To Love and to Cherish (14 page)

Christy sees trouble and sadness like this every day, and I don’t know how he can stand it.

3 November

I’ve neglected my journal. The habit is easily lost and hard to recover. Extremes of emotion compel me to write, I think—deep melancholy, great joy—and the prosaic passing of quiet, contented days lulls me into procrastination. I must get hold of myself.

I have a little free time now because Miss Weedie, due to the rain, cried off my invitation to tea, declining as well my offer (“too generous, too much, oh, too condescending”) to send the carriage for her. She will not let me be her friend. If she knew that this hurts me, she would be mortified, and so it’s impossible to take offense. I am her “better”; thus I’m beyond the scope of anything but polite civilities and correct social forms. I’ve almost got it now; almost accepted it.

I’ve had no more letters from Geoffrey, but Christy had one a few days ago and showed it to me. His regiment crossed the Black Sea without incident in the second week of September, but foul weather prevented disembarkation until the 18th. There are fifty thousand British, French, and Turkish infantry. On the 20th, they engaged the Russians and won, gaining some hill whose name I’ve forgotten. This was “a bloody good rout,” even though three thousand British soldiers perished. Now his regiment is quartered at Balaklava, preparing for the next siege, presumably of Sebastopol.

Geoffrey’s scribblings are always cryptic; I know much more of this war from the newspapers, which are full of the details of battle, both glorious and grim. I want to know how he is, the state of his health, the state of his mind. He was better when he went, had left off drinking since the long night with Sully and the others, but he was far from well. Will never be well. That he’s been allowed to fight in this war at all, in any capacity, doesn’t say much, to my way of thinking, for the intelligence of the men in high command.

Six o’clock! I’ve let the time slip past, wool-gathering. Now I’ll have to hurry. Tonight’s reading is half an hour earlier, by virtue of a vote taken last week. It was thought that with that addition we can finish
David C
., and no one wanted to stretch the exciting conclusion over two whole weeks. I wonder what secondhand delicacy Christy will offer me with my tea tonight after the reading. Last week it was bacon tarts, courtesy of Miss Jane Luce; before that, “spinach tanzy,” a sort of handheld souffle prepared by the irrepressible Swans. I tease him about his numerous lady admirers, which makes him roll his eyes. It’s delicious.

***

“They’m all right an’ tight now, ain’t un? David an’ that Agnes, livin’ happily ferever after—it fair warms the cockles o’ the heart, Yer Majesty, it fairly do.”

“I’m so glad,” Anne said, trying not to laugh, bending a little so that she and Tranter Fox could be eye-to-eye; she doubted if the diminutive Cornishman was much over five feet tall. “I hope you’ll come back next week,” she told him, “when we’ll be starting
Ivanhoe
.”

“Weel, I ain’t just so sure o’ that, now.”

“Oh, no? Why not?”

“No offense t’ them others, Yer Grace, but we could be startin’
Ivan the Turrible
, an’ I wouldn’t care unlest
you
was readin’ it.”

She couldn’t help giggling at that, and Tranter Fox snickered back, delighted that he’d gotten this indecorous rise out of her. He had a gap-toothed grin and sparkling black eyes, and he was a ruthless charmer. “I’m flattered,” Anne said truthfully, bowing to him.

With a cheeky wink, the little miner turned and sauntered off. He was the last to leave the vicarage meeting room. Christy, who was standing in the doorway, smiled tiredly at some jest Tranter made in parting and watched him scamper up the steps and disappear.

Alone at last
, thought Anne. Aloud she said, “Well, thank God
that’s
over,” with humorous fervor. When Christy didn’t say anything, she hastened to explain, “I’m joking—you know I’m glad you asked me to do the readings, Christy. Still, I won’t deny that it’s a relief to pass along the torch, so to speak. Did you hear that Mrs. Armstrong changed places with Sophie? Sophie’s going to Exeter over the Christmas holiday and didn’t want to break off
Northanger Abbey
in the middle.” She paused, uncertain if Christy was even listening to her. He’d been quiet all evening, she realized.

