reason was loath to reveal too much.
Rogan leaned against the gallery rail, but his gaze never left her, and she felt her cheeks growing warm again under that scrutiny.
“Did she mention the mystery baby?”
So Rogan also knew about that as well. The heat surged from her cheeks into her whole face. It was absurd how she could feel so vulnerable about her past when there could be no truth to Lady Camilla’s irrational beliefs. Nor was there any reason to try to hide the tale.
“She did not mention the gossipy tale to me, but my aunt knew about it and explained Lady Brewster’s … illness.” She hesitated, then gave in to her curiosity. “When did you hear about the child?”
“Just recently. When I came from Heathfriar to welcome my father home. I must say I was surprised to learn about it.”
Then he had heard about it yesterday. “It is quite foolish, of course.” She spoke with more firmness than necessary. “I know who my parents are. Dr. Clyde and Junia Varley. I was born at Rorke’s Drift at the mission station two months before the Zulu War.”
His regard of her turned pensive. “Rather a murky issue, though, don’t you think? The rectory girl becoming my cousin.”
“I cannot see myself as your cousin—or being connected to anyone in this family, for that matter.”
“Then again, Anthony Brewster is not related to the Chantrys by blood, only by marriage. But I wonder how things would change should the impossible happen and you discover you are part of this mixed-up, daft dynasty.”
“I do not know what you mean.” But she did. She merely refused to think about it.
“I mean,” he belabored the point, “you would be a diamond heiress, much like Arcilla. Julien would be your grandfather by marriage, which would mean he would be meditating on whom to marry you to. After all, he’d have to be sure to enhance his fortune and power.”
Evy felt her mouth gape open, and she stared at Rogan. Not for anything did she want to be connected to this family dynasty. If she were somehow related to Rogan …
She pushed away the emotions struggling to overwhelm her and tipped her chin. “Sounds a bit frightening to me.”
“Frightening?” That caught his interest. “How so?”
“For one thing, I would not want Sir Julien arranging my future. But this discussion is silly because the tale of a mystery child is mere chatter.”
“Maybe not. I can see I will have to look into all this.”
“Please do not.”
His smirk was back. “Why? Are you afraid to learn the truth?”
“Of course not.” Really, he was insufferable! “I already know the truth. It is gossip I wish to shun. Soon Lizzie or one of the other servants will start spreading tales and turning me into an heiress.” She turned away. “Now if you’ll be so kind as to excuse me, I must go.”
He laughed, and the sound was deep and rich. “Wait. Are you not going to wish me a happy birthday?”
She hesitated. He was sixteen now, more handsome than ever, with a devilish grin and devastating gaze … and every inch a scamp. She pressed her lips together. “Happy birthday.”
He mocked a frown. “Is that all?” She started when he reached out to take her hand. His eyes glittered. “All the girls like to kiss me on my birthday.”
She could understand that. “Alice Tisdale was no doubt first in line.”
“I only like the prettiest ones to catch me.”
From the fire blazing in her face, she was sure h
er cheeks must be scarlet.
“Well?” His brows arched, and his smile deepened.
Did he actually think she would kiss him? She assumed her sternest expression, but could not restrain a small, teasing smile. “There is no accounting for boys with unwise tastes, or for silly girls determined to make fools of themselves.”
He laughed. “Leave it to the rectory girl to put me in my place. So you won’t kiss me on my birthday?”
“Indeed, no. Aunt Grace says a girl must never permit liberties until she is engaged and the wedding date firmly established. And then only a kiss on the cheek.”
His grip on her hand tightened. “It is like that, is it? But you are not actually that old-fashioned are you? Where is your adventurous spirit? Why not do something just for fun? It’s rather early for till death do us part.”
Her heart thumped at the feel of his warm hand around hers, and she tried to wriggle her hand free. The action only amused him.
“Rogan?” It was Sir Lyle, calling from below the gallery. “We are waiting for you at the table.”
He let a slow smile work its way across his features and tugged her hand. “At least come down for birthday cake.”
