To Love and to Cherish (13 page)

“It’s something I tried to persuade Edward to do, and my father before me, both of us without success. Anne,” he said earnestly, “this is wonderful. It’s exactly what the district needs—and has for years. You’ve been here a matter of months, and you’ve put your finger on it squarely.”

He had the pleasure of watching her turn her head away in confusion. It wasn’t a blush, but it was the next best thing. Her simple, straightforward kindness was so clear to him, and it drew him as irresistibly as her beauty. “Nonsense,” she scoffed, pretending a great interest in the distant treetops. “It’s only common sense. It may not work at all. If it does, I—we, rather, Geoffrey and I—will reap the benefits as much as anyone. Probably more.”

“Maybe. I hope so. The nice thing,” he said lightly, “is that you thought of it yourself. The truth is, I’d intended to suggest it to you, but not for a little while longer. My plan was to soften you up gradually.” She turned back to him, obviously relieved that he was through admiring her. The humor and friendliness in her face warmed him to his bones. He lifted his hand—and dropped it abruptly, realizing he’d been going to touch her.

“I believe you’ve been softening me up gradually, Reverend Morrell, since the day we met,” she said, quite softly.

Her words weren’t as playful as they sounded. He was sure of that, but not of anything else. Neither had moved, but now they seemed to be standing too close together. She kept her gaze on his face, her gray eyes subtle as a whisper. There was no seduction in her glance, but there was awareness. He stood stock-still, afraid that if he moved he would do something irredeemable, something he couldn’t take back.

She lifted her head to look at the sky, and the flash of her bare white throat dazzled him. “It looks like rain,” she said calmly. He made a show of looking up at the clouds, but he couldn’t see anything but her. “We’d better go. Before the heavens open.”

He nodded, made some response. She gave him her hand, so he could help her over the stile. Didn’t she know? Couldn’t she feel the emotion sparking like a lit fuse on the surface of his skin where he touched her? No; her face was serene.

Thank God for that
, ran through his mind. He flinched; best to leave God out of it, at least for the moment. Otherwise the heavens really might open up.
Fire and rain
, he thought disconnectedly.
The deluge
.

Ridiculous—he’d done nothing, committed no sin. He was still safe.

For now.

11 August

Faithful journal-keeping is easier when I’m miserable and have time on my hands. Which must mean I’m happy and busy. Impossible; I never associate those two words with myself. Reasonably content and somewhat harried. Better.

All that notwithstanding, plans to transform nine hundred idle glebe acres into productive and profitable farmland proceed apace. Tools and seed can be provided with only a minimal capital outlay, I’m assured, and already the soil is being turned and manured (“fertilized,” Mr. Holyoake is always careful to say, in deference to my ladylike sensibilities); on some parcels a crop of cowpeas is to be planted, to ready it for wheat in the spring.

Getting everyone to agree on the plan—Lynton workers laboring on glebe acreage at estate expense—has proven considerably more difficult. There are more people involved in a decision of that magnitude than I realized: lawyers and bank lenders, other property owners in the district, political associates of the old viscount, church authorities—even the mayor has an opinion. I hear myself, in meetings with these men, speaking of Lynton Hall exactly as if I owned it, and using the first person singular as if, indeed, I were the lord of the manor. Sometimes I wish Geoffrey had appointed the Wyckerlian equivalent of a regent before he went away! No one, absolutely no one, is in favor of my proposal when he first hears it. I keep talking, and more often than I’d have thought possible—
mirabile dictu!
—he reconsiders and says he’ll take it under advisement. By now I’m completely convinced that this is a good plan, the right thing to do morally, socially, fiscally, and every way, and I don’t intend to give up until it’s resolved and set in motion.

Christy’s penny readings are set to begin tonight. How I let him talk me into this bit of lunacy is a mystery I expect never to unravel. I am to be the first “penny reader,” an apt title, for I’m sure it describes precisely what my maiden effort will be worth. I’ll read
David Copperfield
for as many nights as it takes to finish it (or until enough fruit is flung at me to make me go away, whichever comes first), after which Sophie Deene will read, then Dr. Hesselius, then Mrs. Armstrong—a widow from the village, something of a bluestocking, I gather—then back to me.

