To Love and to Cherish (20 page)

He would leave her a note. Today was Tuesday; she had three whole days to make the arrangements for what he had in mind. That should be enough. All she had to do was think up one really good lie. That was nothing compared to the elaborate fiction
he
had to come up with by Friday.

So, Reverend Morrell, it’s come to this
, he sneered at himself. He was going to tell lies. But—always that defensive, self-serving
but
—if the plan worked, he’d avert a whole catalog of much worse sins. So the end justified the means? Yes. In this case, yes. It did.

He fumbled his notebook and pencil out of his inside coat pocket. With frozen fingers, he wrote his beloved a note.

She found it, wrapped in his handkerchief, between the latch and the gate handle, covered with soggy snow and almost illegible. She read it by the light of the dying sun in the west and the rising moon in the east.

Anne, my darling
,

I can’t wait any longer; vestry meeting at 5:30, Ludd’s early dinner waiting, etc., etc.—the usual. Send the footman with a note, I don’t care what we’ve said, I must know tonight that you are all right.

Now, you must also do this. Say anything, but get away on Friday evening next, at least until midnight. Come to the rectory (after dark, like a thief in the night) and have dinner with me. Yes! Both Ludds in Bath, visiting son and daughter-in-law, bless them. I will take care of sending housemaid packing for the night. Come, Anne. Think of it: WARMTH. Hours of talk, alone, in complete physical comfort. You can’t say no.

I love you to distraction. Literally.

Christy

XV

E
XCEPT FOR THE SMELL
of woodsmoke from an invisible chimney, the rectory seemed deserted. All the curtains were drawn; if there was light behind any of the windows, it couldn’t be seen from the square, or the cobbled street, or the clean-swept path to the front door. Clean-swept recently, Anne noted, so a nighttime visitor couldn’t leave footprints in the latest snow dusting. She set her feet down lightly, and still the noise seemed too loud in the evening hush. Ignoring the brass knocker, she used her knuckles on the wooden door panel, rapping softly. Too softly; no one came. She tried again, a little louder, and heard a stirring beyond the door. A second later it opened, a hand shot out, seized hers, and pulled her inside.

She’d have flung herself into Christy’s arms, but he held her away to look at her, his face barely visible in the pitch-dark foyer. “You’re here,” he announced gladly.

“I’m here. I feel like a spy. Why are we whispering?”

He laughed, kissing her cold hands. “No reason—nobody’s here but me. And now you.” He moved closer—to embrace her, she thought, but instead he helped her take off her coat and hung it on a hook by the door. “Come into the parlor, Anne. There’s a fire, and we can have—”

“Christy.”

“Yes?”

“Are we or are we not alone in your house?”

“We are.”

“Then for God’s sake, stand still and give me a proper kiss.”

He sighed. Before she could decide whether it was a resigned, relieved, or anticipatory sigh, he’d drawn her inside the strong circle of his arms. Their mouths met eagerly, his warm lips softening her chilled ones in no time. Afterward, she laid her cheek on his collarbone and murmured against his throat, “Mmm, I do love the way they kiss in the provinces.”

Chuckling, he gave her a hard squeeze, took her hand, and led her down the hall to the drawing room.

This was special: they usually sat in his study after the Friday night readings—canceled this month and next because of the expense of heating the parish room in wintertime. Anne took a seat on the worn brocade sofa, leaving plenty of room for Christy to sit beside her. He did, after handing her a glass of wine, and his smile told her he knew exactly what game she was playing. They clinked glasses. “What did you say to get away?” he asked her.

She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “My head is splitting! I couldn’t eat a thing, I need complete rest and quiet, I won’t be disturbed on any account whatsoever—at least until morning.” She wriggled her eyebrows suggestively. “I’m sure everyone believed me; I quite
threw
myself into it.” She waved her hand in a gesture that took in the room, the whole house. “And what did you say to accomplish
this
miracle?”

“Well, when I heard the Ludds wanted the long weekend off to visit their son, I immediately began making noises about going to Mare’s Head and staying the night with my deacon, Mr. Creighton—which I will do, only tomorrow night instead of tonight. This way I’ve gotten rid of the housemaid, who would’ve thought it strange if I’d banished her for two nights. Thank God it’s snowing; now I can tell her I postponed the trip and muddled through in my bachelor way tonight without her.”

He looked so pleased with himself, she bit back the exclamation on the tip of her tongue—
You mean all this circumspection is for the benefit of the sensibilities of one trifling housemaid?
Besides, on further reflection, she could see that one trifling housemaid’s knowledge of what they were doing, innocent though it was (so far), could have catastrophic consequences for a man in Christy’s position, in a place like Wyckerley. “How clever of you,” she said instead, and his satisfied smile widened.