“You forget yourself. What do you think Lady Elosia would do if the niece of the hired governess walked into the dining room and sat down at your birthday dinner?”
“She would do nothing because I have just invited you as my guest. I told you before, Rookswood will be mine someday. I will do as I wish here. Everyone knows that.”
“I don’t doubt it,” she said with a rueful smile. “Thank you for the invitation, but I really must go.” Easing her hand from his at last, she backed away.
Was that regret in his eyes? She could not be sure.
“If I cannot change your mind, then … au revoir.”
He bounded down the stairs to join his father, and Evy watched them retire into the dining room. When they had vanished from view, she made her way upstairs to the third floor. But her wicked mind would not let her be. All she could think of was what would have happened if she had accepted Rogan’s outrageous invitation.
She drew in a steadying breath as she sank into a chair. It was hard to know who was more dangerous—Sir Julien with his schemes, or Rogan with his utter determination to have his way with everyone and everything.
In the two years since Evy and Aunt Grace had come to Rookswood, Arcilla had accepted Evy. Still, the girl was not above being catty or demanding her way at times. She had her own set of friends from London’s aristocracy who came to visit on holidays and in the summer, and Evy did not belong. When they came to stay, she would occupy herself with practicing her beloved music.
And yet, though Evy was excluded from the circle of Arcilla’s friends, she was closer to Arcilla than she would have thought possible. The fact that Evy’s temperament was so different from Arcilla’s permitted their unusual but complementary friendship to proceed without threat of competition.
“We’re nothing alike,” Arcilla told her one day, “and maybe that’s the reason I like your company, while I cannot endure that imperious snob, Alice Tisdale.”
Evy did not tell Arcilla that she, too, was often an imperious snob.
Lady Elosia had been thoughtful enough to have a piano brought up to one of the empty rooms on the third floor, and Evy would go there and indulge herself. One such time when London friends were staying the weekend with Arcilla, she came to the door of the music room and stood, hands on hips.
“Will you stop that moldy music? You are disturbing my friends.”
She nodded to Miss Patricia Bancroft, who eyed Evy with disdain. When they went out, Evy heard Patricia say to Arcilla, “Is that the girl Rogan was talking about to Charles?”
“I suppose it was. What did Rogan say?”
“He said …”
Evy grimaced when their voices faded. Down the corridor Arcilla closed her bedroom door, and Evy let her hands crash on the keys. The noisy bedlam filled the room.
So what did he say about me? Was it too much to contemplate that he might have complemented her? Keep dreaming, Evy Varley.
That same afternoon Evy noticed for the first time a handsome violin in the corner of the large room. Investigating she saw initials engraved on the leather carrying case: R. J. C.
It could not be Rogan’s could it? There must be some mistake. Could there be another R. J. C.? Hardly. But the thought of the restless, arrogant Rogan playing violin made her laugh. What an impossible notion.
Arcilla’s fifteenth birthday finally arrived, but it did not find her going to France as she had anticipated. Instead, she was sent to a private school in London, which did not seem to cause the degree of disappointment it might have due to her interest in one of Patricia Bancroft’s brothers. Arcilla often talked about Charles, but then she talked about so many boys that Evy merely smiled at her.
“Honestly, Arcilla. You’ve been in love so often you’ll never know when you really are in love.”
“Oh, you’re such a disapproving girl. Really, Evy, I’m serious. By now you should have at least one boy you’re interested in. Instead all you do is practice your music and read your Bible.”
“That is not true. I do lots of other things. But I don’t see why I should follow in your steps. They’ll most likely lead you into big trouble one of these days.”
Arcilla laughed at her. “Well, you do have Derwent Brown.”
Evy gave a haughty sniff. “I don’t know what you intend to imply by that.”
Arcilla’s grin was utterly wicked. “I daresay you do. You are going to marry him one day. You’ll go live at the rectory and grow roses and hold the spring and summer fete. Whereas I”—and she smiled to herself at this and opened her arms wide—“will be able to enjoy the whole wide world. Isn’t it positively grand?”
