Forever and Ever (33 page)

His handsome cheeks pinkened faintly. He leaned over her, secretly stroking his thumb over the center of her palm. “What else?”

“Mm, better not tell you now.”

“Tell me.”

“You’d get too excited. No telling what you might do.”

“Oh, please tell me.”

She might have—she was considering it—when Jessica Carnock approached them from the direction of the church rectory and said it was time for the dedication ceremony. Conner made a comical grinding noise Sophie hoped Jessie couldn’t hear, and then he charmed the older woman with what she was beginning to think of as his Parliament smile. He’d always had it, a quite beautiful smile, sweet and masculine at the same time. But now that he was a Member for Tavistock in the House of Commons, she’d begun to try to see him as strangers might. She tried to be objective, but it was hard to imagine anyone not finding her husband perfect. A man among men. Especially when she picked out his clothes for him.

“Does Jack need any help?” he asked Mrs. Carnock, strolling toward the crowd that had begun to assemble at the north end of the green. After the dedication, Jack’s bronze plaque was going to be embedded in a large granite rock not far from the Maypole.

“No, I don’t think so. Maris is with him,” she added as she waved to Captain Carnock, who was already waiting for her with the other village notables—the mayor, the vicar and his wife, the lord and lady of the manor, most of the church vestry. Sophie’s heart swelled with pride to think that she and Connor, especially Connor, had a rightful place among them, and she made a private vow that she would repay the blessings of God and good fortune by never taking the privilege for granted.

“Go on ahead, Sophie,” Connor told her, hanging back. “Here they come from the rectory—I’ll give Maris a hand.”

“No, I’ll wait for you.”

Maris and Jack were crossing the High Street at a snail’s pace. Jack looked gaunt but spiffy in a red necktie and a sober blue suit, and new shoes. He wasn’t very steady on his feet yet—he held a cane in one hand and Maris’s arm in the other—but at least he was walking. He’d spent all of May and half of June in bed, and since then he’d mostly gotten about in a wheelchair. But today was a special day, and Dr. Hesselius had said he could attend the ceremony in his honor on his own two feet if he stayed overnight in the village afterward, to avoid exhaustion, and the Morrells had promptly offered him the use of their guest room. Maris would stay overnight, too, of course—she’d become his shadow.

Sophie watched them together, smiling fondly, thinking they were at least as odd-looking as Tranter and Rose. Maris wasn’t quite as tall as Jack, but she was at least twice as strong. Sophie had seen her pick him up in her arms with ease. She bathed and fed him, cajoled and entertained him. He could be crabby and she could be tart, but they had grown inseparable. Had Maris been in love with Jack all along? She was now, as anyone with eyes could see. As for him . . . Sophie couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t a man to lose his heart easily, and he was still afraid to make plans or look too far into the future. But Maris was working on him, slowly but steadily. And subtly. If she were a betting woman, Sophie would put her money on the nurse.

The villagers weren’t supposed to applaud until after the ceremony, but as soon as they saw Jack shuffling toward them, they broke into spontaneous clapping. He kept his eyes down, kept walking, acknowledging it with nothing more than a blush. He had a rough, natural dignity Sophie was learning to respect, and not only because it reminded her of his brother’s more polished version.

He took his place in the center of the semicircle of dignitaries, Connor on one side, Sophie’s uncle on the other. The mayor cleared his throat, and silence fell.

“My friends, my neighbors. Over the years you’ve heard me give many speeches from this spot. Most of them ran on too long. This one will not, because what I have to say is very simple.

“We all know why we’re here and who we’ve come to honor. Mr. Jack Pendarvis came among us a year ago. He was good-natured and good-hearted, and he made friends quickly. Then he went away. Many people missed him, but none of us knew then that he had the makings of greatness in him, or that three men would one day owe him their lives.

“On the twentieth of April, Jack Pendarvis showed his mettle. When no one else would go, he went down in Guelder mine, risking his very life to free Charles Oldene, Roy Donne, and Roland Coachman. Because of him, these men are here with us today. For this we are deeply grateful, even though two of the rescued men were instrumental in helping the Hurlers defeat the Salem Dragoons for the second year in a row.”