“Mrs. Ludd’s left a cold supper in the kitchen for me to heat up tomorrow. I told her I’d be starving after my long day in Mare’s Head, and to be sure to leave plenty. She did—I checked.”

She shook her head at him in awe. “You think of everything.” The guilty delight he was taking in this simple deception made her heart ache with love for him.

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes, but this is so nice, just sitting here talking. Let’s not eat yet.”

She’d said the right thing. He grinned and took her glass from her, set it on the low table. Her heart began to pound—until he reached for her hand and pulled her to her feet. “You’ve never really seen the house, Anne. Let me show it to you.”

“The house? Now?”

He shrugged. “Don’t you want to see it?”

“Well—all right. Fine. Let’s see the house.”

He showed it to her by candlelight, carrying a three-candle holder from room to room, since a brighter light could have been seen from the street through the closed draperies. It took her an unconscionably long time to figure out what he was up to. The clue came when he began to use words like “commodious” and “convenient” to describe the rectory’s perfectly nice dining and living rooms. The sitting room, she learned, was “free of drafts.” When he called the entrance hall “welcoming,” she gave a whoop of laughter, cutting him off. “Christy, are you
showing
me the house or
selling
it to me?”

That made his ears turn red, a reaction that always delighted her. “What do you mean?” he blustered, trying to sound hurt. “I’m showing it; I thought you’d be interested.”

She laughed again, enchanted by his transparency. “This is a plan, isn’t it?” she accused, leaning against him. “A plot! You smuggled me in here with an ulterior motive, admit it.”

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did. You’re trying to seduce me with a golden vision of what married life could be. Honestly, Christy, this is worse than the marriage vows.”

He caved in without a fight. “All right, it was a plan. Do you mind? Would you have stayed away if you’d known?”

“Of course not, I’d have come under any circumstances, you know that. But, darling, let’s not have our old argument tonight.”

“Absolutely not. We won’t argue about anything tonight.”

“And your house is beautiful. I’ve always liked it.”

“Really?”

“Yes, of course—but don’t let’s talk about me moving into it permanently, all right?”

“All right. You’d be happy, though. You could change anything you wanted. And you’d like Mrs. Ludd—”

“Christy—”

“And she’d love you. Arthur does all the gardening, so you couldn’t kill anything. The kitchen’s huge, I’ll show you.”

“Christy—”

“There’s plenty of room for more servants if you want them. I always ride Doncaster, but there’s a gig in the stables and Arthur could fix it up, paint it or whatever it needs, and I’d buy a nice hackney to pull it. All right! I’m finished.” He rubbed his shoulder, where she’d just punched him.

Arm in arm, they ambled back to the drawing room. This time he drew chairs close to the fire, and they sat beside each other, holding hands sometimes, staring at the flames and talking. “This is so nice,” they took turns saying, interspersed with exclamations of “How lovely to be together
and
warm.” Christy told her the latest village gossip, and Anne realized with a slight start that, far from being boring, it all fascinated her. Old Mrs. Weedie needed some surgical treatment, unrelated to the hip she’d broken last summer (something “female,” which automatically precluded further medical discussion). It was to be done tomorrow in Tavistock, at the hospital, by Dr. Hesselius. Anne had known of it for days, and offered all the assistance she could think of, including the use of the D’Aubrey coach to and from the hospital. Now Christy told her something she didn’t know. “Captain Carnock took them to Tavistock today in his carriage.”

“Captain Carnock?” she exclaimed, surprised.

He eyed her, weighing his words. “I’ll tell you something in confidence.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Captain Carnock paid a call on me last week. To ask my advice. He wanted to know what I thought of the propriety of his offering the Weedies the use of his carriage.”

“The propriety?” Sometimes the intricacies of English social etiquette eluded her.

“Taking the Weedies to Tavistock for Mrs. Weedie’s . . . procedure . . . will necessitate returning Miss Weedie to Wyckerley tomorrow. Alone.”

“Aha.
Alone
. And what did you tell him?”

“I told him I could see nothing wrong with his kind, apparently motiveless offer.”

“Apparently?”

“Apparently.”

His face gave nothing away, but it set her to thinking. Miss Weedie and Captain Carnock . . . Captain Carnock and Miss Weedie. Yes. Why not? Why, how perfectly lovely! Patting her lips with her forefinger, she repeated meaningfully, “Apparently,” and the gleam in Christy’s eye told her he was way ahead of her. But he wouldn’t say any more, so she let the subject drop, not wanting him to think she was the kind of woman who went in for idle gossip.

Rather than open the chilly dining room, they decided to have their dinner right where they were, so they pulled a table in front of the fireplace. Mrs. Ludd’s prepared meal was a simple one—luckily, since lighting the stove was almost the extent of their combined cooking skills. “I always ate in restaurants in London,” Anne confided, “or had my meals sent in. When my father and I lived on the Continent, we always had someone to cook for us.”

