Forever and Ever (6 page)

She gritted her teeth. Emma Woodhouse was her favorite heroine in all of fiction; she would not stand by while this—this—
miner
defamed her. “The point is,” she said again, louder, “she learns from her mistakes. It’s true that she’s not a perfect heroine, but that only makes her more interesting and human. Her flaws are forgivable because she has a good heart. She can be foolish and misguided, yes, but when she interferes in other people’s lives it’s because she really believes she’s helping them. And in the end everyone—Emma, Harriet, Jane Fairfax, even Mrs. Elton—each marries
exactly
the right person, not only according to their hearts and their temperaments, but their stations, too. All the couples—”

“Their stations? So Harriet could only marry a farmer because—that’s what she was
born for
?” No boyishness now; his pale gray eyes speared her, intense and unwavering.

Sophie considered the question and answered it honestly. “Yes.”

But she wasn’t prepared for the loaded silence that followed, or the uneasy feeling that accompanied her reply—although she believed it was correct. For the first time she saw uncertainty, perhaps even mistrust in the faces of her friends and neighbors. The look on Mr. Pendarvis’s face was subtler and better hidden, but she interpreted it easily. It was contempt.

With the keenest relief, she heard the church clock strike nine, the unvarying hour when penny readings concluded, and somehow the sound seemed to dissipate the vague tension that had crept into the room; the bustle and murmuring of the ladies as they gathered their belongings sounded relaxed and close to normal.

“Don’t forget, Captain Carnock will begin reading
The Compleat Angler
next Friday,” she reminded them. “Tell your husbands, ladies, that it’s a marvelous book about fishing. Among other things.”

The room began to empty. Margaret Mareton, the Sunday school teacher, had a word with Sophie about the children’s play she was directing for Midsummer Day; they spoke for a few minutes, and Sophie agreed to teach the seven-year-olds a song Miss Mareton had written especially for the occasion. All the while, she kept her gaze fixed deliberately on Margaret’s face, fighting the urge to look and see if Mr. Pendarvis was still there. But when Miss Mareton thanked her and walked away, she couldn’t hold out any longer.

He was gone.

Anne Morrell was leaning in the doorway, holding Elizabeth, her seven-month-old daughter. Anne attended almost all the readings—she was the vicar’s wife; it was expected of her—but Sophie hadn’t seen her tonight until now. “How’s Lizzy?” she asked worriedly. “Not sick, I hope.”

“Oh, no,” Anne assured her, jiggling the smiling, wide-eyed baby in her arms. “Unless you call insomnia a sickness. I’m beginning to think of it as a penance, although I’m not clear on exactly what sin I’ve committed to deserve it.”

Sophie laughed. “None, I’m sure. You look tired, though.” But she didn’t worry about Anne, because under the surface fatigue lay a soft, radiant happiness that never left her, and made her look beautiful no matter how weary she was. “I wish I could take Lizzy for a few days, to give you a rest.”

“Well, that’s nice of you.”

“No, it isn’t.” Sophie cupped her hand behind the baby’s soft, spindly neck and gave her a kiss on her sweet-smelling cheek. “It’s pure selfishness.”

Lizzy’s mother smiled fondly. “But you still love your work at the mine, don’t you, Sophie?”

“Oh, yes—but I didn’t mean I don’t have
time
to take Lizzy. It’s just that I’d be missing a certain, how shall I say, prerequisite.”

“Oh,” Anne said, laughing. “Yes, well, Mrs. Ludd keeps telling me I ought to hire a wet nurse, but I don’t want to. If I did, I’d only have more time to myself, which would mean I’d have to pay more duty calls on needy parishioners. And let’s face it, no one would like
that.
” Sophie pretended to be shocked, but she was used to Anne’s irreverent humor by now. “Besides, as much as she wears me out, I can’t bear to let this little monkey out of my sight for more than a few hours at a time.” She made a moony face at her daughter, who returned it with a sleepy smile.

“Tell me, Sophie,” she said as they went up the stairs together, “who was that man at the reading tonight? I didn’t recognize him.”

“His name is Mr. Pendarvis.”

“Pendarvis? He must be a Methodist; I’m sure I’ve never seen him before.”

Anne was new to Wyckerley, only three years or so. “No one’s ever seen him,” Sophie explained. “He’s only just arrived.”

“Really? How exciting. He’s awfully good-looking, isn’t he? I used to think black-haired men were handsomer than fair-haired—before Christy, of course. What brings him to our little village?”