I have opening night nerves. William says, “Buck up, m’lady! Take a glass o’ sommat afore you begin, and all will be well.” I laughed at him. Now, two hours before my debut, the sherry decanter is looking more and more inviting. But no—I shall go to my fate undisguised with drink, and face the consequences like a man. Or, more likely, a fool.

12 August

I’m having my sherry now, for I’m celebrating. It was a success! A “rousing” one, said Christy; Mayor Vanstone, a sober man, went so far as to say “ringing.”
I
say whacking, roaring, thumping, howling!! Far from throwing fruit at me, they sat in their chairs (all twenty-three of them, an unheard-of number, Christy says) as silent as fish, and at first I couldn’t tell if they were spellbound or stupefied. But soon they were smiling over Peggoty, then laughing out loud, and when Mr. Murdstone appeared on the scene they began to fidget with unease and mutter worriedly among themselves. I myself had no coughing fit, no spontaneous vocal paralysis, nor did I suddenly start speaking in tongues; in fact, none of my nervous anxieties came to pass. Two hours flew by before anyone noticed, including me, and I was made to finish Chapter 5, “I Am Sent Away from Home,” before they would let me stop. Then they wanted to talk about everything, and my job became trying to get them to speak one at a time.

It may have been the opportunity to stare openly for two whole hours at Lady D’Aubrey that brought them, but it’s Mr. Dickens’s storytelling brilliance that will bring them back next week. I’m so grateful to Christy for making me do this! The people are mostly grown men and women, all working people, rough-mannered, plainspoken, uneducated but eager to learn. It’s hard to imagine Honoria Vanstone sitting in the same room with them. (I would say that to Christy, but he would think it unkind of me; I might say it anyway, to tease him.) There’s a miner named Tranter Fox—I saw him once before, helping Christy after he fell from his horse in the race with Geoffrey. He’s a funny little man with a broad Cornish accent; I’m quite taken with him. He calls Christy “Your Grace,” and tonight he called me “Your Highness.” I’m
almost
positive he knows better and is doing it on purpose. But the gleam of humor in his eye is irresistible, and when it was all over and he paid me the supreme compliment of inviting me to join him and his mates for a thimbleful at the George and Dragon, I could only laugh with the others. I daresay I’m not upholding the dignity of my rank with sufficient assiduity, and Miss Vanstone would make a far better viscountess than I. I can’t help it. Tranter Fox amuses me, and I won’t pretend he doesn’t.

So. My first penny reading was a victory, albeit an exceedingly minor one in the scheme of things. And I’m left to ponder, alone in my room at one o’clock in the morning, why this makes me so happy.

19 August

Second reading went as well as the first. Had a cup of tea afterward with Christy in his study. Improper, I suppose, since Mrs. Ludd, his housekeeper, went to bed and left us to ourselves. I say if you can’t have tea alone with the vicar, with whom can you have tea alone? No proprieties were flouted. He walked me home, and we were both snug in our beds by eleven o’clock. Our separate beds, I need hardly say.

Why did I say it, then?

28 August

At last, a letter from Geoffrey. He says he’s well—I suppose I must believe it. There’s cholera among the French troops, which has reduced their force at Varna and their fleet at sea to impotence. Preparations for the siege of Sebastopol go on regardless, and he thinks it will all be over in a month. His commander is Lord Raglan; St. Arnaud commands the French. “As usual,” he says, “the country to whose aid we’ve come is doing the least. The squeamish Turks could have ended it all at Silistria if they’d stood firm.” I see two disingenuities in these lines. One, we’ve decided to engage Russia for our own ends, not Turkey’s, so it’s hardly a question of coming to their aid; two, Geoffrey is delighted that things didn’t end at Silistria, because if they had, he wouldn’t have gotten the chance—his last, he claims—to play soldier.

At any rate, it looks like a real war this time, not the sort of skirmishing-with-the-natives business he’s used to. I can’t pray for him—I leave that to Reverend Morrell—so I
hope
for him. I hope he stays well, and I hope he finds some kind of peace while he wages his favorite pastime.

