Evy tore open the paper and ribbons. “Oooh …” She feasted her eyes on a stylish dress, one as elegant as anything Arcilla owned for evening wear.
“The jade color goes with my eyes.” There was no doubting the pleasure in Arcilla’s features, as she said this, then went on to exclaim over the lower half of the skirt, which was also embroidered. “It is wonderful.”
The neckline was lower, as was appropriate for evening wear, with a delicately embroidered bodice. The sleeves were puffed to the elbow with silk ruching at the bust. The overskirt was pleated, which, Arcilla explained, was quite popular. The gold-fringed hemline on the ornate skirt came to the floor.
Again, Evy let a sigh of pure delight escape her as she touched the glimmering silk.
“And—this.” Arcilla stepped back into the corridor, then returned with a hatbox and several smaller boxes. Her mischievous smile drew an answering grin from Evy. “These are from my dear, dear brother.”
Rogan!
Evy felt her cheeks warming, and lowered her head to avoid Arcilla’s sharp gaze. She took the packages and tore off the wrappings, then removed a positively darling green hat with bows, ribbons, and silk flowers that matched the dress.
“The hat is for day wear,” Arcilla said.
“It’s beautiful.” Evy held the charming adornment in her hands as a riot of emotions surged through her. Don’t be absurd! a sensible voice within her scolded. He didn’t buy this special for you. Good heavens, he probably sent a servant to purchase it. You can’t possibly think Rogan would care enough to—
She removed the fashionable silk flowers with tiny gemstones that were to be worn in an upswept hairdo for evening. Next followed gloves that reached to the elbow, and a lacy fan to complete her evening outfit.
Evy could not find her voice.
“He’s busy in London, so he did not come home this weekend.”
Evy met Arcilla’s smiling look. So she was right. He hadn’t bought it—
“But when he saw the dress I’d bought you, he went out and returned with the other accessories. ‘For the rectory girl,’ he told me, though I confess his tone was a bit goading. No matter. His taste is surprisingly exquisite.” She nudged Evy. “Try them on. Lets see.”
“Yes”—Aunt Grace came from behind her—“try them on, dear.” She reached to unloose Evy’s garments, then helped her slip into the new dress and set the jaunty hat on her head, brushing back her thick, tawny curls.
“You look lovely, dear.” Aunt Grace’s voice caught with tender pleasure.
Evy rushed to the mirror and could scarcely believe her eyes. Could that vision in the glass really be her?
“Such conceit.” Arcilla tsked, an utterly shameless grin on her face.
“I—hardly recognize myself.”
“You look quite grown-up,” Arcilla agreed, as though she were a few years Evy’s senior instead of a few months.
Evy turned back to the mirror, noting how the color of the gown made her amber eyes sparkle with jade flecks. Those eyes widened a fraction as she realized how the dress enhanced her figure.
She fondled the ribbons on her hat, more pleased than she dared admit to know Rogan had actually taken time to shop in London to buy her birthday gifts.
Her gaze slid from the hat to her aunt’s reflection, and Evy stiffened. Aunt Grace’s eyes shone with pride, but there was something more there.
Concern. Clearly, her aunt was worried.
And Evy had the uncomfortable feeling that it was because Aunt Grace had known what—and who—had been occupying her thoughts.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Evy and Alice Tisdale shared a room with two other girls at Parkridge Music Academy in London. Turning fifteen and going to music school had not changed Alice one whit. She was still as haughty as ever. She seemed to live in a dream world, and hinted time and again that she would marry Rogan. Evy discounted that idea, though she never said so to Alice. But it was well known that Rogan and Patricia were often placed together at social functions.
Thus it was a quite a surprise when Alice announced one Thursday afternoon that Rogan had arranged for her to spend a weekend at Heathfriar. Arcilla would be there, as would Rogan and Parnell, and there was to be some sort of lawn party.
“Naturally the Chantrys shall be taking me to Heathfriar with them tomorrow afternoon. We shall return here to the school on Sunday evening.” Alice looked across the room at Evy, who was doing her homework. “It is such a shame you will be left here all alone, Evy.”
