To Love and to Cherish (19 page)

Sophie Deene led the children in carols after the Nativity play, everyone gathered round the candlelit Christmas tree. Anne joined in as well as she could, in a rusty alto that was at least an octave below the children’s reedy sopranos. As loose and casual as this event necessarily was because of the children, she was nevertheless aware of the abiding stiffness with which most people still treated her, worse now because of her “bereavement.” When she’d been Geoffrey’s wife, she was an object of speculation and curiosity. As his widow, she was that and more; she’d become someone to whom no one knew quite what to say.

And Christy thought he wanted her for his wife. If it weren’t so sad, it would be funny. She looked across the sea of singing faces at Mrs. Nineways, the churchwarden’s wife, and Mrs. Woodworth, the curate’s; they smiled and nodded, acknowledging her through the strains of “Good King Wenceslas.” Laura Woodworth was a small, compact woman, in perpetual motion, busy as a beaver; she tirelessly visited the parish’s sick, who frequently got well—so Christy said—because she bullied them into it. Emmaline Nineways was shy and retiring, a genuinely religious woman, if her attendance and demeanor at church were any indication.

Anne knew herself to be neither devout nor dynamic, and she knew as well that, deep down, the people of Wyckerley would never really come to trust her. She would end up a burden to Christy, not a help—assuming she wanted to be his wife, which she didn’t.

After the singing came the present-opening, a mad, scrambling event that Miss Mareton and her helpers were hard put to keep civilized. Besides whistles for the boys and cornstalk dolls for the girls—constructed by the housemaids over a furious two-day marathon—Anne had ordered pencils and paper tablets from a stationer in Tavistock; they’d arrived yesterday, in the very nick of time. In addition, Captain Carnock had generously donated several bushels of apples, and Mr. Farnsworth, owner of Wyckerley’s only inn, the First and Last, had contributed a barrel of spiced cider. The mayor’s gift was a tree, to be planted next spring on the village green in the children’s name, complete with plaque. But the individually wrapped cakes and candies that Lynton Hall’s kitchen maids had been baking for days got the warmest reception, which ought not to have come as a surprise. “I should’ve made
that
the farewell gift,” Anne wailed to a laughing Miss Weedie. “Now they won’t eat their supper!”

A baseless fear; Mrs. Fruit and the maids barely got the food laid out on the long trestle tables before the children proceeded to devour it. If Christy had meant to say grace before the meal, their locustlike descent changed his mind. He watched the rout from a distance, hands in his pockets, talking to Captain Carnock again and looking unbearably handsome in his “full holy blacks.” Honoria Vanstone was saying something to her, but Anne didn’t hear it. Over the heads of two dozen people, Christy’s eyes suddenly met hers. The clamor of voices died away and all the bodies around her became as insubstantial as ghosts. Neither of them smiled; the silent message that passed between them was no laughing matter. But when the odd, out-of-time moment ended and reality flooded back, she felt a grim relief. Christy wasn’t ignoring her because he’d given her up. Oh, no. And none of the pain in store for them had diminished a whit. Nothing had changed. They were still obsessed.

All the contrition she’d felt in church this morning vanished, along with her good intentions. She was tired of pretending nothing had happened, tired of treating Christy as an acquaintance. Tired of his public politeness. Tired of watching women like Margaret Mareton hang on him like barnacles.

“I’ve just remembered something I must tell the vicar,” she said abruptly, cutting Honoria Vanstone off in the middle of a sentence. “Excuse me, will you?” Not waiting for the answer, she handed her punch cup to a passing servant and made for Christy in a determined straight line.

She didn’t know what her excuse was going to be until it came out of her mouth. “I’ve come upon a little volume of sermons in the library. Reverend Morrell. I thought it might interest you. It looks quite old. There are some notes in the margins that are quite intriguing, too,” she embellished recklessly. “Would you like to see it?”

“Yes, very much,” he said seriously—so seriously, she was afraid he had actually believed her. “Would you excuse me?” he asked Captain Carnock, who bowed to them both and said, “Not at all,” several times.