“I’ve given him a job at Guelder. He’s a miner.”

“Is he?”

“He doesn’t look it, does he?” Sophie said quickly.

“Oh, I wouldn’t know.” She laughed lightly. “After all, what does a miner look like?”

Sophie frowned; it wasn’t the answer she’d wanted. “I meant to say, he doesn’t
speak
like a miner.” Even in her own ears she sounded defensive.

“What do you suppose made him come to hear the last bit of
Emma
?” Anne wondered as she rocked Lizzy, who had begun to fret.

“I’m sure I can’t imagine.”
He came to provoke me, of course
, she thought in silence. They had arrived at the front door of the vicarage. “Where’s Christy tonight?” she asked, throwing her shawl over her shoulders.

“He had to go to Mare’s Head for a christening.”

“Whose baby is it?”

Anne hesitated a fraction of a second. “Sarah Burney’s.”

“Oh.”

The two women exchanged looks. Sarah Burney was the scandal of the neighborhood. Educated, respectable, the daughter of a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, Sarah had fallen in love with a petty officer under her father’s command. Before they could marry, he’d been killed in the British bombardment at Canton.

“Poor girl,” Sophie murmured. “What will become of her, I wonder.”

Anne shook her head. “Or her baby.”

“Her life’s ruined.”

“It’s so unfair.” Lizzy pulled on a lock of her mother’s reddish hair, spoiling Anne’s coiffure—and lightening the solemn mood that had fallen between the two women. “Do you have to go right away, Sophie? Stay and have a cup of tea with me, can’t you?”

“It’s late. I’d love to, but I’d better go home.”

“Next time.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good night, then.” They touched hands, and Sophie went down the flagged path toward the green.

A half-moon silvered the grass and diffused the yellow wink of fireflies rising and sinking in the oak trees. The whispery splash of the Wyck inside its steep banks was a comforting, familiar sound; Sophie barely heard it. She had unhitched Valentine from the cart earlier and left him tethered at the far edge of the grass, within reach of the river so he could have a drink. She heard the tinkle of his harness and smiled, picturing him shaking his head, catching her scent and already impatient for home. A moving glimmer of white caught her eye. She slowed her steps and peered into the gloom.

Valentine wasn’t where she’d left him; he was hitched to the cart, and Jack Pendarvis was holding his head and rubbing his nose. And feeding him an apple.

It was the white of his shirt she’d seen in the dimness. As she drew closer, he and Val lifted their heads, hearing her at the same time. The pony whickered a friendly welcome. Mr. Pendarvis watched her come and didn’t say anything.

She stopped three feet shy of him, resting her hand casually on the pony’s rump. “You’ve put Valentine in his traces.” Her voice came out sounding too low and intimate. “Thank you,” she tacked on, louder.

“Don’t mention it.”

Only a second or two passed while they stared at each other, but to Sophie it seemed much longer. “Well. I’ll be going home now.” When he didn’t move, she said, “Was there something you wanted?”

“Will you lend me that book?”

“This?” She looked down at the tan leather cover of
Emma
, then back up at Mr. Pendarvis. “You don’t want to read this.”

“What makes you think I don’t?”

There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that he was mocking her. But she was determined not to let him lure her into an argument. “I don’t believe it’s quite your cup of tea.”

He folded his arms, leaning lightly against Val’s shoulder, as if he didn’t have a thing in the world to do except talk about books late at night on the village green. “And what would you say, Miss Deene, is my cup of tea?”

She pretended to consider. “There are some adventure books in our subscription library. Pictures, mostly, but a few with simplified text. The children find them quite stimulating.”

Breathless from her own daring, she watched his face, the quick changes in it from surprise to anger, and finally grudging amusement. His slow, knowing smile unsettled her, did something ticklish underneath her breastbone.

“When I was a boy, Miss Deene, the Methodist minister in our village used to tutor me in reading and mathematics. When I did well on my examinations, he’d reward me with presents, a poem he’d written in Latin, or little cardboard pictures of the saints, or Brighton Beach, or the Houses of Parliament.” His low voice was deep and pleasant, his accent a lighter Cornish burr than she was used to. “Once he gave me a book. I don’t know where he got it—he was a very old man and nearly as poor as we were. The book was called
The Life and Times of Bartholomew Bailey, a Virtuous Boy
, so it’s possible the reverend didn’t know what he had.”

