Heart Appearances (Truly Yours Digital Editions Book 560) (19 page)

“Don’t move, Lila,” Alice gently warned. “There’s nothing to be afraid of—nothing to this, really. I often give Michael a shave. And he’s told me plenty a time I shoulda been a surgeon, what with my steady hands and all.” She gave a self-conscious, almost girlish, giggle.

Uneasy at the sight of a woman being shaved, Brent closed the door with a quiet click and stepped off the porch. Two days had passed since Lila arrived at Lyons’s Refuge. Darcy had been right. Charleigh and Michael welcomed her and her daughter with open arms, though some of the boys had been less than chivalrous. Lila stared at them while they spouted their malicious jibes and laughed sardonically after each one. Once the last verbal weapon was slung, she merely lifted an eyebrow and asked, “Are you finished yet? Because if that’s all you can think of, let me tell you I’ve heard it all before. And, quite frankly, I’m bored with the sameness. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” With that she’d taken Angel in her arms and marched upstairs to her room—to the unease of six dazed boys, who’d been given extra work duties that evening for their cruelty.

Brent stared at the thick bank of murky clouds in the distance. The wind had picked up in the last hour, a herald of the coming storm. Brent hoped Michael would return to the Refuge before the weather broke. He’d driven the wagon to his home, Larkin’s Glen, to check on things there.

Brent watched the long, wheat-colored grasses bend underneath the weight of the chilling wind, as though bowing in submission to a force greater than they. Several bare branches of a nearby oak clattered against the fence at regular intervals when a sudden strong gust shook them. Brent’s thoughts skittered to the accusation Darcy had hurled at him in the woods during their drive home from the carnival. Was she right? Was he judgmental, seeing people’s appearances only and not their character within?

Since Lila had come to the Refuge, Brent invented excuses to stay away from her, uncomfortable with her presence, even a trifle disgusted when looking at her—though she’d worn a dark blue veil as a harem girl might, to hide the beard. He didn’t admire his feelings, knew they were anything but charitable, but he couldn’t seem to help them. He’d been appalled by Bill, not only with his choice of lifestyle but also with his preference for flamboyant clothing. He’d found fault with Darcy when she first came to the Refuge—her Cockney, her clothing, her manner. . . .

Brent closed his eyes. Not only was he a coward, he
was
hypercritical of others.

“Heavenly Father,” he muttered, “I don’t desire to feel this way. I don’t want to be judgmental and always finding fault. Help me, Lord, to love as You would love, no matter the outside appearances. Help me to see through to the heart as Darcy does, as Charleigh does—even as Michael does. To see true heart appearances and not merely the outward shell—”

“Guv’ner?”

Brent tensed at the suddenness of Darcy’s voice behind him. The loud whisper of wind in the grasses had masked the sound of her approach. Had she heard his soft prayer? Slowly, he turned to face her.

Her hair hung in one braid to her waist, as she often wore it. Several long, dark tendrils had worked themselves loose around her face.

Unsettled with how close she stood, Brent took a hasty step backward, the recent memory of their kiss in the woods rushing to the forefront of his mind. He had enjoyed the feel of her in his arms that day—indeed, had allowed the kiss to linger, even forgetting about Lila waiting in the wagon. Yet once he’d broken the embrace, the impropriety of the situation assaulted him; and he was thunderstruck by his unseemly behavior.

Cocking her head, Darcy looked at him with those smoky blue eyes. “Are you feeling all right? You look a mite pale.”

“I’m well.”

She frowned. “You don’t look it.” She pushed up one sleeve and lifted her forearm to his forehead, propelling him to take another step backward—a half step really, since his back came up against the wooden fence. “If you do have a fever, it’s not high, though your face looks rather flushed now.”

“I told you I’m fine,” Brent snapped.

Her chin lifted. “Well, maybe your health is fine, but your disposition could sure use some improvin’, and that’s a fact! Ever since the day we brought Lila home, you’ve been snappin’ like a turtle and avoidin’ me like a turkey does a fox.”

