The Treasure Box (9 page)

“Well, you didn't lose your first love—at least not for a very long time. I know you miss Papa, but you had twenty wonderful years together.” Rachel peered intently into her mother's eyes.

“Unless Papa
wasn't
your first love.”

Mam patted Rachel's hand and gazed out over the rushing water. “Your father and I were well suited for one another,” she said. “Sometimes we want something so much that we truly believe we might die if we don't get it. And then when we get something else instead, we're glad that life didn't give us what we wished for.”

“So there
was
someone before Papa?” Rachel whispered.

“Who?”

“It doesn't matter. What matters is that your Papa was exactly the right man for me. I grew to love him with all my heart.”

Rachel shook her head. “I don't think I could marry someone I wasn't already in love with.”

“Love takes different forms, child. Passion is only one aspect of it. In rare cases, you find someone who draws out all that you are—heart, soul, mind, and body. Someone whose very presence in your life helps you become a better person, nobler, truer, more faithful, more of the person you were created to be. But that kind of love is highly uncommon, and nurturing it is the work of a lifetime.”

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the splashing of water against rock.

“And what about your young squire, the handsome Mr. Derrick Knight?” Mam said after a while. “Do you love him?”

“Yes.” Rachel paused. “At least, I think I do. What little I've experienced of romance has mostly come from books and poems—or the bawdy ballads some of the fellows in the tavern sing. But of course I love Derrick. He's a strong man and very determined. He knows exactly what he wants out of life.”

“And he wants you.”

“So it seems.” Rachel fingered the locket that hung at her throat. “It's probably the first time in the history of the civilized world that a man has chosen the homely sister over the pretty one.”

Her mother frowned. “It pains me to hear you talk of yourself that way, Rachel. It's true, your sister has had more than her share of masculine attentions, but she flaunts herself disgracefully. You're not homely, not in the least—you're a lovely girl, in your own quiet way. Isn't it possible that Derrick has seen beyond the surface and discovered your inner beauty?”

Rachel smiled and ducked her head. “I'd like to believe so.”

“But you're not certain?” Mam gazed out over the rapids.

“Being the object of adoration can weave a powerful enchantment around a soul. Especially when a girl hasn't been adored nearly enough in her life.”

“He's good to me, Mam. Maybe that should be enough.”

“Maybe.” Mam sighed. “Only your heart can tell you.”

“The only thing my heart is telling me right now is that I wish Sophie were here.” Rachel got to her feet and went to sit on the fallen log. “I want to talk to her, to hear what she has to say.

I can't imagine getting married without her there. And every time I come here, I think back to that day ten years ago when— because of my fight with Cathleen—Sophie went into the river and died of pneumonia.”

“It wasn't your fault.”

“I know that, Mam. And although I have tried to blame her, I suppose it wasn't really Cathleen's fault, either. It was just a stupid, childish argument that ended up in tragedy. Still, I can hardly help feeling responsible.”

“You loved Sophie, didn't you?”

“Certainly.”

“You went into the river to get the Treasure Box, because you knew it was precious to her?”

“Yes.”

“And she went in the river to help you. Because you were precious to her, too. She loved you, Rachel. At the time, I don't suppose she realized she was risking her life for you, but even if she had known, I expect she would have done it anyway.”

Rachel gazed at her mother, her blue eyes wide and somber.

“I'd rather have died for Sophie than let her die for me.”

Mam extended her arms, and Rachel slid off the tree trunk and sank down beside her on the bank, surrendering to the embrace. “There is no greater love on God's green earth,” Mam said, stroking her daughter's hair, “than to lay down your life for a friend.” She held Rachel tight and rocked gently back and forth. “I know you miss her, Rachel. And it's a noble sentiment, being willing to exchange your life for hers. But have you considered that there might be a hidden destiny in all this—some higher purpose?”

Rachel leaned back and frowned, scrutinizing her mother's face. “I can't accept that. What possible purpose could there be in Sophie's death?”

