To Love and to Cherish (34 page)

He nodded agreeably. She could’ve said, “We could stick pins in each other,” and he’d have nodded agreeably. He was enthralled. Then he noticed she was frowning.

“So,” she said, “you’d like to stay? It’s all right, I just—”

“No! Do you want to go?”

“Do you? I just thought, since we’ve
decided
, we might as well—”

“Absolutely. Let’s pack.”

She laughed. “Shouldn’t we eat dinner first?”

“Dinner! Right you are.” He’d forgotten he was starving.

“And then . . .” She screwed up her face in a unique Anne-expression, one he liked but didn’t see very often; it signified intense inner struggle and emotional turmoil, processes she normally kept to herself.

“What?”

“Then . . . maybe I’ll tell you something. It’s a secret. I shouldn’t, but . . . I might have to. Otherwise I might explode. Oh, God, Christy, I love you!”

Her exuberant hug knocked him back a step. “I love you, too,” he said, laughing again. What a day this had been.
Thank you
, he thought, in a prayer that was becoming as automatic as breathing, and nearly as frequent. “We’ll start for home tomorrow,” he decided, holding her close. “We’ll go have dinner, you’ll tell me your secret, we’ll pack, and tomorrow we’ll go home.”

“Home,” she said, beaming at him.

And that’s exactly what they did.

Author’s Note

When the idea for Christy and Anne’s story first came to me, I never considered that theirs might be the first of
three
tales set in Wyckerley. But as the village began to fill up with more and more people—people I was starting to like—I found myself extremely reluctant to say good-bye to everybody after only one book. And I wanted to know: Is Sebastian Verlaine really a degenerate? How will Sophie Deene manage the copper mine all by herself? Will Miss Weedie ever marry Captain Carnock? Can’t something be done to find William Holyoake a true love?

Clearly, Wyckerley had more stories to tell.

The second in what is now the Wyckerley Trilogy,
To Have and To Hold
, is Sebastian’s story—and yes, it turns out he is a shade on the decadent side. Rachel Wade, the housekeeper he hires to replace Mrs. Fruit (bless her, she finally retired), is a convicted felon, just out of prison for murdering her husband ten years ago. Their love story begins in obsession and ends in healing and understanding, and it intrigued me from the moment the idea first came to me.

Sophie Deene is so pretty, so dutiful, so
good
, I had a perverse compulsion to throw lots of trouble her way. In the third book,
Forever and Ever
, trouble comes in the shape of Connor Pendarvis, a handsome, insolent Cornishman who shows up in Wyckerley one day, claiming to be a simple miner. He turns out to be a great deal more. When Sophie learns the truth, there’s hell to pay. Their relationship is stormy, to say the least, but love wins out handily in the end over pride and misunderstanding.

The middle decades of the nineteenth century were the golden age of rural England, the idyllic time before the agricultural boom faltered and working people had to leave the country for jobs in the industrialized cities. Thomas Hardy immortalized the period in
Far from the Madding Crowd
, and Wyckerley and St. Giles’ parish take their inspiration from that sweet, melancholy book. It’s my hope that you’ve enjoyed spending time with Anne and Christy, and that you’ll want to return to Wyckerley, as I did, to hear Sebastian’s story, and then Sophie’s. For myself, even knowing that they’re all busy living happily ever after, I’m
still
finding it hard to say good-bye!

Happy reading.

If you’ve fallen in love with Wyckerley, don’t miss the other marvelous novels in Patricia Gaffney’s beloved trilogy. Return to the place where enchanting romance and unexpected passions meet. . . .

TO HAVE AND TO HOLD

and

FOREVER AND EVER

Available now from InterMix

Keep reading for a special early preview
 . . .

To Have and To Hold

“But it is too rude of you, Bastian! How can you send me away like this? Don’t you like Lili anymore?”

“I adore you,” Sebastian Verlaine avowed, prying away the grip of his mistress’s tiny white hand, clamped to his thigh like a nutcracker. Through the carriage window, he watched the chimneys of Lynton Great Hall, his dubious inheritance, recede behind a screen of ancient oak trees. He couldn’t help liking the look of his new house. But it was hard to sustain admiration for its rough granite grandeur when he thought of everything that was broken, peeling, crumbling, smoking, or leaking, and how much even rudimentary repairs were going to cost him.

