Forever and Ever (2 page)

“Yes, sir. What’s a statue?”

A breathy laugh came from the music teacher. He could see only her profile and the smooth angle of her neck. She had cream white skin, the cheeks flushed a little from exertion or embarrassment. Her eyes were downcast; he couldn’t be sure what color they were. “The stone cross at the edge of the green, Birdie,” she said, amusement in her low voice. “That’s a sort of statue, because it never moves.”

“Oh.”

The snarl was stubborn, and Connor was as anxious as Birdie not to pull Miss Sophie’s hair. “Almost got it,” he muttered; “two more seconds.” Her pretty hair was soft and slippery, and it smelled like roses. Or was that the sun-warmed linen of her dress?

“There are scissors in the rectory,” she said, speaking to the ground. “Tommy Wooten, are you here? Would you go and ask—”

“Out of the question. I’d sooner cut off my hand than a single strand of this beautiful hair.” And if that wasn’t the most fatuous thing Connor had ever said in his life, he wanted to know what was.

She sent him a twinkling sideways glance, and he saw the color of her eyes. Blue. Definitely blue. “Actually, I was thinking you might cut off the button.”

“Ah, the button. A much better idea.”

“Shall I go, Miss Sophie?” asked a reedy voice behind Connor’s shoulder.

“Yes, Tommy.”

“No, Tommy,” Connor corrected as the last strand in the tangle finally came loose. “Miss Sophie is free.”

She sat back on her heels and smiled, first at him, then at the children gathered around; some of them were clapping, as if a performance had just concluded. Her laughing face was flushed, her hair awry—and she was so stunningly lovely, he felt blinded, too dazzled to take it all in. He remembered to take off his hat, but before he could say anything, she turned away to give Birdie a strong, reassuring hug.

“Did it hurt?” the little girl asked her, patting her cheek worriedly.

“No, not one bit.”

She heaved a gusty sigh of relief. “Look, Miss Sophie, here’s what I was giving you.” She held out one bent daisy, the stem wilted, the white petals smashed.

Sophie drew in her breath. “Oh,
lovely
,” she declared, holding the flower to her nose and sniffing deeply. “Thank you, Birdie. I’ll wear it in my buttonhole.” The child blushed with pleasure. Then she was off, eager to tell her friends about her adventure.

Now that the drama was over, the other children began to wander away, too. Connor was still on his knees beside the teacher. “Thank you,” she said in her musical voice, and he said, “It was very much my pleasure.” They both looked away, then back. He put out his hand. She hesitated, then took it, and he helped her to her feet.

She wasn’t as tall as he’d thought; it must be her fine, proud carriage that gave the illusion of height. That and her slimness. Disheveled after Birdie’s mauling, she busied herself with pinning up her hair, and the long sleeves of her gown fell back, baring her forearms. The angle of her bent neck intrigued him again, the sheer elegance of it. Watching her now seemed more intimate somehow than touching her had a moment ago.

He ought to say something. “Your choir sounds like a band of angels,” he offered—a reckless exaggeration.

She laughed, and the sweet, lilting sound made him laugh with her. “How kind of you, sir. We’re hoping that by the twenty-fourth of June, they’ll at least sound like human beings. Midsummer Day,” she explained when he looked blank. “Two
very
short weeks away.” Her clear blue eyes looked directly into his, interested, not coy. “Well,” she said softly, and started to turn.

“I’m new to the village,” he said, to keep her.

“Yes, I know.”

“Do you live here?” Idiotic question; of course she lived here.

“Oh, yes. All my life.” Just then one of the towheaded twins barreled into her. She staggered slightly, slipping an arm around his shoulders. The little boy leaned against her in a comfortable way and stared up at Connor curiously.

“Shall I like Wyckerley, do you think?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” she answered after a thoughtful pause. “I suppose it depends on what you’re looking for.”

“So far, I like what I’ve seen very much.”

She smiled her ravishing smile, but it was impossible to tell if they were flirting or not. He was, but behind her friendly manners and guileless blue gaze might be simple courtesy. While he was thinking of something else to say, something to keep her from remembering that she was conversing with a total stranger in the middle of the village green, someone called her name.

