To Love and to Cherish (2 page)

II

C
HRISTY HADN
’
T HEARD
footsteps but something, maybe a change in the air, made him lift his head and look toward the doorway to the hall. A tall, dark-haired man stood in the threshold. Sallow skin, sunken cheeks, black, burning eyes in hollow sockets—for one grotesque moment, Christy thought it was Edward, returned from the dead in the semblance of his youth. But a second later, a flesh-and-blood woman materialized behind the man’s shoulder, and Christy realized he wasn’t seeing ghosts. He got to his feet in haste.

He met Geoffrey in the middle of the room. He would have embraced him, but Geoffrey held out his hand and they shook instead, clapping each other on the back. “My God, it’s true,” Geoffrey cried, his voice sounding shockingly loud after the long silence. “You’ve gone and become a priest!”

“As you see.” His gladness gave way to concern as he took in his oldest friend’s profoundly altered appearance. At sixteen, Geoffrey had been a strapping, muscular youth; when they’d wrestled together, they’d almost always fought to a draw, and on the rare occasions when Christy had won, it was only because he was taller. Now Geoffrey looked as if a well-placed blow from a child could knock him down.

But his charming, wolfish grin hadn’t changed, and Christy found himself smiling back, wanting to laugh with him in spite of the somber circumstances of this meeting. “Geoffrey, thank God you’ve come. Your father—”

“Is he dead?” He moved around him to the bedside without waiting for an answer. “Oh, my, yes,” he said softly, staring down at the still corpse. “He’s dead, all right, no question about that.”

Christy stayed where he was, to give Geoffrey a little time to himself. The woman in the doorway hadn’t moved. She was slim, tall, dressed sedately in a dark brown traveling costume; the veiled brim of her hat cast a shadow over her face. He glanced at her curiously, but she didn’t speak.

Geoffrey had his back to the room; Christy tried to read his emotion from the set of his shoulders, but the rigid posture was unrevealing. After another minute, he crossed to the bed to stand beside him, and together they gazed down at Edward’s lifeless face. “He didn’t suffer at the end,” Christy said quietly. “It was a peaceful death.”

“Was it? He looks ghastly, doesn’t he? What was wrong with him, anyway?”

“A disease of the liver.”

“Liver, eh?” There was no hint of sorrow in his frowning, narrow-eyed countenance; rather, Christy had the unnerving impression that he was scrutinizing the body to assure himself it was really dead.

“He asked for you before he died.”

Geoffrey looked up at that, incredulous, then burst into high, hearty laughter. “Oh, that’s good. That’s very good!”

Dismayed, Christy looked away. The woman had come farther into the room; in the shadowy lamplight, her eyes glowed an odd silver-gray color. He couldn’t read the expression in them, but the set of her wide, straight mouth was ironic.

“I think he was sorry at the end,” he tried again. “For everything. I believe he felt remorse in his heart for—” This time Geoffrey cut him off with a crude, appallingly vulgar oath that made Christy blush. The woman arched one dark brow at him; he’d have said she was mocking him, but there was no playfulness in her face.

Then Geoffrey flashed his charming smile, and the anger in his eyes disappeared as if it had never been. He spun away from the bed and draped his arm across Christy’s shoulders, giving him a rough, affectionate squeeze. “How’ve you been, you ruddy old sod? You look . . .” He stood back and made a show of examining him, head to toe. “Christ, you
still
look like an archangel!” He ruffled Christy’s blond hair, laughing, and under his breath Christy caught the unmistakable odor of alcohol. He stiffened involuntarily. All the things he could have said about Geoffrey’s appearance seemed either tactless or hurtful, so he didn’t answer.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Geoffrey urged, guiding him toward the door. Christy resisted, and Geoffrey stopped short, adjacent to the silent, motionless woman. “Oh—sorry, darling, forgot about you there. This is Christian Morrell, an old chum from my halcyon youth. Christy, meet my wife, Anne. Anne, Christy. Christy, Anne. Shake hands, why don’t you? That’s it! Now let’s all go have a drink.”

“How do you do, Reverend Morrell,” murmured Anne Verlaine, unsmiling, ignoring her husband’s facetiousness.

Christy struggled to hide his surprise. Rumors about Geoffrey were always rife in Wyckerley, had been since he’d run away at sixteen and never returned. About four years ago Christy had heard that he’d married the daughter of an artist, a painter—but the next rumor had him off fighting the Burmese in Pegu, and there was no more talk of a wife. As a consequence, Christy had assumed that the marriage was just another in the colorful catalog of stories about the village’s prodigal son that might not be true but never failed to entertain the natives.