“Oh, indeed. Positively.” Evy gave her friend a small smile. “But I warn you, Arcilla, you may learn that the whole wide world is not such a lovely place after all. As for Derwent, you appear to know more than I do about our future. Nothing is certain in this life. Only God knows whom I will marry, and that is the best choice I could have.”
“Oh, Evy, you are so naive, yet I can’t help liking you for it. Well, never mind that, what do you think of my new ball gown? Isn’t it a dream? I’ll wear it at Heathfriar.”
While Arcilla had been to several balls by now, Evy had not been to even one. She refused to let Arcilla know she was wistful, or that she secretly dreamed of waltzing with Rogan and not with Derwent. Arcilla would enjoy making fun of her, and if she discovered her daydream about Rogan she might even be mean enough to tell him.
“The ball at Heathfriar—where dear Charles shall sweep me off my feet.” Arcilla held her ball gown against her with one hand and placed the other at her heart. She waltzed about the room, eyes closed in dreamy reverie until she bumped into the bed and fell. Evy laughed. Today Arcilla was in love with Charles, and tomorrow—well, who knew? Certainly not Arcilla.
The gown was indeed beautiful, a minty green with a golden underlining so that it shimmered in the light. Arcilla would look lovely in it, and of course she knew she would. She was mature in body, and boys were starting to buzz around her like bees.
“What about Peter Bartley of South Africa?” Evy leaned back. “Your father and Sir Julien have plans.”
Arcilla made a face. “I will never travel to South Africa to marry a government official. Aunt Elosia agrees with me.”
A surprise, indeed, Evy thought, then chastised herself for the uncharitable thought. For all of Arcilla’s posturing, it had to be a difficult thing to have one’s future decided without regard to what one truly wanted.
For the hundredth time, Evy thanked God that she belonged to a simple and loving family. At least she would never have to worry about being handed off in marriage as a financial or business asset!
A few months later, Evy had her fifteenth birthday, and Aunt Grace handed her an envelope.
“For
your birthday.”
Evy unsealed the flap, removed a gilt-edged letter, and read.
This is to inform you that Miss Evy Varley has been accepted into her first year of studies at the prestigious and hallowed halls of Parkridge Music Academy.
Shock and then delight shivered through Evy. She jumped up and threw her arms around Aunt Grace. “Aunt! Oh, thank you, thank you! But how? How could you manage with our finances as they are?”
Aunt Grace smiled, looking as pleased and excited as Evy. “Oh, I have my little secrets. I wanted to surprise you.”
“You have. And I’m thrilled. But your savings—”
“This did not come from my savings.”
“Then where—?”
Her aunt merely patted her hand. “Now now, you must not meddle. A birthday gift is meant to be accepted, not questioned. The second year of your studies is another matter, however. We will proceed one year at a time, trusting the Lord.”
Evy laughed and embraced her again. “I owe you so much, Aunt Grace.”
“It is enough I have your affection.” Her aunts voice trembled, and Evy blinked back tears.
“You will always have that, dear Aunt.” She kissed the older woman’s cheek, then frowned when she noticed darkening circles beneath her aunts eyes. She must be tired, Evy thought, but paid no more attention at the moment. Her happiness bubbled.
“I must go and tell Arcilla.”
“Tell me what?” Arcilla came into the room, hands behind her.
Evy whirled, smiling. “That I trusted the Lord with my disappointment about going to Parkridge, and guess what?”
Arcilla laughed. “He answered your prayer after all!”
“Yes! I’m leaving for London in two weeks.”
“I know. Mrs. Havering told me. And now …” She drew her hands from behind her and held out a gaily wrapped package. Arcilla’s eyes sparkled as she looked over at Aunt Grace, who smiled.
“We’ve shared the secret of your going to London, and I bought you something.”
Evy’s heart overflowed. “Oh, Arcilla, did you really?”
“Of course I did, silly goose. Open it.”
Tomorrow's Treasure Page 22