A man. Tall, good-looking, dressed in black, moving toward them from the direction of the church rectory with a long, vigorous stride. In his arms he held a blond-haired infant, wrapped in a blanket.

Connor’s smile stiffened. He felt his face going numb.

“Sophie,” the man called again, jiggling the baby playfully as he came. “Mrs. Mayhew’s here.” He came to a stop before them and gave Connor a friendly glance. The baby saw the music teacher and held out its pudgy hands, gurgling with happiness.

Sophie turned to Connor. “Mrs. Mayhew is our organist.” A pause. “Well,” she said again. She appeared slightly at a loss.

The tall man shifted the baby to one side and put out his hand. “Good afternoon. I’m Christian Morrell—I’m the vicar of All Saints Church.”

Connor shook. “Con—” He covered the mistake with a cough. “Jack Pendarvis.”

“Glad to meet you.”

“Glad to meet you,” he echoed, without a word of truth. He felt bleak inside, and absurdly let down. Cheated, as if he’d been declared ineligible for a spectacular prize he’d set his heart on. But if lovely Sophie had to be married, it was good, he supposed, that it was to this friendly, forthright minister; and if she had to have a child, he was glad it was this healthy, happy, golden-haired infant.

She was clapping her hands and calling the children, telling them it was time to go inside the church for the last rehearsal. Connor put his hat on and started to back away. Before he’d gone a foot, Reverend Morrell said amiably, “My wife’s gone off to Tavistock to buy a baby carriage. But did she take the baby with her? Oh, no, she left her with her inept and overworked papa, who’s been trying for three hours to write a sermon on the virtue of patience.”

Connor’s laugh was much longer and heartier than the modest quip warranted. “She’s a beautiful child,” he said—truthfully this time. And the vicar was a fine fellow, and it was a fine day all around.

“Isn’t she?” Reverend Morrell planted a kiss on his daughter’s apple cheek. “She’s perfect, isn’t she?”

He seemed to mean the question seriously. Connor laughed again and agreed with him.

The children had started to troop off toward the church. Birdie had Miss Sophie’s hand; the teacher had time to say, “Good day to you, Mr. Pendarvis. I hope you’ll like our village. Thank you again—for saving me—!” before the little girl pulled her away.

He lifted his hat and watched her hurry up the church steps. In the dark doorway she paused, her ivory dress gleaming like an opal against the blackness behind her. She glanced back at him over her shoulder—and if he hadn’t known it before, he knew it now: they
were
flirting. Then, with a bewitching half smile, she was gone.

A long, long moment went by before he realized Reverend Morrell was watching him. The vicar had a look of resigned amusement on his face that seemed to say this had all happened before. “Sorry—should I have introduced you?” he wondered dryly.

Connor looked away, abashed. But why pretend? “Reverend,” he said candidly, “I very much wish that you had.”

The minister smiled. “Will you be stopping here for long, Mr. Pendarvis?”

He made a vague gesture. “I’m not really sure.”

“Well, in any case, Wyckerley’s a small place; you’ll likely be seeing Miss Deene again.”

“Yes, I—” He stopped short. “Miss Deene?”

He nodded, shifting the squirming baby to his hip. “Miss Sophie Deene.”

Connor battled a sinking feeling. “By any chance, does her mother own Guelder mine?”

“Sophie’s mother? Oh, no; Mrs. Deene passed away many years ago.”

Thank God for that, he thought irreverently. Another relative, then. “Her aunt,” he guessed, “or an older sister—”

“No, no,
Sophie
owns Guelder.”

“Sophie—Miss Deene—
owns the mine
?”

“Owns it, runs it, does everything but go down in it with the miners. We’re very proud of our Sophie.”

Connor murmured something, tried to put some life into his sickly smile. Past the vicar’s shoulder, he gazed across the green at the dark church door. A minute ago he’d thought an angel had passed through it. Oh, bloody, bloody hell. In the blink of an eye, the girl of his dreams had turned into the enemy.

II

Do you know how many children rise each morning blithe and gay?

Sophie shook her head, trying to get the song out of it. Her pony’s plodding hoofbeats kept time to the childish melody, and the voice in her brain wouldn’t stop singing it.

