"The constant heart" - читать интересную книгу автора (Balogh Mary)

Chapter 3

Rebecca ascended to her room with lowered eyes and lagging steps. She could feel one of her infrequent headaches coming on. The day had been hot and busy. She rang immediately for a maid and directed that bathwater be brought to her dressing room. She ran a finger beneath the high neckline of her cotton dress and turned her head from side to side. But it was no-good. There was no cool air to be felt.

She should not have stayed to listen to Mr. Bartlett. She should have told him quite firmly as soon as he began that the way Mr. Christopher Sinclair chose to run his life was none of her concern.

People were all the same, she supposed. Everyone liked to hear gossip, especially if it showed someone one knew in an unpleasant light. She always prided herself on her lack of interest in either listening to or spreading vicious rumors. Yet there were times when she could not resist. And she had heard so very little about Christopher in almost seven years. She had taken a malicious sort of pleasure in hearing what Mr. Bartlett had had to say, and really she could not entirely blame either him for speaking or herself for listening. He had spoken from the best of motives-his concern for Harriet and the Sinclair family. And she had listened for the same reasons.

But now that she had had time to digest what she had heard, she would far prefer not to have listened at all. She undid the buttons at the back of her dress, not waiting for a maid to assist her. It was a relief to slip the fabric off her shoulders and arms, light as the cotton material was.

She had wanted to forget Christopher. Once she had convinced herself that he had meant it when he said that he would never return, she had resolutely set herself to forgetting him. The self-discipline that she had built up during her childhood and youth as her father's daughter had aided her outwardly. She had not crumbled, and no one-not even Papa-had known the size of the battle raging within. But finally she had won that battle, too, though never perhaps quite to the extent she would have liked. Occasionally she would think to herself with some satisfaction that she had now forgotten Christopher. But she would immediately realize that the very thought proved her wrong.

She had had to concentrate on the negative side of his character that she had known only at the last, the side that she had never even suspected. She had always known, of course, that he was not perfect. Her earliest memories of him were of a mischievous plague of a boy, whose greatest delight seemed to be to tease the prim, rather shy daughter of the vicar. She could remember him at church, sitting with his family in the second pew, behind her and her mother. She had wom her hair in long braids as a child, and she had liked to toss the braids over the back of the seat, where they would not dig into her back. One Sunday morning she had been forced to sit through most of her father's lengthy sermon with her head tilted back at an unnatural angle while Christopher's knee had kept her braid held firmly against the back of the pew. She had been released finally, she remembered, a moment after hearing the sound of a swift slap immediately behind her.

And then there had been the time when Mrs. Sinclair had been visiting at the parsonage and the children had wandered outside. She remembered sitting on a tombstone in the churchyard, finally too terrified either to get down or to turn her head as Christopher stood in front of her, very seriously and sincerely describing the ghosts that came out of the graves at midnight. For many nights after that she had awoken Mama with her screams as she struggled out of some nightmare.

Rebecca was very thankful to peel off her remaining clothes when the water finally arrived and to climb into the bathtub and soak in the lukewarm suds. It had been just such a day when she had finally realized that both she and Christopher were growing up. She had always hero-worshiped him to a certain extent. He had always been a tall boy for his age and slim and-to her child's eyes- very handsome with his dark, straight hair and blue eyes. She could even remember the time when she was about twelve years old and had started to fantasize about his rescuing her from terrible dangers: fire-breathing dragons, vicious highwaymen, treacherous quicksand. He had always been mounted on a white stallion in those fantasies and he had always had a black cloak streaming behind him. And the fantasies had always ended at the moment of rescue.

The time she was thinking of was the summer when she was fourteen and he seventeen. The annual village fair had lasted the whole day and was ending in fast and furious fun as everyone danced on the village green. Rebecca, for the first time, had been allowed to stay up until eleven o'clock, but finally Mama had instructed her to go home to bed. The whole village was alight. There was no need for anyone to acompany her. But Christopher had fallen into step beside her, chatting in his amiable way as he walked her home. By that stage of their lives they had become firm friends.