“And have we not had a nice time? Did we not play lovely games in your new
baignoire
? Eh? Bastian, listen to me!”

“It was paradise, my sweet,” he answered automatically, kissing her fingers. They smelled of perfume and sex, an essence he wasn’t capable of appreciating just now, at least not in any way that required virility. Enough occasionally was enough, and four days and nights in the intimate company of Lili Duchamps was, as the lady herself would put it,
plus qu’il n’en faut
—more than enough.

“Oui, paradis,”
she agreed, insinuating her index finger between his lips and tapping his teeth with her fingernail. “Put off your silly men’s business and come to London with me. We have never made love on a train,
oui
?”

“Not with each other,” he conceded after a second’s thought. He bit down on her finger hard enough to make her snatch it away and glare at him. It would have been amusing to say, “You’re beautiful when you’re angry.” But it wouldn’t have been true.

“Oh, you are cruel! To send me off all alone to—to—
Plymouth
—” she made it sound like Antarctica—“and make me ride on the train to London all by myself—
c’est barbare, c’est vil!”

“But you
came
by yourself,” he pointed out reasonably, “and now you just have to do everything in reverse.” Past her lavishly styled, champagne-colored hair, he watched the quaint parade of thatched-roof cottages glide by as the carriage bumped and rumbled up Wyckerley’s cobble-stoned High Street. The cottages were charming, he supposed, with their fat dormers, profuse gardens, and pastel fronts; but his aesthetic appreciation was tempered by the thought that his own tenants probably lived in half of them. Then they weren’t so charming; then, like the manor house, they were just a lot of old buildings that needed his money and attention.

“But
why
can you not come with me? Why? Ooh, I hate you for this!” She drew back her hand, but he grabbed it before she could strike him. By now he knew her shallow tempers; she rarely caught him off guard anymore. “Take care,” he said in the soft, menacing tone with which he’d originally seduced her; the fact that it still worked was one reason their affair was growing stale. “Do not try my patience,
ma chère
, or I’ll have to punish you.”

The lurid flare of excitement in her eyes made him laugh—spoiling the mood. “Oh!” she cried, thumping him on the chest with her fist. “Beast! Cad! Ungrateful bitch!”

“No, darling, that’s
you
,” he corrected, holding her hands still in her lap. Lili’s English wasn’t fluent, and sometimes she called him the things her own spurned lovers must have called her. “Now, kiss me and say good-bye. Justice is waiting for me.”

“Who? Oh, your silly court business.” Suddenly her peevish scowl lifted. “I know—Bastian, I will come with you and watch!”

“No, you will not.” The good souls of Wyckerley already worried that their new viscount was a degenerate; one look at Lili and their worst fears would be confirmed. He wanted to save them from that, or at least delay the awful truth a little longer.

“
Mais oui!
I want to see you in your black robes and your
perruque
, sending poor criminals to the
guillotine
.”

“Ah, darling, what charming blood lust.” He leaned across the carriage seat, intending to retrieve his walking stick. Lili intercepted the move by seizing his hand and pressing it to her powdered white bosom, inhaling to inflate it to the maximum—a needless augmentation of an already prodigious endowment. In fact, Lili’s bust was what had first attracted Sebastian, four months ago at the Théâtre de la Porte, where she’d made her debut in
Faust
as the living statue of la Belle Hélenè—a good role for her because it didn’t require her to speak. Despite her reputation as one of the most heartless of the
grandes horizontales
, she’d proven an easy conquest: one intimate supper at Tortoni’s, absinthe afterward at the Café des Variétés, and then the
coup de grace
, a pair of diamond eardrops in the bottom of a bottle of Pontet-Canet—
et voilá
, they were disporting themselves on the black satin sheets in her gaudy rue Frochot apartment. She’d been his mistress ever since, but she wouldn’t be for much longer. They both knew it—how could they not? They were professionals, he as keeper, she as kept; they knew how to recognize the first stirrings of ennui before it could blossom into full-fledged contempt.