Evy refused to rise to the bait. Alice had been insufferable ever since she learned about the pretty hat Rogan had bought Evy for her birthday.
Alice, however, wasn’t to be put off. “Isn’t it all a bit barmy? I mean, here you are, so much closer to Arcilla than I, but you have not even been invited. Then again, maybe not so strange, since it wasn’t Arcilla who invited me, but Sir Rogan.”
“Are you not rushing things, Alice? He is not Sir Rogan yet. Squire is still in good health, the last I heard.”
Alice pursed her small mouth and remained silent, pretending to read.
Evy was not disappointed about not being invited to Heathfriar. She’d had no expectations of becoming part of the aristocratic circle of young friends surrounding Arcilla and her two brothers. Nor did Alice actually belong. It was Mrs. Tisdale who constantly pushed her daughter forward and manipulated events to have her included.
As for Evy, she was under no illusions. She was the governess’s niece. The fact she was able to attend a school like Parkridge, where most of the students were wealthy, had been primarily due to her aunt’s ability to save. That, however, in no way elevated her in society.
She was surprised, though, that Alice would be invited to such an event, knowing how Arcilla felt about the girl. It was even more puzzling to think of Rogan arranging for Alice to come to Heathfriar for any reason. From what Arcilla had told her about Rogan’s activities in London, Evy could not imagine him the least bit interested in Alice. He attended riding clubs and was rumored to be seeing several girls besides Patricia. Did she know this? Probably not.
Evy shook her head. Perhaps she was just not familiar enough with Rogan to know for certain. After all, she had not actually spoken with him since his birthday nearly two years ago—and the incident in the gallery had been a singular event. When he did come home to Rookswood, it was only briefly, and then he and Parnell would leave to spend time with their like-minded friends. If it had not been for the sweet little birthday hat, Evy would have suspected he barely remembered her. And even the hat might have been an impulsive gesture because Arcilla showed him the dress she’d bought her.
Ah well …
Evy stole another glance at Alice, who had her smug nose glued to her reading assignment. Could I be wrong about Rogan Chantry and Alice? Alice was pretty, in her own anemic way, and Dr. Tisdale was esteemed in Grimston Way, though he was unknown in London’s higher circles. That being the case, it did seem strange for Alice to get an invitation to Heathfriar. If Alice were to be believed, then Evy knew even less about Rogan than she had thought.
Stop it! Evy pinched herself. Stop thinking about Rogan Chantry. After all, Derwent was corresponding with her. He was well into his training and would come home this summer to become his father’s assistant until September, when he would return for his final year.
Evy let a small sigh escape. If only she knew how she felt about Derwent. She had known him for so long that she was perfectly comfortable around him, and she believed he felt the same. Still, at times she thought of him more as a cousin than a beau.
Perhaps the most disturbing change in Evy’s life came when Aunt Grace wrote her that her health was troubling her. Now that Arcilla no longer needed a governess, Lady Elosia had arranged with the bishop to have Grace help the new young curate teach school at the rectory. Grace wrote Evy that she was enjoying the work.
I teach three days a week. I am enjoying it and did not realize how much I had missed
the vicarage. Walking up the path lined with the roses Edmund and I planted years ago when we first arrived is like coming home again. Next month is the spring fete, and Vicar Brown asked me to be in charge of assigning booths to our dear parishioners to sell their goods. Oh, did I tell you in my last letter? Lady Elosia is allowing me to stay in the governess cottage vacated since Miss Hortense passed away last month. The cottage perfectly meets my needs, and there is plenty of room for your arrival in the summer.
Evy frowned. Was her aunt’s writing a little shaky? Aunt Grace was under Dr. Tisdale’s care for “weak lungs,” but she had insisted to Evy she would grow stronger by summer.
Evy was thankful that Lady Elosia, filling the role of squire for her preoccupied brother Lyle, had been such a help to dear Aunt Grace. Evy suspected most of the Chantrys’ kindness toward her aunt was because of Uncle Edmund’s position as vicar for so many years in Grimston Way, rather than the few years she had been Arcilla’s governess.