Leading the way out of the great hall and down the paneled corridor to the library, her nerves, already tight, stretched to the breaking point. All she could think of was, What if, on top of everything else that was already wrong or probably would go wrong between them, Christy was disappointed when he found out there weren’t any sermons?

She opened the library door herself and stood back to let him enter; then she closed it and stood with her back against it—barring it, in effect. He turned around in the center of the unlit, unheated room and looked at her expectantly.

“I lied about the sermons.”

He wasn’t disappointed. A slow smile lit up his face with the radiance of sunshine. He came toward her—and all at once she was afraid of him, because he was so beautiful.
What if he wins?
she had time to think before he touched her. Without asking, he slipped his hands inside the little jacket that went over her best mourning dress. It thrilled her so, that one act of possession, that she gasped. His arms went all the way around, and they stood pressed together, not moving, just feeling each other’s deep breathing. Already she loved the hard solidness of his body, the strength in his arms; embracing him was like embracing a thick stone pillar. No, wrong image, too cold. Like embracing a tree, warm and vital and firmly planted in the ground. Unshakable.

She loosened her arms and pulled back to see his face. “I thought you were going to
get
me,” she accused.

“I am.” His smile shattered her, kicked the last prop out from under her. “I thought you were going to seduce me.”

She licked her lips. “I am.”

His smile faded. When he kissed her, any illusion that she was the one in control of this situation disappeared, like strong light dissipating a shadow. She closed her eyes and let go of herself, forgetting everything except the pleasure rising inside, soft and irresistible, the tenderest yielding. So this was it; this was what her woman’s body had been made for. The revelation made her sigh, and hold on tighter so she couldn’t lose it. It was as if she’d been covered with a layer of scales all her life, and Christy’s touch had made them fall away. Now she felt like Eve, naked in the garden, and without an ounce of shame.

When he stopped kissing her, she felt like an opium addict deprived of her drug. “Merry Christmas,” he murmured.

“Merry Christmas,” she whispered back, not letting go of him.

“We can’t stay here long.”

She had an inspiration. “Stay for dinner. After everyone leaves, you stay.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“The Maretons have invited me to their house.”

“Margaret Mareton?”

“Her family.”

“That—Sunday school teacher who can’t keep her hands off you?” His brows shot up; his ice-blue eyes were pools of innocent amazement. “Do you like her?” she pressed. “She’s mad for you. Well, do you?”

“Yes, I like her,” he answered, maddeningly ingenuous.

“
She’d
marry you.”

“She probably would.”

“You know I’m jealous of her.”

“I know.” He brought his fingers to her cheek and softly caressed her. “It’s the nicest thing that’s happened to me in days. Since I saw you last.”

“Why didn’t you try to see me before now?”

He looked down, thinking, and she knew that whatever he was going to say, it would be the truth. Talking with Christy was not like talking with anyone else she’d ever known. “I wanted to see you,” he said slowly. “Every day. Most days I couldn’t because I was too busy with meetings, commitments, the dean’s visit. I couldn’t get away.”

“And the other days?”

He held her hands between his, their fingers pointing upward, prayer-fashion. “I was afraid,” he said quietly.

His honesty gave her the courage to say, “I was afraid, too. But I wanted you to come. Every day I hoped you would.” Their lips met again in a soft, breathless kiss. She was flirting with surrender, but she didn’t care. “Oh, Christy, I don’t want to scare you away, I just want to be with you!”

“Meet me tomorrow, Anne. We’ll go for a walk.”

“A walk? Yes, yes,” she said quickly, “a walk. Lovely.” She’d go to a public hanging if he asked her, and count it a fine outing. “When?”

“Three o’clock? We could meet at the crossroads.”

“Three o’clock.”

“Pray it doesn’t rain,” he said, a teasing gleam in his eye.

“I just might,” she retorted, and she wasn’t teasing at all.

XIV

1 January 1855

Christy left another poem for me in our hiding place at the crossroads. If anything, this one is worse than the first.

God, though our lives are only smoke,

Although that truth we try to shirk,

Although we travail, sick, heartbroke,

Let me have Anne, your finest work.

