Thunder and Roses (4 page)

Placing his hand in the small of her back, he guided her to the door. Before opening it, he looked down into her face, his mood shifting from teasing to complete seriousness. “If you decide not to go through with this, I won’t think less of you.”

Was he reading her mind, or did he merely understand human nature too well? Clare opened the door and bolted from the room. Fortunately, Williams was not around to see her dishevelled hair and flaming cheeks. If he did, he would surely think …

Her breath caught. If she accepted the earl’s challenge, she would be living here and Williams would see her every day. Would the butler’s eyes be knowing or contemptuous?
  
Would he believe her if she explained or despise her as a liar and whore?

Feeling as if she were on the verge of shattering, she darted through an open door into a small, dusty drawing room. After closing the door, she sank onto a cloth-draped chair and covered her face with her hands. She scarcely knew Williams, yet she had been concerned about his opinion of her. It was a sharp, horrific demonstration of what she would experience if she persisted in this mad scheme. How much worse would it be when everyone in Penreith knew she was living with a notorious rake?

Realizing the sheer deviltry of Nicholas’s game stirred her temper again. He had known exactly what he was asking; in fact, he was counting on her fear of public censure to discourage her.

The thought helped her regain her composure. As she straightened and began
repinning
her hair, she grimly recognized that anger and pride had goaded her to accept his absurd challenge. Not the most godly of emotions, but then, she was not the most godly of women, no matter how hard she tried.

When her appearance was restored, she slipped from the drawing room and let herself out of the house, then made her way to the stables to collect her pony cart.

There was still time to change her mind. She wouldn’t even have to face the earl in person to admit her cowardice. All she need do was stay away tomorrow, and no one, save herself and Nicholas, would ever know what had transpired.

But as she had said earlier, the real issue wasn’t her and her pride, or even the earl and his stubborn selfishness. It was Penreith. That fact struck her forcibly as the road topped a small rise and the village came into view. She halted the cart and gazed down at the familiar slate roofs. It looked like a hundred other Welsh communities, with rows of stone cottages set into the lush greenness of the valley. Yet though there was nothing extraordinary about Penreith, it was her home, and she knew and loved every stone in it. The people were her people, among whom she had lived her whole life. If some of them were harder to love than others—well, she tried her best anyhow.

A square tower marked the Anglican church, while the more modest Methodist chapel was concealed among the cottages. She could barely see the mine, which was farther down the valley. The mine was by far the largest employer in the area. It was also the greatest threat to the community, a hazard as volatile as the explosives sometimes used for blasting.

The thought clarified her churning mind. She might have behaved badly today, succumbing to pride and anger, but the reasons for her mission were nonetheless valid. Fighting for the welfare of the village couldn’t be wrong; the challenge would be for her to save her own soul from becoming a casualty of war.

 
The weekly class was the heart of Methodist fellowship, and Clare’s group had its regular meeting that evening. That was convenient; she would be able to speak to her closest friends all at once. Still, as the group sang an opening hymn, her stomach twisted into a knot of anxiety.

The class leader, Owen Morris, led a prayer. Then it was time for members of the small group to share the spiritual joys or challenges they had experienced during the previous seven days. It had been a quiet week; all too soon, it was Clare’s turn to speak. She rose to her feet and looked in turn at each of the five men and six women.

At their best, classes were a model of joyful Christian fellowship. When Clare’s father had died, class members had supported her through the ordeal, as she had supported others in their troubles. The people gathered in this room were her spiritual family, the ones whose opinions she valued most.

Praying that her faith in them would not prove to be misplaced, she said, “Friends … brothers and sisters … I am about to embark on an enterprise that I hope may benefit all of Penreith. It is unorthodox—even scandalous —and many will condemn me. I pray that you will not.”

Owen’s wife Marged, who was Clare’s closest friend, gave her an encouraging smile. “Tell us about it. I cannot believe that you would act in a way that would earn our censure.”

“I hope you’re right.” Clare looked down at her tightly linked hands. Her father had been beloved of all of the Methodists in southern
Wales
, and the awe and affection he had inspired had spilled over onto her. Because of that, the other members of the local society gave her more credit than she deserved. Lifting her head again, she said, “The Earl of Aberdare has returned to his estate. I went today to ask him to use his influence to help the village.”

Edith Wickes, who was never short of an opinion, looked horrified. “You spoke with that man! My dear, was that wise?”

“Probably not.” Clare gave a terse description of the bargain she and Aberdare had struck. She did not mention how she felt, how the earl had behaved, or the fact that she must let him kiss her once a day. Nor could she bring herself to reveal the intemperance of her own reactions. Shorn of those details, the explanation didn’t take long.

By the time she was done, her friends were staring at her with varying degrees of shock and concern. Edith spoke first. “You can’t possibly go ahead with this!” she declared. “It’s indecent. You’ll be ruined.”

“Perhaps.” Clare lifted her hands in a gesture of supplication. “But you all know how matters are at the pit. If there is a chance that Lord Aberdare can change the situation, I have an obligation to try to secure his cooperation.”

“Not at the price of your reputation! A good name is a woman’s greatest treasure.”

