Forever and Ever (9 page)

Everyone smiled at the innocent pleasantry, even Honoria. Lord Moreton asked his wife which fair was bigger, Wyckerley’s or Ottery’s, and which was better. While she answered, Sophie studied them with veiled interest. They’d been husband and wife only half a year or so, and the marriage had shocked Wyckerley to its toes—but then, Wyckerley was easily shocked. Still, Rachel Verlaine’s scandalous past, not to mention the fact that she and Sebastian had been living more or less openly with each other before the marriage—the fiction that she was just his “housekeeper” had fooled no one—guaranteed that they had been the storm center of unrelenting gossip for months. But he was an earl, and now she was a countess, and titles had a wonderful way of smoothing the harsh edges of unkind memories. If they had been common people, in all likelihood they would never have lived down their pasts, at least not here. But they were aristocrats; hence, no less a pillar of Wyckerlian respectability than Honoria Vanstone was now smiling obsequiously at both of them, shamelessly bent on winning their favor.

Lord Moreton spoke of the Lady Day fair in the Rye neighborhood of his childhood, and of how he and one of the grooms in his father’s stables had sneaked off to it for three years running. He was a sinfully handsome man, effortlessly charming, easy to talk to; marriage had lessened his haughtiness, but there was still a rakish tilt to his smiles and a devilish edge to the languid lift of his brow. He seemed always to be touching his wife, her hand or her elbow, the small of her back, and Sophie found being with them exciting and unsettling because of the physical energy that crackled between them.

For her part, Lady Moreton was always quiet and reserved—outwardly; Anne Morrell maintained that once she knew and trusted you, she was warmth itself, the kindest of friends. Sophie could believe it: the horrific nature of Rachel’s past excused caution in the present. She was not quite beautiful, but with her dark, silver-streaked hair and her odd, almost colorless eyes, she was certainly striking. But it was her manner that fascinated, the gravity behind her smiles, the barest hint of melancholy that still lingered in her eyes even when she laughed. Sophie wanted to know her better.

But there wasn’t time now. “I must go,” she said with real regret. The clock chiming in the church tower reminded her—“The children’s program is supposed to begin in twenty minutes, and it will probably take me that long to find them.” They parted; the Verlaines said they would see her again, and Honoria waved good-bye with a satisfied simper, happy to have their lordships all to herself.

Hurrying across the green toward the vicarage, she was accosted by Tranter Fox. “Miss Deene,” he cried, “Miss Deene! I’m sended t’ tell you!”

“What is it?” She stopped in her tracks, old habit causing her to worry if something had happened at the mine.

“Ma’am, yer very own team have won! The champeenship,” he explained when she looked blank.

“Oh,
good
for you, Tranter,” she said warmly, smiling at his excitement. In truth, his news pleased her: the competitor in her was delighted that “her” team had beaten her uncle’s.

Tranter blushed, and she wanted to touch him, pat him on top of the head or pinch his cheek, because he was so appealing. He barely came up to her chin, and she was sure she weighed more than he did. But he flirted relentlessly, swaggering and posturing like a London dandy, and embellishing his attentions with outlandish compliments that always made her laugh. “We beated ’em flat out, three out o’ five, and we was playing to twenty every time. Now the boys’re waitin’, ma’am, to present you wi’ the game quoit.”

“The game— Oh, lovely.” He looked so earnest, she didn’t dare smile. Together they walked toward the oak trees, where six miners, the “Guelder Hurlers,” had just “drobbed,” as Tranter said, the Salem team—she’d forgotten their name, and they’d drifted away in defeat anyway. A knot of spectators, male and female, was gathered around the victors, admiring and congratulating them. Roy Donne separated himself from the rest and came toward her, buttoning his shirt, clearing his throat, and Sophie remembered he was the team captain.

“Miss Deene,” he began, and the men behind him fell silent. “The Guelder Hurlers are happy to present to you—”

“Delighted,” Tranter broke in in an undertone. “Say delighted.”

“The Guelder Hurlers are
delighted
to present to you the game-winning—”

“To you, our
leader.
”

“To you, our leader, this—”

“An’ most respected employer, who we’d be nothing without.”

