Charity Begins at Home

by Alicia Rasley

  She felt the vibrations of the knocker against her cheek and dispiritedly opened the door. Tristan came in, taking her hand and raising it to his lips.

  "Anna said that something is wrong."

  He has forgot he's to speak Italian to me, Charity thought irrelevantly. She made an attempt to pull herself together. "No, no, nothing important. The vicar is upset again about the fair." She glanced around, realizing that they were standing in the foyer. "Do come in. Would you like some tea?"

  "Charity, tell me what has happened." He still had her hand and gripped it imperatively. "Tell me."

  She gazed down at their joined hands, feeling some comfort flow from him to her. She wasn't used to confiding in another, especially about her own troubles and mistakes. But this was Tristan. He had already forgiven her much more than this.

  Still the words caught in her throat and emerged so softly he had to bend his head to hers to hear her. "Oh, it's rather a muddle. I think I might have pushed Mr. Langworth too far this time."

  He pulled her down to sit on the window seat next to the door and slowly, with much coaxing, got the whole story from her. He wasn't shocked, which was comforting, but he understood that some members of the church might feel differently. "I think we had better find your elder brother and tell him before he hears from someone else. This is his concern, too, you know. And you'll need his support at that meeting tonight."

  If Charity had any doubts that she would have her brother's support, Francis made short work of them. Beyond calling her a dolt, he made no more criticism of her actions. He rose from his chair in the drawing room and paced along the periphery of the room. "You should have told me. But of course, you probably thought it would be of no use. I've hardly noticed you or the boys this last few weeks. I've been so damned distracted by my own affairs."

  Charity was startled to hear such a mea culpa. She had never really know that her brother had any affairs that didn't have to do with the Grange or the village or the historical research he was doing on Kent in Saxon times. But of course he must have a bit of his own life, and he had a right to it, too. "No, Francis, I didn't tell you—oh, because I knew you'd be angry at Barry and probably make him do something he didn't want to do."

  "I might have, at that. Or I might not, I don't know." Francis paced off another couple lengths of the room. "I would probably have let him go ahead and meet the bets he'd already made because he was in so deep anyway. But I wouldn't have allowed him to take any more bets or to bring his friends to see the events. And I never in a thousand years would have thought of making him donate some of his winnings to the Tower Fund."

  "Only Charity would think of that," Tristan agreed, as if her ingenuity pleased him. That almost made her smile. He always appreciated her view of things. He sat down on the arm of her couch, a warm comforting presence at her side, speaking gently as if he had forgot that they were not alone in the room. "And poetic justice it would have been, cara. Unfortunately, that makes it seem as if you condoned what Barry did."

  "I guess I did condone it." She wanted to feel angry, to blame someone, but she had instead a deep sense of dread, of inevitability. "How do you think the vicar found out?"

  Francis shook his head disgustedly. "Oh, Barry probably had a dozen of his local friends enlisted, and one of them must have split on him. He never has had a lick of sense. It's Neddy all over again, isn't it? But I'd never thought you'd consider me like Father, that you couldn't come to me. Though as worthless as I've been lately, I can hardly blame you."

  Charity let go of Tristan's hand and reached up to intercept her brother in his pacing. She tugged on his arm, pulling him down to sit on the couch next to her, wanting to erase the remorse on his face. "No, no, Francis, it's my fault. I should have told you, but I thought I could handle it myself without any help."

  They were both chagrined to hear Tristan laughing. Francis drew up straight and inquired exactly what was so amusing in all this.

  "You're just such a pair. Neither of you is at fault here, for pity's sake. Barry is to blame, and he's safe off in Oxford and leaving you to handle the muddle he has made!"

  Francis said, "Well, that's as may be. But it is our doing if he's so irresponsible. We had the rearing of him."