Sophie’s surprised laughter joined that of the others. Uncle Eustace hardly ever joked, and when he did the result was more often embarrassing than hilarious.

“Today we dedicate this plaque not only to Jack, but to the ideals of bravery, selflessness, and valor. Courage can come at unexpected times, from unexpected sources. We are more than fortunate that it came to Jack Pendarvis at the moment it did. We thank him today most humbly and most sincerely, and we honor him with this memorial in his name, which will remain in this spot long after the last of us is gone. Thank you, Jack. And God keep you.”

Connor had been teasing Jack for a week about the speech he would be expected to make, and he’d scoffed every time, insisting his speech would be two words long: “Thank you.” But when the cheers and applause died down, he stepped forward and said a little more than that. His gruff voice wouldn’t carry far; to hear him, every man, woman, and child on the village green went absolutely quiet.

“Thank you, Mayor. And thank you fer leavin’ out the bad part, which everyone here knows anyways, and which I’m still payin’ for in my soul. What I done wasn’t so much bravery as payback—but that’s as may be. What I want to say today is thanks to all o’ you, everyone who’s been a friend and kind to me in the worst times. I been made to feel like I belong here, and that’s worth more to me than even this dandy plaque. Which I expect I’ll come t’ look at about onct a day fer the next year or two. Anyways, thank you—I can’t say it better than that, but I mean it in my heart. And don’t ferget to vote fer my brother in the next general election.”

Sophie saw a few tears mingled with the laughter in the cheering, appreciative crowd. People wanted to hug him or shake his hand, and she noticed the looks of dismay on their faces when they realized how frail he was. Connor found her in the throng and slipped his arm around her waist. His face was a study: she saw pride and deep emotion, and a shadow of the fear that had been haunting them for weeks. “He’s all right, Con. He’s going to be fine, I just know it.”

“Yes.” He nodded vehemently. “He is.”

Jack joined them a few minutes later with Maris at his side. “Thank God that’s over,” he muttered, but there was no hiding the pleasure he’d taken in the proceedings, especially now that they were over. “I been offered drinks at the George by eight miners—and me not allowed so much as a thimbleful, mind—and dinner at the house o’ six beautiful faymels, plus three different jobs, not a one o’ which I’m able-bodied enough t’ do.”

“Yet,” Sophie put in.

“Congratulations,” said Connor. “I thought your speech was wonderful.”

“Oh, did ee, now. Maybe speechifying runs in the fam’ly.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Ha. Won’t be long now, ee’ll be standin’ up in front o’ them swells in the Commons, givin’ ’em what for. Con, I’m proud as hell o’you.”

“I’m proud of you, Jack.”

They said it smilingly, but neither was joking. Misty-eyed, Sophie watched them embrace, and the gentleness with which Connor touched his brother gave her an ache in the chest.

Maris hid her emotion with gruffness. “Haven’t you had enough blatherin’ and backslappin’ for one day, Mr. Big Hero? Come along inside the vicarage now, it’s time for a nap and yer medicine.”

Jack said a few Cornish swear words not fit for ladies’ ears. But he was tired; it showed in his face and the droop of his shoulders. They said good-bye, and that they’d see him tomorrow. Grumbling from habit, he let Maris lead him away.

The vivid blue sky lightened; the long day slowly drew to a close. Later there would be dancing around a bonfire for the grown-ups, a fireworks display for the children. But after Sophie finished helping Anne and the other vestry ladies clean up from the rummage sale, Connor caught her eye over the heads of a group of men with whom he was having a conversation about taxes, and a silent message passed between them:
Let’s go home.

He watched her wander over to the bridge and lean over the edge, waiting for him, looking at the ducks. She had on a pretty white frock, fresh as the summer day. She’d worn white the first day they’d met. Tall, slender as a reed, she was the essence of grace to him and she always would be. He made an excuse to his companions, keeping it vague, leaving them thinking he might return, and walked out to his wife.

Using him for a shield, so all of Wyckerley couldn’t witness her unseemly display of affection, Sophie lifted his hands to her mouth and kissed the backs, slowly, dreamily. “Let’s just walk away, Con. Good-byes take forever. No one will even notice we’ve gone.”

