by Mary Balogh
The constant heart
Mary Balogh
Miss Rebecca Shaw had lost her heart once in her young life — lost it and had it broken.
At last it had mended — mended enough for her to say yes when the handsome, high-minded young Reverend Philip Everett asked her to be his wife and share a life of the purest propriety and best of good works.
But now Christopher Sinclair had returned. He was free now of the marriage that had given him fabulous wealth at the price of leaving Rebecca behind and betrayed. He was free now to turn Rebecca's head again…away from the man who soon would be her lawfully wedded husband. And Rebecca was also free to change her mind- but was she foolish enough to turn toward a love that had proven faithless once and now could be utterly ruinous…?
Mary Balogh
The constant heart
Chapter 1
"What I find most hurtful is their apparent lack of gratitude," the Reverend Philip Everett said. "It seems to me that the least they can do is be thankful for what we have done for them."
Rebecca Shaw smiled at him as she straightened the small pile of old books on the table in front of her. "You demand too much, Philip," she said placatingly. "You cannot really expect young boys to be grateful for being forced into a schoolroom to learn their letters when they might be out in the fields working with their fathers."
"Yet you and I have worked hard for more than a year to make all this possible," he said, gesturing vaguely at the room around them. He was standing squarely in front of the table, earnestly regarding his companion. "It seemed such a noble dream, Rebecca, to open a school for the village boys. Left to themselves, they would never have a chance for anything more in life than labor in the fields or perhaps employment in one of those dreadful new factories. We give them a chance of learning so that perhaps they can be employed as clerks at the very least. Do they not understand that?"
Rebecca rested her hands on top of the books and looked calmly at her betrothed. He had that crusading zeal in his eyes, the look that had always drawn her to him. It was there sometimes during his Sunday sermons, when he could transport his parishioners in spirit beyond the confines of their little world and all its humdrum activities and bring them closer to the meaning of it all. It was there when he had some fixed idea in his mind for service to mankind.
It was this zeal that still endeared him to Rebecca. Yet the purely feminine side of her nature had to admit she also took pleasure in his good looks. He was a tall young man, whose very upright bearing accentuated his height. He always dressed plainly in black. His only concession to vanity was the care he gave his thick blond hair, which was always clean and shining and which he always wore rather long. His complexion was fair and had a tendency to flush at the slightest emotion. He was flushed now.
"No," she said, "they probably do not understand, Philip. They are merely children. Most of them are incapable of looking to the future. All they know is that we are forcing them to sit in here when they could be outside helping in the fields or playing. Come, there is nothing so reprehensible in their attitude. We must have faith that what we are doing is right and will work out well in the end."
The Reverend Everett turned his head and looked around him. The building was not large-an oblong, single-roomed structure with whitewashed walls and dirt floor. Five rows of heavy wooden benches, nailed to the floor, filled much of the room. The roughly carpentered table behind which Rebecca stood occupied the remaining space. Small piles of books and papers were on the windowsills at the back of the room. A few watercolors, all apparently painted by the same hand of only limited talent, helped give the room a lived-in appearance.
He walked over to the doorway, from which the door had been pulled back to let in some fresh air, and gazed out to the bright world beyond. His hands were clasped behind him. "If the boys themselves cannot understand," he said, "at least I would expect their parents to do so. Do they not want something better for their children than what they have? Yet today you had only fourteen pupils. There should have been nineteen."
Rebecca crossed to his side. She put a hand on his sleeve and looked up into his face. "Have patience, Philip," she said. “The idea of having their sons educated is new to them. Many of them find it hard to believe that learning to read will help their children to a better way of life. You have to sympathize with their caution, you know. Life does not offer these people much in the way of variety or advancement. They must be almost afraid to hope."
"They will have no hope at all," he said, his arm unyielding beneath her touch, "if they will not at least send the boys to school."
"They will," she said, a smile on her face that he did not turn to see. "Let us give it time. We must not lose hope, at all events, Philip. We have overcome too many obstacles to give up now. The money was truly a gift from heaven."
"Yes," he agreed. "I should have thought sooner of that wealthy acquaintance of mine in London. He told me years ago that I must call on him if ever I felt in need of funds for a worthwhile project."
"I wish he could see the school," Rebecca said, looking with shining eyes back into the spartan little room. "It is not much, Philip, but to have a building of our own and even books and paper and charcoal still seems like a dream come true. What I find most touching about your patron is that he insists on remaining anonymous. So many times the rich are charitable only so that others may see and praise their generosity."
"I send reports to him regularly," the vicar said. "He is pleased with what we have done and are doing."
Rebecca squeezed his arm reassuringly before removing her hand and turning to take her bonnet and shawl from a hook on the wall behind the door. "I must be getting home," she said. "Maude will doubtless delay tea until I am there, and if I am late Harriet will be cross and make all our lives miserable for the rest of the day."
Philip frowned. "I do not like the thought of your living with your uncle," he said. "Miss Shaw is by far too willful. She is all I abhor in people of wealth and privilege. And Lady Holmes, I fear, is too young and too weak to control her stepdaughter."