  "And you're both of you only a few years his senior. You expect too much of yourselves, and so does everyone else. I think no one, including the vicar, has any right to complain if you fall short." Tristan rose and pulled Charity to her feet. "You go rest for a bit. I'll see if the vicar can be persuaded to call off this absurd meeting. This isn't the Inquisition, after all."

  But a little while later Francis knocked on her bedroom door and told her that the vicar was insisting that he inform his parishioners of this new development. "Don't worry, Charity." Francis leaned wearily against her doorframe. "Everyone in the village loves you, you know that. They might chide you, but that will be all."

  If that was all, Charity thought as she entered the church that evening, it would be more than enough. Only about fifty or so of the parishioners were assembled, but among them were the most prominent. Charity sat in the pew where her family had sat for generations, with Francis next to her, and Charlie, who had insisted on coming, beyond him. Just behind her were Tristan and Anna, making their allegiance clear even before any accusations were announced. Tristan kept his hand on the back of her pew, so that she had only to lean back to feel his gentle surreptitious caress on her neck. It was very wicked, but sustaining, too, especially when the vicar began to speak.

  Mr. Langworth was no longer the old prophet thundering doom. No, his halting speech was all the more painful to Charity, because she knew he was deeply distressed. He said that he had received a report, from an impeccable source, of gambling on the children's games at the Midsummer fair, and that more troubling yet was the news that a member of the organizing committee had condoned it.

  Charity was expecting this, as she was expecting the parishioners to crane their necks trying to see which of the four women on the committee looked most guilty. But she wasn't expecting the vicar to pause and call Mr. Greenaway forward.

  The schoolmaster strode to the pulpit and, with more confidence than he had ever before shown, described Barry's scheme and Charity's participation. Charity recalled now that he had been in the taproom when she had accosted her brother. Mr. Greenaway must have been straining his ears to the bursting point, for she had made certain to keep her voice low. She wondered what he would say if she rose and pointed a finger at him and accused him of the sin of eavesdropping. But that was probably not really a sin, however perfidious it was. And Mr. Greenaway was scrupulous to confine himself to the truth, without exaggeration or embellishment. Only his self-satisfied expression indicated that he was more than just an objective witness.

  Still his reedy voice echoed in the ancient sanctuary, and each accusation echoed in her heart. She had been baptized in this church, buried her loved ones here; she had hoped one day to be married here—this should indeed be her sanctuary, and it had become instead an inquisition.

  When he finished his statement, Mr. Greenaway shot a triumphant glance at her and returned to his seat. He had got his revenge after all.

  The vicar did not add to the accusation and did not call for any particular action. He did not even demand the cancelling of the Midsummer fair, though he permitted himself a few comments on the corrupting influence of pagan traditions. He reminded them of God's mercy, of Charity's long service to the village, of her family's difficulties these last years. Certainly Charity was not wont to behave as impulsively and erratically as she had these last weeks, he said. Perhaps so many sorrows had overset her judgment, and thus their judgment should not be harsh.

  The heat rose in Charity's face. The veiled reference to her short-lived betrothal could not be mistaken, and even Tristan's quick grip on her shoulder did not mitigate her shame. To have that raked up again and used as evidence of her instability! This was worse than anger, this pity. If she had done wr
ong, she would accept her punishment. Just let it be quick, without these endless earnest preliminaries.

  But the parish needed it, if she didn't, needed to justify whatever it planned to do. The Justice of the Peace spoke first. He was her mother's cousin and had dandled Charity on his knee. But he shook his head and said that she had erred in keeping this scheme to herself and even more in seeking to have the church profit from it. Mrs. Williams rose, too, not to denounce Charity, of course, but to suggest again that she had used poor judgment. Charity knew that Mrs. Williams had resented having a younger woman chairing the Midsummer committee, but still the criticism stung, all the more perhaps because it was true. At least Mrs. Williams did not suggest herself as a successor. Mrs. Hering was her candidate to direct what remained of the Midsummer preparations.