Donne made a deep growling noise and waited. When Tranter kept quiet, he resumed. “We’re delighted to present you with the game-winning quoit—”

“Match-winning.”

Donne rounded on him. “Who’s giving this speech, Tranter, you or me?”

“Well, if ee can’t do any better’n that, me,” and he nimbly plucked the iron ring out of Donne’s hand. Spinning around, he made Sophie a low bow while the captain muttered ineffectually and the others snickered. “Miss Deene, us’re honored and proud t’ give to you, our leader and most favorite lady, who we admire a turrible great deal fer not only yer fair beauty but also yer wisdom and . . . and smartness, not to mention yer generosity, like, for letting us toil in yer wonderful mine for the greater glory of, um . . .” Tangled up, he paused to think, and Roy Donne took the opportunity to snatch the match-winning quoit back.

“Here,” he said bluntly, and held it out to her.

She took it—and almost dropped it, unprepared for how heavy the flat metal ring was. A speech seemed to be called for. “Thank you—thank you. I’m very proud of you all. This annual match between Guelder and Salem began years ago, as you know, when my father was living. He enjoyed it very much, and he was always very gratified when his men won—as I am. I’m sure you’re also aware that my father established a tradition, one that I have every intention of continuing.” She heard hopeful murmuring and saw speculative looks. “Tonight at the George and Dragon, I’m pleased to stand for three rounds, one for each winning game, of cider, ale, and brandy for you and your friends.”

A boisterous cheer went up—so widespread that it was obvious that everyone within the sound of Sophie’s voice considered himself a friend of the Guelder Hurlers.

She happened to glance at Jack Pendarvis then, whose eye she had been avoiding. He was smiling—but whether he was amused with her or by her, she couldn’t tell. She stood still, and he began to walk toward her, not hurrying, pulling on his jacket as he came. When he reached her, neither spoke for a curious moment that was, surprisingly, more friendly than nerve-wracking. She half expected him to say something cutting about her speech to the quoits team—in his ears, she suddenly realized she might have sounded patronizing—and so she was completely unprepared for what he did say.

“You look beautiful.”

She looked off to the side, empty-headed as a girl, trying to marshal her thoughts. Phrases drifted through her mind—
Please don’t speak to me this way—How dare you?—Why, thank you
—but in the end she took the coward’s way out and pretended he hadn’t spoken at all. “How are you feeling, Mr. Pendarvis? Have you recovered from your injuries?”

“Yes, I’ve recovered. The doctor was impressed by your handiwork. He said he doubted Florence Nightingale could’ve patched me up any better.”

She smiled, pleased and amused. Florence Nightingale was a national heroine these days; hardly a week passed when a story about her admirable exploits in the Crimea didn’t appear in the Plymouth
Gazette.
“I’m so glad.” Another pause. “Well. I’d better go.”

“Why?”

“Because . . .” She forgot.

“Walk with me.”

She remembered. “The children—they’re singing. At noon. I have to go and gather them up.” And while she was at it, she’d better gather up her wits.

“Afterward, then.” He smoothed his black hair back with his palm, jutted his chin at her a little. “Will you walk with me, Miss Deene?”

It was half dare, half request, and the combination demolished her last feeble scruple. “Thank you. I would enjoy that, Mr. Pendarvis.”

***

There were six songs in the children’s musical program for Midsummer Day, four with harmony, two with one-verse solos, and one, the grand finale, with instruments. It was this last song, “Tell Me How the Roses Bloom,” that presented the children with their biggest challenge, but also the one that would carry them to glory if they performed it successfully. Sophie could see their excitement mounting as the simpler songs were dispensed with and the moment of truth drew closer and closer. At last it was time. With no more bustle and commotion than absolutely necessary, the instruments were passed out: two small drums, four cymbals, a triangle, a cowbell, and three whistles. As usual, a few of the children felt compelled to try out their instruments before the song began, to see that they were still working; Sophie had expressly forbidden this nervous practice more times than she could count, but she waited for silence patiently, resigned by now to the inevitable. Bringing up her little baton, she engaged the attentive gaze of every child, smiled brightly, whispered one last encouragement, and dropped her hands—the signal for the Burch twins to smack their cymbals together so the song could begin.

