The Book of Hours (24 page)

“It's a question,” Brian confessed, “I wasn't ready to ask myself until I arrived here.”

“The fact that you are asking at all is the greatest sign we could find of your healing. The fields have lain fallow for their season. Now you are asking yourself, what should I plant?” Trevor leaned forward, clasping his hands upon his knees. “You have already seen for yourself that the darkest depths are not too distant for God to find you. You have called upon Him in your own dark night. Now learn to greet Him in the light of day.”

Brian hesitated, then confessed, “I don't know what to say to Him anymore.”

“The strongest prayer is not one of asking for earthly needs, though too many people feel that is the only reason to pray at all. The greatest petition we can place before the holy throne is the request to be brought into the presence of our Lord. Seek Him, and in your seeking find your own way forward. Let Him show what is to come next, not by asking for guidance, but rather by begging Him to enter and dwell within you.” Trevor's eyes glowed with a light that defied his weariness. “If you can only find your way back to your knees, you will discover that step-by-step you are moving ever closer to holy ground. Of this I am absolutely certain.”

Twenty-five

T
HE SENSE OF PEACE FROM THE VICAR'S WORDS AND THEIR
ensuing prayer was so strong that Brian remained untouched by the commotion as he bid the volunteers farewell and promised to return for the vote that evening. Trevor walked him outside, stood on the landing, and said, “May I share with you a rumor?”

“Sure.”

“Well, more than rumor, actually. You would be surprised what one learns in my position. It seems my bells and your manor are more closely tied than either of us expected.”

There arose a heightened clamor behind them. Trevor's face gradually settled back into its tired pinched lines. “It appears that Hardy Seade will offer the only bid at Wednesday's auction, and his is backed by a very large chemical firm.” Trevor went on. “They want to keep the manor intact for offices, you will be happy to hear. But all the outbuildings will be destroyed, if my information is correct, which I fear it is.”

“We've heard something about that from the gardener.” Brian shook his head. “Poor Cecilia.”

“Yes, I have dreaded passing on that bit of information.” Trevor squinted toward the tumultuous market square, then continued, “Apparently, all this quarreling over the bells began because the lab asked for them to be silenced.”

“You've got to be kidding.”

“I agree, it sounds quite absurd. But I have it on very good authority that they intend to use animals for the testing of certain chemicals, and they fear the bells will disturb them. They decided it would be less expensive to silence the bells than to add additional soundproofing.” The vicar's smile was too tight to hold any humor. “Naturally, they don't want to let this out, for fear of alerting the animal-rights activists. And Lavinia Winniskill's husband has won the contract to construct the laboratories.”

“The tweedy woman?”

“None other.” Trevor walked Brian down to the end of his garden and opened the gate leading through the stone border wall. “It is a pity, really, that Heather's manor has such a checkered past. She spent quite a bit of time and money toward the end, trying to have it declared a historical monument. But the place is such a mishmash; the records clearly show that it has been built and torn down and rebuilt five or six times. The original structure was supposedly a monastery dating back to the time of William the Conqueror, erected where Rose Cottage currently stands if the tales are true. The problem is, no hint of this remarkable heritage remains.”

“Which means that without some kind of special historical restriction, the new owners can do whatever they like to the place.” Brian stepped into the lane. “I can't thank you enough for, well, everything.”

“You are more than welcome.” Trevor offered his hand. “Pity how you've arrived only to be tossed right into the thick of things.”

“I really don't mind,” Brian said, shaking the vicar's hand. “I only wish there was some way to keep hold of the place.”

“As do we all,” Trevor replied. “There is no doubt in my mind that you would make a worthy master of Castle Keep.”