He didn’t argue. When Sophie had that look in her eye, tender and loving, wonderfully suggestive, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to oblige her. They walked down the empty street past the deserted George, the First and Last Inn, Swan’s smithy. The thatched, pastel cottages thinned and ended above the crossroads. To the right lay Plymouth, to the left Tavistock and the moor, and straight ahead, Lynton Great Hall. Turning left, north, they took hands and trod the narrow red lane, shady from the arching trees and fragrant hedgerows. Birds twittered in the underbrush and sang good nights across the paling sky. Honeysuckle perfumed the soft evening air, and they slowed their steps, beguiled by the sky, and the birds, and the perfection of the Devon twilight.

The road crested between a new-mown hayfield and the beginning of a dark pine brake. They stopped, turning around in unison to watch the sun drop behind the trees above Wyckerley. It was beautiful, they murmured to each other; everything was so beautiful.

“Will you work on your speech tonight?” Sophie wondered, leaning against him.

“I may.” He’d won the by-election three weeks ago, and meant to go to London next month to take his seat. The House adjourned in August, which didn’t leave much time for his maiden address. The Speaker might not recognize him at all, in which case he’d have to wait and worry about it until November.

“It must be nerve-racking, not knowing when you’re going to address three or four hundred of your new colleagues for the first time. Aren’t you nervous?”

“Nervous? No, no, certainly not. Scared to death.”

“But you’ll be wonderful, I know you will. I want to be there when you stand up to speak.”

“I don’t see how you can be, darling, unless you stay in London all summer.”

“I know.” She sighed. “At least I’ll be there on your first day. Looking down at you from the Strangers’ Gallery. Oh, God, Con, I’ll be so proud of you! I hope I don’t cry.”

“I hope you don’t laugh.”

“Silly.” She wound her arms around him. “You’ll be magnificent. You’ll change the world. England will never be the same.”

He chuckled, but answered her seriously. “Reform comes so slowly. Tomorrow the queen’s signing a bill into law that finally does away with the property qualification, Sophie. Do you know how long the Chartists have been fighting for that? More than thirty years.”

“But change
should
come slowly, shouldn’t it? Slowly and thoughtfully. That’s what makes our constitutional monarchy great.”

“Spoken like a true Tory.”

“Not in the least. I just don’t think we should reform everything all at once.”

“No danger of that. What I worry about is change coming so slowly, working men and women won’t wait for it; they’ll abandon the country and move to the cities to survive. And that would be a great shame.”

She gazed out across the darkened landscape she knew and loved so well. “Yes, it would.” Beyond the hay field, she could see pale, cottony clouds of steam puffing from Guelder’s smokestacks; to the south, the black chimneys of Lynton Hall scored the sky; and to the west, the cross of All Saints Church towered like a blessing over the land. She slipped her arm in his. “Well, I’m determined to be a good parliamentary wife to you, Con, even when we don’t agree on politics.”

He smiled down at her. “That’s nice to know.”

“Repopulating the countryside, now, that’s an important issue. I for one think it’s a job that should begin at home.”

How she loved the sound of his laughter. “Sophie, I adore you.” They took hands and turned toward home, hurrying, eager to do their part for the country.

If you’ve fallen in love with Wyckerley, don’t miss the other marvelous novels in Patricia Gaffney’s beloved trilogy. Return to the place where enchanting romance and unexpected passions meet. . . .

TO LOVE AND TO CHERISH

and

TO HAVE AND TO HOLD

Available now from InterMix

Turn the page for a special preview . . .

To Love and To Cherish

Even on his deathbed, Lord D’Aubrey was a hard man to love.

God, give me patience and humility
, prayed Reverend Christian Morrell, who was in the business, as it were, of loving the unlovable. Leaning over the bed but not touching it—ill as he was, the elderly viscount still bristled when anyone except his doctor got too close—Christy asked his lordship if he would take the sacraments.

“Why? So I can go straight to heaven? Do you think I’m going to heaven, Vicar? Eh? Think I’m—” He ran out of breath; his parchment-colored face turned blue until he sucked in a wheezing gulp of air. By now he was too weak to cough; he kept swallowing until the spasm passed, then lay exhausted, hands limp on his sunken chest.