They had taken a shortcut through the churchyard on the way to the parsonage and Christopher had tried to revive her old fear of the graves there. But she had tossed her head, which was feeling very grown up with its hair pinned up for the first time, and thrown him a look of contempt.

"Pooh, Christopher Sinclair," she had said, "you cannot scare me with such tales any longer. I am grown up now."

"Are you, though, Becky?" he had said, looking sidelong at her. "I'll wager you aren't."

"I bet I am," she had retorted, turning belligerently toward him and placing her hands on her hips. "I am too a woman grown. I am allowed to wear my hair up and I have been allowed to stay up until eleven o'clock."

"I'll wager you don't know how to kiss, though, Becky," he had teased. "You aren't a woman until you know how to kiss."

She had been very thankful for the darkness that hid her hot flush of shock and embarrassment. "Nonsense, Christopher Sinclair," she had said with all the bored sophistication of a fourteen-year-old. "Of course I know how to kiss."

"You will have to prove it then," he had jeered.

She had kept her hands on her hips, lifted her chin defiantly, puckered her lips, and squeezed her eyes tightly shut as she saw his face approaching.

If she really had known how to kiss, it would have been glaringly obvious to her that he certainly did not. But she had assumed that that bruising, grinding pressure of lips and teeth against lips and teeth was how it was supposed to be done. She never did ask herself whether she had liked it or not. When she had stopped running and had the door of the parsonage safely between herself and any possible pursuit by Christopher, she had been too deeply in love with him to consider anything more than the fact that he had kissed her, and she had proved to him that she was indeed a woman.

She had loved him mindlessly, passionately, for the following five years, until he had told her that he was going away and never coming back. And even beyond that she had loved him, painfully and against her will, until she had finally forced herself to forget. Or to tell herself that she had forgotten.

Rebecca slid down in the bathtub until her whole body was submerged to the neck. She put her head back against the metal rim and closed her eyes. The cool water felt very good. She could feel all her muscles relaxing. Perhaps her headache would not develop after all. It was pointless to pursue these memories of Christopher now. It was all ancient history. He was clearly a very different man now from the one she had loved as a girl and very young woman.

Two days later, Rebecca was again walking home from a day at the school. The weather was still hot, though clouds had moved across the sky since she had left home that morning so that at least she did not have the glare of the sun to contend with.

She was not feeling cheerful. She and Philip had come very close to quarreling during the morning. It was not his day for teaching, but he had spent half an hour with her before luncheon.

She had been listening to the boys reading aloud. The performance was not an inspired one, but most of the pupils had managed to stumble their way through the words on the page. However, there was one boy who had not. There was scarcely a word he could recognize, and even Rebecca's promptings and encouragement to sound the words out syllable by syllable did not help. Philip had walked over to stand silently behind the boy, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression stern. The boy, feeling the vicar's presence there, had become nervous and confused. His stammerings had become totally incomprehensible.

And finally Philip had lost his temper. He had scolded the boy for inattention, for lack of effort, for stupidity, and for truancy. He had finally berated the lad with bitter sarcasm for his dirty fingernails and uncombed hair. A few minutes later Rebecca had given the boys a break and stood silently at her desk while they filed out, far more subdued than usual.

"They are incredibly ungrateful!" Philip had exploded after the last one had left the building. "Do they not care? Do they not realize what an opportunity is being presented them? I am bitterly disillusioned."

"Philip," Rebecca had said gently, "most of the boys have made marked progress. If you consider the fact that a mere few months ago they could not even distinguish one letter from another, you would realize the truth of what I say. But you must have noticed that Cyril cannot learn as fast as the others. He knows the letters, but he cannot put them together to create words."

"If he attended school regularly," Philip had said coldly, "perhaps he would not have fallen so far behind."

"It is not that," Rebecca had protested. "He has not missed so many days, Philip. He is incapable of learning as fast as the other boys. He needs a great deal of extra help and encouragement."