Brent chose not to answer. He took a deep breath and reached for his handkerchief to clean his glasses. The cloth wasn’t there. He’d forgotten to tuck one into his pocket that morning. In fact, since their initial trip to the carnival, he found himself doing a lot of things out of character for him.

Feeling somewhat cornered, Brent took a sideways step, sliding along the fence and hoping he wasn’t causing his new suit coat irreparable damage. He wanted to place himself in a more comfortable position with plenty of room between them. Nervously he cleared his throat. “About that day, Miss Evans—”

“So we’re back to formal names, are we?”

“I owe you an apology,” he continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “My untoward behavior was totally uncalled-for, and I regret that you were a recipient.”

❧

“Untoward behavior?”

His face darkened another shade. “The incident in the woods.”

She scrunched her brows together. “Now let me get this straight. You’re apologizin’ for kissin’ me?”

“Yes. My actions were reprehensible.”

Darcy determined to look up that word the first chance she got. She had a feeling it wasn’t good. “You’re making much of nothin’, Guv’ner. It was just a kiss.”

“Be that as it may, in polite society such behavior isn’t considered acceptable. If two people do choose to go courting, holding hands should be the limit of physical contact they share—weeks after the courtship commences, of course.” Brent pulled at his collar as if it were too tight. “Although a chaste kiss on the cheek when parting is allowed, I do believe—”

“Sounds dull as salt what’s lost its flavorin’.”

He looked at her, stunned. “Pardon?”

“Who made such stuffy rules? You? And what does courtin’ mean anyway?”

His mouth compressed into an offended line. “Courting is how things are done in a genteel society, Miss Evans.”

“But there’s no feeling to anything like that! It’s like a rule book to follow instead of affection to share.” She crossed her arms. “Oh, get that scandalized look out of your eye, Guv’ner. I’m not suggesting anything improper. People aren’t machines that ye wind a crank and out comes the same response. People have feelings, and they shouldn’t have to bottle them up until a specific time states they’re allowed to exhibit them.”

Slowly uncrossing her arms, she stepped closer. “Why, if I wanted to put my hand to your cheek like this,” she murmured, lightly cradling his jaw, “why shouldn’t I be allowed to? I’m not hurtin’ no one. And I’m showin’ you what’s in me heart.”

“Rules are important,” he stated, his voice coming out hoarse. “Guidelines are needed.”

Darcy frowned, dropping her hand away. “Ye make it sound as if I’m suggestin’ something illicit. I’m not, I told you. And I’ve given a black eye to those who’ve tried—and that’s a fact!”

❧

Brent didn’t doubt it for a minute. He also didn’t doubt that it was past time to end this conversation.

“Perhaps Mrs. Lyons could better instruct you on the topic of courting and all that it entails if you wish to know more. I have papers to grade. Good day, Miss Evans.” He gave her a slight tip of his hat and hurried to the schoolhouse before she could say another word.

❧

“That man is so irritating, Lord,” Darcy grumbled as she stood at her window later that night, watching light sleet fall from a dark sky. “It’s a wonder I feel the way I do about him. Just for a moment, there in the woods, I thought he’d unbent his stiff ways—just for a moment, mind You. Yet he hasn’t changed one bit, has he? He’s the same as always. Straitlaced, solemn, and oh, so noble—”

Darcy’s words broke off as realization struck her a swift blow. Was she doing the same thing she’d accused Brent of? Judging merely on outward appearances and not seeing through to the heart of the man inside?

Her eyes fluttered closed. She was doing exactly that! And had been for quite awhile. How many times had she labeled Brent proper, stuffy? She may have put on a good show of accepting others at face value, but in her heart she’d been as guilty as Brent. And just as judgmental.

“Oh, Jesus, I’m ever so sorry. Make me more tolerant of others, no matter what their shortcomings. Make me more sympathetic of things—and people—I don’t understand.”

