"I am not stupid."
"Of course you are. Here you are, almost of age, still in your brother's house, still taking care of others' children. Oh, I know why you wouldn't take one of us. Dickon is hopeless, and Davey's younger 'n you, and I—well, I'd've done you well enough, but I—"
He broke off, swallowed hard, and went on, "Oh, I know you look at me and think of Ned, and I reckon you shouldn't think of sad times, or your brother either, when you look at your husband. I understand that. But none of that signifies with Braden. He ain't the man I would've chosen for you—well, I'm the man I would've chosen for you—but he'll do. He's artistic, and you like that, and he'd talk to you of all those bluestocking subjects you enjoy, and he doesn't seem likely to beat you. He'd probably even be good to you. Hell, I did my best. Told him all about Polly Ferris's predilection for haystack romance. I even told her he was hers for the asking."
Charity actually thought Crispin's machinations sweet, if ineffective. At least she hoped they had been ineffective.
"Didn't even notice her, 's far as I can tell. Only had eyes for you and all that tripe. And you know, Charity, I've always meant to marry you, at least until today, and I still had at least one eye for the likes of Polly. Of course," he added with an illustrative wink, "I would've closed it, had we married."
Charity's heart ached full in her chest, and she couldn't say why. Every word Crispin said, about himself, about Tristan, hurt her.
"Anyway, I wouldn't have let him win at fencing if I didn't think he'd treat you well."
This at least had the effect of diverting her. "You didn't really let him win."
Crispin pulled in his line and flicked the worm to restore it to life, then cast again. "I might have, if he hadn't beat me first. I'd decided, see, that if I couldn't have you, I'd rather lose you to some foreigner than to one of my cousins. Then I could tell myself it was just because I couldn't teach you Italian or take you off to my Italian villa or paint your portrait." He regarded her with honest puzzlement. "But he can. So why aren't you wedding him?"
Charity looked at the familiar face of her oldest friend, at his candid blue eyes, the unruly fair hair, the obstinate chin—such a dear face, so English and true—and then she closed her eyes. In the darkness she saw another face, one more exotic, more dangerous, with watchful dark eyes and a tender mouth. "Because, oh, Cris, you have given far more thought to what sort of husband he'd make me than he ever did. All he considered was what sort of wife I'd make."
"That's the problem?"
She opened her eyes to meet his astonished gaze. "Well, it seems to argue a lack of care for my feelings."
Crispin just shook her head. "What an idiot you are. I don't suppose any man thinks of that much, for we expect the lady we've chosen to martyr ourselves for will tell us what sort of husband she wants. And newly sheared sheep that we are, we'll comply with her every wish. For a sennight or so, at least." The tug on his line seemed to inspire him, for he tugged back and said brightly, "Maybe it's not too late to get him back. I'll drop a word in his ear if you like, though it didn't help Polly any."
"Don't you dare!" The prospect left Charity gasping like the fish Crispin had just expertly reeled in. "I've made my decision, and I shan't change it."
"Oh, no, you'd never change your mind, would you'? At least not for some stupid reason like the one you just gave me."
With great dignity, Charity got to her feet. Brushing the clinging moss off her skirt, she said coolly, "I thank you for your sage commentary, Mr. Hering. Though I have never asked for your advice, I know I shall always be privileged to receive it."
"You could do worse." With this cryptic comment, Crispin applied himself impaling another worm.
She spent an hour alone in the church hall, pounding nail after helpless nail, building a booth that would probably stand up to explosion and hurricane, so well-nailed was it. Her ears were ringing and her palm stinging by the time the children came in, stomping their muddy feet on the clean floor.
She blessed the self-centeredness of children. Even Lawrence and Jeremy said nothing about her short-lived betrothal. They were too busy begging for real oars and boasting that their play would be the greatest event at the greatest Midsummer ever.
The rehearsal went quickly, and with a bit of time before the children were due home, she set them to making paper boats to carry candles on the village pond Midsummer Eve. She went from one child to another, kneeling down on the floor beside them and guiding their little hands. "Put them in the basket here when you are done, and I will tell you what else will occur at Midsummer."