She crossed the empty room to him. He was mashing his thumb against the door latch, pressing it into the bolt hole over and over, making a monotonous clicking noise. He had on his “full holy blacks,” having come directly from a funeral in Princetown. His bright blond hair made a striking contrast to his dark clothes, and Anne doubted if there was a handsomer soldier in the Lord’s army. “Well?” she said archly. “Shall we adjourn? I’m dying to find out what your latest conquest has made us for our tea this time.” When he looked up, his somber expression brought her up short.

“It’s not a good night,” she said quickly. “It’s all right, it doesn’t matter in the least.” He didn’t answer, only stared at her with an emotion in his eyes she couldn’t decipher. It occurred to her that she had never once asked him about their weekly tête-
à
-têtes; she’d taken them for granted, and now her presumption embarrassed her. “You’re tired—you have such long days. I’m tired myself. We can do it next week—or not, that’s fine, there’s certainly—”

“No, Anne, I want to talk to you. In fact, there’s something in particular I have to say to you.” He opened the door wider, standing back to let her pass. She went by him uncertainly but said no more, and, in a curious state of dread, she led the way up the stairs to his study.

Mrs. Ludd brought their tea almost immediately and then retired, leaving them alone. Anne tried to make small talk. Jokes fell flat about the hopeful young lady who had prepared their feast this evening—codling tarts with churned cream. Christy ate nothing, only sipped his tea and stared into the cup, not speaking a word.

When she couldn’t stand the suspense any longer, she said directly, “Something’s on your mind. Tell me what it is, Christy, and let’s get it over with.”

He set his cup down and looked at her. “I’m finding it very hard to say this to you.”

“Yes, I can see that. All I can think is that you’ve found out my dreadful secret,” she said with a shaky laugh—“that I’ve sold my soul to the devil.”

He couldn’t even smile. He stood up and went to his desk, turned around and leaned against it—as if he needed the distance from her and the desk for support. Her nerves stretched tighter; she pressed back into her chair and waited for the blow, whatever it was, to fall.

“I won’t be able to see you anymore.”

“What?” she said stupidly.

“I mean—like this. The two of us, alone.”

She continued to blink at him. When the words sank in, her first impulse was to laugh—bitterly, giving away her deep disappointment in him. But she curbed it and tried to make her face patient. “So, there’s been talk about us,” she said quietly. “I should have expected it. I’ve lived in small towns, but never in an
English
small town, and that’s quite a different thing, isn’t it? But—I have to tell you, Christy, it makes me tired to think that anyone could see impropriety in our innocent evenings. And truly, I think it’s unworthy of you to give it a second’s thought.”

His expression only grew bleaker. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, as if his head hurt.

A thought struck her. “Oh—now I think I understand.” All the bitterness disappeared. “Oh, Christy, you’re doing this for
me
, aren’t you? It’s
my
reputation you want to protect, not yours.” She shook her head, laughing with relief. “My dear friend, don’t you know me well enough by—”

“It has nothing to do with impropriety,” he cut her off in a pained voice. “Nothing to do with what other people think of us. Nothing to do with you.” He was gripping the edge of the desk on either side of his thighs, watching her with a tense sadness that made her heart start to pound. “Anne, it’s me.”

“You? Christy, what do you mean?” But then, all at once, she knew.

And he saw that she did. She could tell that it hurt him, but he said the words anyway, so there could be no misunderstanding. He said, “I care for you.”

She had to close her eyes. A slow, gentle warmth filled her, soft and soothing, like healing water.
I care for you
. Excitement and trepidation came next, and she took turns thinking,
It can’t be true
, and
I knew it all the time!
But it was too big, too much—she couldn’t think about it now.
Later
, she promised herself fearfully, and got up from her chair.

He’d turned his head to the side. His strong profile moved her powerfully. She wanted to go to him and touch him, hold him, but the obstinacy in his features kept her motionless. And, with a sinking heart, she realized he meant exactly what he said. He was going to put an end to their friendship.

A subdued sort of panic engulfed her. “My marriage is a farce,” she blurted out, the words tumbling over each other. “A farce, you must know that, must’ve seen it. It’s a blasphemy, not a sacrament. If I . . . if I cared for you, I would not let that obscenity stand in my way.”

He looked straight at her and said, “But it must stand in my way.”