“Mrs. Verlaine,” he greeted her, taking the cool, firm hand she held out to him. She was younger than he’d thought at first, probably not even twenty-five. Her accent was English, but there was something distinctly foreign about her; something in her dress, he thought, or the penetrating directness of her gaze.

“No, no, it’s not Mrs. Verlaine anymore, is it? It’s Lady D’Aubrey! How does it feel to be a viscountess, darling? Frankly I can’t wait for someone to call me ‘my lord.’ Come on, we must go and drink to Father’s demise. It took him long enough, but better late than never, what?” Geoffrey’s arm around his wife’s waist looked steely; she resisted for only a moment, then let him lead her out of the room. Christy had no choice but to follow.

***

Lynton Hall’s best drawing room looked even drearier than usual to him, but that might be because he was seeing it through Geoffrey’s eyes. “Bleeding hell,” the new viscount pronounced on entering the cold, depressing chamber. “Place looks like a ruddy crypt. Light some candles, will you, Anne?” He glanced around for the bell rope, which dangled beside the marble fireplace mantel. “Does this work?” He pulled on it. Plaster dust sifted down from the ceiling in time with a faint tinkling in the distance.

Anne Verlaine went to the windows and pulled back the heavy draperies. Bright sunlight flooded the drawing room, picking out each stain in the wallpaper and every threadbare patch in the dusty carpet. Geoffrey threw his forearm across his eyes and gave a mock-pained cry. “Eh! Easy, darling, not
that
much light.” His wife sent him an impenetrable look, pulled the curtains half closed, and went to the sideboard to light the oil lamp.

While Christy stood by the door, Geoffrey prowled the room, scowling at the furniture. “See anything that looks like it might hold liquor?”

“Not likely,” Christy said, smiling. “Your father stopped drinking spirits when he became ill.” Geoffrey cursed cheerfully. “I suppose there might be brandy or something in the kitchen.”

Halting footsteps coming from the hallway made them all turn toward the door. The housekeeper started into the room, saw them, and stopped in confusion.

“Mrs. Fruit!” Geoffrey cried genially. “God’s flesh and blood, you haven’t changed much, have you?” She drew back, fearful. “What, don’t you know me? It’s Geoffrey!”

She cupped her left ear. “Geoffrey?” she quavered, smiling uncertainly. “My saints, it is you. Glory be—I thought it was your father!”

Geoffrey clutched at his chest, pretending he was stabbed. “Don’t tell me I look like that blighted corpse up there, old dear!” he said playfully. “Take it back, do you hear?”

“What? Corpse?” She covered her mouth with her hands, staring at him in dread.

Geoffrey finally realized she was deaf. “He’s dead!” he said loudly. “The sod’s croaked!” He watched in amazement as Mrs. Fruit’s wrinkled old face crumbled. “By God, she minds,” he marveled, turning to Christy and Anne. “She actually
cares
.” He put his arm around the housekeeper’s frail shoulders. “There, there, old thing. Go and get us some brandy, will you?
Brandy!
And have a snort for yourself, it’ll do you good.” He turned her around and gave her a little shove out the door.

Coming out of his shock, Christy started to go after her—but Anne was faster. “Geoffrey, for God’s sake,” she said in a low, strained voice, and walked quickly out into the hall. The desolate sound of Mrs. Fruit’s weeping faded with the two women’s footsteps.

“Why did you do that?” Christy asked, more astonished then angry.

“Do what?” Geoffrey strolled to the high casement windows, looking innocently pleased with himself. He gave another of his high, forced laughs, trying to make Christy join in. “Look at this place, will you? It’s grotesque! I haven’t thought about it once since I walked out twelve years ago, not once, I swear to you. And yet, now that I’m here, it’s as if I’d never left. I remember every corner, every stick of furniture. Even trick of the light . . .” He trailed off, gazing into space, seeming to have forgotten what he was saying.

“Your father had let things go,” Christy offered, conscious of the understatement.

“Why? Because he was sick?”

“No, his illness only lasted a few months. He just wasn’t interested.”

“Ha! And I thought we had nothing in common.”