"We are here to teach, Rebecca," he had said passionately, "not to coddle and baby these village lads."

The argument had ended abruptly as the pupils began to file back into the schoolroom. Philip had left soon after, and she had not seen him again. This was his afternoon for visiting the elderly and sometimes, she knew, he did not arrive home until well into the evening. Visiting the sick and elderly for Philip meant more than sitting at bedsides holding hands and saying prayers. Frequently it meant chopping wood or hauling water or even preparing a meal.

And remembering that fact as she walked along the country lane, still a good half mile from the stile that would lead her into the pasture and across to the house, Rebecca's heart softened. Philip could be a strange mixture of harshness and dedication. He certainly did not spare himself in his devotion to his parishioners. And even his harsher moments, she realized, resulted from his zeal. He wanted these village lads to learn, wanted them to have a better future than they could otherwise expect. Unfortunately, he did not always have enough patience to allow for anyone with less drive than himself. He meant well and that was the important fact for her to remember.

She had not been in high spirits, though, even before the altercation with Philip. Christopher was coming home today, was probably already with his family, in fact. Tomorrow or the next day he would visit at Limeglade or her uncle's family would visit the Sinclairs. If she was fortunate, she would miss that first meeting. But she could not avoid it forever. The two families lived only two miles apart and had always been on the most intimate of visiting terms.

Within the next week at the longest she would have to meet him again. And she had no wish to do so. The battle to forget him had been a long and hard one. But she had won eventually. Her life for the last several years had not been a wildly happy one, but it had been of moderate contentment. She had a comfortable home with relatives who treated her with affection even if not with demonstrative love. She was continuing the works of charity that had been dear to her father's heart. And she was betrothed to a man who embodied those ideals for which she lived. She did not want to be reminded of a time when she had desired more of life, a time when she had wanted passion and romantic love. And she did not want to be reminded of how Christopher had changed. She wanted to remember him, if at all, as he had been before.

Rebecca looked ahead to the stile, not far distant now. She quickened her step. A cup of tea would be very welcome at the end of the walk. She slowed down almost immediately, though, and moved over the side of the road until her dress was brushing against the hedgerow. She could hear the approach of a horse behind her and had no desire to be ridden down. She gazed ahead absently, her mind swinging back to Cyril and his obvious learning problem.

"G'day, ma'am," a deep masculine voice said as a horse drew level with her on the road.

Rebecca looked up, startled, into the politely smiling face of a large young man, whose high shirt points pressed into his cheeks as if trying to burst them. He was touching a riding crop to his hat. She smiled in quick relief. She had feared for one horrid moment that it might be Christopher.

"Good day, sir," she said, inclining her head to him, and he rode on.

She had not realized there were two horses until the second One drew level with her and the performance was repeated.

"Good day, ma'am," the second rider said.

"Good day, sir," Rebecca replied, and glanced up at the speaker.

Did time stand still? she wondered later. Probably not. It just seemed to have done so. He was instantly recognizable, though changed in the course of almost seven years. He looked as tall and straight in the saddle as he had always looked then. His hair was as dark and straight and as long. His eyes were as intensely blue, his nose as straight, his mouth as wide. Yet the years had taken away his boyish slimness and left a solid, well-muscled man in his place. And time had taken away the open, pleasant expression that he had habitually worn and replaced it with a controlled, almost stern look. His jaw looked a lot firmer than she remembered.

He lowered his riding whip from the brim of his top hat and drew his horse to a halt. "Hello, Becky," he said quietly, unsmilingly.

"Hello, Christopher," she replied. She had stopped walking without realizing it.

There seemed to be nothing else to say. Both looked for a moment as if sorry they had stopped.

"How are you?" he asked.

"Well, thank you," she replied. "And you, Christopher?"

He nodded. He had removed his hat, and Rebecca could see that his hair was as thick and shining as it had ever been.

"I am sorry about your bereavement," she said.

He nodded once more. "Thank you."