  Tristan's hand slid to Charity's arm, gripping and releasing as if through his touch he could pass on a little of his strength. She wondered if he understood all this village justice. The worst punishment might be disapproval, but she dreaded that. He was not really one of them, she thought, and he would not dread disapproval. But she leaned back against the firm clasp of his hand, knowing that if nothing else he understood how hard this was for a girl who had known no other home.

  Then his hand slipped away from her as he rose. She realized that he had appointed himself her defender, and she blinked back the tears that stung at her eyes. She couldn't listen to his defense, knowing that everyone would be remembering that once, not very long ago, they had been betrothed. She didn't want to break down in front of all of them. Quietly she slipped out of the pew and out through the side door into the churchyard.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  It was one of the longest days of the year, so the sun was just setting when the meeting broke up. On instinct, Tristan followed the path through the gravestones in search of Charity. She was sitting half in darkness, hands clasped in her lap, on the bridge overlooking the stream where he had made that first unromantic proposal.

  He wasn't used to seeing her so still, and it stopped him for a moment. She was always so busy, so cheerful, a small efficient bundle of energy. But now she was just sitting there, still and alone, her back to him and the church. He felt the ache rise in his throat, and he wanted to demand that she give him all that pain she was holding in that straight little body and strong little spirit.

  But he knew something now of her pride and her sense of herself. He took a seat beside her, close enough to touch her but not touching. Her face was pale, but the ironic glint was back in her eyes as she turned to greet him. "You are very brave, to associate with the heretic."

  "Idiot." To his mind, his response was insufficiently sympathetic, but it made her smile. He touched that curved lower lip with his thumb, wanting to kiss her, but thinking she would cry if he did. "You are officially forgiven. Back in charge."

  She was startled and not as pleased as he had hoped. In fact, she pulled away from his hand and turned away, hunching her shoulders as if to ward him off. He felt stupidly wounded, as if she had returned a gift he had given her.

  At least her voice was determinedly light, though she kept her back to him. "You must have been very eloquent."

  "Devil a bit. I'm never eloquent in English. Not in Italian either, for that matter." He couldn't help but brush aside the feathery tendrils of hair, to trace the vulnerable curve of her neck, to say with his caress what he couldn't say aloud: That her hurt was his hurt, that she should let him take it from her. She shivered under his fingertips, so he drew his hand across the nape of her neck under the ear to the stubborn line of her jaw. Just for a moment, she bent her head and let her cheek rest on his hand.

  Very gently, he added, "I merely suggested that you had never once thought of your own interest in this matter, or in any other matter either. And that Mr. Greenaway had his own reasons for bringing this accusation."

  "He said nothing that wasn't true."

  "Neither did I. And the truth is that he is rancid with jealousy because you can teach his pupils and he can't, and because you can write a play and he can't. Say the word," he added, lowering his voice to a melodramatic whisper, though he meant it entirely, "and I will break his neck."

  "It would serve you square if I did say the word and you had to go off and find him." Charity was feeling better, he could tell from the ironic tone that lightened her voice.

  "He might be hard to find after all. I caught him as he was slinking off and suggested that if he valued his life, he might find another set of pupils to bore stiff."

  This news cheered her. "He will be leaving then? Oh, that means then that we—" she broke off, then started up again, "that they will have to employ another schoolmaster for the fall term." She was still studying her clasped hands, but she didn't avert her face from him now, and he could see the uncertainty, the anger, the guilt she felt. "Tell me who else spoke."

  "Francis, of course, took the blame as Barry's guardian. I think he must be auditioning for Early Christian Martyr."

  That surprised a chuckle out of her, quickly suppressed. "He's a very good brother."

  "Very good indeed. And Mrs. Hering said that she knew you'd done it to protect Barry and her boys, too, and that you'd been doing it all your life and no one should expect that you'd stop now. She expressed the intention of going home and boxing a few ears, and no intention at all of serving on any committee that didn't have you at its head. And Mrs. Dalton concurred."