Christy sat down again in the high-backed chair he’d pulled as close to the bed as the old man would allow.
Dr. Hesselius ought to be here
, he couldn’t help thinking. “Send for me if you need me, but I doubt that you will,” he’d told Christy two hours ago, in this room. “He’s not in any pain—they frequently aren’t at this late stage. I doubt he’ll live through the day. I’ve done all I can; old Edward’s in your hands now, Reverend.” Christy had nodded at that, gravely, calmly, as if the prospect didn’t demoralize him.

In his own estimation, at least on good days, he was a reasonably effective clergyman, considering he was new at his calling and his best qualities were still only earnestness and perseverance. But he had numerous failings, and they had a perverse way of multiplying and combining at extreme times like this, when his deepest wish was to give comfort and consolation to the needy. Edward Verlaine offered a special challenge, and Christy despaired that he wasn’t up to it.

Memories kept intruding on his best efforts to pray. In the sparsely furnished room, a dark, gilt-framed oil painting of Lord D’Aubrey’s grandfather loomed conspicuously over the mantelpiece; a peculiar grayish blur under the haughty-looking ancestor’s nose made Christy smile, albeit a bit grimly. He recalled the day, probably twenty years ago now, when he and Geoffrey, his best friend, had stolen into this room, giggling and shushing each other, giddy with nervous excitement. Christy hadn’t really believed Geoffrey would do it, but he had: he’d stood on a chair and drawn a charcoal mustache on the scowling face of his great-grandfather. Faint traces still lingered, the charcoal having proven remarkably resistant to numerous efforts at removal. Christy wondered if Geoffrey still bore the marks from the thrashing his father had ordered for punishment—delivered by his steward, not himself, for even in his rages Edward Verlaine had kept his distance.

The words in Christy’s Book of Common Prayer began to run together. He rolled his stiff shoulders, fighting off the sleepiness that kept dragging at him. He stood up and went to the window. Drawing back the curtain, he looked out past Lynton Great Hall’s derelict courtyard toward the tall black spire of All Saints Church, half a mile away and all that could be seen from here of Wyckerley, the village where he’d grown up. It was April; the gentle, oak-covered hills were a brilliant yellow-green, and the Wyck, normally a placid little river within its steep-sided banks, churned down from Dartmoor with the force of a torrent. He and Geoffrey had fished in the Wyck year-round, ridden their ponies up and down every sunken red lane in the parish, left urgent messages for each other in a crevice of the gray stone monolith at the crossroads. They’d been all but inseparable for the first sixteen years of their lives—until Geoffrey had run away. In twelve years, Christy hadn’t heard a word from him.

Until six days ago, when a note had come to the rectory. “Just tell me when the bastard croaks,” Geoffrey had scribbled on the back of a tailor’s bill—and that only after Christy had written repeatedly to the London address he’d finally gotten from Lord D’Aubrey’s solicitor. “How the hell are you?” he’d scrawled in a postscript. “You’re joking, aren’t you? A
minister
??”

Christy wasn’t surprised that his new vocation seemed like a joke to Geoffrey, considering all the times that, as boys, they’d made fun of Christy’s gentle, pious father. “Old Vicar,” the villagers called Magnus Morrell now, although he’d been dead for four years; and Christy, inevitably, was “New Vicar.” Stories of Geoffrey’s wild, decadent life in London and other worldly fleshpots were hard to reconcile with competing and almost equally incredible rumors that he was a mercenary soldier, ready to take up arms for any cause that paid enough money for his services. Christy had stopped missing him—even the deepest wound heals in time—but he’d never stopped wondering what had become of him.

A noise from the bed made him start. The viscount’s face, yellow with jaundice, had turned on the pillow; he was glaring at him. “You.” It came out an accusing croak. “Don’t want you. Where’s your father?”

“My father’s dead, sir,” he reminded him gently, leaning over the bed.

Recollection took the anger out of the old man’s hard black eyes, but a truly ghastly smile curled at the corners of his mouth. “Then I’ll see him soon enough, won’t I?”