"One can hardly expect otherwise," Rebecca said cheerfully, tying the bow of her straw bonnet beneath her chin. "Harriet has been used to being mistress at Limeglade since she was ten years old. It is difficult for her to adjust to the presence of a new mistress and stepmother-especially when Maude is only three years her senior. But there is nothing malicious about either of them. And Uncle Humphrey has always done his best to make me feel that I belong in his home."
"I still cannot like it," Philip said. "I shall be thankful when we can wed and I can remove you to my own home."
Rebecca smiled fleetingly in his direction and crossed to the table to take up her reticule. She did not know exactly what Philip was waiting for, but ever since their betrothal almost a year before, he had spoken with some longing about their forthcoming marriage as if some definite obstacle stood in the way. He was not by any means a wealthy man, but then with his calling he was never like to be. The living in which he was established was a good one. The parsonage, which stood next to the church, was comfortable if not lavish in its furnishings. He had a wealthy patron, who was apparently willing to aid him in any charitable scheme he favored. There seemed no bar, then, to their nuptials.
Yet no definite arrangements had been made. When she stopped to think about it, Rebecca considered it rather strange. After all, neither of them was very young. Philip had recently turned thirty; she was six-and-twenty. But she did not think of it very frequently. She was quite content with life as it was at present. When Philip decided that it was time for them to marry, she would be ready. But she had no intention of pressing the issue with him.
"I shall see you tomorrow, then, Philip?" she a
sked cheerfully when she reached the door again. "I shall walk over to the parsonage as soon after luncheon as I may. Visiting the sick always takes a full afternoon."
"Yes," he said, "and I am always grateful for your help, Rebecca. Good day to you."
She left him standing in the doorway as she crossed the road to the country lane that led in the direction of her uncle's home. It would have been a three-mile walk, but she always took a shortcut through the pasture. She much preferred to walk than to call out the gig, though Uncle Humphrey constantly upbraided her for not using his conveyances. She would ruin her complexion with all the fresh air and exercise, he warned.
Rebecca smiled to herself. Uncle Humphrey had always been terrified of fresh air, and he rarely walked farther than from the dining room to his sitting room, or from his coach to his church pew. And his was not an attitude that had come only with advancing age. Indeed, he was barely fifty years old now. He had always been the same as far back as she could remember. Whenever he used to call at the parsonage to visit Papa, when Papa had been the vicar, he would always arrive in a closed carriage, summer and winter, and have to be escorted into the house by a footman, on whom he leaned heavily. Yet he must have been little more than thirty at the time she was remembering.
And his complexion always preoccupied Uncle Humphrey, too. He had continued to wear paint and powder on his face long after it became unfashionable for men to do so. The paint protected his face from the elements, he had explained to Papa at one time. And even now if she should happen to see him at night, his face would be heavily smeared with creams to prevent wrinkles. And indeed he was remarkably youthful looking for a man of his years. Somewhat portly, it was true, but he carried his weight proudly. He was an imposing, if a somewhat vain, figure of a man, Rebecca was forced to admit.
She had been living at Limeglade for five years now, ever since the death of Papa. Dear Papa! So deeply engrossed in the Lord's work that he had never seemed to have one thought to spare for the affairs of the world. He had been the younger brother of Uncle Humphrey, Lord Holmes, and therefore his life had been destined for the church ever since he was a young boy. But it was hard to imagine him in any other kind of life. On the death of his parents, he had inherited a sizable portion of both his mother's and his father's fortunes. Yet the money had all disappeared-not frittered away, but given freely to everyone who had asked his help, including several unworthies who had been less in need than he and his family.
Rebecca had been the sole member of her father's household after the death of her mother ten years before in the same smallpox epidemic that had carried off Aunt Sybil. She had accomplished the almost impossible-keeping house and feeding and clothing them both on almost no income. She had almost forgotten what money looked like. Yet she had been happy during most of those years. They had had a home and they had had friends. There had been no danger of starving. They were living the faith that they professed.
Yet when the Reverend Shaw had died, Rebecca was left quite destitute. She had been one-and-twenty at the time and would quite cheerfully have looked for employment as a governess. Uncle Humphrey had almost fainted away when she had made the suggestion on the afternoon following the funeral. He had indeed sat down heavily- yet gracefully-on the chair that was fortunately positioned just behind him, and fanned his face languidly with a lace-bordered handkerchief.
It was quite unfitting, he had said, for the niece of Lord Holmes of Limeglade to seek employment, albeit the job of governess was genteel work. His whole family would be disgraced. If she must insist on being useful-he had grimaced at the very thought-she must devote herself to being Harriet's companion. Harriet no longer enjoyed the company of her governess-penniless daughter of a mere country parson, poor soul-and needed someone of her own class and with her own good breeding.
Rebecca had hesitated. She hated to be beholden to her uncle. Her years with her father had made her value independence and had made her uneasy about privilege. Yet she was fond of her vain, foolish uncle and of his high-spirited daughter, despite her volatile temper. She had agreed to live with them on the condition that her allowance be small, only what she could feel she had earned as Harriet's companion. And she had continued to view herself more in the light of employee than relative, despite Harriet's apparent lack of interest in her company and despite Uncle Humphrey's frequent complaints about her plain attire and charitable works.