Evy returned home to Grimston Way that summer, anxious to see for herself how Aunt Grace was progressing. Though thinner, she appeared well enough when she met Evy at the junction in the one-horse jingle. Or was her aunt merely adept at concealing her problems? Now that Evy was older, she could look back over those early years at the vicarage, and even at Rookswood when Aunt Grace had been Arcilla’s governess, and recognize that her aunt had never been one to share her innermost feelings. No, not even when she lost her husband.
Life in the simple cottage on Rookswood estate was cozy and comfortable. Evy loved taking walks in the huge garden, and not entirely because she might accidentally meet Rogan. But he, as it turned out, came and went with little notice of her, spending most of his time in London or at Heathfriar.
Evy missed being privy to what was going on with Arcilla and her brothers. Arcilla had many exciting new friends and no longer needed her company as she had when they were younger. Even so, when things went wrong in her life or she had some tantalizing secret she felt she couldn’t entrust to her rival girlfriends, she would have a horse saddled and ride down from the manor house to see Evy, bringing another mare with her so they could go riding together as they had done in the past.
“What kind of friends are they if they cannot keep your confidences?” Evy asked her as they rode along the simple wooded trail at a slow pace. It was a warm June day, and the cloudless sky and green trees made for a perfect outing.
“Some of them I would never trust with any of my secrets.” Arcilla shifted in the saddle to look at Evy. “Whenever they get angry or jealous, they threaten to tell everyone.”
“Then they are not friends.”
Arcilla’s laughter rang out. “That’s why I like you. Dear, faithful Evy Varley. I know I can tell you anything, and you won’t tell anyone, or think worse of me.”
“Perhaps because I already know the worst.” Evy winked at her.
Arcilla’s response was a smirk with a definite secretive edge to it. “Oh no, you don’t … And I’m not going to tell you, either.”
“I’m quite sure I don’t need to hear about it.”
It was around this time that Parnell and Rogan both came home from London. Oddly enough, they were going to be at Rookswood the rest of the summer because Parnell, who had graduated Oxford, would be going to Capetown to take a position in the diamond business under Sir Julien.
“When will Parnell leave?”
“August, I think. So Papa and Aunt Elosia wanted them both home together this summer. I don’t mind staying at Rookswood this year. We will all be together for a change. Then, too, the summer entertainments will be grand this year, thanks to Aunt Elosia. Papa takes no interest in such things. When my mum was alive, she would always have dinner balls. That is, until she became so ill …” She fell silent, but it was only a moment until she brightened. “And of course Charles will come, and Patricia.” She cast an amused glance toward Evy at the mention of the Bancroft girl.
Evy looked off toward the trees. Arcilla was far too quick to discern emotions in other girls.
“Have you heard more about Peter Bartley from South Africa?”
Arcilla grimaced, making her lovely face quite unattractive. “He writes me. His letters are filled with political information. Dreadfully boring. Something about trouble with the Dutch. Boers, I think he called them.”
“What does Charles Bancroft think of your family’s wish to match you up with Mr. Bartley?”
Arcilla bit her lip. “I have not told him yet.”
Evy arched a brow at that. “Is that fair to Charles?”
“Do you want me to lose him?”
“No. But you will if Sir Julien and your father agree about your marriage to Mr. Bartley.”
“I’m counting on Aunt Elosia. She wants me to stay in England, and she is close to the Bancrofts.”
Evy sometimes saw the guests arrive on Friday afternoon to stay the weekend—they were wealthy, well bred, and of high social rank. Usually their sons and daughters would come with them and have their own parties with Arcilla, Rogan, and Parnell. At changing seasons there were foxhunts and pheasant shoots. Sir Lyle had pheasants bred on the estate solely for that purpose. Then, in the evenings, the dancing and dining would begin. The sounds of music coming from the baronial hall would drift down to the cottage. Sometimes, when Evy was in a fanciful, romantic mood, she would feed her dreams by going out to Aunt Grace’s small rose garden and sitting on the swing where she could listen to the waltzes. She’d pretend she was there, like Miss Patricia. Naturally her dreams would have her in the loveliest ball gown, and suddenly Rogan would notice her!