They did it—they even did it simultaneously, a feat they’d only managed in practice a few times—and after that everything went perfectly. Describing how roses bloom was only one of the song’s challenges; it also demanded musical interpretations of how raindrops fall (fingertips on drums), skylarks sing (whistles in alternating glissandi), and bullfrogs jump (cowbell and drum, the subtlest depiction, and the one requiring the most open-mindedness on the part of the listeners). Every musical hurdle was met and overcome, with an ease Sophie could only call deceptive, considering how rehearsals had been going as recently as yesterday. She had a bad moment at the end when Birdie, a whistle blower, decided to improvise how snowflakes fall along with the triangle player. But even that worked; the audience assumed she was the wind and the snowflakes were caught in a blizzard.

After three years as choir precentor, Sophie was an expert at classifying applause—polite, relieved, pitying, surprised, occasionally pained. The only word to describe the applause that burst out after “Tell Me How the Roses Bloom” was
delighted
, and the sentiment was mirrored in the grinning faces of the children, who bowed and curtsied—Birdie blew kisses—as if they’d just brought down the curtain at Covent Garden. Laughing with pleasure and relief, Sophie bowed with them, and then, to her genuine surprise, Tommy Wooten came around from the second row and presented her with an enormous bouquet of dahlias. More applause.

Mothers surrounded her, claiming their children, congratulating her. Miss Mareton’s play followed the singing program almost immediately, and Sophie found herself standing next to Mr. Pendarvis while she watched it. How had that happened? Had she drifted over to him or had he drifted over to her? A combination, perhaps. She found it difficult to follow the plot, such as it was, with his tall, hard body standing so close. Miss Mareton was the Sunday school teacher, and thus the play had a religious theme. It seemed to be about Saint Peter at the Gate, although the story line was a little muddy owing to the fact that the children recited their lines pretty much inaudibly. The song Sophie had taught them, a simple tune of Miss Mareton’s composition, went off fairly well, though, and that had been her main concern.

Birdie portrayed an angel in the production. When it was over, she ran toward Sophie with her arms outstretched. But instead of flinging herself against Sophie’s knees, as was her habit, she skidded to a comical halt in front of Mr. Pendarvis, gilded paperboard wings aflutter, and stared up at him in fascination.

“It’s the man,” she breathed to Sophie, but never taking her eyes off Jack. “He unsticked your hair, Miss Sophie, remember?” To the “man” she whispered, “I thought I dreamed you!”

He put his hands on his knees so they could be at eye level. “I thought I dreamed
you
,” he said seriously. “Know why?” Birdie shook her head. “Because you’re the prettiest little girl I’ve seen in a long, long time.” He dropped his voice to a matching whisper and confided, “I thought you were an
angel.
”

Birdie’s mouth dropped open. Only a moment passed, though, before a surprisingly adult coyness replaced her amazement. She actually simpered as she stuck her hands in her apron pockets and twisted her stocky body slowly from side to side—the perfect six-year-old coquette. But then it was all too much for her. She gave a sudden high shriek of laughter, clapped her hands to her pink cheeks, and bolted.

Mr. Pendarvis’s low, tickled laugh provoked Sophie to laugh with him. They looked at each other and smiled naturally, with no tensions or hidden animosities. But then he said, “Shall we?” and she was afraid he would touch her, take her arm or her hand. That she was socializing in public with one of her own miners was going to look bad enough to the people of Wyckerley who cared about such things—which was most of them; if he was also seen to be taking liberties with her, however innocent, those predisposed to shock would be shocked all the more. Reminding herself of Birdie, Sophie put her hands in her pockets, and she and Mr. Pendarvis set off at a slow amble across the green, not touching.

VII

Self-conscious at first, intensely aware of him, matching her steps to his, Sophie feigned nonchalance and spoke of the weather. Walter Tall, she informed him, was the oldest living soul in Wyckerley—eighty-four—and he claimed to have kept a count of the times it had been fair on Midsummer Day during his lifetime. “He says today makes the sixty-seventh sunny day and the seventy-third dry one,” she said, aware that she was prattling. “Old Mrs. Cleary, though, who’s eighty, disputes that and says Walter’s gone senile.” She threw him a glance, and was relieved to see that her chatter was making him smile. “Did you celebrate Midsummer in your village in Cornwall?”