And so it goes, for several more mortifying verses. It’s an awful poem, by any standards a reasonable person could apply. But every time I read it, I cry like an infant. I am a perfect idiot. How does he do this to me?

I retaliate by leaving him tracts by agnostic philosophers. (Unaccountably, there are several in the library; we found them when we cleaned it, tucked out of sight, as heresy ought to be, on a high shelf.) I doubt that they make Christy weep, though, so the exchange isn’t equal.

I’ve decided it’s just my luck that my first full-fledged love affair (no, half-fledged; but hope springs eternal) is unfolding in the dead of winter. Were it a
full-fledged
affair, I daresay we would both be dead of pneumonia by now, because of Christy’s insistence that we carry it on almost exclusively out-of-doors. He won’t go near the old caretaker’s cottage, where we could be private
and
warm. I don’t blame him; my intentions aren’t honorable. So this is the only benefit of the half-fledged state of things: that we’re both necessarily
clothed
at all times.

Yesterday I waited for him at the old Plym canal, a dismal, deserted, unbearably melancholy place—except that he came, and then all the dreariness was gone, just forgotten. Except for the cold! But even that had an advantage—Christy had to fold me up in his greatcoat so my teeth would stop chattering. And of course, then he had to kiss me. And so forth.

I’ve been thinking ever since about the
and so forth
.

God, I’m in such a state. Is this normal? Who can I ask? No one. Anyway, my feelings are too private. I doubt I could confide them in a sister if I had one. And part of me doesn’t care if this is normal or not. For once I’m alive, and it’s enough.

But sometimes—it’s almost as if I’m ill. I can’t sleep for thinking about him, I don’t care anything about food, I forget things, mislay objects, lose track of time, don’t hear other people speaking to me, lose my own train of thought in the middle of a sentence. I’m like a mildly retarded adult, bumbling about, useless, but so far doing no actual harm.

And I’m burning up inside. I know what I want; Geoffrey gave me that, at least—the knowledge of passion, even the experience of it. So I’m no blushing virgin. I’m a woman with, for all I know, nearly as much worldly experience as Christy.

No; unlikely. Geoffrey initiated him too, I remember now. At a brothel when they were scarcely more than boys. I don’t know what to do with that information, where to put it, how to feel about it. I won’t think about it.

Christy
will
be my lover. He must be. We’ve “sinned” already, both of us, simply from
wanting
it so much. If I died tonight and God existed, he’d send me to Dante’s Second Circle, and quite rightly, where I’d whirl round and round with Paola and Francesca for eternity, howling out my frustrated passion.

That being the case, I’d rather hang for a wolf than a sheep, thank you very much.

12 January

The feast of Aelred, Abbot of Rievaulx. I know all of them now.

Christy left a present for me at our crossroads hiding place. His poems he rolls up in cylinders and ties with a ribbon, and if they get wet he doesn’t care. (I care; I love his dreadful poems with all my constant heart.) But this present was wrapped in a bit of sealskin, and so I opened it with some care, some trepidation. It was a portrait of me. A watercolor, done from a sketch he’d made last week when we went to Abbeycombe, the old Roman ruins. I’d brought some bread and cheese, and after we ate he did a quick charcoal drawing of me, head only, in his notebook. I thought nothing of it, or only that he was fast, and that he might fill it in a bit, later, on his own.

Well. I don’t have to wonder anymore what he’d have become if he hadn’t chosen the ministry. And I must also confess that I’m jealous. (
Here
I confess it; I’m not up yet to confessing it to him.) All my life I wanted to be an artist. I was either blessed or cursed with the objectivity to see that my father’s talent, such as it was, did not pass on to his daughter, and so, after a mercifully brief disillusionment, I abandoned all hope. (Dante again.) But Christy—whoever his European teachers were, whoever discouraged him from pursuing painting for his life’s work ought to be flogged, hanged, shot, quartered, tortured—words fail me.

But then, perhaps I’m biased. It’s possible. And his picture is of
me
, after all. And I’ve not seen any of his other work. Maybe I inspire him! That makes me laugh—but self-consciously. Hopefully. Oh, I’m like a child! He makes me so giddy, so silly!

