It was clear he was going to have his way. It ought to have nettled her, but secretly, it did not. She could not fight him on this, so she would simply give in to the pleasure of his company. For the moment, anyway.
“I simply thought you were out for a ride and would wish to carry on with it.” She knew the protest held little force.
He placed hand at heart, affecting a somber stance. “I shall be completely forthright, Miss Evy. I have been aware of your habits recently and suspected you would come here, so I followed. I fully expected to see our dear Derwent, but lo, such a happy turn of fortune—I discovered you alone. You see, I wanted to talk with you. After all, being such a close neighbor and knowing you for so many years, I think it is time we became more … personally involved. Do you not agree?”
That half lazy smile pulled at her, and she forced herself to look away toward the path. “We are not actually neighbors. It cannot be lost on you that I live with my aunt in one of the Chantry cottages on Chantry property.”
“Now, now, there’s no need for that kind of talk. Anyway, we’ve shared a few secrets in our time, which goes a bit of a way in making a bond between us. Don’t you think so?”
“The secrets, I admit, were very intriguing. But I am not aware of the bond you hint of.”
He smiled. “Then I need to cultivate it to bring your thinking around to mine. Let us see”—he pursed his lips—“perhaps in London, when you get there. In the past there was a time or two when I thought to contact you, but one thing or another came up. This year, I will simply make things happen. I am rather a prodder, you know. I want things to happen, and I usually help them along. And we now have an agreement.”
Would he really arrange to see her in London when she returned to Parkridge Music Academy? She hoped not. She hoped so. Oh, she didn’t know what she hoped. Their agreement to play for each other clearly made a way for them to meet, which otherwise might never come to fruition. But in London—away from the vicarage?
“One day,” he continued, “I will show you Uncle Henry’s map. If I did not want to develop this … friendship with you, would I make such a promise?”
She had no sensible answer and was fairly certain that was just what he wanted.
“Then you actually found Master Henry’s map?”
“I told you I would, remember? When I make up my mind to accomplish something, I do not give up until I have victory. Yes, I found it. And I have plans for when I arrive at the Cape. You see? I’ve even let you in on my secret. No one in the family realizes I have the map. Naturally, no one ever believed it was real, except perhaps Julien,” he said thoughtfully. “I think that’s his reason for backing a new colony in Mashonaland. He would love to get his hands on the gold deposit that Henry made such an issue about.”
“You will tell Sir Lyle, of course. And your brother, when you arrive at the Cape?”
He lost his teasing grace at that. “Parnell? I doubt I will. First I need to locate the area where Henry claimed there was gold.”
“The map does not show it?”
“Most of that area of Africa is unexplored by Europeans. Livingstone may have gone that way, but Henry had difficulty drawing the map as precisely as he must have wanted. Someday, of course, they will all need to know I found the map, but not until I own one of the greatest gold deposits in the area. What I’m hoping for is that Julien’s colony is nearby. If it proves to be, then I will have a base to work from.”
“The colony is deep in Mashonaland?”
“They are beginning to call the town Rhodesia—after Cecil Rhodes, who sponsored the colony—but its known now as Salisbury. Julien is hoping the colonial office will send Peter Bartley there to represent the Crown.”
She looked at him. “Arcilla would be most unhappy if she were forced to marry him and go to such a savage place.”
“Yes,” he frowned, “Aunt Elosia will have a fainting spell.”
“Surely your father would not wish his daughter to go to such a place?”
“Sometimes I do not think he knows what is happening. Or cares.”
Before she could think better of it, she put a hand on his arm. “Oh, please, you don’t mean that.”
Something flicked in his dark features as he looked down at her hand, and when he lifted his eyes to hers, she found her mouth going suddenly dry at the intensity of his gaze. She had the odd sensation of drowning … and pulled her hand away.
He hesitated, then fell into step beside her again. “I do, actually. Since my mother died, Father is not the man he once was. At first we thought it was Arcilla who would not recover. It turns out she is doing very well, but my father seems to have lost all real interests. He stays in the library most of the time and studies his books.”
“I am sorry.”
“Anyway, I will go to Salisbury.”
What once seemed Rogan’s boyish dreams Evy now saw were an ambitious man’s determination to prevail. She knew he was quite capable, for Arcilla had boasted of her brothers grades in the university. A professor of geology had great hopes for his success, Arcilla had said.
Rogan could be quite serious when he wished to be, but she knew little of that side of his character. She was still learning just who Rogan Chantry really was. Indeed, he had surprised her today. She suspected there would be more surprises in the future. His declared interest in music both startled and pleased her greatly.
And yet, despite all this Evy still did not wholly trust him, not when it came to her heart. She must not become foolishly enamored with him, for she was sure that would lead to unhappy consequences.
Too late, too late, a voice within her chided. She ignored it. “I am sure you will succeed, or die reaching for your goal. Where did you find the map?”
“In Uncle Henry’s rooms. Just as I had thought. The Black Diamond may be there too. I’d hoped it would be with the map, but it was not. But I did find a few very interesting letters.”