All of a sudden Darcy caught the image of what looked like a slight form hunched over and running toward the barn. She pressed closer to the window. Positioning both hands around her eyes to block the light from the room’s electric torch, she squinted through the blurred pane to try and see any kind of movement outside. She rubbed moisture away from the glass and watched as the dim form worked the barn door open.

So she hadn’t been imagining things! From inside the barn, a lantern issued a feeble glow. The boy’s cap fell off, revealing a thatch of hair, shining ivory in the pale light. He reclaimed his cap and entered the barn, shutting the door behind himself.

Joel! What mischief was he up to now—and in this kind of weather to boot?

Darcy rushed downstairs, grabbed her cloak, and threw it about her shoulders. Glancing at the parlor door, she considered telling Charleigh where she was going but dismissed the idea. Charleigh had overtaxed herself today, making a rare appearance downstairs to read to the boys, with the excuse that she was sick and tired of the four walls of her room. After the story, Alice had insisted Charleigh rest on the sofa, where she’d fallen asleep minutes later.

Darcy hurried through the front door, the pelting sleet harsher to her ears now that she stood in the midst of it. Before heading toward the barn, she glanced at the schoolhouse. Hazy light glowed in the window near Brent’s desk.
He must be grading papers again.
Darcy considered acquiring his aid or at least informing him of the situation. Yet Brent was still angry with Joel for running off at the carnival—no matter that the boy said he’d only done so to rescue her hat. Darcy wasn’t certain why Joel was skulking about; but if the boy had a plausible excuse for being in the barn when he should be in bed, Brent might be annoyed with her for bothering him. Or he might be unnecessarily harsh with Joel. Brent had been so unlike himself lately, and Darcy decided she would rather take care of this matter on her own.

With her decision made, she pulled the cloak’s hood over her head and carefully made her way through the slippery grass toward the barn. The sleet fell heavier than before; and by the time she was halfway there, her thick stockings inside her shoes felt damp with icy water. Her irritation with Joel increased. He’d better have an awfully good reason for being in the barn this time of night!

At the old building, Darcy struggled to open the heavy wooden door enough to slip inside. She peered around the dimly lit barn and up to the loft on the other side, near where the horses and cows were penned in their stalls.

“Joel?” Her voice wavered in the chill air, which smelled of manure and wet hay. “I know you’re here. I saw you from my window.”

A horse’s soft whinny and snort was the only reply.

Swallowing her irritation, Darcy stepped toward the lantern light flickering on the crude board walls.

“Joel, talk to me,” she said, her eyes trained on the pale yellow light. “You know you’re not supposed to be outside the house after dark. Is something upsetting you? Maybe I can help.” She stopped suddenly. The light. She had seen the lantern before Joel entered the barn. Which meant—

“Joel, who’s here with you? Herbert? Lance?” When eerie silence met her demands, she frowned. “Very well, Joel. If you—and whoever else is here—don’t come out this minute and tell me what this is about, then you leave me no alternative but to enlist the aid of the substitute headmaster. And you’ll receive a much harsher discipline than ye normally would have for breaking curfew, of that I can assure you.”

Before she could say more, a man’s arm clapped across her chest, followed by the ominous click of metal near her ear—the sound of a gun’s trigger being cocked.

Darcy struggled for balance as her shoulder blades pressed against the man’s heaving chest. The cold steel barrel of the pistol bit into her scalp, and fear swallowed her whole.

“I hardly think that will be necessary,” the man rasped close to her ear. “
Now
you play by my rules.”

❧

Brent set down his pen and rotated his shoulders, trying to work out the kinks from sitting in one position too long. His mind traveled to Darcy, as it frequently had since he started grading today’s tests. In fact, it would be wise to go over the marks he’d made a second time, since his mind hadn’t been entirely on his job.

He sighed and looked out the sleet-spattered window. This afternoon’s conversation with her had been uncomfortable, to say the least; still, he was unable to cease thinking of it.

Did he wish to court her? They were so dissimilar to one another, yet there was something about being in her presence that made him feel whole. As though she contained an element missing in his nature. Brave, loyal, fun-loving—Darcy was all those things and more. Yet, what did he have to offer in return?