“Not in her death, child. In your
life
.” Mam stood up and brushed her dress off. “I'd better be getting back to the house.

Dinner won't cook itself.”

“Wait!” Rachel grabbed at the hem of Mam's skirt. “If my life really does have a purpose, then what is it?”

Her mother smiled down at her. “That's a question only you can answer.” She walked a few paces from the riverbank, then turned back. “Life rarely turns out as we expect, my girl. Just keep a sharp eye out, and adjust with the changes. You've got a good heart, a kind soul. You'll know what's right to do when the time comes.”

9
THE JUDAS TREE

I
t was the first time Vita had seen the inside of the tavern where Rachel worked. On the dingy glass doors leading to the street, she could just make out the letters of the name, painted backwards, like da Vinci's secret diaries. Her mind translated:
The Judas Tree.

An altogether disreputable-looking place, with an irregular stone floor, great gnarled beams overhead, and white stucco walls stained a dismal yellowish gray from decades of smoke and neglect. Spanning one end of the dimly lit room, a high bar stood like a fortress wall, separating the chairs and tables from the kitchen and the floor-to-ceiling shelves that held smudged glasses and steins and half-filled bottles of every conceivable brand of liquor. At the other end, a broad, soot-encrusted hearth contained an unattended fire, now burning itself to its last embers.

Vita didn't need a great deal of imagination to envision the place on a Friday or Saturday night. She could almost see the fire blazing high, with coarse men silhouetted against its light, pounding their ale mugs on the tables as they won—or lost—the last deal of the cards or throw of the dice. She could picture Rachel fending off advances as she served another round of beer or ale or whiskey.

But not tonight. Tonight the place was empty, except for one solitary figure.

Rachel looked around. Most of the lights were out, and all the chairs were upended on their respective tables. The Judas Tree had shut its doors for the evening. Even the manager had gone home, leaving her to clean up and close the place. Rachel had just taken a wet mop to the grimy floors when she heard the door creak open behind her.

“Sorry, we're closed,” she said automatically and went back to her mopping.

“I beg to differ,” a husky voice rumbled in her ear. Before she could turn, a hand grabbed her waist and jerked her into a rough embrace.

Rachel spun around, raising the mop handle as a weapon against the intruder. Then, just before she struck out at him, she aborted the blow. “Derrick!” She began to laugh, a high-pitched sound bordering on hysteria. “You frightened me near to death!”

He took the mop out of her hands and leaned it against a table. “You really should keep the door locked when you're here alone, my dear Miss Woodlea,” he said. “Any man off the street could walk in here and have his way with you.” As he spoke these last words, his voice dropped to a throaty, provocative whisper, and he leaned close to kiss her.

Their lips met briefly, and Rachel took a step back. “Derrick, I've got work to do.”

“It can wait. Don't tell me that mopping the floor is more interesting than this—” He kissed her again, gathering her body close against his.

Rachel hesitated. “Of—of course not,” she stammered. “But—”

“But nothing.” He led her to the back corner of the room, where a long banquet-size table stood against the wall. Slowly, deliberately, never taking his eyes off Rachel for a second, he removed the chairs and set them one by one on the floor. Then he held out his hand to her. “
Had we but world enough and time
,” he quoted in a quiet, entreating voice, “
This coyness, lady, were no crime—
”

“Derrick—”

He captured her hand and drew her to him. “
But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near. And yonder all before us lie deserts of vast eternity
.”

“Andrew Marvell,” Rachel murmured as his lips moved insistently against her own. “It's a beautiful poem, but—”

He backed her against the table, and her knees gave way. “
Now, therefore, while the youthful hue sits on thy skin like morning
dew, let us sport us while we may—
” He pressed closer to her and slid the back of his fingers seductively down the curved line of her throat. “I want you, Rachel. Here. Now.”

She tried to push him away and found herself trapped. “I know, Derrick. I—I feel the same way.” She stumbled over the words. “But we should wait.”