“What was it?”

“A book about a magic boy. Bartholomew was the same age as me—eight—and he could make himself appear and disappear in unlikely times and places—Egypt among the pharaohs or the North Pole. The American frontier. The Bastille in 1789.”

“Ah,” Sophie breathed, intrigued in spite of herself. “How lucky you must have felt.”

“Lucky.” His voice gave the word a strange gravity. He stepped closer until their hands, both absently stroking the pony’s smooth flank, were nearly touching. “Bartholomew could talk to animals, too. His dog was his best friend. He understood what deer and rabbits said, and horses, and birds.” He looked away; a self-mocking smile quirked his lips on one side. “You understand that this book was a miracle to me. Magic. My salvation.”

She nodded, although she wasn’t really sure she understood at all.

“I kept it with me all the time. I even slept with it. No one in my family knew about it; it was a secret. Magic,” he said again in a whisper, and Sophie felt a little shiver, not unpleasant, on the skin of her arms. “I had four brothers. One day they caught me.”

“Reading your book,” she guessed.

“Worse. Talking to a tree. Something else Bartholomew could do.”

“Oh, dear. Were they younger or older, these brothers?”

“Older, all of them. They . . . made fun of me.”

“Yes.”

“In self-defense, I made a mistake: I told them about my book. Everything, in detail.” He ran a hand over his jaw, and they were standing so close, she could hear the prickly rasp of his whiskers. “The more I talked, the worse it got. I
believed
Bartholomew could fly through time and space, and have long conversations with Jupiter—that was his dog. When my brothers laughed at me, it was worse than humiliating. It was . . .” He trailed off, and his hand lifted and fell in a gesture of futility.

“A betrayal,” Sophie murmured.

“Yes. Because I knew finally that they were right and I was wrong. Dogs can’t talk and boys can’t fly. And I was a fool.”

She clasped her hands behind her back, peering into his face. Even though he was tall, thick-muscled, and broad-shouldered, disconcertingly male, it was easy to see the eight-year-old boy in his strong, hard-boned face, the shadow of disillusionment in his clear gray eyes. And even though she suspected the story he’d just told her had an unflattering moral, she felt a deep sympathy for the child whose brothers’ mockery had spoiled his sweetest dream.

“I wasn’t making fun of you tonight,” he said quietly. “But that book of yours is as big a lie as
The Life and Times of Bartholomew Bailey.
Dogs can’t talk, Miss Deene, and ladies who look down on other people because of their ‘stations’ aren’t heroic. They’re stupid and arrogant.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I think I do.”

“No, no, and—I could never
make
you understand.”

“Because I’m a poor, uneducated copper miner?”

She ignored that. “You’re making a comparison that isn’t fair, a false analogy. An analogy is a—”

“I know what an analogy is,” he snapped.

She flushed—but she wanted to ask
how
he knew, and if he knew, then how could he be a poor, uneducated copper miner? She shook her head quickly, frustratedly; this was hopeless. She was in an argument she couldn’t win, even though she was still sure she was right, and it was beginning to seem as if every encounter she had with Mr. Pendarvis put her in this disagreeable position. “It’s very late,” she said shortly. “I must go home.”

He put out his hand. “I’ll drive you.”

She blinked at him. “What? Oh, no. Certainly not.”

“You shouldn’t be out this late by yourself. I’ll drive you.”

“I always drive myself.”

“After dark?”

“Yes. Anyway, you’d have no way to get home afterward; my house is almost two miles from here.”

“I’ll walk.”

“No, it’s out of the question. Thank you very much, but no.”

Some kind of smile turned up the corners of his lips; even in the dimness, she didn’t think it was a pleasant smile. “Is it my uncouth manner that offends you, Miss Deene? Can you smell the stink of mud and ore on my clothes?” He leaned in closer. “Or is it that you’re just scared of me?”

What she could smell was clean soap on his skin, the sharp tang of apple on his breath. Was he going to touch her? She wanted to step back, put a safe distance between them. But she stood still and made herself look straight into his eyes. “I believe we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot somehow, Mr. Pendarvis. I’ve never deliberately offended you. But I am completely capable of driving home by myself, and I would refuse an offer of assistance from anyone, regardless of his . . . station,” she said deliberately. “And one other thing. Since we met, your society has—has provoked in me any number of things, but please do let me assure you, sir, that fear is
not
among them.”