Mark Stark, whose father was the baker, accosted them just then, carrying a tray of funnel cookies. “Tuppence apiece, four for sixpence,” he chanted, and Mr. Pendarvis asked Sophie if she was hungry. She admitted she was, and he bought eight cookies. Mark gave him a paper to carry them in, and they ambled toward the river bridge, munching as they went.

“I grew up in Trewythiel,” he drawled, leaning against the ledge and staring down at the ripple shadows the sun made on the water. “I don’t expect you’ve heard of it.”

“No.”

“It’s mid-county, a little bit east of Redruth.” He paused, as if debating with himself whether to tell her something. “Trewythiel is in a poor district. We had no fairs, and few holidays that I can recollect. And we had no cricket team, that’s for certain.” She followed his gaze to where two teams were playing the game on the flattest part of the green. Christy Morrell was the batsman on the near side; while they watched, he bowled the last over and ran to change places with Robbie Woodworth, his opposite across the wickets.

She’d never given it much thought, but cricket, even the casual, loose-structured way it was played in Wyckerley, was, relatively speaking, a gentleman’s game. These twelve men and boys playing it on the village green weren’t the ones who had hurled quoits an hour ago for a prize of three rounds of ale at the George. These were the husbands and sons of the village’s “right sort,” as Honoria would put it, the men who wore waistcoats and cravats to work, men whose hands stayed clean all day because they labored with their minds, not their muscles. What would it be like to live in a place where there were no such men, and no women who belonged to them?

“Do you come from a large family?” She knew next to nothing about Mr. Pendarvis, it suddenly occurred to her.

A moment passed. He kept his eyes lowered, and his face was very still. She began to wonder what in her innocent question had disturbed him when he looked up and answered in a monotone, “I had four brothers and a sister.”

“I always wanted a sister,” she said lightly. “Or a brother; I’d have settled for either.” She found herself telling him, “My mother died soon after I was born, so it was just my father and I. I wasn’t lonely, though. Not really. Not much. Because we were so close.”

She rarely ran on like this, and certainly never to a person she hardly knew—but before she could chide herself for it, he said, “You miss your father,” with such simple compassion that her embarrassment fled.

“I do. Every day. He was my best friend.”

“I’m sorry.

She could see that it was true, and she murmured, “Thank you.”

“My best friend is my brother.”

She smiled. “Which one?”

He said, “Connor,” after a curious pause. “I told you about him.”

“I remember.”

“We don’t have much in common.” He frowned, and stared down at his hands, which were methodically clenching and unclenching the stone ledge of the bridge. “Nothing, in fact. But we would do anything for each other.”

“You said he was ill. Why doesn’t he go home to Cornwall?” None of her business, of course, but she wanted to know. “Couldn’t your family take better care of him there?”

“No, he . . . My family . . .” He raked his fingers through his glossy black hair. “He’d rather stay with me.”

“Ah.” Now she was even more curious, but something in his manner told her more questions on this subject would not be welcome.

She watched him crumble a cookie and drop crumbs from the bridge to a huddle of black ducks below, and after a minute she joined him. Two speckled babies kept fighting over the unexpected feast, feinting and circling in the gentle river current, clucking at each other. Their antics tickled Sophie; she started to giggle. She picked out one of the chicks and tried to lure him with manna away from his rival, but the maneuver failed when the whole family went with him. With a helpless laugh, she looked up at Jack—and his expression made her heart skip a beat. She looked down at the ducks, to hide her face.

“I can’t get enough of that,” he said in a low, intimate voice that did nothing to slow down her pulse rate. “The sound of you laughing, I mean. I like it better than music.”

Sophie owned a mine; she supported herself. She employed a hundred men. People in the community respected her for qualities like competence and perseverence. She was twenty-three years old. Why was it that, on the extremely rare occasions when Jack Pendarvis said something sweet to her, she turned into a speechless, blushing ninny?