“Where have you been all these years?” he would say as he asked her to waltz with him. “Look at you—all grown-up and so very pretty.”
Evy laughed at her own folly, yet she would dance in the shadows of the rose garden pretending Rogan was with her. In her dreams, even Derwent understood. “I see you are not the one for me, Evy. I let you go in peace.”
“Silly goose,” she reprimanded herself. “I am as bad as Alice Tisdale!”
A few times during the summer Evy did see Rogan, but always from a distance when he was out riding with his friends. Those few times they did ride near the cottage, she went on pruning the roses and acted as though she did not notice them. Rogan, typically, would be smiling and laughing at something Miss Patricia said. Evy admired the other girls blue riding habit, no doubt especially made for her. It went so well with her auburn hair. She was an exceptionally pretty girl. No wonder Rogan was attracted to her. Patricia fairly outdid herself to keep his attention, and she appeared very good at it.
One weekend not long after one of Evy’s rides with Arcilla, Lady Elosia and Sir Lyle were entertaining guests from London. Evy was with Derwent in the rectory garden, and Aunt Grace was helping Vicar Brown, as she did every year, to arrange for the late summer fete. As usual, the parishioners would sell everything from elderberry jam and sweet cinnamon pickles to dried herbs in little bouquets. The money from the sale would go to restore the rectory fruit orchard, where disease had damaged the apple and plum trees.
Aunt Grace, as she had done for so many years when Uncle Edmund was alive, was assigning locations for the ladies to put up their booths on the large rectory lawn. Vicar Brown, Derwent, Mr. Croft, and even Bixby the coachman from Rookswood were building a few covered cubicles for the older ladies.
Derwent was home from divinity school and helping run the rectory and aid his father, who was none too strong. Vicar Brown had suffered a mild stroke in the winter. Though Derwent was expected to become curate when he graduated, nothing was settled yet. Some in the village said that he did not have the true calling of a vicar, and these whispers had made their way to him and made him despondent.
“If my father must step down earlier than planned, it will change everything,” he told Evy, nailing a piece of canvas onto a booth. Evy would be selling Aunt Grace’s tarts. “I suppose I could become a private tutor and live in London, but it would not
give the living that the rectory does.” At this, he glanced at Evy meaningfully.
Evy understood what Derwent was hinting at. If ever they were to marry, he would need a post at the rectory. If they both taught, then they could afford a place to live in London. But Evy had no strong passions toward Derwent, and the thought of marriage to him seemed little more than duty. And yet, what could be more normal than for a vicar’s son and a former vicar’s niece to carry on the work at the rectory in Grimston Way for another generation?
“You both know the rectory so well,” Aunt Grace often said when they were alone in the cottage.
“I would not worry about a position, Derwent.” Evy winced as he struck his thumb with the hammer. He yowled and dropped the tool, which Evy picked up. “Come down. Let me see.”
“I was never good at this.” Derwent climbed down the stepladder.
“You will lose your thumbnail,” Evy told him. “Here, I’ll finish.”
“No, Evy, you might fall. Besides, girls don’t climb ladders and bang nails.”
She grinned. “I do.” To prove it, she climbed up and proceeded to nail the canvas closed.
“Anyway, Derwent,” she said over her banging, “if your father’s health forces him to retire earlier than planned, there will of necessity be a new vicar appointed from London.”
“True enough.”
“Eventually, though, you will get a post here, perhaps as curate. There are a great many duties that fall to the curate, and you will be able to prove your spirituality.”
“I suppose.” He ran his uninjured hand through his russet hair. “I sometimes wish … Well, I’d best not say.”
“What do you wish?” She hammered another nail.
“You won’t laugh at me if I tell you?”
She gave him a scolding glance. “I think you know me better than that.”
“I sometimes find myself wishing I was going to Capetown, like Rogan and Parnell.” His eyes shone with a longing Evy had not seen before. “I would like to work in the diamond business. I suppose you think I sound ungrateful. The church has been good to me, allowing me the grant to go to school as they did. I wouldn’t be able to attend if they hadn’t. I owe my best years to the church.”
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