They looked at each other awkwardly again. "You are living with your uncle now?" he said. "I was sorry to hear of your father's passing."

"Are you on your way home?" he asked. "You have still a long way to go. May I offer you a ride?"

"Oh, no, thank you," she said hastily. "I enjoy the walk across the pasture. Uncle Humphrey always urges me to take the gig."

There was another awkward pause. The first rider broke it. He had turned his horse back to find out what had delayed his companion.

"I say, Sinclair," he said, sweeping off his hat. "Meeting old acquaintances already?"

Christopher smiled, a rather tight grimace that did not quite reach his eyes. "Miss Shaw, may I present Mr. Lucas Carver?"

Mr. Carver leaned down.from his horse and stretched out a hand to Rebecca. His shirt points dug even more dangerously into his cheeks, she noticed.

"Pleased t'make your acquaintance, Miss Shaw," he said.

Christopher had pulled himself together by the time Rebecca and Mr. Carver had exchanged civilities. "We must allow you to continue your walk, Becky," he said. "It is good to see you again."

She inclined her head to both men and watched them ride away from her before continuing on her way. She was over the stile and well across the pasture before she came out of her daze. She had met him again, had talked to him. And she had survived. Here she was walking home as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

She stopped suddenly and looked down at herself, aghast. What would he have seen? How had she appeared to Christopher after six and a half years? She had been a girl of nineteen last time he saw her. She was a woman of six-and-twenty now. She had changed, she knew. She was still only of medium height, still very slight in figure. She sill wore clothes of simple, unfashionable style. But her face and her hair must have appeared very different to him. Her face had paled and thinned over the years. She had lost her youthful look and sparkle, she knew. Her gray eyes, when she looked at herself in the mirror, looked back at her calmly with the look of a woman who had experienced the vicissitudes of life and not been destroyed by them. Her fair hair was no longer worn in loose curls. Years ago she had grown it longer and confined it in a loose knot at the base of her neck.

She looked her age, she knew. And her appearance was eminently suited to her station. While she tried always to look neat, she did not feel it appropriate to aim for elegance or prettiness. She was betrothed to a village vicar and she taught at the village school. She was six-and-twenty years old. She was usually unself-conscious about her appearance. Why would she care now? Why care that Christopher Sinclair had seen the changes? If Philip liked her the way she was, why worry about the opinion of any other man? After all, he had changed too. He was clearly now a man of nine-and-twenty rather than the very young man she had known.

The changes in him were all improvements, though, some inner part of her mind told her, unbidden. He had been a very good-looking boy. Now he was an unusually handsome man. And a selfish, unprincipled man, she must constantly remind herself.

Yes, he had been a very good-looking boy. She had always been aware of the fact. Being three years younger than he, she had always looked up to him as an older, heroic male. But perhaps she had been fully aware of his good looks and attractiveness only when he had come home after his first year at Oxford. He was nineteen, vastly self-assured, and inclined to patronize the sixteen-year-old daughter of the vicar. He had been friendly, had sought her out whenever circumstances brought them into the same company, and had talked to her a great deal. But perhaps the friendship at that time owed more to the fact that there were very few other people in the area close to his age than to any special preference for Rebecca.

That had had to wait another two years until he came home after his final year at university. Rebecca had acquired poise in the few years since the death of her mother. She had also recently become more conscious of her looks and had had her hair styled so that the length and heaviness that had pulled it straight were replaced by soft curls over her head and down her neck. She had fashioned herself some light muslin gowns for the summer instead of the usual cotton ones.

Christopher had noticed the changes immediately. He had looked at her with admiration when they met the day after his return home.

"Well," he had said, "aren't you the fine lady, Becky! You must be beating back the suitors from the door."

"Silly," she had replied, pleased. "Where would they come from in a place like this?"

He had grinned. "I must be thankful that we do not live in a large place," he had said. "Does this mean I have you all to myself?"

His voice had been teasing. And that manner had set the tone of their relationship through most of the summer. They had met a good deal during various visits, and they had frequently walked and ridden together. But there had been nothing more than a very casual friendship until the night of the annual village fair.