He gave her a curious glance, and Evy sensed a cause for concern. “Letters?”
“Old letters, written in 1879. From Cape House.”
“Oh? Are you going to tell me their secrets?”
His smile was as guarded as his words. “Not yet. I have my purposes first.”
She waited, but he said no more, and silence reigned until the cottage came into view. Aunt Grace had already lit a lantern, and a golden glow was showing through the front windows, welcoming her inside.
Rogan opened the small wicket gate, where the bushy white roses grew in sprawling mounds. He bowed her past with exaggerated decorum, as though he knew she did not trust him to be a gentleman. She passed through, and he followed her. It was a short distance to the cottage door, and relief swept her when he did not attempt to see her there, or—even worse—force her to show hospitality to the squire’s son and invite him in for tea.
“Au revoir, my dear Miss Varley.”
She smiled at his typical parting. Never good-bye, but always “until later.” He was letting it be known that he intended to see her again.
When she reached the porch, she glanced back. He was mounting his horse for the ride across the estate grounds to Rookswood. He caught her glance and touched his cap in a little salute, turned the horse, and rode away.
Her eyes half closed, and she tried to discern the emotions rioting within her. Pleasure and excitement that he had contrived the meeting on the hillock, and that he’d arranged for a meeting in London. And something else.
Apprehension.
She was no fool. She was on dangerous ground, and she knew it.
Inside the cottage, she stopped to peer into the small mirror hanging before the table with its bowl of autumn mums. She took careful consideration of her appearance.
Her thick hair, amber eyes, and blossoming figure were surely the reasons Rogan’s head had turned in her direction. All wrong reasons, of course, but there it was.
She turned from the glass. Yes, she would need to be cautious indeed. It would have been f
ar safer for her to remain a little brown wren when the fox was near the coop. She lacked father, uncle, or brother to safeguard her from interested hunters.
Well, I have my Christian upbringing to give me wisdom. I shall tread slowly and wisely in temptation’s garden.
Hadn’t Evy seen how beauty had spoiled Arcilla? And how it made Rogan sometimes too confident and bold? At a snap of their fingers, they could have just about anyone they wanted.
Well, she was not so foolish as to think Rogan truly wanted her. No, she would not be caught in his trap. She would let him spend time with her, but nothing more.
Certainly there could be no harm in that.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The next morning dawned with a cool, crisp early autumn breeze that tousled Evy’s hair as she walked down the narrow dirt road past Grimston Wood to the rectory. Derwent was already up and waiting for her.
“How is the vicar this morning?” she asked as he walked with her into the chapel.
“I found him in his study when I got up. He was seated at his desk, his Bible open to the Psalms. I think he fell asleep there last night. I daresay he looked very unrested.” He scowled, running his fingers through his red hair. “I should have gotten up to check on him last night. I saw him to bed, but I’m a sound sleeper; he must have gotten up and gone down to his desk to read.”
Evy sympathized. Hadn’t she spent days and nights worrying about Aunt Grace during her illness? “You must not feel guilty because he slept at his desk, Derwent. The vicar is not a child that you must make all his decisions and feel guilty when he chooses one with which you disagree. I remember how Uncle Edmund sometimes rose at four in the morning to read the Bible in his office alone with God before duties pressed upon him.”
“Yes, but, my father is growing so forgetful. I worry he will hurt himself someday. The stairs to his loft are steep, as you very well know from having used them.”
She nodded. Toward the end of her uncle’s life, Aunt Grace had expressed similar worries about Uncle Edmund climbing and descending those very steps. Yet neither her uncle nor Derwent’s father ever wanted to give up the loft as a cloister.
Her gaze rested on Derwent’s strained features. “I can see your present concerns lie far away from divinity school in London.”
He made no reply, but he didn’t need to. He bowed to her at the front steps of the chapel and walked back to the rectory. She went into the small church office used by the vicar and turned her attention to choosing the hymns for Sunday’s worship service. She had several hymnals open on the desk when she heard footsteps behind her. She looked over her shoulder toward the office door, then stood as Rogan entered. She had not believed he would come.
“Hard at work, I see.” He came up to the desk, noting the hymnbooks spread before her. He was dressed for riding. “You look surprised. I told you I would come.”
Evy held a hymnal against her. “I suppose I thought you would change your mind.”
“Why so? When I commit to something meaningful, I pursue it.” Apparently he saw the small flash of alarm in her eyes, for he gestured to the hymnbooks: “I confided in you yesterday and shared my interest in music, remember?”
She looked down at one of the open hymnbooks. “Yes, I daresay, I still find the idea rather startling.”
He offered an easy smile as he picked up a hymnbook and leafed through it. “Yes, it would be … if you think me a scoundrel. Well, I suppose it was not so very long ago that my family’s ancestors were scoundrels. Barbarians who would just as easily throw their enemies to the bears as bother with them. But to get back to the present, Evy—I may call you by your Christian name? Thank you,” he said before she answered. “By the way, what is Evy the familiar form of? Eve, is it not?”
“Yes, so Aunt Grace tells me.”