Anyway. His watercolor is so very lovely. Can this truly be how he sees me? My cheeks are hot, just thinking of it. No museum would show it, it’s too flagrant, too honest. I can’t describe the expression he’s captured. My lips are open, just slightly; my eyes . . . hot. Purposeful, I suppose. It’s half-profile, and he’s stopped the movement as if with a camera. The blurriness of the outline—ah, God, I can only describe it as passionate. I can’t stop looking at this picture. It’s not only me, Anne Verlaine, it’s the woman I can feel myself turning into. But I don’t know her yet, and so how could Christy know her so well?

I shall die if I don’t have him soon.

14 January

How dare he call me “a near occasion of sin”? It’s the most offensive thing anyone has ever said to me, and I told him so. That and a lot more—I called him “an occasion of boring pietism.” Ha! Take that, Reverend High and Mighty Christian Morrell.

15 January

He apologized. In a poem. Execrable, as usual.

All is forgiven.

16 January

I can’t say the words to him. He says them to me each time we meet. “I love you, Anne.” But I withhold the gift and don’t reciprocate, even though I know I’m hurting him. That’s the punishment for my cowardice, and it’s an acute, tormenting one. I’d rather hurt myself than Christy.

I love him.

There, I’ve written it. Now the page is wet and blurry, because looking at those three words makes me cry. Why is it so sad? I don’t know, but my heart is breaking. I feel as if my life is ending—some—fracture is occurring—

No, I don’t know what I mean. But I know that if I gave him this gift, I would lose control. He would win. I can’t let him win.

I tell him my reasons for not marrying him, and all he does is make fun of them.

***

WHY I CAN’T MARRY CHRISTY

1. The dream I’ve had for five years has finally come true: I’m free and financially independent. I can do anything, go anywhere, be anyone I want. I’m rich! Why would I stay in Wyckerley and be a minister’s wife??

2. I’d make a terrible minister’s wife. I’m a private, not a public person; I can’t go around visiting the sick and clothing the naked. Corporal works of mercy would be the death of me. Imagine me entertaining the bishop!

3. People don’t like or trust me. The ones who do like me are intimidated by me, I have no idea why. I don’t fit in.

4. I hate the weather. Italy’s the place for me, where the winters are kind and mild.

5. A minister’s wife ought to believe in God. Minimum requirement.

“Anne, my dearest love, you’re a coward,” Christy writes in his last letter. “You’ve never had a home in Italy or anywhere else. Furthermore, not all men are like Geoffrey or your father, so that reservation doesn’t hold water either. It’s not Wyckerley that’s constricting and imprisoning, it’s your own fear. But you could set yourself free by choosing to stay and make a life with me. You could be happy.”

And so on. I tell him
he’s
the dreamer, not me, but he shunts my best, most logical arguments aside as if they were the natterings of a worried old maid. I think he’s gone blind. The answer is so clear—why can’t he see it? We are not suited for marriage; we are suited for love. If he doesn’t give in soon, I’ll go insane.

17 January

Now he’s sending me the marriage vows. Think about the words, he says. He wants to say them to me in church, he says, in front of all our friends. “I, Christy, take you, Anne, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part.”

All right, Christy, this is war. I’m going back to sending the agnostic tracts.

19 January

Touch and go today. So close, so close. I’m blushing, just thinking of it. We were at the canal, huddling under his umbrella, laughing at the curse words I shouted out at the rain. He started it, kissing me and so forth. We . . . It’s hard to write it. But I want to. He . . . Ah, well. He caressed me. It was the first time—without clothes. Not altogether without clothes—God, I’d have frozen! But—partly. The way he touched me, the closeness, the stark, unbearable intimacy of it—I’m shaking now, remembering. And I find I can’t write it. He could have done anything. Anything.

Oh, I want, I want, I want.