They were young enough to love hearing the schedule again and again. So she started counting off events on her fingers. On Friday evening next, the children's games would be held, and prizes awarded to the first five finishers (the first eight if more than five finished) in each event. Then in the evening the great Beltane fire would be set on the green and the participants would hold hands and circle the blaze. "Then we all chant—"
Before Charity could finish, the children seated on the floor before her burst into unison: "Green is gold, fire is wet, fortune's told, dragon's met."
"And then we float the candles!" Lawrence cried out. "Wet fire! To tell our fortunes!"
Charity looked around to make sure the vicar wasn't about to overhear. "Yes, yes. These boats and their candles is one way we tell our future." Despite Mr. Langworth's objections, she hadn't been able to strip Midsummer of all its fortune-telling traditions. Almost every ritual, it seemed, had some prediction attached. She had culled a few of the less appealing ones from the agenda: No one really liked eating the locust seedpods they called St. John's Bread, and the local tradition that said the number of seeds predicted how many children each woman would have and how many her husband would sire, had led to some marital disagreements in earlier years. She had also persuaded Margo Ashton to forego the colorful turban and tent and instead merely interpret everyone's fortunes with the candle boats and the destiny cakes her husband the baker provided.
"And then the banquet happens. Between each course we will sing songs or perform tricks. And after that—"
"St. George!" Jeremy cried out. "My uncle!"
"Yes, Jeremy, your uncle will play St. George." Charity felt a sting somewhere near her heart, recalling the day—only last Saturday!—when Jeremy's uncle had won that role. Sternly she reminded herself that she would have to bring the costumes out of the choir loft and let them air out and remember to give scripts to Squire Hering, who was to play the king, and Molly Ferris, the princess. And Tristan, of course, would need a script, though St. George, a man of action, not conversation, had only a few lines. "And after that will be your play, and I don't need to tell you how much we're all looking forward to that."
"And then what?" Mary asked, getting up to dump a skirtful of boats into the basket.
"Well, after that, I imagine you'll all be going to bed!" The chorus of protests that greeted this made her chuckle. Her laugh sounded rusty, as if she hadn't practiced it for weeks. "Well, if you aren't going to bed, what will you do?"
"Dance! With the grownups around the fire!"
"And stay up till midnight!"
She took advantage of this discussion to dismiss them, knowing that in their excitement they would run all the way home and hardly get wet at all, no matter how hard the rain was falling.
Lawrence and Jeremy, however, halted at the door. "Uncle Tristan!" Jeremy cried, and Charity's heart took an unaccustomed jerk. "Have you come to walk us home?"
"In a moment or so." He stood in the open doorway, blocking the meager light, shaking mist drops from his bare dark head. Producing a handful of coins from his pocket, he said, "You run down to the bakery and get some cakes. But stay there to eat them, won't you? Otherwise they will get all soggy in the rain."
It was all done so adroitly that Charity hadn't time to escape. She bent to pick up the paper boats left on the floor, hoping her consternation didn't show in her face. Aft
er she dropped the boats into the wicker basket, she looked up to see that he had not moved from the entryway as if he was unsure of his welcome.
But then he smiled and came forward, and she straightened her shoulders. They neither of them needed to be embarrassed just because they had been betrothed and weren't any longer.
She hoped her pose of ease was as creditable as Tristan's. As was his wont, he was dressed casually, hatless, with a jacket but no waistcoat, his cravat knotted in that careless way that was all the more artistic for being entirely artless. She focused her attention on the shoulder of his gray jacket. But at his first words she glanced up, startled.
"I must apologize again. I fear I must have said something unforgivable yesterday, though I recall it not at all."