2 September

Another reading last night. Tea with Christy afterward. It’s our habit now. I don’t know how he regards them, but for me these evenings alone together are indispensable. Who would have thought it—of my entire acquaintance, Reverend Christian Morrell has become the person with whom I can most be my godless self. Astonishing.

10 September

Last night was the harvest home. I thought the sheep shearers’ dinner in May was a lively affair. Ha! What naivete! It was a tea party at the Weedies’ compared to the harvest home. Christy said a very nice prayer at the beginning, thanking God for the fruits of the harvest, etc., etc. After that, there were no more serious moments. There was no actual debauchery (at least not that I witnessed), but neither was there much sobriety, and precious little dignity. The great thing about the harvest home, unlike the shearing supper, is the opportunity it affords for the classic ritual of role-reversing. The employer not only has to be unstinting in the provision of great quantities of food and ale, he must also
serve at table
and in all ways see to the comfort and convenience of the guests—who, on the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year, are mere humble laborers. No doubt that’s all that prevents the affair from subsiding into complete chaos: the knowledge that everything goes back to normal on the morrow and nothing had better be done that can’t be undone.

I bore my responsibilities well, I think. No one could reproach me with poor sportsmanship, and certainly not with stinginess in the meat and drink department. We’re having a “St. Luke’s summer,” which means an abnormally warm autumn, and so the affair was held out-of-doors, on long tables arranged in a square in the courtyard. Between the full moon and the lanterns and candles all around, it was nearly as bright as day, and much more festive. There were singing and dancing to a violin and tambourine band between the courses, a bit of drunken horseplay, ribald stories punctuated with a great deal of shushing whenever I came near. I was toasted time and again for my generosity, my beauty, my cleverness, my kindness—everything but my grandmother’s rheumatism. Despite all my cajoling, Christy wouldn’t come inside and have a good-night toddy with me (he couldn’t seem to get away fast enough, in fact; I can’t think why), so at eleven o’clock I took myself off, aware that my presence was inhibiting the free expression of my other guests’ good spirits—but with instructions to Holyoake that all the drinking must cease at midnight. I suppose it did, for not long afterward everyone began to toddle home, and by one o’clock there was nothing but a great mess for the maids and me to clean up.

Today I feel logy and tired, almost as though I had been among the over-indulgers last night, which I certainly was not. But I’m peaceful, too. Content. Harvest home is a good tradition. A reward for hard work; an invigorating if momentary blurring of social distinctions; an opportunity to express thanks for and satisfaction in the fruits of one’s labor; a marker for the end of one season and the start of another. If we had souls, the harvest home would be good for them.

29 September—Michaelmas

William Holyoake went to the hiring fair at Tavistock today. As we discussed, he engaged only a new shepherd and an odd-job man. It means that until Lady Day, at least, the dairy will be understaffed and Collie. Horrocks will have too much to do in the stables. No help for it, and we’ll get along all right.

10 October

Even in Provence, I’ve never seen an autumn as lovely as this. From the window in my attic sitting room, the world looks like a Dutch painting, done from a palette of gold and amber and scarlet, brilliant orange and blinding yellow. Pumpkins in great piles loll in every field, and the air smells of woodsmoke. There was a frost last night, but today it’s mild again, and the sky is too blue to look at. Flowers—who knew there could be so many in October? I am seduced, I am ravished by this beauty. And it’s all the lovelier for being like a lover—gone too soon.

17 October

Poor Mrs. Weedie fell in her garden yesterday and broke her hipbone. Miss Weedie is beside herself. I brought food, cider, fresh bread, etc., and tried to help. They won’t let me. The old ladies have rallied round like sentinels, closing ranks to newcomers and social superiors—which leaves me out on two scores. They part to let Christy in, and he hardly has to speak; he soothes and comforts just by his presence.

Dr. Hesselius says the invalid will heal in time, but she may not walk again. Such trouble, such heartbreak. Miss Weedie does not deserve this—nor her mother, of course, but somehow, to me, it seems worse for the daughter. There’s a sweetness and grace between the two of them that mesmerizes me. To have a mother like that, to know you were loved so deeply, without conditions, just for yourself alone—it touches the heart. What will Miss Weedie do when she’s on her own? Where will all the love go? I want to help her—oh, I want to do something! But there’s nothing to do.