“We used to have swans in the Wyck,” she said seriously, “but they ate up all the watercress—which grows in the river year-round, you know, because our winters are so mild—and so the town decided to raid the nests and steal their eggs until the population went down. It worked too well, some of us think, because now there aren’t
any
swans, and that’s really a—”

“Sophie, there you are! I’ve been looking for you.”

In a way, it was good to see Robert Croddy striding up the hump of the bridge toward them: it meant she could finally stop talking. In another way, though, she resented the interruption.

“Where have you been?” he asked with his tight, square-toothed grin, stopping in front of her. “I looked for you after the singing, but you disappeared.”

“Not at all. I’m right here.” A pause. No help for it. With a strange reluctance, she said, “Robert, this is Mr. Pendarvis. Mr. Croddy.”

“How do you do.”

“How do you do.”

They didn’t shake hands.

“Well.” Robert threw the tails of his coat back and stuck his thumbs in the shallow pockets of his expensive waistcoat. She was used to the gesture; he did it to show off the gold of his watch fob. When she wore high-heeled shoes, she and Robert were the same height, a fact he disliked, she’d always suspected. He had a strong, fleshy face, and his hair, his eyes, and his lips were all the same color: pale ginger. Ladies of her acquaintance thought him quite a handsome man, and she supposed his powerful body and a certain earthy, grounded quality about him were attractive. In a way. But she’d always found it disconcerting that he simply had no neck, none at all. He reminded her of a bull.

Ignoring Mr. Pendarvis, he said, “I thought we might have a bite to eat. The food won’t be much, but it’s for charity, so we’ll try not to notice.” Again the tight grin, smug this time. It annoyed her, and she felt offended on behalf of all the ladies who had been making puddings and meat pies and batches of lemonade for days, out of nothing but the kindness of their hearts.

“No, thank you. I’ve already had something.” A cookie was something.

“Well, come and sit with us anyway, while we eat. I’m with His Honor under the trees,” he said, pointing across the green. “Honoria’s brought umbrellas and chairs, so you’ll be perfectly comfortable.”

Robert enjoyed called her uncle “His Honor.” That annoyed her, too, although not as much as when he called him “Eustace.” The two men were friends of a sort, yes, and Robert owned a part interest in Salem mine. But since he was at least twenty years younger than Uncle Eustace, Sophie could never think of the first-name familiarity as anything but a rather tasteless presumption. “No, thanks,” she said again. “But I’m sure I’ll see you later.”

His ginger eyes flickered to Mr. Pendarvis, then back, alert now, asking a silent question. She kept her smile pleasant, bland, despite the tension she could feel thickening slowly around them. Robert wasn’t her beau—she had no time for beaus anymore—but it occurred to her that he might
think
he was simply because he had become her escort, by default, to the few social functions she did find time to attend. Now, naturally, he wanted to know who this male stranger was, and why she didn’t excuse herself from his presence and walk off to sit under the trees with Robert and her family. She tried to imagine saying to him, “Mr. Pendarvis is one of my tutmen at Guelder, and we’re spending the afternoon together.” Just the thought made her cheeks burn. Not that Jack’s identity could stay a secret for long, whether she blurted it out now or not; she doubted that it would take Robert more than five minutes to discover the unsavory truth after he left them. But she had a craven wish not to be there when it happened.

“Well,” he said again, as if giving her a last chance. She just kept smiling. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Yes, later.”

His face darkened. Without even a glance at Mr. Pendarvis, he spun around and left them on the bridge.

Sophie, who had been avoiding looking at Jack as determinedly as Robert had, looked at him now. She knew him now, a little, enough to recognize that what lay behind the stiffness of his jaw and the hard gleam in his eyes wasn’t coldness or rancor, but bruised pride. The novel idea that he and Robert seemed to be, at least for a moment, rivals for her favor gave her a quick, illicit lift. But a second’s reflection corrected her error. It was hardly likely that Robert Croddy
as a man
had put Mr. Pendarvis’s nose out of joint. No. Knowing him, she thought it infinitely more plausible that it was Robert’s class (middle; “hopelessly” middle, Honoria would say, but with unquenchable ambitions to rise to the upper middle, or even someday—Sophie was positive this was the secret Robert held in his deepest heart—to the
gentry
), that had turned him, within seconds of their meeting, into Mr. Pendarvis’s enemy.