Without thinking, Charity replied, "You said—"
Tristan's face suddenly lightened with laughter. "Oh, Lord, don't repeat it. I have been taking comfort in my poor memory! But I do apologize for whatever it was. I hadn't any right even to argue with you, much less to insult you. It's entirely within your rights to decide you don't want to marry me. In fact," he added with a winning smile, "I thank you, as you said I would. I'm glad you realized this before we made any lifelong vows."
He was merely acknowledging what she knew to be true, that he was better off without a wife who wasn't right for him. Somehow that gave her little comfort. He had recovered quickly from his disappointment, considering how furious he had been only a day ago. "You are being very good about this."
He shrugged. "I haven't any choice, have I? I'd like to maintain friendly relations with you, so I can't sulk. We were friendly, weren't we, before I so precipitously demanded more?"
“I thought so."
"And you said you wanted to remain friends."
Charity recalled saying something of the sort to ease her way out of their betrothal, not that it had given any immediate comfort. She often remained friends with former beaus; Terence Wetherby had been her favorite escort in London, and Crispin would always have her affection. But Tristan was different because they had been betrothed for those two days, because they had both imagined being so much more than friends. But she couldn't look in his hopeful, wary eyes and tell him she really thought it best that they never saw each other again. This sort of confusion, a distant voice reminded, is just what got you engaged in the first place.
But his voice, so warm now, so encouraging, drowned out the warning. "I shouldn't like awkwardness between us to cause discord. Anna and my nephews have grown attached to the Calder clan. I think Charlie is a good example to the boys, for he controls his temper so well, and they both of them need to learn that."
Charity shifted the basket to the other arm and rearranged the paper boats so they wouldn't crush each other. "Charlie does very well with the boys. He has come out of his shell a bit. I suppose it's because they look up to him as older and wiser. He is so used to being dismissed as just a child. But I think the boys will not regard our relations at all."
"But Anna will feel awkward, I know, if she thinks you and I are at odds." He added coaxingly, "Oh, you needn't worry that I will bother you again with unwelcome proposals. I'm not like that poor sap Hering. I can take no for an answer."
He smiled and raised his hands as if in surrender, and Charity felt the sadness again full in her heart. It was the mention of Crispin that did it, she thought. She said brightly, "Oh, Crispin's decided I'm too fickle for his tastes. He would not save me from drowning now, I think."
"He seems to have taken this rather worse than I." Tristan said with a laugh. "Then I can take his place as former flame, can't I?"
She had no choice but to nod, and, as if this were an invitation, he crossed to the stage where she had set the basket. But he didn't come near her, only vaulting lightly up on the stage and walking to his triptych. "Come see what I did this morning. I was in an utter fury of activity. Don't know why."
She was curious enough to ignore the irony of his voice. She came up beside him as he pulled the cover off the middle panel, the one with the whale's great grinning mouth. What was new was the two little men impaled on the teeth. "Tristan—oh, Lord, I can't think what the vicar's going to say."
"He will say that the artist should make a full confession and repent. Come, now, cara, you did say the children liked a bit of gore in their Bible stories. And look at the expressions. Worthy of Hieronymus Bosch, I'd say, if I weren't so modest."
Bending closer, she could see the terror on the tiny faces. One looked exactly like Charlie when he had to visit the tooth-drawer. She had to laugh, but that wasn't enough to distract her attention from his casual endearment. Cara. It only meant that he meant them to be friends. He couldn't be so casual were his heart in shreds.
How easily, after all, he had moved back to friendship. Perhaps they never should have imagined that they could share anything more.
His mind must have been running in the same direction because he asked, with a quick glance at her, "Did your brothers take it any better than young Hering?"
"Oh, Charlie was worried only that he would not be able to exploit your nephews' labor any longer. He has recruited them to dig in the chalk formations for fossil materials. Francis only said that he knew all along it was too good to last. He hasn't said a word about it since."
Tristan shook his head with wonder. "He really is a much better brother than you deserve."
Her laughter was still rusty, but she found it oddly relaxing to be with Tristan. She always had to work so hard to be admirable, to be exemplary, and if she fell short, she knew how many people she would disappoint. But Tristan couldn't possibly become any more disappointed in her. "I know. I've never seen such restraint. He must be biting his tongue off. But he figures the rest of the populace will pick up his slack, and they have."