With a little shimmy, Lili got her left breast into the center of his palm; he felt the nipple harden into a warm little peak. She uncovered her teeth in a carnivorous smile and slipped one of her knees over his.

The carriage had just stopped at the entrance to Wyckerley’s exceedingly modest town hall, or “moot hall” as they still called it, inside of which two magistrates and who knew how many “poor criminals” were waiting for him to help dispense justice in the petty session. Pedestrians were passing on the street, staring openly at the new D’Aubrey brougham, while above, the coachman waited patiently for his lordship to alight. Satisfying Lili didn’t take long, Sebastian knew from experience, and sending her away happy would be the better part of discretion. But the logistics, not to mention a disinterest that might be temporary but was nevertheless profound, defeated him. With a sigh, he gave her luscious breast a soft farewell squeeze and withdrew his hand.

Predictably, her eyes flashed with anger—“eyes like multifaceted marcasite, their soft glance more stimulating than a caress,” according to a so-called critic in one of the Paris theater revues. Not so predictably, her dainty little hand drew back and slapped him hard across the cheek; he barely caught her wrist before she could do it again.
“Pourceau,”
she spat, her long-nailed fingers curving into claws. “
Bâtard
. I loathe you.” But the lascivious look was back, and it grew heavier, lewder, the harder he squeezed the bones in her wrist. All at once the carnal gleam in her eyes irritated him. They’d played this game too often, and now he was mildly repelled by it, not aroused.

She must have seen his disgust; when he pushed her away she made no protest, and except for one brief, longing look at his cane, she seemed to be through with violence. “
Au revoir
, then.” she said airily, pulling up her low bodice, patting her hair, every inch the insouciant
coquette
once more. “Darling, how do you say
‘je m’emb
ê
te’
in English?”

“I’m bored,”
he answered fervently.

“
Exactement
. So I will leave you to your so
bourgeois
business affairs. When you are next in London, you must do me a great favor, Bastian.
S’il vous plait
, do not come to see me.”

“Enchanté,”
he murmured, privately amazed that she was letting him off this easily. The Comte de Turenne had been foolish enough to break off his liaison with Lili while dining at the Maison d’Or, and she’d retaliated by dumping a plate of Rhine carp
à la Chambord
in his lap.

He opened the door and sprang down to the pavement, breathing deeply of the unperfumed air. “John will take you to the posting inn where the Plymouth mail coach stops, Lili. I’d let you have my carriage, but then, how would I get home?” He gave a Gallic shrug, enjoying the tightening of her carmine lips. “You’ll be fine,” he said more kindly. “John will wait with you and see that you’re safely ensconced and on your way.” He reached into the inside pocket of his frock coat and withdrew a jeweller’s box. He flipped it to her in a quick underhand lob she couldn’t have been expecting. But with the dexterity of a cricket ace, she threw her hand up and caught it—
chunk
. Like lead to a magnet, Sebastian analogized; or a lure to a great, hungry bass. “I wish you well,” he said in French. Less truthfully he added, “I treasure our time together. You may be sure I’ll never forget you.”

Mollified by the gift more than the words, she lifted her chin and her theatrical eyebrows in what she no doubt intended to be a regal look; he could imagine her practicing it in front of one of the dozen or so mirrors in her garish boudoir. “Good-bye, Bastian. You are a terrible man, I do not know why I put out with you.”

He grinned. “That’s put
up
with me, darling—although your way is closer to the mark.” She was softening, she was all but ready to forgive him. To forestall her, he swept off his hat and made a low, fatuous bow. “
Adieu, m’amour
. Be happy. My heart goes with you.” Before she could respond, he slammed the door, sent John a discreetly urgent look, and backed away to the curb, keeping his hand on his breast as if overcome with feeling. The carriage jerked away, and he had a last glimpse of her scowling face, cheeks just beginning to flush with anger as she realized he was mocking her—for whatever else Lili might be, she wasn’t stupid. But it scarcely mattered now, and all he could feel as he watched the coach turn the corner and disappear was relief.

Forever and Ever

The tower clock on All Saints’ Church struck the quarter hour with a loud, tinny thud. Connor Pendarvis, who had been leaning against the stone ledge of a bridge and staring down at the River Wyck, straightened impatiently. Jack was late. Again. He ought to be used to it by now—and he was, but that didn’t make his brother’s habitual tardiness any less aggravating.