Christy stared at him in growing dismay. “The estate makes a fair profit, I’m told, but he never cared about reinvesting the capital in his holdings. The tenants’ farms are in very bad shape, the cottages—”

“What did he do with his money?”

“Banked it, I assume.” He came closer. “You could do a lot of good here, Geoffrey. Holyoake does the best he can, but he’s only—”

“How much is there? How much money?”

“In the estate? I couldn’t say.”

Geoffrey looked as if he didn’t believe him.

“He never took me into his confidence, I assure you. His lawyers will be in touch with you soon, I’m sure, and then you’ll know everything.”

“That’s assuming he’s left me anything at all,” Geoffrey retorted with an unamused smile. He went to the hall doorway and leaned out, calling loudly, “Anne! Hurry and find a bottle of something, anything, and bring it back when you come!” To Christy he said, “What a trip! I’m dry as a virgin. We were on the train from London all night, then the most awful coach up from Plymouth this morning.” He threw himself full-length on the worn brocade sofa. “Sit down! God, I can’t get used to the sight of you, Christy. You look like a great black crane in those clothes.”

Christy smiled, taking the wing chair beside him; the odor of mildew rose from it when he sat. “That’s not the image I was trying to foster.” He didn’t say it, but he couldn’t get over the sight of Geoffrey, either. The Verlaine good looks had all but vanished under a pallor of illness. His dark brown hair was already receding from a white, bony forehead, making his eyes look blacker than ever. His fine nostrils were pinched, papery; he licked his dry lips with a whitish tongue, and his eyelids were crusty, as if he’d just woken up, or as if he’d fallen asleep weeping.

“No, not a crane,” he corrected himself, “a golden eagle—because of the hair. Ha! So tell me, how long have you been in your saintly calling?”

“I was ordained two years ago. I had a small living in Exminster for about a year before the bishop assigned me to St. Giles’ parish.”

“Assigned you? Didn’t you want to come home?”

“I . . . had mixed feelings.” Geoffrey laughed knowingly, but Christy doubted that he and his friend had the same reservations about returning to Wyckerley.

“And what does the
real
Reverend Morrell think about you following in his hallowed footsteps?”

“My father died about four years ago. Two years after my mother.”

“Oh, Christy, I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Thank you.” He wanted to ask,
Why didn’t you ever write? Why did you let twelve years go by without even telling me where you were?
“And you’ve become a soldier of fortune,” he said instead, adopting the light tone Geoffrey had set. “If half the rumors I’ve heard are true, you’ve had an interesting time of it, to say the least.”

Geoffrey got to his feet jerkily and started pacing the room again. “Oh, hell, yes, interesting to say the least. Say, Christy, do you still ride?”

“Yes, I’ve got a chestnut gelding. His name’s Doncaster, and he’s a great beauty.”

“Do you race him?”

“No, not anymore.”

“What!” Geoffrey made a shocked face.

Christy thought of the wild, reckless chases they’d run as boys; it had been their favorite sport, the rabid, abiding interest that, at the end, was almost all that had held their friendship together. “The bishop frowns on horse racing among the clergy,” he said with a dry smile, “so I’ve given it up.”

“Bloody goddamn pity.” He strode to the door again. “Anne! Ah—here you are, and not a second too soon.” The new Lady D’Aubrey came into the room, and Geoffrey grabbed at the bottle she was carrying on a tray; the sudden shift of balance almost toppled the two glasses beside it. She set the tray on the table by the sofa and walked away, stopping before the cold fireplace.

“Sherry. Good God,” Geoffrey said, making a face. “None for you, darling?” She turned around to murmur a refusal. She’d taken off her hat; she had reddish-blond hair, worn loose and cut shorter than Christy thought was currently the fashion. Geoffrey filled the glasses and handed one to him. “What shall we drink to? I know: to being orphans. My wife’s an orphan too—aren’t you, darling? Oh, yes, a poor, penniless orphan. I thought she was a rich one, you know, but that turned out to be an error of gross and tragic proportions.” He tossed back half the sherry in his glass and immediately filled it again. “What? You won’t drink to being an orphan? Very well, let’s be more direct.” He held his glass high. “To the death of my father: may his wicked soul rot in hell forever.”

Christy watched him finish his drink in a few swallows and slap the empty glass on the table with nearly enough force to break it. He felt Anne Verlaine’s quiet regard, and turned to look at her. Her eyes weren’t silver now; they were green, and they were watching him with a strange, somber, resigned expectancy. He set his glass down untouched.