Brian returned to the manor and prepared his evening meal, sorrowing over the coming loss. He could not help but feel as though he were failing Sarah by losing Castle Keep. Nor could he deny the powerful attachment he was forming both for the house and for Knightsbridge. It was within these tattered walls and this stone-lined village that his life was being transformed. Brian ate his meal and stared out the kitchen window, marveling at how he could feel so sad over losing something he had known for such a short while. When he rose from the table and saw anew the final faint splash of gold upon the western horizon, he felt a very clear sense of what needed to be done.

He lifted the telephone receiver and dialed the number from memory. As he listened to the ringing, he marveled at how easy it had been to dredge up the number, as it was to remember the voice who answered with, “Blackstone residence.”

“Hello, Steve.”

“Brian?”

“Yes.”

“Is it really you?”

“What, you don't remember your own brother's voice?”

“Good grief, don't do this to me. Wait a second.” There was the sound of a chair scraping across the floor. “All right. Is this really Brian?”

“I just said it was.”

A woman's voice sounded in the background. Steve said, “It's Brian.” The woman's voice rose an octave. Steve said into the receiver, “Where are you?”

“England.”

“He's in England.” To the receiver, “The last card we got was from somewhere more exotic, wasn't it?”

“That's right. Sri Lanka.”

“He was in Sri Lanka.” When the woman pressed on with something more, Steve said,“We've got more than one phone in the house, Carol. Go get on another line.”

An instant later a woman's voice said, “I have to hear this for myself.”

“Hello, Carol.”

“I don't believe this. Brian, shame on you, you're making me cry.”

“It's good to hear your voice again.”

“Wait a second.” There was the sound of rustling and someone blowing her nose. “How are you? Did you already ask him that?”

“You didn't let me,” Steve replied.

“How are you, Brian?”

“Fine. Really.”

“Your cards have sounded, well . . .”

“Grim,” Steve finished for his wife. “Worse than awful.”

“I'm good and I'm getting better.”

“I almost believe you,” Steve said.

“Your brother calls for the first time in two years. Believe him,” Carol said, then went on to Brian, “Sarah had that relative in England, didn't she? The one she said was like a second mother to her.”

“That's right. Her Aunt Heather.” He decided his first call home in two years was not the time to go into details of what he found himself facing here, so he asked, “How is the family?”

There came the expected pause, then Steve replied, “Carol and I are doing great.”

“How's Judy?” Judy was their daughter. She was a model kid, beautiful and sweet and a joy to be around.

“Judy is a godsend,” Carol replied.

“And Rick?” Rick was their son. He had been fine until his teenage years had catapulted him into serious rebellion.

“No change,” Steve replied flatly.

“Well, there's change,” Carol added, her voice matching her husband's. “But nothing you want to hear about.”

“Yes, I do.”

“We're involved in something called crisis intervention,” Steve said, “and that's all we're going to say for now.”

Brian found the urge to give something in return for all their caring and their constancy so great it pressed like a fist into his middle. “I never realized how strong you guys had to be to just hang in there.”

There was a moment's silence, then his sister-in-law said, “You need something important enough to keep you caring.”

“I'm beginning to see the truth of that,” Brian replied.

“Man,” Steve sighed. “You really are getting better, aren't you?”

“All the time,” Brian agreed.

On Monday afternoon Maureen slipped in between patients to tell Cecilia that the senior physician, Dr. Riles, wanted to see her. It was not uncommon for them to go days without more than a few words, dashing in and out, coming together only for their weekly briefing. With her nerves already jangling, Cecilia could not help but worry her way through the rest of her day.

After seeing the final patient out the door, she walked to Grant's door and tapped softly. When he called from within, she stepped inside and said, “You wanted to see me?”

“Come in and have a seat.” He finished making his final case notes and carefully inserted the gold Cross pen back into the top. “I suppose you're off to the village meeting about the bells?”

She stiffened. “You don't think I should be involved?”

“I don't have a problem with it in the least. We're running a caring service here. Taking sides in a village dispute is a very healthy sign of settling into Knightsbridge, as far as I'm concerned.”

She relaxed a trifle. “I might have made some enemies.”