That was what she got for letting Christy talk her into being children’s choir precentor for the third year in a row. She ought to have told him no, she couldn’t do it again because she didn’t have time. But of course she’d said yes, and of course it wasn’t the vicar’s fault. She’d agreed because she loved doing it. Loved everything about it, especially the children. Her life might be getting more cluttered and hectic every day, but somehow she’d always find time for the children.

Do you know how many children
—

“Oh, stop it,” she told herself, inadvertently slapping the reins across Valentine’s rump. The pony veered right, bumping the gig over the ruts in the old Tavistock toll road. “Whoa, Val,” she called, steering him gently back to the center.

Her shoulders ached; she sagged back against the seat, yawning. How lovely to be going home early for a change. One advantage of being choir precentor was that she had to leave Saturday afternoons free, for practice, which always ended by five o’clock. No point in going back to the mine that late; there was no second core on Saturdays, and she could as easily do her paperwork at home. But tonight she wasn’t going to do anything. Nothing. She might even go straight to bed, eat dinner there, and read herself to sleep. Ah, lovely.

But first she’d have to have a sit-down talk with Mrs. Bolton about housekeeping matters for the week, meals and so on. And the garden needed attention badly . . . but that would be pleasant, not really work at all. Her pile of mending kept getting higher—she ought to do
that
in bed instead of reading. Or maybe she should write letters; she was so behind in her correspondence, it was a wonder any of her old school friends kept in touch with her at all anymore.

Then she remembered: she’d promised Mrs. Nineways, the churchwarden’s wife, that she’d come up with a plan by church tomorrow to ensure that the annual rummage sale on Midsummer Day was a success this year—unlike last summer’s embarrassing failure, when the parish ladies had grossed a piddling two and a half pounds for a whole year of church programs.

Do you know how many children
—

“Judas!” she swore—but kept the pony on the track this time. They were trotting past the turnoff to the lane that led to Guelder, and in the distance she could see the chimney stacks, high and black against the twilight sky, belching clouds of white steam into the air. Her father had named the mine Guelder after the roses his wife loved to grow. Sophie loved the name, and the flower, because they were all she had left of the mother she’d never known. And even though it was the cause of her fatigue and the root of all her serious problems, she loved the mine as well, because it had been her father’s last gift.

He’d given it to her on the night he died. Almost two years had passed since then, but her satisfaction in the faith he’d shown in her with that last loving act was still as strong and sweet as ever. When she was lonely, tired, overwhelmed by the weight of responsibility for so many people’s lives and livelihoods on her twenty-three-year-old shoulders, her father’s faith kept her going.

“You’re as smart as any woman I ever met, Sophie, and almost any man,” he had told her regularly; told her so often, in fact, that eventually she’d come to believe it. Taken it for granted. Some might call that conceit, but Sophie preferred to think of it as pride. Her cousin Honoria said she was
too
proud. “Pride is a sin, Sophia, and don’t forget, it goeth before a fall,” she was fond of warning, with her lips pursed like two prunes. But Honoria’s sourness came from discontent with her own life, which to Sophie seemed empty and pointless beyond bearing, so she tried not to hold it against her.

Sometimes it was hard to believe they were related at all, so different did Sophie think—or
hope
—she was from her cousin. Uncle Eustace Vanstone owned Salem mine, but the thought of Honoria having anything to do with Salem, much less managing it in her father’s stead, was ridiculous. She’d consider it beneath her, not to mention undignified and unladylike. Eustace was the mayor of Wyckerley, not all that exalted a position in the grand scheme of things, but Honoria took it seriously, almost as seriously as she took her role as daughter of the mayor. She considered herself, except for Lady Moreton at Lynton Great Hall, the highest-ranking female in the district. Sophie could have argued that Reverend Morrell’s wife outranked her, Anne having been a viscountess before her marriage to Christy. For that matter, Sophie could even argue (if she cared about such things, which of course she didn’t) that she herself preceded Honoria, because her father, when he’d lived, had been older, better educated, richer, and more of a gentleman (in her opinion) than Uncle Eustace would ever be. Truth to tell, the only thing Honoria had on Sophie was age, and since they were both still spinsters, that wasn’t exactly a distinction.