“Why should we?” He moved against her.

“It won't be long until our wedding. We are engaged, after all.”

“Exactly my point.” He ran his hand up into her hair and caressed her neck. “Engaged is practically married. What's the harm?”

“The doors—”

“I locked them behind me when I came in.”

“What if someone comes—?”

“It's nearly midnight. The streets are deserted. No one's about.”

“Oh.” Rachel closed her eyes. She tried to think, but the tiny rivulets of liquid fire running up and down her nerve endings made reason impossible. No one had ever held her like this before, touched her, kissed her with so much passion, made her feel so . . . adored.

Adored.
What had Mam said? That being adored can weave a powerful enchantment around the soul. It
was
a kind of spell; she could feel Derrick drawing her in with every kiss, every touch. Spinning with invisible threads a lush silk web, more sumptuous than the softest feather bed covered with satin sheets.

It would be so easy just to abandon propriety, to fall into his arms and stay there forever.

His kisses grew fiercer as his ardor increased. His hands grasped her waist and lifted her up onto the table. One kiss more, and there would be no turning back.

“Derrick, NO!” The protest rose up from some deep place inside of Rachel. She must have shouted, for he jerked back in surprise.

“What?” The single word came out harsh, accusing.

“I—I—” She sat up, her fingers moving nervously to tidy her hair and rearrange her dress. “Please. Let me go.”

A fast-moving inner storm clouded his face. Rachel could see the vein in his neck throbbing as he clenched his jaw, and for a moment she feared he might strike her. But then the darkness blew past, and he smiled—at least with his lips. “Of course, my darling,” he said, his voice tight with restraint. “I would never force you into something you don't want.”

“I
do
want it!” Tears stung at Rachel's eyes. “But not now. Not here. Not until we're married.” She shook her head and tried to clear her throat. “Please understand, Derrick. It's important to me to wait.”

He helped her down and put the chairs back on the table.

With his back to her, Rachel couldn't see his face, only the stiff set of his spine and shoulders. Her whole body ached for his touch, but she kept her distance.

At last, when he turned around, he gazed at her with an odd expression. “Let's get married,” he said.

Rachel frowned at him. “Of course we will.”

“No, I mean now. Immediately. This coming Saturday.”

“Derrick, that's less than a week away.”

“What's to stop us? We don't have to stand on ceremony. We can just put out the word to the village, contact the vicar, and do it.” He grabbed both her hands and squeezed them. “I don't want to delay another minute”—he gave her a crooked grin—“but I suppose I can wait five days if I have to.”

Rachel could barely breathe. “Are you sure?”

“We have enough money for our passage, don't we?”

“I think so. And some to spare.”

“Then we're set. First thing tomorrow I'll arrange it with the priest and book two berths on the next ship to America. We'll have our honeymoon on board.” He hugged her lightly and kissed her gently on the cheek. “Do you want me to stay with you until you're finished here?”

Rachel looked around the tavern. “It's not necessary. I've got about another thirty minutes of work to do, and I can get home by myself.”

“As you wish.” He moved to the door, threw the lock, and gave her a jaunty salute. “Until Saturday, my darling.”

Then he opened the door and disappeared into the night.

Rachel should have been exhausted by the time she got to her mother's cottage, but instead she felt energized, exhilarated.

Bypassing the house, she walked the path to the barn, opened the door, and lit a single lamp.

In the corner pen, a sweet-faced Guernsey opened her eyes and gave a soft moo. “Biscuit, you dear old girl,” Rachel said, coming over to stroke the animal's velvety nose. “I'm going to hate leaving you, you know. But there's no place for cows on a ship to America.”

She slid to a sitting position in the hay outside Biscuit's stall and let the comforting scents of hay and udder balm and sweet feed envelop her. No matter how determined she was to build a new and better life in America with Derrick, Rachel's heart already ached with missing this place. The village. The cottage.