Things were different at Limeglade now, of course, with a new Lady Holmes. The baron had taken his daughter to London for a Season two years before, with the intention of finding her a husband suitable to his consequence. Harriet had returned unattached-though Rebecca had learned afterward by piecing together various hints and slips of the tongue that great scandal had been narrowly averted when she had been about to run off with a half-pay officer.
But the baron himself had brought home a new wife-a wide-eyed, rather frightened young girl who looked no older than Harriet, though in fact she was three years her senior. Rebecca had been horrified. Uncle Humphrey obviously doted on his prize and felt that he had conferred a great honor on her with his title," his wealth, and his imposing person. Yet it seemed glaringly clear to Rebecca that poor Maude had been the victim of ambitious parents. Several times she had caught an expression of distaste or even revulsion on the girl's face when she looked at her husband. She behaved with perfect correctness and showed him outward deference and even affection. But Rebecca was in no doubt that her new aunt was unhappy. Harriet did not help; she refused to recognize almost the very existence of the other woman.
Rebecca paused for a moment on the dirt road. Should she turn into the woods to her right and walk through them to the pasture? Or should she add an extra half mile to her journey by walking farther along the road until the pasture met it? The sunlight was so lovely-she glanced up to the clear blue sky. It would be a pity to plunge into shade and darkness. And she was really in no great hurry. She walked on.
She had resented Philip when he first came to the village. He had seemed a usurper-occupying Papa's pulpit, living in their house. She had forced herself to be civil to him and had gradually warmed to him as it became clear that he was almost as eager as Papa to minister to the needs of his parish. And she had had to admit that his sermons were easier to listen to than Papa's had ever been. She had resumed some of her old activities-visiting the sick and the elderly, distributing most of the money that her uncle insisted on giving her, decorating the church every week with flowers.
Without even realizing that it was happening, she had found that a friendship was developing between her and the vicar, over whose handsome person many a young female heart was sighing. Several times they had talked about the need of a school for the village boys. It had seemed like an impossible dream until one day he had told her that he had contacted an acquaintance of his, a gentleman from London, and had been offered a dizzyingly large sum of money with which to set up a school. The only problem was that they would not immediately be able to hire a teacher. The initial costs of a building and basic equipment would be too high. Rebecca had eagerly agreed to share the teaching responsibility with the Reverend Everett. It would mean teaching two days each week.
It had seemed almost natural a short time after that to receive Philip's undemonstrative proposal of marriage. She would be a good helpmeet, he had explained. Not wife. Not friend. Not lover. Just helpmeet. Yet Rebecca had cheerfully accepted. She was of an age when she must marry or resign herself to a life of spinsterhood. She was past the age for love. Her one experience with that emotion had brought enough pain and disillusionment to last a lieftime, anyway. She could do worse than be Philip's helpmeet. With him she would be living the life that she had always loved. And perhaps there would be a child or two. She would hate to think of going through life without experiencing motherhood.
She looked ahead along the road to see how far she still was from the shortcut across the pasture. As she did so, she became aware of two female figures approach
ing across the field to her left. The Misses Sinclair were also taking a shortcut from their father's house a mile away. They were waving to her and smiling.
"Well met, Miss Shaw.” Ellen, the older girl, called. "We are on our way to the house."
"Indeed, it is a lovely day for a walk," Rebecca called, and stopped to wait for the two girls to catch, up to her.
Primrose climbed the stile first and jumped into the roadway. Dimples showed in both cheeks. Rebecca had always been somewhat aghast at the younger sister's name. It was the sort of name that might sound very sweet for a tiny baby but quite inappropriate for a sixty-year-old dowager. Fortunately Primrose was a pretty and a happy girl and seemed to suit her name. She even favored, to a noticeable degree, dresses of yellow or lemon color. But she definitely did not suit the shortened name of Prim, which her family used.
"We are not going just for the walk," Primrose said now, suppressed excitement in her voice. "We have the most wonderful news to tell."
Her sister came hurtling down from the stile. "You shan't tell, Prim," she scolded. "It was agreed that I should tell since I am eighteen and the older. Mama and Papa said!"
"But that is just at the house," the younger girl complained. "You are to tell Harriet and Lord and Lady Holmes, Ellen. It is only fair that I tell now. It is only Miss Shaw after all."
Rebecca smiled at the unintentional slight. "An agreement is binding," she said. "I shall hear your news at the house."
"No," Ellen said, relenting now that her point had been won, "you can tell, Prim. But only here. Not a word at the house."
"Christopher is coming home!" the girl blurted, her extreme youth doubtless responsible for her inability to bolster her sense of importance by telling a story slowly.
Rebecca turned rather sharply in the direction of the pasture and led the way across the stile. "Indeed?" she said over her shoulder. "That is exciting news for you. It is many years since he was here last, is it not?" Six and a half years, to be exact, she thought.