At least he didn’t have to wait for Jack in the rain. In typical South Devon fashion, the afternoon had gone from gray to fair in a matter of minutes, and now the glitter of sunlight on the little river’s sturdy current was almost blinding. It was June, and the clean air smelled of honeysuckle. Birds sang, bees buzzed, irises in brilliant yellow clumps bloomed along the riverbank. The cottages lining the High Street sported fresh coats of daub in whimsical pastel shades, and every garden was a riot of summer flowers.

The Rhadamanthus Society’s report on Wyckerley had said it was a poky, undistinguished hamlet in a poor parish, but Connor disagreed. He thought the authors of the report must have a novel idea of what constituted poverty—either that or they’d never been to Trewithiel, the village in Cornwall where
he’d
grown up. Wyckerley was friendly, pretty, neat as a pin—Trewithiel’s opposite in every way. Connor had been born there, and one by one he’d watched his family die there. Before he was twenty, he’d buried all of them.

All except Jack. Here he came, speak of the devil, swaggering a little, and even from here Connor could see the telltale glitter in his eyes; it meant he’d recently downed a pint or two or three in Wyckerley’s one and only alehouse, the George and Dragon. But his thinness and the gaunt, gray concavity of his cheeks stifled any reproach Connor might have made, and instead he felt that squeeze of pain in his chest that overtook him at odd times. Jack wasn’t even thirty yet, but he looked at least ten years older. The doctor in Redruth had said his illness was under control, so worrying about him made no sense. Connor told himself that every day, but it did no good. Fear for his brother was as dark and constant as his own shadow.

“Don’t be glaring at me,” Jack commanded from twenty feet away. “I’ve brought yer ruddy letter, and there’m money in it, I can tell. Which makes me the bearer o’glad tidings.” Producing an envelope from the pocket of his scruffy coat, he handed it over with a flourish. “Now where’s my thanks?”

“I’d say you’ve already drunk it.” But he said it with a smile, because Jack could charm the red from a rose—and because he was right about the envelope; it had a nice, solid heft that said the Pendarvis boys wouldn’t go hungry tonight in Wyckerley.

“Open it up yonder, Con. Under the trees. Cooler.”

“Are you tired, Jack?”

“Naw. What I am is
hot
.”

Connor said no more, and they ambled toward a clump of oak trees at the edge of the village green, opposite the old Norman church. But it was warm in the afternoon sun, not hot, and he knew it was the support of the iron bench under the oaks Jack wanted, not the cool shade.

“So,” said Jack, spreading his arms out across the back of the bench, “how much ’ave the Rhads coughed up this time?”

The plain envelope had no return address. Connor opened it and thumbed through the banknotes inside the folded, one-page letter. “Enough to cover the note of deposit I’ve just signed for our new lodgings.”

“Well, that’s a relief for you, counselor. Now you won’t get pinched for false misrepresentation o’ personal fiduciary stature.” Jack chortled at his own humor; he never got tired of making up names for laws and statutes, the sillier sounding the better.

Connor said, “I had to pay the agent for the lease of six months. Thirty-six shillings.” It wasn’t his money, but it still seemed a waste, since they wouldn’t be in Wyckerley past two months at the most.

“What’s our new place like, then?”

“Better than the last. We’ve half of a workingmen’s cottage only a mile from the mine. We’ll share a kitchen with two other men, both miners, and there’s a girl who comes in the afternoons to cook a meal. And praise the Lord, we’ve each got a room this time, so I won’t have to listen to you snore the glazing out of the windows.”

Jack cackled, going along with the joke. There were times when he kept Connor awake, but it was because of his cough and the drenching night sweats that robbed him of rest, not his snoring. “What do they say about the mine?” he asked.

“Not much. It’s called Guelder. A woman owns it. It’s been fairly—”

“A
woman
.” Jack’s eyes went wide with amazement, then narrowed in scorn. “A woman,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Well, ee’ve got yer work cut out right and proper, then, aven’t ee? The radical Rhads’ll be aquiver wi’joy when they read yer report this time.”