“Mr. Croddy is a business associate of my uncle’s,” she said evenly, breaking a taut little silence.

“I know who he is.”

“Oh, do you?”

“Not much about you doesn’t get talked about underground, Miss Deene. You might say you’re the favorite topic of conversation among us poor, humble miners.”

She didn’t understand his mood. His tone was cool, but there was a twist of self-mockery in his lips that skewed her reaction to him and put her off balance. “That’s hard to imagine,” she said lightly. “I can’t think of anyone who leads a less interesting life than I do.”

“Don’t you like your work?”

“Oh, I love it. What I meant to say is, no one leads a less
gossip-worthy
life than I.” She smiled back at him, elated to see that she’d somehow restored his good humor. Buoyed by that, she felt reckless. “I was fibbing to Mr. Croddy, of course, when I said I’d already eaten. The truth is, I’m starving.”

He had a fleeting, slightly crooked grin, just off-center, completely charming. It came and went quickly, but a twinkle in his eyes remained when he said gravely, “The food won’t be much. But since it’s for charity, we’ll try not to notice.”

She laughed—she couldn’t help it. Robert deserved it, she rationalized. And besides, Mr. Pendarvis liked to hear her laugh.

Dining alfresco was easier if one balanced one’s plate while seated on something, a blanket, a bench, a lawn chair. Mr. Pendarvis suggested they go and sit on the long flat rock by the riverbank, but Sophie resisted, for complicated reasons. A moving target was harder to hit—that was one reason, and the experience with Robert had taught her that she and Mr. Pendarvis did much better together when they were alone. Then, too, she had some idea that staying in motion could dilute, or at least postpone, the public perception that they were a couple, with all the attendant complications that would inevitably follow. So they strolled from booth to booth while they nibbled on spiced prawns and green pea tarts, sampling the mutton pie here, the fancy buttered eggs and anchovies there. They stood among a group of children to watch a puppet show, Sophie confiding behind her hand that the string pullers above the makeshift curtain were none other than Cora and Chloe Swan, the blacksmith’s pretty daughters. That meant nothing to him until she reminded him that he’d met them, two weeks ago at the penny reading. What a difference a fortnight made. They exchanged a look, and Sophie imagined Jack was thinking the same thing she was: the fascinating contrast between the prickly antagonists they had been and the wary friends they seemed to be becoming.

They wandered back to the bridge, sipping from paper containers of sweet lemonade. “Who is that girl?” he asked casually, leaning against the ledge, gesturing with his cup.

She turned slightly. “What girl?”

“There, in the blue dress. Small, with black hair.”

“Oh, that’s Sidony Timms.” Pretty Sidony worked as a maid in the dairy at Lynton Hall Farm. Lately she’d been keeping company with William Holyoake, Lord Moreton’s bailiff—but the man with her now, a tall, gaunt individual who was saying something to make her giggle and blush, wasn’t William. Sophie narrowed her eyes, studying him; she was quite sure she’d never seen him before—so why did he look vaguely familiar? “I wonder who that man is,” she murmured, more to herself than to Mr. Pendarvis.

“He’s my brother.”

She turned back in surprise. “Your brother? Really? Well, no wonder.”

“No wonder what?”

“I thought he reminded me of someone.” Fascinated, she scrutinized Connor Pendarvis. He had Jack’s height, his black hair, and fine, strong features, but illness had sallowed his skin and melted the flesh from his bones. He was still handsome—and charming, evidently, judging from Sidony’s smitten demeanor—but he was so ill, and he looked so much like his brother. Watching him gave Sophie a queer feeling.

“I think they’re flirting,” she remarked, for something to say.

He grunted. “Miss Timms had better have a care. My brother fancies himself irresistible.”

“She’s the dairymaid at the Hall Farm,” Sophie told him, smiling. “And she’s not the least bit silly, but I must admit she looks it right now.” Sidony was staring into the middle distance with one finger on her cheek, apparently mesmerized by whatever Mr. Connor Pendarvis, bent over her like a great black stork, was murmuring in her ear.