***

T
HE CARETAKER
’
S COTTAGE
, abandoned since William Holyoake had moved out of it two years ago to new quarters in the Hall’s basement, was looking better and better to Christy. Especially through a haze of wet, sticky snowflakes. But he tramped past it stolidly, heading for the appointed rendezvous—the D’Aubrey family cemetery. A bleaker spot on this dreariest of days could hardly be imagined, and he was in complete sympathy now with every incredulous, insulting thing Anne had said when he’d suggested and then insisted on it as the location for their next tryst. But it was a sure bet that no one would come upon them here, and at the time that had seemed the paramount consideration. At the time. Warmth seemed the paramount consideration now, but it was too late to change the rendezvous.

His pocket watch chimed four just as he eased open the wicket in the low stone wall. A glance around told him he’d beaten her this time—a minor satisfaction; the vagaries of his schedule frequently made him late, and she liked to tease him that it was always women who bore the stigma of chronic unpunctuality. The silting snow blurred every surface; there was no place dry to sit. No shelter, either, now that winter had denuded the ancient oak trees. To keep the wind from blowing wet snowflakes in his face, he went to the lee side of the tallest monument, a granite obelisk marking the grave of William Verlaine, the fourth D’Aubrey viscount. With his back to the cold gray stone, Christy ducked his head, jammed his hands in his greatcoat pockets, and recommenced brooding.

Compared to the problems occupying his mind now, the great issues of his past—does God exist? why do men suffer? how can I console?—seemed trifling. He thought of the mental line dividing his preoccupations as
B.A.
and
A.A.
—before and after Anne.

After Anne, he was consumed with thoughts of sexual morality, sins of the flesh, concupiscence, lust, adultery, Mary Magdalene, Saint Paul—all the sidelines of the seventh commandment that heretofore had struck him as the
interesting
sins, the ones which caught the eye but which, fortunately, didn’t relate to him personally. He’d been chaste since his ordination, and sincerely repented his few transgressions before that. Once in a while (before Anne), he would catch himself coveting the flesh of a comely, pink-cheeked parishioner, acknowledge it, and have faith in God’s forgiveness of it. Almost as important, he would forgive
himself
for it, quite easily, with a masculine shrug and a smug, underlying assumption that he would soon be marrying one of the young parish ladies who made themselves so agreeable and available to him on a daily basis. In his thoughtless arrogance, he’d always assumed he’d choose the best of the bunch—whom, of course, he would love—and then reward himself for his years of restraint by exercising his husbandly rights with great vigor and enthusiasm.

Now there was Anne. God had sent her to test him, he sometimes believed. Was she the instrument of his soul’s damnation? If so, why did she feel like salvation? It was enough to drive a man to drink.

He stamped his feet to keep them from freezing. It would be dark soon. Where was she? If she couldn’t come and he had to tramp back home without seeing her—it didn’t bear thinking about. With the ease of practice, his mind slipped into the well-worn memory of their last meeting. They’d played with fire that day; how they’d avoided total immolation could only be explained by divine intervention, in the form of a rising wind blowing ice-cold rain against her bare skin—and bringing them both to their senses in the proverbial nick of time.

They couldn’t go on like this much longer. He couldn’t, anyway. His body felt like a cocked gun with a hair trigger. Either Anne or the devil was blurring the line between right and wrong that had stood him in fairly good stead until now. He argued with her by rote, not because he could really see anything sinful anymore about their joining. God help him, he
agreed
with her. On the few occasions when church members had confided in him that they’d broken or were thinking of breaking the seventh commandment by committing the sin of fornication, he had never been particularly shocked or morally outraged. With adulterers he had no patience, or not much; but right or wrong, unmarried men and women who engaged in consensual sexual acts with other unmarried men and women did not put his moral back up, and he habitually dealt with them gently. So. At least he wasn’t guilty of hypocrisy. A paltry comfort.

Where was she? He’d arranged this meeting because he had a plan, a scheme, and he couldn’t put it in motion until she agreed to it—unwittingly. And she would agree to it, he had no doubt; in fact, she’d see it as a golden opportunity to seduce him. But he had other plans.

His watch chimed half past four. The puny, grudging sunset turned the snow cover a shade of lavender-blue that depressed him and made him shiver. Anything could’ve happened, a dozen domestic responsibilities could’ve kept her away, and he was a fool to imagine that anything was wrong.