Strands of Bronze and Gold (22 page)

He said this so pointedly I knew his “fine fruits” had a meaning I wished I didn’t understand. If only I could come up with a reason to refuse the walk.

We wandered, with M. Bernard tightly grasping my arm. Mostly I looked everywhere but at him, keeping up a nervous prattle, to which he answered shortly. Sometimes he looked down at me questioningly. He led me from the orchard and along the gravel drive. He paused beside the diseased oak tree, stroking a bulbous nodule with one long hand. He avoided the poison ivy shrouding it, which by now had turned scarlet.

“It’s an interesting tree,” I said. “Do you find it beautiful?”

“I do,” he said. “The uncommon lines please me.” He turned to me. “Sophia …,” he said tentatively.

“Oh my goodness,” I said, breaking away. “I hadn’t realized how late it was. I promised to help Daphne with an arrangement this afternoon.”

“Tell Daphne—” he started to say through his teeth, then stopped himself and shook his head. “Go, then.”

“Thank you for a lovely picnic,” I said, moving quickly toward the house.

From behind me, I heard him say softly, “Patience, Bernard …”

I went straight to my bedchamber to scrub my hand. His liberties were inexcusable. I must not allow myself to be treated so again. When my family finished their visit, I would depart with them.

A few days later I was cozily ensconced on the tufted cushion of the window seat in the yellow salon, sewing velvet posies to a straw bonnet. I wore a dress that rested low on my shoulders, and because the afternoon was cool, a cashmere shawl was lightly draped across them. M. Bernard had cantered off on his horse early and wouldn’t return until late, so I was feeling relaxed.

This was the room in which Tara had killed herself. Sometimes I thought I could sense her presence, not the desperately sad one I would expect from a suicide, but rather a—well, a
merry
one. Remembering Tara’s laughing, irreverent painted face still made me smile.

George entered. “There is a gentleman come to see you, Miss Sophia.”

“A gentleman?”

“He appears to be a preacher man.”

I clenched the fabric of my shawl. “Take him to the drawing room, George, and tell him I’ll be there directly.”

I was torn—part of me squealed,
He came! Mr. Gideon Stone has come to see me!
But the larger part cried,
No, no, no! Not here!
What would M. Bernard say about this when he learned of it, as he was sure to? He would not be pleased. What would he do to me? To Mr. Stone? My legs felt as if they were about to give way. I had to tell my feet, “You move. Now you.”

Mr. Stone stretched out his hand when I entered. A smile played about his lips and his gray eyes twinkled. He thought this would be a pleasant surprise.

He couldn’t know what he was doing, of course. I wanted to
shout at him,
Run now, before it’s too late!
But I could only shake my head slightly so that he withdrew his hand and say, in a cool little voice, “I’m so sorry Monsieur de Cressac isn’t in. May I offer you tea, Mr. Stone?” I glanced over my shoulder, trying to indicate with my eyes that Mrs. Duckworth hovered near.

He nodded, looking confused.

“Mrs. Duckworth,” I said, “Mr. Stone has come to visit my godfather. Would you please bring us some refreshments and then enjoy them with us?”

His eyes widened in understanding now. He hadn’t noticed the housekeeper bobbing about in the doorway.

As soon as she had gone, I hissed, “You should not have come.”

“Pardon me? I thought you might be pleased to have a visitor. Besides”—he lowered his voice—“I was worried about you.”

“I shall be much more worried about you if my godfather learns we’re friends.”

“How could he harm me? Have me flogged from the place?”

“Maybe. He’d do that without blinking an eye. He will never, never allow us to meet socially. You mustn’t come here again.”

It was Mr. Stone’s turn to take on a cool tone. “I have no wish to cause you concern, Miss Petheram. I apologize. I won’t seek you out again.”

I wrung my hands. “No. I want to see you, but not here, not in this house.”

“Only behind your godfather’s back?”

“Yes, he—” I blushed in shame, realizing how this sounded.

Ducky returned with the tray and sat down between us.

She chatted happily. She enjoyed socializing but seldom had the
chance. As she served the tea and cut the apple cake, Mr. Stone conversed in his simple, winning style. In spite of his tall, gawky form, there was a certain dignity about him. I, meanwhile, sat silent. I probably appeared sullen.

“And, Mr. Stone,” Ducky was saying, “when you consider the difficulty of training giddy girls to scrub properly, you’ll know the task I face.”

“I can’t imagine how you deal with it,” Mr. Stone said. “And yet everything is immaculate and beautiful. You are eminently successful.”

I directed a quick look at him, but there was no laughter in his eyes—only sincere empathy. No wonder he was a clergyman. Something fluttered and swelled in my chest. He had come to see me. But then the flutter was stifled; he would never, must never, come again.

At one point he said, “You’re shivering, Miss Petheram; may I fetch your shawl? I noticed it out in the hall.”

I nodded bleakly, suddenly embarrassed by my bare shoulders. Mr. Stone wanted me to cover up. He found me immodest.

He took a moment to return, and when he brought my shawl, I swathed my upper body completely.

Somehow the miserable half hour passed. At last our caller left.

“Now, why,” Ducky said, as she gathered up the tea tray, “do you suppose Mr. Stone came again after his last experience here?”

I lifted my hands. “I can’t imagine.”

She clucked. “Well, probably such a nice young clergyman
wouldn’t want to leave a bad impression. He must have decided to try again. I like him very well indeed. Did you hear how he noticed my ways with the polishing?” She glowed visibly.