He regarded her sympathetically. "Has it been very bad?"
She gazed again at the fierce whale and his piteous victims, fighting off a wave of self-pity. "Cammie said the people in the village have, oh, a proprietary interest in me. That means, I guess, that they own me. It's all I deserve. I've been telling them how to live their lives since I was in pinafores, and they must be glad of the chance to turn the tables."
"You tell them—" His voice was suddenly low and fierce, and she was startled. He should be her most vociferous accuser, and he shouldn't be feeling defensive for her. "That you know what is best for you. That you can make your own decisions."
Partly to ease the tension, partly to cover her own confusion, she laughed lightly. "Oh, I have been too arrogant, I think, and I deserve a comeuppance."
He dropped the subject without inquiring how his jilting could be considered her comeuppance. He was trying so hard not to accuse her or blame her; she saw the effort in the tense set of his jaw. But he resumed his friendly tone as he covered the panel back up. "Well, we must demonstrate to all that we neither of us nurse hurt feelings. If we go back to our earlier relationship as if it had never been disturbed, then they will have nothing to talk about."
Charity was more versed in the ways of villagers and knew that a resumption of their friendship would cause even more talk. But his expression was so hopeful, his manner so open, that she could only agree. She worried that he, too, had been exposed to intrusive comments and friendly advice these last two days. He must have hated it all.
Impulsively she invited him back home for tea. But he only smiled and shook his head. "No, I must take my nephews home, then go back to work. I hope I haven't painted myself out for the day because I'm tired of staring at that ship painting, and I mean to finish those last touches this afternoon." He said ruefully as he opened the door for her, "Extremes of emotion are not conducive to the artistic temperament, at least not my artistic temperament. That is another reason I am endeavoring to take a rational view of all this. I feel more creative already."
She lingered there, her hand near his on the old door. No wonder he desired a peaceful home, if his artistic temperament was such a sensi
tive instrument, ready to flee at the least disturbance. Used to soldiering on no matter what, Charity found this attitude alien and fascinating. "It must be very trying to have such a delicate creative process so easily over-set. Surely many artists do their most impressive work under stress. Think of Michelangelo, who turned his anger at the Pope into those great frescoes. Don't you wish that you could harness emotional energy like that, instead of wasting it?"
His dark eyes glinted in amusement at her sensible observation. "You are right, of course! And surely it's all that separates me from Michelangelo, isn't it? But alas, I seem only able to waste my emotional energy in brooding and kicking walls and beating my nephews. Not very hard," he added at her startled look. "Had I no nephews, however, to waste my emotions on, perhaps I, too, would be painting the Sistine Chapel."
It seemed from his bantering tone as if he had exhausted all his anger at her. She hoped he had, especially if it affected his work. But it was lowering to know that a day was all it took to restore his equilibrium. "You are teasing me."
"Never!"
"Well, even if you are not Michelangelo, I would not like to be an impediment to your art."
"No need to worry." With a light imperative hand on her back, he urged her out the door into the misty afternoon. "I've a commitment to meet, after all, for the Midsummer painting. And so do you." At her startled glance, he added, "Don't you recall? You were going to paint the background. That middle panel is done, except for your work. Tomorrow, after you rehearse the children, I'll bring the paints you need and get you started."
"But—but—" That promise she made a fortnight ago, a lifetime ago, came back to haunt her. She had so many other things to do in the week before the fair. She couldn't take this on, too. Still, she had promised, and she had never yet gone back on a promise—or at least a promise she could keep.
Ignoring her hesitation, Tristan called to his nephews, who had been jumping with both feet into every puddle this side of the bakery. Then he whistled, and his grazing horse came trotting over from the green, tame as a dog. Swinging lithely into the saddle, he said, "I shall see you tomorrow, then."
Charity Begins at Home Page 20