Not that Sophie gave such things a second thought.

Instead she thought about the man on the green this afternoon. Memories of him had been drifting back with almost the same frequency as “Do you know how many children.” Jack Pendarvis. A Cornish name, and she’d caught more than a trace of Cornwall in his accent. Was he visiting someone here? She didn’t know of any Pendarvises in the parish. She wished she’d been able to think of a way to ask him his business. But she hadn’t been very articulate. Neither had he.

Smiling, unconsciously touching her hair, she remembered how he’d touched it, so gently, and how he’d stared at her. His eyes were an interesting shade of gray, and the dark pupils gave them a fierce look, intense and a little unsettling. But his mouth when he smiled was beautiful, and he hadn’t even tried to hide his admiration. Sophie was used to men admiring her; it didn’t embarrass her unless they went too far, said idiotic things or behaved like donkeys. Jack Pendarvis . . . she couldn’t imagine him saying or doing anything silly. Telling her he’d rather cut off his hand than a single strand of her hair . . . that was gallant, she decided, not silly. How handsome he was, with his jet-black hair and lean, clean-shaven face. Who could he be? Strangers in Wyckerley were almost unheard of. He spoke like a gentleman, but his clothes had looked a trifle rough. Perhaps he’d been traveling. Yes, of course; obviously. “Do you think I’ll like it here?” he’d asked—which must mean he was staying. So she’d see him again.

Lovely.

She slowed the pony for the tight turn between the pitted granite gateposts flanking the carriageway to Stone House. The gravel drive needed tending; the edges were blurred and weeds were shooting up in the center of the wheel tracks. Thomas did his best, but the hard jobs were too much for him; nowadays the grounds and the stable were all he could manage. She wasn’t poor—exactly; she could have hired an odd-job man to pull weeds out of the driveway or paint the shutters, trim back the China roses before they ate up the whole house. But she never seemed to have time. And she was turning every penny Guelder earned back into deeper excavations.

It was a risky strategy, one her uncle strongly advised her against. But Eustace’s conservative approach didn’t suit her. Sophie thought of herself as her father’s child: she valued boldness over caution, action over speculation. If she failed . . . oh, but why think about failure? There were degrees of success, but for Tolliver Deene’s intrepid daughter there could never be failure. She really believed it.

She was tired, so she halted Valentine at the bottom of the steps rather than taking him around to the stable. Sometimes she put him up herself, especially if Thomas was having one of his bad lumbago days. Tonight, though, she couldn’t work up the energy.

Maris waved to her from the open doorway while Sophie was tying the reins to the post. “I’ll go an’ fetch ’im!” she called. Sophie nodded, and Maris turned and disappeared to find Thomas in his lair over the carriage house and tell him his mistress was home.

Inside, Sophie stripped off her gloves and threw them on the hall table. Standing before the speckled mirror while she repinned her untidy hair, she tried to see herself as a stranger might see her. A stranger like Jack Pendarvis. But it was useless; all she could see was her own face, to which she was certainly no stranger. She heard Mrs. Bolton’s heavy tread climbing the stairs from the kitchen. “It’s only a cold salad tonight unless you want to wait,” the housekeeper announced, after a perfunctory greeting. “I can make a chop, but it’ll be late; I’ve only just got back from Gerald’s.”

Gerald was her unmarried son; she visited him every week, Friday night until dinner on Saturday, and cleaned his house and made most of his meals for the coming week. She always came back exhausted and irritable, and Sophie had learned to stay out of her way until Sunday at the earliest.

“Oh, a salad sounds just right,” she assured her. “I’m too tired for a big meal anyway.” Mrs. Bolton said, “Hmph,” and Sophie lost the heart to ask if she could have it in her room. “I’ll go and change, then come back down and help you.”

“Hmph. See you’ve got grass stains on that white skirt. They’ll never come out, you might as well start cutting it up for ribbons right now.”

“I can get ’em out,” Maris claimed, clumping toward them from the back of the house, all five feet, eleven inches of her. “Skim milk and starch powder, nothing to it.”

Mrs. Bolton scowled at her. “We’ll see,” she said darkly, and headed for the kitchen.