Connor grunted noncommittally. “The woman’s name is Deene. She inherited the mine from her father about two years ago, and she owns it outright, without shareholders. They say her uncle owns another mine in the district. His name’s Vanstone, and he happens to be the mayor of Wyckerley.”

“Why’n’t they send you to that un? The uncle’s, I mean. Tes bound to be far better run.”

“Probably, and there’s your answer. The Society hasn’t employed me to investigate clean, safe, well-managed copper mines.” No, but the selection process was still fair, Connor believed, if only because conditions in most Cornish and Devonian copper mines were so deplorable, there was no need to doctor reports or tinker with findings. Or pick a woman’s mine over a man’s in hopes of finding more deficiencies.

He put the envelope in his pocket and clasped his hands behind his head, blinking up at the sky.

The June afternoon was lazily spectacular, and he couldn’t deny that it was pleasant to sit in the shade while butterflies flickered in and out of sun rays slanting down through the tree leaves. In a rare mellow mood, he watched two children burst from a side door in the church across the way and run toward the green. A second later, out came three more, then four, then another giggling pair. Shouting, laughing, they skipped and ran in circles and tumbled on the grass, giddy as March hares. He’d have thought Sunday school had just let out, except it was Saturday. The children’s high spirits were contagious; more than one passerby paused in the cobbled street long enough to smile at their antics.

Half a minute later, a young woman came out of the same door in the church and hurried across the lane toward the green. The school teacher? Tall, slim, dressed in white, she had blond hair tied up in a knot on top of her head. Connor tried to guess her age, but it was hard to tell from this distance; she had the lithe body of a girl, but the confident, self-assured manner of a woman. He wasn’t a bit surprised when she clapped her hands and every shrieking, frolicking child immediately ran to her. What surprised him was the gay sound of her own laughter mingling with theirs.

The smallest child, a girl of five or six, leaned against her hip familiarly; the woman patted her curly head while she gave the others some soft-voiced command. The children formed a half circle around her. She bent down to the little girl’s level to say something in her ear, her hand resting lightly on the child’s shoulder.

“Look at that now, Con. That’s a winsome sight, edn it?” said Jack in a low, appreciative voice. “Edn that just how a lady oughter look?”

Where women were concerned, Jack was the least discriminating man Connor had ever known; he liked
all
of them. But this time he’d spoken no more than the truth. This woman’s ivory gown, her willowy figure, the sunny gold in her hair—they made a very beguiling picture. And yet he thought Jack meant something more—something about the long, graceful curve of her back as she bent toward the child, the solicitousness of her posture, the
kindness
in it that took the simple picture out of the ordinary and made it unforgettable. When Connor glanced at his brother, he saw the same soft, stricken smile he could feel on his own face, and he knew they’d been moved equally, just for a moment, by the perfection of the picture.

She straightened then, and the little girl skipped away to a place in the middle of the semicircle. The spell was broken, but the picture lingered; the image still shimmered in his mind’s eye.

She took something from the pocket of her dress—a pitch pipe. She brought it to her lips and blew a soft, thin note. The children hummed obediently, then burst into song.

Smiling encouragement, her face animated, the music teacher moved her hands in time to the melody, and every child beamed back at her, eager to please, all wide eyes and happy faces. It was like a scene in a storybook, or a sentimental play about good children and perfectly kind teachers, too good to be true—yet it was happening here, now, on the little green in the village of Wyckerley, St. Giles’ parish. Mesmerized, Connor sat back to watch what would happen next.

The choir sang another song, and afterward the teacher made them sing it again. He wasn’t surprised; smitten as he was, even he could tell it hadn’t been their finest effort. Then, sensing her charges were growing restless, she set them free after a gentle admonition—which fell on deaf ears, because the shouting and gamboling recommenced almost immediately.

“Looks like a litter o’ new puppies.” Jack chuckled, and Connor nodded, smiling at the antics of two little towheaded boys, twins, vying with each other to see who could press more dandelions into the hands of their pretty teacher. Heedless of the damp grass, she dropped to her knees and sniffed the straggly bouquets with exaggerated admiration. Her way of keeping their rambunctious spirits within bounds was to ask them questions, then listen to the answers with complete absorption.