Oh, God
. She could see it happening, the lifeline he’d flung to her being pulled out of reach, leaving her to drown in loneliness.
“Damn it,”
she whispered fiercely. “Christy, I don’t like your God!”

He came away from the desk and stood straight, arms stiff and awkward at his sides. “There’s nothing else I can do. Believe me, I’ve . . .”

He stopped, and she knew he’d been going to say,
I’ve prayed
. But he was afraid she would laugh at him.
Oh, Christy!
she thought.

“Anne, please don’t be angry.”

“I’m not angry, I’m—yes, all right, I am! I’ve done nothing wrong, you’ve done nothing wrong, and you tell me we can’t see each other anymore. How do you expect me to feel?”

He shook his head hopelessly.

It was happening, he was really going to do it. “Do you think it’s a
sin
to love me?” she all but taunted him. “Is that what your religion teaches you?”

“If it is,” he said quietly, “the punishment is built in. I won’t have to wait for Judgment Day.”

She made a scornful sound. “What does that mean?”

He smiled and put his fist on his chest. “I mean that the pain is here. Now.”

It took the fight out of her. She felt like crying. And she was longing for him to say
why
he cared for her, when it had begun, all the lovely, seductive details—but she knew that if even one word were spoken of that now, she would lose all hope of keeping him. Above everything, she had to leave her emotions out of it. Pretend to, rather.

“Christy,” she began again, trying to sound calm and rational. She moved closer, keeping her hands clasped, so he would know she had no intention of touching him. “Do you think I could ever deliberately hurt you?”

“No, of course not. This isn’t anything you’ve done, Anne. It’s all me. I’m—”

“Wait, wait—listen to me. If seeing me causes you suffering, then I’ll keep away, I swear I will, because I’d rather hurt myself than you. But—couldn’t we just go on as we have?
Friends
, Christy—friends and companions, nothing more? We wouldn’t
let
it be anything more. We’re both strong—you’re the strongest man I’ve ever known! And you can trust me, I would never . . . I would never let anything happen—between us . . . oh, you know what I mean!”

He stared at a spot on the floor and said in a monotone, “I just think it’s better if—”

“Anyway, what would I do without you? Who would I talk to?” She tried to laugh. “Christy, who else would put up with me?”

“That’s nonsense and you know it.”

“I don’t know it at all! You’re the only one I can be myself with. Like it or not, you’re the best friend I have in England. If I couldn’t see you, couldn’t be with you . . .” She left it at that; the rest would sound too dire, too pathetic, and she still had a little pride left.

Christy looked miserable. He was weighing his unhappiness against hers, and she knew with a giddy, guilt-ridden surge of hope that, in such an equation, she would always be the winner. There was a long, excruciating pause she was afraid to break before he said, “All right.”

But she had to hear the words. “All right, what? We can still be friends?”

He nodded. The mixture of defeat and tenderness in his smile devastated her.

“Promise?” She smiled back, on the edge of tears again.

“Yes, I promise.”

Best not to let him see her relief, the full, delirious extent of it. But she was trembling inside, as if she’d narrowly avoided a catastrophe. She would rejoice later, when she was alone. “You won’t be sorry,” she vowed rashly, hoping it was true. He looked skeptical. She thought of saying,
Anyway, it’ll go away. If you really knew me, Christy, you wouldn’t like me
. But the whole subject was off limits—that was part of their bargain—and anyway, she didn’t want him to know that about her. Not yet.

“Well.” She turned away from him. “I suppose I’d better go home now. Before you change your mind.” She made a great business of gathering up her reticule, her book, her cape—not looking at him for fear that she would see his unhappiness, or worse, his second thoughts. They said good night at the front door, both of them subdued and constrained. She wouldn’t let him walk back with her to the Hall; it wasn’t very late, she said, and she felt like being alone. But the real reason was because she wanted to avoid any more of the tension they were feeling in each other’s company right now. And although she’d said it lightly, she truly was afraid he might change his mind.

All the way home, she told herself she’d done the right thing, that it would work out, that she would take care to see that Christy never regretted the selfless act of kindness he’d committed tonight for her sake. Once or twice, she almost convinced herself it would be possible.

But later, after she’d written it all down in her journal, the truth of what she’d done came back to haunt her.