“I rather like that … Eve.” He walked to the shelf of theology books and glanced over them, still holding the hymnbook.
She drew a steadying breath. “Eve sounded a little stilted for a baby, so my mother began calling me Evy.”
“A month at the mission station was not very long to have you.”
“A month?” She frowned. “It was longer than that. More like a year. Why do you say a month?”
He rested his shoulder against the bookcase and studied her. “All right, a year. Let’s not discuss that now—you keep looking at the door—are you expecting someone? Derwent perhaps?”
“No, he has work to do this morning. Is there anything I can help you with?” She made her tone quite businesslike.
“Yes, remember how you told me you were going to select the hymns? Well, there is quite a history behind church music. Were you aware that eighteenth-century hymnbooks were usually only collections of texts which did not include musical notes?”
That did interest her, which she fully believed he had expected. “No, I was not aware of that.”
“Or that the first American hymnal to place music together with text didn’t appear until 1831? In fact, there weren’t many hymnbooks at all, even here in England. The usual way of singing was called lining out. The leader would say one line, and the congregation repeated it. Hymnbooks were rare and too expensive.” He turned the book over in his hands, as though savoring the feel of it. “What’s more, most parishioners could not read, so they did not sing one verse immediately after another as we do now.”
She studied him as he put the book down and picked up another, noting the open page she had chosen.
“Charles Wesley … It might surprise you to know how many hymns he wrote in his lifetime.”
She folded her arms. What a fount of information Rogan had become. If only she could believe it was out of true interest in the subject rather than out of a desire to entice her. “I suppose you know?”
“Of course. I told you of my renewed interest in music, did I not?”
Her bewilderment must have shown on her face, for he broke into a teasing grin.
“Really, Evy, you must learn to trust me. As for Wesley, he wrote 8,989 hymns! And even more poems than William Wordsworth. Charles completed a poem about every other day. Prolific, wasn’t he?”
“I must say, I am quite surprised when I thought—”
“When you thought I’d no appreciation for the finer things of life, which in your opinion would be music and religion.”
She walked to the desk and straightened the hymnbooks, dismayed to see how her fingers trembled.
“So hard-working and dedicated. I think a change of routine, a bit of relaxation, would not harm you. Why not dine with me tonight at Rookswood?”
Her brows lifted, and she struggled to keep her pleasure from showing. “I hardly think Sir Lyle and Lady Elosia would approve.”
“By now it should be clear that I keep the company I choose.”
“Still, it seems hardly suitable …”
“Let me be the judge of what is suitable. Tomorrow night?”
“I can hardly accept such an invitation.”
He came up beside the desk, standing next to her, speaking in a low tone of what sounded for all the world like entreaty. “Come riding with me, at least.”
She wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to. “Thank you, but I cannot. Not today.”
“Why are you afraid of me?”
“I am not!” But as she spoke, she made the error of looking up, and her protest fell as his gaze held hers. She wasn’t certain how long they stood thus, but when she grew aware of the warmth in her cheeks, she looked down at a book again. She picked up her pen and drew a piece of stationery toward her. “Whatever gave you the notion I was afraid of you?”
“It’s obvious. No use denying it.”
“That is quite absurd.”
“It is quite accurate.” There was laughter in his voice. “You look as though you’re being stalked by the big bad wolf.”
Which may not be far from the truth.
“You must not be afraid of me, you know.” His smooth voice did odd things to her heart. �
��There is no reason for it, really. In fact, I am fond of you.”
She caught her breath, but refused to look at him. “Indeed?”
“Yes. And we have known each other for so long that I take a particular interest in you.”
“I did not know I was of concern to anyone at Rookswood.”
“Then I must try harder to convince you.”
She straightened and met his eyes. “Why should I suddenly be convinced of something that has never been so?”
“Your question shows how little we understand one another. Surely a matter deserving of remedy. In fact, I admire you and your dedication to things Christian, such as your attendance at music school.”
“I am pleased you approve, though I have my own reasons for doing so.”
“Which is as it should be. You see, that is one of the things that interests me about you. Most young ladies seem so shallow in their attempts to impress me.”
True … and a goodly number of young ladies at that.
“I was serious yesterday when I said that we should go riding together. There are areas where you could improve in riding, and I would enjoy helping you.”
She picked up her pen and shuffled the books on the desk. “I am certain anyone who will be riding in the Dublin show, such as yourself, would be well qualified as a teacher, but as I have said—”
“There is so very much work to do for our dear and humble Derwent.” His smile was close to being derisive. “Then I dare not keep you any longer. I must say our little confab has been informative, however. I think I understand you a little better now. I will see you again—soon.”
When he had gone, she found it difficult to stop thinking about him. She recalled his interest in the violin—or so he had claimed—and his knowledge of Christian worship hymns. He had seemed genuine there. Was she being unfair with Rogan?
When she returned to the cottage she was surprised to find Aunt Grace sitting at the kitchen table waiting for her. She held a sheet of Rookswood stationery in her hand and looked up as Evy came in through the kitchen door. Pale and thin, nevertheless her aunt was cheerful.
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