Christy fumbled with his prayer book, reconsidered, and laid it aside. He hated the pain he felt at this moment, and the inadequacy, and the trivial sound of all the things that came into his mind to say. He felt like a child again—like the boy who had grown up terrified of this dying wreck of a man, hating him on principle because Geoffrey, his best friend, had hated him.

He bent closer, into the old man’s line of vision. “Would you like to pray?”

Out of habit, the viscount’s eyes narrowed with contempt. A moment passed. He turned his face away. “You pray,” he exhaled on a feeble sigh.

Christy opened his book to the Psalms. “The Lord is my shepherd,” he began, prosaically enough; “I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul—’ ”

“Not that one. Before that.”

“The—”

“The twenty-second.” His eyes closed in exhaustion, but the bloodless lips curved again, sardonic. “Read it, Parson,” he rasped when Christy hesitated.

He scanned the seldom-read psalm in dismay. “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? Why art thou so far from helping me, and from the words of my roaring?’” He read the prayer in a low voice, but it wasn’t possible to soften the desperate message. “They cried unto thee, and were delivered; they trusted in thee, and were not confounded. But I am a worm, and no man; a reproach of men, and despised of the people. All they that see me laugh me to scorn . . .’ ”

A sound silenced him; he looked up. Edward’s eyes were closed, his jaws clamped in a grimace; but, for all his efforts, tears trickled through his papery lids. Christy reached for one of his hands and held it tightly, while the viscount’s weeping turned into weak, desolate cursing. The words became garbled as he grew more agitated. He gave Christy’s wrist a feeble yank. “Do it,” he muttered. “Do it, damn you.”

He stared at him, baffled. “I don’t—”

“Absolve me.”

Christy looked down at the fierce, spidery grip the old man had on his hand. “Almighty God,” he prayed quickly, “who desireth not the death of a sinner, but rather that he may turn from his wickedness and live, hath given power to his ministers to declare and pronounce to his people the absolution of their sins. Edward, do you truly and earnestly repent of your sins?”

“I do,” he grated through his teeth, eyes closed.

“Are you in love and charity with your neighbors—”

“Yes, yes.”

“And—will you lead a new life, following the commandments of God and walking from henceforth in his holy ways?”

“Yes!”

“Go in peace, then. Your sins are forgiven.”

The viscount peered up at him in panicky disbelief.

“They’re forgiven,” Christy repeated, insistent. “The God who made you loves you. Believe it.”

“If I could . . .”

“You can. Take it inside your heart and be at peace.”

“Peace.” His hand loosened and fell away, but he continued to gaze up with pleading eyes. All the hopes of his life had narrowed and funneled into this one hope; that he was loved, and that he was forgiven. Christy was learning that at the end it was all anyone wanted.

“My lord,” he asked, “will you take the sacraments?”

A minute went by, and then the old man nodded.

Christy prepared the bread and the wine quickly, using the bedside table for an altar, reciting the words of the ritual in a voice loud enough for Edward to hear. He was too ill to swallow more than a tiny morsel of the Host, and he could only wet his lips on the edge of the chalice. Afterward, he lay utterly still, the flutter of the wilted lace on his nightshirt the only indication that he still breathed.

Time ticked past in the dim box of a room; the lamp wick began to sputter, and Christy rose to turn it higher. A choking sound from the bed made him turn back quickly.

Edward was trying to sit up on his elbows. “Help me . . . help . . . oh, God, I hate it . . . I’m afraid of the dark . . .” Christy put his arm around his thin shoulders, propping him up. “Geoffrey?” He stared straight ahead, unblinking. “Geoffrey?”

“Yes,” Christy lied without hesitation. “Yes, Father, it’s Geoffrey.”

“My boy.” His smile was rapturous, a little smug. “I knew you’d come.” His head bobbed once and fell on his left shoulder; a long, ragged sigh rattled up from his chest, but he was already dead.

Christy held him in his arms a little longer before laying his slack torso back on the bed and gently closing his eyes. “Go in peace,” he murmured, “for the Lord has put away all your sins.” The unmistakable aspect of death had already seeped into the viscount’s corpse; his soul was gone. Christy administered the last sacrament, the anointing of the body with oil, taking a melancholy comfort in the solemn rite. When he finished, he sank to his knees by the bed to pray, hands folded, his forehead pressed against the side of the mattress.