Maris grinned, showing her crooked teeth. She was carrying a glass. “Here, whyn’t you take this outside and watch the sun go down. Take yer shoes off and just set. I can bring supper out in the garden if you want.”

“Oh, Maris.” She’d made her a glass of cold orange tea and honey; it tasted like heaven. Maris was the day maid; she went home to her family every night. Mrs. Bolton was the one who slept in, in a room off the kitchen in the basement. Sophie frequently wished it was the other way around. “Well, maybe I will,” she decided. “I can be snapping the dead heads off the rhododendrons.”

“Hmph,” said Maris, mimicking Mrs. Bolton. “I was pretty sure you wasn’t going to stick yer feet up and do what I told you to do—nothing.”

They rolled their eyes at each other and parted.

Sophie’s mother’s garden was lovely for over half the year-round, but it was never more beautiful than at the warm twilight end of an early June day, when thousands and thousands of roses bloomed in a mad riot of color, climbing the old apple trees and covering the hedgerows, creeping past the borders and overtopping the roof of the garden house. A dozen other flower species were at their peak now, too, but the roses ruled supreme by virtue of exuberance and sheer numbers and their overpowering perfume. Half swooning from the fragrance and the beauty, Sophie sat down on the painted wooden chaise by the garden house and swatted away a bee that wanted a taste of her orange tea. “Hullo, Dash,” she said, and the black cat curled up on the sun-warmed flags roused himself to twitch an ear at her. The lightest of breezes shook down a cloud of loose florets from the acacia bush; they landed on Dash’s neck, startling white against glossy black, but he didn’t even notice. “Should’ve named you Dashless,” she told him, lying back on the chaise and closing her eyes. “Dashfree. Undash.”

Mine problems closed in on her as soon as she allowed her thoughts to drift. Copper prices had dropped again at Thursday’s ticketing, as they had been doing for months. Overspeculation and the war in the Crimea had put an end to the days, five years ago or so, of fabulous profits. Guelder was a small mine compared to the Devon or Fowey Consols, and one of the few in the county owned wholly by an individual, without shareholders. Well, except for Lord Moreton, who had made a modest investment when she’d needed cash badly. The handwriting was on the wall, though; Sophie didn’t need Uncle Eustace telling her it was time to advertise for adventurers—moneyed speculators. Since his alternative was unthinkable—that she sell Guelder to him and take up the infinitely more feminine pursuit of husband-hunting—she was going to have to come up with a workable plan for a stock offer soon. How much should a share cost and how many should she sell? She had two lawyers, and each was telling her something different.

Eyes closed, she put her glass down on the flagstones and folded her arms across her middle. The worst would be having to give up her independence, her sovereignty, she thought, yawning. She’d have to answer to others. Guelder had been her father’s mine, nobody else’s.
He’d
never sold pieces of it to strangers. Even in the leanest times, he’d held on one way or another, by abandoning risky pitches or laying off miners until the copper standard rose and prices improved. Dickon Penney, her mine agent, was forever telling her to sell off shares; but he wasn’t the one who would have to deal with the consequences, was he? Meetings every month at the coinage in Tavistock. Relinquishing shares and declaring dividends . . . a quarterly settling of the mine’s accounts, maybe even bimonthly . . .

She heard footsteps on the stone terrace and sat up, amazed to realize she’d been dozing, actually sleeping in her chair. Maris would be pleased. She turned around to tell her—and saw her uncle coming across the terrace, taking the two steps to the grass in one bound. A few months ago he’d hurt his knee in a riding accident, and he still carried a gold-handled cane; but since his knee was healed, it was only an affectation now. He thought the cane made him look more mayoral. Sophie stood up, brushing white petals from her skirts, and smiled a greeting.

He didn’t smile back. “You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?”

“Forgotten what?”

His sleek, handsome face was so severe, it looked carved out of marble. He was one of the local magistrates, and she’d seen him make prisoners tremble in the dock with that face. “Dinner,” he said shortly. “Tonight. Robert Croddy is coming.”

“Oh,
bother.
You’re right, I did forget. I’m sorry.” There went her quiet evening alone. She hoped Uncle Eustace was interpreting the disappointment she couldn’t hide as regret that now she’d be late to his dinner party.