“We always had a housekeeper who did the cooking,” Christy said, “although my mother was definitely the one in charge. I wish you could’ve known her, Anne. You remind me of her sometimes.”

She stopped with a forkful of peas halfway to her mouth. “I remind you of your mother?”

“You do. She had a sharp mind. Sharp tongue, too, sometimes—I told you she didn’t suffer fools gladly. But inside, she was as soft as a feather pillow.” He took a bite of roast pork, and added with his mouth full, “She was pretty, too.”

Anne took refuge in the business of meat-cutting for a few moments while she put her thoughts, and her face, in order. That Christy thought she had a sharp mind was, of course, gratifying; that he considered her soft inside . . . she didn’t know what to do with that. She found it unsettling, and inexplicably moving. Of course it was true, but she didn’t think anyone knew it, not even him. Softness could so easily cross over into weakness, and she’d imagined that life with Geoffrey had toughened and hardened all that out of her.

Christy had on his “worried lion” look, as she thought of it, the noble brow furrowed, the clear blue eyes studying her. She said brightly, “Well, I don’t remember my mother, but you’re not a bit like my father, so I can’t return the compliment. If that’s what it was.”

“I suppose that’s what it was, although I didn’t say it to flatter you.”

“No,” she agreed, “you wouldn’t.”

He frowned. “Would you like me to? I’d say flowery things all the time if I thought you’d like it. Shall I?”

“That won’t be necessary.” His poems, she thought in private, did quite enough on that score, and then some.

He looked relieved. “What could I do, then?” he asked, smiling at her, ingenuous as always. “What would persuade you to come round to my side of the issue?”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about this.”

“I’m not arguing, just asking. Seriously, what would sway you? I don’t feel as if I’m making any headway with you.”

Oh, Christy, if you only knew
. “Well,” she said slowly, pretending to consider it. He leaned closer, alert. “For one thing, you could show me the rest of the house. My tour was incomplete. I haven’t seen the upstairs.” She rested her chin on her cupped palm and batted her eyelashes. “I haven’t seen the room where you sleep.”

“So you might marry me if you like my bedroom?”

“Never can tell.” It came out a sexy purr. Where was all this shameless-hussy behavior coming from?

“I guess I’ll have to take the chance,” he said seriously, but his eyes were dancing. “Right after we have our coffee.”

“Better say a couple of Our Fathers first, Reverend. For willpower.”

“Our Father, nothing. I’d better make the Stations of the Cross.”

***

They took their coffee with them.

On the way, Christy showed her his old nursery, whose cozy virtues he couldn’t resist extolling; that their own children could grow up safe and happy here was the clear implication, but he didn’t say it out loud, no doubt for fear of getting another cuff on the shoulder.

When they got to his bedroom, Anne took the candle holder and left him leaning in the doorway while she explored. The walls were papered in green and white stripes, with tendrils of some flowery creeper winding cheerfully in and out. A thick carpet lay on the floor, and bright green draperies hung at the windows—two windows, the room being on the southeast corner. The furniture was old and dark, but not oppressive. The massive tester bed had a crocheted white coverlet over a multicolored quilt; solid, sturdy, stable, indestructible—it was the perfect bed for Christy. She could live out her life taking her rest every night in that bed. Why was it, again, that she wasn’t marrying him? Sometimes she forgot. She needed to marshal her forces; if this was going to be a seduction, it was important to be clear at the start about who was seducing whom.

“This is a bit hedonistic, isn’t it? I thought you’d sleep on a hard wooden pallet, with nothing but religious icons for decorations.”

He folded his arms and smiled tolerantly, cocking one eyebrow. He wore black tonight—not his full holy blacks, just a black coat and trousers, and a plain white shirt. She’d grown addicted to looking at his strong, straight body, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped; she loved his golden hair, the bones in his face, his serious eyes. “You’re mixing Anglican ministers with Roman Catholic monks,” he explained patiently. “As you see, we have all the creature comforts here.”

“Mm.” She took her eyes off him to take another turn around his room. His wardrobe door was ajar. “May I?” she asked archly, and he gave a permissive wave of his hand.

He had three other coats, and four waistcoats, two more pairs of trousers, all clean and neatly pressed—courtesy of Mrs. Ludd, she supposed. Shoes and riding boots were lined up on the wardrobe floor, and an assortment of neckties hung from hooks. She wandered over to his bureau, another massive affair built of dark mahogany; on the dust-free top rested his comb and brush, a stack of clean handkerchiefs, and a little box containing his sparse supply of jewelry: one pair of jet-and-silver cuff links; two stickpins, one pearl and one garnet; and a heavy gold signet ring.