“That's their problem,” he declared stoutly. “You are as fine a doctor as I've ever worked with, and you are showing every sign of making a solid name for yourself in the community. We're not in the business of firing and laying off and correcting lifelong attitudes. All of which is why I was so concerned about taking you on.” He smiled. “I can't tell you how happy I am to discover that I worried over nothing.”

“Thank you, Grant. Both for the words and the sentiment.”

He pulled a pocket pendant from his vest and opened it to reveal a tiny pair of scissors. He pared a fingernail, inspected it, and finally said, “It has come to my attention that you might be having more than what might be considered normal feelings for one of your patients.”

The denial was formed almost before Cecilia could stop herself. Shame and exposure left her voice shaky. “I'm sorry, Grant. It's, well, I'll need to correct things.”

He showed an elder doctor's powers of perception. “Come on rather sudden, has it?”

“Totally unexpected,” Cecilia agreed, swallowing to relieve the trembling in her throat. “I think I was more surprised than anybody.”

“The medical faculty would tell you that such a thing as a doctor becoming involved with a patient is simply not done.” He pried out a tiny file and began buffing the wayward nail. “Of course, one must be careful not to drop him in the midst of ongoing treatment and leave the poor bloke on the hob.”

“Maybe so, but the sooner I stop being his doctor, the better.”

“It's a minefield, of course. But we're not immune when it comes to falling in love, are we?”

Cecilia found it necessary to blink hard, merely to cover the sudden heat that filled her eyes. “No.”

“The greatest risk, of course, is falling in love with a chap who's still grieving.” He tossed a glance her way, there and gone in a flash. “Have you given thought to that?”

“All the time.”

“Never met the fellow myself. But Mr. Blackstone seems stable enough, by all accounts. Kind. Intelligent. Handsome in a roguish way, if Maureen can be believed.” A smile almost as swift as his glance. “Can't hurt that the bloke is rich.”

“He's not, though.” Cecilia found she had no choice but to show her misery. “And when he loses the manor, there's every chance he'll be leaving Knightsbridge.”

“Ah.” A careful inspection of his nails. “And would you be planning to leave with him?”

“No,” she said, both to him and herself, the misery exposed. “I've fought too hard to call this place home.”

“That's a relief. We'd hate to lose you, Cecilia.”

She rose from her chair, feeling that her self-made decision had blasted a hole through her heart. “Was there anything else?”

His look said he understood all too well. “I'm sorry, lass. Truly.”

Twenty-six

C
ECILIA RETURNED HOME FROM WORK UTTERLY DRAINED
from the day and the fractured night before. She dumped her doctor's bag and papers and keys and purse on the kitchen table, then just sat there, staring at the sink and the dripping faucet, too tired to rise and make her own dinner. Her thoughts were a jumble of worries and half-formed fears, some centered around her patients, others about her house, and more still about Brian. None of her motives seemed clear anymore. None of her goals appeared worthy of the life she was spending to realize them.

Finally she managed to walk into the parlor where she collapsed on the sofa and closed her eyes for what she thought would be a quick fifteen minutes. But when she awoke it was to discover she had conked out for two full hours, and the voting was to end in less than ten minutes.

Cecilia grabbed for her coat and woolly hat and bolted from her house. She raced down the lane and was vastly relieved to find the throng gathered about the town hall still in noisy disorder. She waited in line, trying to make herself as small as possible, cast her vote, then joined the tide moving upstairs. As soon as she slipped through the door, she spotted Arthur and Gladys seated beside Brian. They waved her over, pointed her into the chair next to Brian, and then Gladys demanded, “Where on earth have you been?”

“Asleep. I got home from work and crashed.” She inspected Brian's head. “How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

He didn't look fine. He looked morose. “No dizziness or serious pain?”

“It feels more like a bad bruise.” Gingerly he felt the bandage over his stitches. “How long do I have to wear this?”