“Yes,” I said. “He’s all a clergyman should be.”

She turned wistful. “It would be nice if Master Bernard would allow him to visit sometimes, but it’s not even to be hoped for.”

No, never. Mr. Stone would never return here. I had told him not to. Everything was ruined.

As soon as possible I fled to my bedchamber and dropped to the ottoman.

Of course Ducky would report this to M. Bernard. She would betray us.

I sat up straighter. What was there to betray? My godfather knew Mr. Stone and I had met. And what exactly did I think he would do to us if he discovered we were friends?

There was no real answer to that, but M. Bernard had the means to hurt anyone he chose to hurt.

Something crackled in my shawl as I pulled it closer. Attached to the inner lining by a small silver lapel pin was a scrap of paper with a scrawled message:
Look in the hole in the live oak where we first met
.

Immediately, by stealing down back ways, I evaded Odette and dashed out to the forest undetected.

I found the oak. The hole gaping in its trunk was so high that I shook my head—obviously Mr. Stone didn’t realize how short I was. With a great deal of effort and damage to my dress, I managed to roll a log over to stand upon. Inside the hole was a note.

Miss Petheram
,

Please don’t be unhappy with me for paying my call. I wanted to see you, but also I wanted Mr. de Cressac to know someone in town is aware of your existence. In the next week look for more notes here. Forgive me if I caused trouble for you
.

Gideon Stone

I blinked. So I hadn’t chased him away permanently.

Back at the house I read the note several more times before thrusting it into the fire and making sure the ashes were burned beyond recognition.

My dear Miss Petheram
,

I realize I only saw you the day before yesterday, when I paid my solitary-and-never-to-be-repeated call, but something has happened, and I thought, “I want to tell Miss Petheram about this.” And so I am
.

I have discharged the man who cuts the grass around the churchyard, but he refuses to be discharged. Bobby Moore (the children call him Bobby Mower) greatly resembles the oxen he drives. He is every bit as light on his feet and every bit as stubborn. Ever since I came here, I’ve had to put up with his swearing and threatening his poor beasts as he works. The children of the town eagerly gather round to listen. Yesterday a little boy tried to feed the oxen a handful of grass, and I raced outside at the hullabaloo that followed. Moore was soundly cursing the poor child, using every ugly word I know and many more I don’t, and advancing on him with his whip
.

When I stepped between them, Moore turned obsequious, removing his hat and groveling, but I had had enough and discharged him on the spot. He then became
belligerent, so I turned and walked away. The grass could remain shaggy until next spring when I’ll find a milder, smaller mower
.

However, outside this morning Moore’s familiar bellow bellowed and his sad oxen’s lowing lowed. Somehow he was working for the Church once more. I forgot that his father-in-law is an influential deacon. Of course I must deal with it, but before I do, I’m writing to tell you everything, as it makes me feel better to know you’ll be sympathetic
.

I’m so glad you thought to check the hole in the tree
.

Gideon Stone

Three more notes were left that week. Although Gideon (as I called him now in my mind) had only Mondays entirely free, he managed to slip away long enough to deposit them. They related his daily activities, his visits with members of his congregation. One of them was illustrated. Often I smiled as I read, but just as often I was transfixed by his insight, his compassion, his unapologetic goodness.

He certainly didn’t resemble the heroes of romantic novels. Far from it. But the very qualities that made him unlike most fictional love interests endeared him to me all the more. Kindness is undervalued in written romances. I imagined someday straightening Gideon’s rumpled hair and fixing his crooked neck scarves. I hugged his notes to myself for a short time, then burned them, though it cost a pang to do so.

In return I left letters of my own in our nature-made cubbyhole, describing my thoughts, or a particular memory, or my activities that day. Once I copied a poem.

I told myself I mustn’t visit the forest too frequently, but I couldn’t stay away. I would approach the grove with anticipation and leave happy if something was there or cast down if it was empty.

I had begun giving Odette little gifts here and there—ribbons or rings or bits of lace; she accepted them for the bribes they were, with a slight lifting of her penciled brows and a shrug. She often allowed me to slip away alone. I wondered sometimes what she did all day. Her duties as my maid seemed so offhand to her, an inconvenient side job. What exactly would she rather be doing?

Probably everything. If I were forced to be a maid, I would rather be doing anything than waiting on some spoiled snip of a girl. Once I caught her coming out the attic door. I wondered again if she were a thief, but as long as she left me alone when I wanted to be left alone, I didn’t pursue it. There were more pleasant things to think about.

By the time Gideon and I met in our glade for the third time, I felt as if I knew him well. Which was why I was surprised when he nodded to me grimly and returned to his sketching without a word.

I sat upon my rock again. I had so looked forward to this. I would have been perfectly happy to have basked quietly in Gideon’s presence, save for the sense that he was unhappy with me. I plucked a fern frond and began rolling and unrolling it. Once in a while I’d steal a glance at his stern, silent profile.

“Why do you look so severe, Gid—Mr. Stone?” I finally asked.

“I didn’t know I looked severe.”

“Normally you don’t, but today you do. Have I done something to offend you?”

He drew in his breath. Then, so abruptly it sounded like an accusation, he said, “Are you betrothed to de Cressac?”

“What? Of course not. Where did you hear such a thing?” I stared at him with alarm.