“Only in a worldly sense,” Clare replied. “It is a prime tenet of our faith that each person must act according to his or her own conscience. We must not let ourselves be deterred by what the world might think.”

“Yes,” Marged said dubiously, “but are you sure that you have a call to do this? You have prayed about it?”

Trying to sound confident, Clare said, “I am sure.”

Edith frowned. “What if Aberdare ruins your reputation and then doesn’t do as he promised? You have naught but his word, and for all his title, the man is no more than a lying Gypsy.”

“To him the fate of the village is a game—but he is a man who takes games very seriously,” Clare said. “I think, in his way, he is honorable.”

Edith snorted. “He’s not to be trusted. As a boy, he was wild as a hawk, and we all know what happened four years ago.”

Jamie Harkin, who had been a soldier until he lost his leg, said in his slow, calm fashion, “We don’t really know what happened then. Plenty of rumors, but no charges were ever placed against him. I remember Nicholas when he was a boy, and he was a decent lad.” He shook his head. “Still, I don’t like the idea of our Clare staying at the big house. We know her too well to think she’d stray, but others will talk and condemn. It could go hard with you, lass.”

Marged looked at her husband, who worked in the mine as a hewer. He was fortunate to have work, but she never forgot that it was hard and dangerous. “It would be wonderful if Clare could convince Lord Aberdare to improve conditions at the pit.”

“That it would,” said Hugh Lloyd, a young man who also worked in the mine. “The owner and the manager don’t give a damn …” He colored. “Scuse me, sisters. What I meant is that they don’t care what happens to us colliers. Cheaper to replace us than to install new equipment.”

“Too true,” Owen said
somberly
. “In your heart, do you truly believe this is right, Clare? You’re brave to be willing to risk your good name, but no one would expect a woman to do something so offensive to natural modesty.”

Once more, Clare’s gaze went around the room, touching each member in turn. Knowing herself inadequate, she had refused to become a class leader, and she would never have dreamed of preaching. But she was a teacher, and she knew how to command the attention of a roomful of people. “In the days when members of our society were persecuted, my father risked his life to preach the Word. Twice he was almost killed by mobs, and he bore the scars of those assaults until the day he died. If he was willing to risk his life, how can I balk at risking something as trivial as worldly reputation?”

By their expressions, her friends were touched by her words, but still doubtful. Needing to feel that they supported her, she said persuasively, “Lord Aberdare made no secret of the fact that his proposal was not a result of … of illicit lust, but simply a way to get rid of me. In effect, he made a wager about how I would react, and lost.” She swallowed hard, then bent the truth until it was in danger of fracturing. “My guess is that when he has me under his roof, he will decide to put me to work as a housekeeper, or perhaps a secretary.”

Relief showed on the concerned faces around her.

A housekeeper—that was innocent enough. Only Edith muttered, “Being a housekeeper won’t save you if his lordship gets ideas. It’s not for nothing they call him the Demon Earl.”

Suppressing a twinge of guilt over the fact that she had offered her friends a guess that might prove completely wrong, Clare said, “Why should he have ideas about me? Surely he has his choice of immoral society women and”—she searched for a term—”what do they call them—bits of muslin?”

“Clare!” Edith exclaimed, scandalized.

Jamie Harkin chuckled. “We all know such women exist. Some of them have even found the Lord and become good Methodists. Why be
mealymouthed
talking about ‘
em
?”

Edith gave the old soldier a scowling glance. They had clashed before; though the class members were bound by shared beliefs and mutual affection, they came from different ranks of society and didn’t always agree about worldly matters. “What are you going to do about the school, Clare? You won’t have time for teaching. Even if you did, most people in the village would be scandalized if you teach while staying at Aberdare under such irregular circumstances.”

“I hope that Marged can take the regular classes.” Clare looked at her friend. “Would you be willing to do that?”

Marged’s eyes widened. “Do you think I could? Except for Sunday school, I’ve done no teaching, and I haven’t anything like your learning.”

“You can do it,” Clare assured her. “The teaching itself is much like Sunday school—reading, writing, spelling, numbers, housekeeping skills. The main differences are that there is less study of scripture, and the older students are more advanced. Of course, during the time you are teaching, you would also draw the schoolmistress’s salary.”

As she had guessed, the prospect of wages tipped the balance, for Marged was ambitious for her three growing children. “Very well, Clare, I’ll do my best.”

“Wonderful! I’ve outlined the lessons and written notes on what different children are doing. If you come home with me after class, I’ll give you everything you need.” Then Clare turned to Edith. “Marged is going to be very busy for the next three months. It’s a great imposition, but would you be able to take my Sunday school classes?”

The older woman looked first startled, then pleased. “Why, yes, my dear, if that would help you out.”

Another member, Bill Jones, said, “Since I live just up the road, I’ll keep an eye on your cottage.”

His wife, Glenda, said robustly, “And anyone who speaks ill of you will get the rough edge of my tongue!”

Clare bit her lip, unexpectedly moved. “T
hank
you all so much. I am blessed in my friends.”

Inwardly she vowed that she would never betray their trust.

 
“And here’s the summary of what each student is studying.” Clare gave Marged the last of the papers that she had written out after returning from Aberdare.