  "Mrs. Williams?"

  "Mrs. Williams recanted her position and decided to support you. Probably she did not relish heading up a committee without any members at all and the fair four days away." He knew he sounded as cynical as he felt, but whatever the outcome, he had found this public forum as unfair as a public hanging. And it exacted the harshest penalty from Charity. She had, he was sure, never been found lacking before as she had worked her life to live up to everyone's expectations.

  However straight she kept her little shoulders, he knew this incident had shaken the foundations of Charity's world.

  So though he wanted to tell her to just brush it off, as he would brush off a bad review, he knew that this mattered too much to her. "They felt guilty right off. I think no one meant to go through with this. And they were relieved to vote to have you back, even the vicar."

  "They think no one else can do the work."

  Her hard tone was new; so was the sigh that stirred against his hand. He had never seen her like this, so subdued, so sad. He stroked her cheek, wishing he could still see her face. But the gathering dusk concealed her from him. "Charity, it was near unanimous. It is an endorsement of you."

  "How kind."

  She didn't sound grateful. But then she leaned back against him as if keeping her back straight and her chin up these last hours had wearied her beyond discretion. He knew better than to take advantage of this;, so he let his hand drop to her shoulder in a casual caress but made no move to embrace her. "What do you mean to do?"

  "I mean to—I don't mean to return to the position of organizer." She shook her head at his automatic protest. "Tristan, they were right, you know. I shouldn't have allowed Barry to make book. It was a corruption of the whole idea of the fair."

  This time he couldn't help himself. With an arm around her waist, he pulled her against him, resting his cheek on her hair. "You only did what you thought right."

  "I know. That's exactly the point, Tristan. It never occurred to me to ask anyone else, not even Francis. Not even you. Certainly not the vicar. I thought I could balance it all, that the extra money would make up for what Barry is planning and that no one would be the wiser. Poor Barry." Her voice came muffled against his arm. "I expect his syndicate will be defunct now."

  "Serves him right."

  "So all my machinations have come to naught. My crime is exposed. The Tower Fund gets no great gambling revenue. Barry will have to do what he thinks is dishonorable—"

  "He'll just have to give back the money he collected," Tristan pointed out.
"And if he's spent it already, Francis will ante up. I hope he extracts a pound of flesh when he does it. What a nodcock Barry is. Are you sure he is your brother?"

  "I should think there would be no doubt. I've spent the last three weeks acting like a nodcock myself. Oh, Tristan." Her back pressed against him as she sighed. "I think I have lost my way. I have always, always known my place, and now I don't know where I am."

  "Here with me."

  It was all the declaration he could let himself make. He didn't want to take advantage of her vulnerability now, still less to add to her confusion. But it was enough for the moment. She nestled closer and said with a wavering chuckle, "Yes, I am here with you. You have turned out to be an excellent friend after all."

  "And without even trying." They were on dangerous ground here, reminding each other of that one explosive confrontation, and he thought it best to change the subject. "What will you do then, about the fair? I hope you don't mean to stop painting with me, when we are so close to finishing."

  "I expect I can't stop that now or quit rehearsing the children either. But I will let Mrs. Hering tell me what else she means for me to do. Or Mrs. Williams, if Mrs. Hering won't serve. I will certainly no longer be in charge."

  "There is no need to punish yourself."

  "It's not punishment, exactly."

  "Then no need to punish them, either, by withdrawing."

  She laughed again, more truly this time. "I don't mean to do that either. I will do what I'm told to do, all that must be done. But I have been fighting this Midsummer battle, and all these other battles, for so long. I am weary of it suddenly. It has all taken up so much of my mind, I've hardly room for my own thoughts and notions." She sat up suddenly, pulling away from him and gazing around in the twilight as if this scene was too familiar and yet newly strange. "I think I must leave this place. Or I shall end up leaving myself."