Just then the curly haired little girl, clutching her own flower, made a running leap and landed on the teacher’s back with a squeal of delight. The woman bore the impact sturdily, even when the youngster wound her arms around her neck and hung on tight, convulsing with mirth. But gradually the laughter tapered off.

“She’m caught,” Jack murmured when some of the children crept closer, looking uncertain. “The lady’s hair, looks like. Edn she caught?” Connor was already on his feet. “Con? Wait, now. Ho, Con! You shouldn’t oughter—”

He didn’t hear the rest. Impulsiveness was one of his most dangerous failings, but this—this was too much like the answer to a prayer he’d been too distracted to say. He took off across the green at a sprint.

No doubt about it, the teacher was caught. “It’s all right, Birdie,” she was saying, reaching back to try to disentangle her hair from something on the little girl’s dress. “Don’t wriggle for a second. No, it’s all right, just don’t move.”

Birdie was near tears. “I’m sorry, Miss Sophie,” she kept saying, worried but unable to stop squirming. The music teacher winced—then laughed, pretending it was a joke.

The other children eyed Connor in amazement when he squatted down beside the entangled pair. Birdie’s mouth dropped open and she finally went still. The teacher—Miss Sophie—could only see him out of the corner of her eye; if she turned her head, she’d yank the long strand of hair that was wound tight around Birdie’s shirtwaist button.

“Well, now, what have we here?” he said, softening his voice to keep Birdie calm. He shifted until he was kneeling in front of the teacher, and reached over her bent head to untangle the snarl.

“It got stuck! Now I can’t move or I’ll hurt Miss Sophie!”

Around them the children had gathered in a quiet circle, curious as cows. And protective of their teacher, Connor fancied. “That’s right,” he agreed, “so you must hold very, very still while I undo this knot. Pretend you’re a statue.”

“Yes, sir. What’s a statue?”

A breathy laugh came from the music teacher. He could see only her profile and the smooth angle of her neck. She had cream-white skin, the cheeks flushed a little from exertion or embarrassment. Her eyes were downcast; he couldn’t be sure what color they were. Blue, he thought. “The stone cross at the edge of the green, Birdie,” she said, amusement in her low voice. “That’s a sort of statue, because it never moves.”

“Oh.”

The snarl was stubborn, and Connor was as anxious as Birdie not to pull Miss Sophie’s hair. “Almost got it,” he muttered. “Two more seconds.” Her pretty hair was soft and slippery and it smelled of roses. Or was that the sun-warmed linen of her dress?

“There are scissors in the rectory,” she said, speaking to the ground. “Tommy Wooten, are you here? Would you go and ask—”

“Out of the question. I’d sooner cut off my hand than a single strand of this beautiful hair.” And if that wasn’t the most fatuous thing he’d ever said in his life, he wanted to know what was.

She sent him a twinkling, sideways glance, and he saw the color of her eyes. Blue. Definitely blue. “Actually, I was thinking you might cut off the
button
.”

“Ah, the button. A much better idea.”

“Shall I go, Miss Sophie?” asked a reedy voice behind Connor’s shoulder.

“Yes, Tommy.”

“No, Tommy,” Connor corrected as the last strand in the tangle finally came loose. “Miss Sophie is free.”

She sat back on her heels and smiled, first at him, then at the children gathered around; some of them were clapping, as if a performance had just concluded. Her laughing face was flushed, her hair awry—and she was so stunningly lovely, he felt blinded, hindered, too dazzled to take it in. He remembered to take off his hat, but before he could speak—and say what?—she turned away to give Birdie a strong, reassuring hug.

“Did it hurt?” the little girl asked her, patting her cheek worriedly.

“No, not one bit.”

She heaved a great sigh of relief. “Look, Miss Sophie, here’s what I was giving you.” She held out one bent daisy, the stem wilted, the white petals smashed.

Sophie drew in her breath. “Oh,
lovely
,” she declared, holding the flower to her nose and sniffing deeply. “
Thank
you, Birdie.” The child blushed with pleasure. Then she was off, anxious to tell her friends about her adventure.

Now that the drama was over, the other children began to wander away, too. Connor was still on his knees beside the teacher. “Thank you,” she said in her musical voice.