That was how Geoffrey found him.

***

Christy hadn’t heard footsteps but something, maybe a change in the air, made him lift his head and look toward the doorway to the hall. A tall, dark-haired man stood in the threshold. Sallow skin, sunken cheeks, black, burning eyes in hollow sockets—for one grotesque moment, Christy thought it was Edward, returned from the dead in the semblance of his youth. But a second later, a flesh-and-blood woman materialized behind the man’s shoulder, and Christy realized he wasn’t seeing ghosts. He got to his feet in haste.

He met Geoffrey in the middle of the room. He would have embraced him, but Geoffrey held out his hand and they shook instead, clapping each other on the back. “My God, it’s true,” Geoffrey cried, his voice sounding shockingly loud after the long silence. “You’ve gone and become a priest!”

“As you see.” His gladness gave way to concern as he took in his oldest friend’s profoundly altered appearance. At sixteen, Geoffrey had been a strapping, muscular youth; when they’d wrestled together, they’d almost always fought to a draw, and on the rare occasions when Christy had won, it was only because he was taller. Now Geoffrey looked as if a well-placed blow from a child could knock him down. But his charming, wolfish grin hadn’t changed, and Christy found himself smiling back, wanting to laugh with him in spite of the somber circumstances of this meeting. “Geoffrey, thank God you’ve come. Your father—”

“Is he dead?” He moved around him to the bedside without waiting for an answer. “Oh, my, yes,” he said softly, staring down at the still corpse. “He’s dead, all right, no question about that.”

Christy stayed where he was, to give Geoffrey a little time to himself. The woman in the doorway hadn’t moved. She was slim, tall, dressed sedately in a dark brown traveling costume; the veiled brim of her hat cast a shadow over her face. He glanced at her curiously, but she didn’t speak.

Geoffrey had his back to the room; Christy tried to read his emotion from the set of his shoulders, but the rigid posture was unrevealing. After another minute, he crossed to the bed to stand beside him, and together they gazed down at Edward’s lifeless face. “He didn’t suffer at the end,” Christy said quietly. “It was a peaceful death.”

“Was it? He looks ghastly, doesn’t he? What was wrong with him, anyway?”

“A disease of the liver.”

“Liver, eh?” There was no hint of sorrow in his frowning, narrow-eyed countenance; rather, Christy had the unnerving impression that he was scrutinizing the body to assure himself it was really dead.

“He asked for you before he died.”

Geoffrey looked up at that, incredulous, then burst into high, hearty laughter. “Oh, that’s good. That’s very good!”

Dismayed, Christy looked away. The woman had come farther into the room; in the shadowy lamplight, her eyes glowed an odd silver-gray color. He couldn’t read the expression in them, but the set of her wide, straight mouth was ironic.

“I think he was sorry at he end,” he tried again. “For everything. I believe he felt remorse in his heart for—” This time Geoffrey cut him off with a crude, appallingly vulgar oath that made Christy blush. The woman arched one dark brow at him; he’d have said she was mocking him, but there was no playfulness in her face.

Then Geoffrey flashed his charming smile, and the anger in his eyes disappeared as if it had never been. He spun away from the bed and draped his arm across Christy’s shoulders, giving him a rough, affectionate squeeze. “How’ve you been, you ruddy old sod? You look . . .” He stood back and made a show of examining him, head to toe. “Christ, you
still
look like an archangel!” He ruffled Christy’s blond hair, laughing, and under his breath Christy caught the unmistakable odor of alcohol. He stiffened involuntarily. All the things he could have said about Geoffrey’s appearance seemed either tactless or hurtful, so he didn’t answer.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Geoffrey urged, guiding him toward the door. Christy resisted, and Geoffrey stopped short, adjacent to the silent, motionless woman. “Oh—sorry, darling, forgot about you there. This is Christian Morrell, an old chum from my halcyon youth. Christy, meet my wife, Anne. Anne, Christy. Christy, Anne. Shake hands, why don’t you? That’s it! Now let’s all go have a drink.”