They had spent part of the day together but had drifted apart several times to pursue their own interests or to mingle with other acquaintances. It had been a hot day, so that by the time the dancing started in the evening everyone was feeling rather tired and very thankful for the coolness that came after sunset. The dance Rebecca had with Christopher had been a particularly strenuous one. They had been laughing but panting at the end of it.

"Come and walk with me, Becky," he had said, pulling her arm through his and really offering her no choice. "Mrs. Pugh has been eyeing me purposefully for the past half hour. I shall feel obliged to ask her to dance if I stay. I should much prefer to walk with you."

"I am suitably flattered, sir," she had said with mock primness.

"I should think so, too," he had assured her. "It is a signal honor, you know, to be preferred to Mrs. Pugh."

And they had talked on, exchanging light banter, while they strolled along the village street and out onto the country lane that led eventually both to her uncle's house and to his own. They had not noticed leaving the lights of the village behind because the moon was bright. Only when there was a lull in the conversation had they become aware that the sounds of the village too had receded into the distance.

Christopher had looked down at her and smiled, and she smiled back. The silence was suddenly oppressive. Conversation, which usually flowed between them without thought, suddenly refused to come. And their steps slowed until they stopped walking altogether.

"I should take you back home," he said, turning to face her.

"Yes," she agreed.

But they had not moved. They continued to look at each other. And then his mouth came down to cover hers in a light and slow exploration. It was not the hard, tooth-grinding kiss that she remembered from years before. He did not touch any other part of her. And then he raised his head and they looked at each other again.

"I have gone and done something very silly, Becky," he said, flashing her a grin. "I have fallen in love with you. You will think me very foolish, will you not, old friend? I have been fighting it all summer."

"I don't think you are foolish, Christopher," she said, gazing earnestly back at him. "I have loved you for a long time."

"No. Really, Becky?" He became serious again.

"Yes, really."

He had laughed and then reached out to cup her face in his hands. Neither of them said anything for a while as they gazed into each other's eyes and he traced the line of her lips with his thumbs. She smiled.

And then he had kissed her again, drawing her against him, moving his hands in gentle caress down her spine and around to her breasts, teasing her mouth open with his lips and tongue, and finally kissing her closed eyes, her temples, her chin, her throat. And this time, she knew, he did know how to kiss, and by instinct and by love, so did she.

They had drawn shakily apart after several minutes, though he still held her within the loose circle of his arms.

"Oh, God, Becky, I want you," he said shakily. "I must get you back home quickly, love. It is dangerous to be alone like this."

She had looked at him blankly, not quite comprehending his meaning. She was in love, and it had been her first real kiss. It had been enough in itself. At that early point in their courtship she had not felt any urgent need of anything else. It was only later that she realized that his own reaction indicated that he had had other women before her.

That night had been the beginning of an idyllic few months. They had already been friends. Now they were also deeply in love. And he talked of marriage almost from the start. He did not know how he would support her. His parents were not wealthy. In fact, they had made great sacrifices just to send him to university. And they had three other children, all considerably younger than he. He talked frequently about becoming a physician. It was not an occupation that would bring him great wealth or prestige, and some would consider it beneath the dignity of a gentleman, but it would suit his wish to serve humanity. He had been very idealistic in those days, and Rebecca had loved him all the more.

They had not announced their betrothal or even spoken to their families of their plans, though everyone must have suspected that they had an understanding. They did little enough to hide their love for each other. But Christopher had promised to spend Christmas with an old friend from university. It was his chance to see something of London and to make a final decision about his future. When he came home again, he told her, they would announce their betrothal and plan for a wedding in the summer.

He had been gone for longer than she expected. And it had been an uneasy time for her. At first his letters came frequently and were full of satisfying ardor. But after a while they came more sporadically and finally stopped altogether. At the same time the Sinclairs themselves seemed to change. They stayed at home and kept to themselves more. When they were seen, Mr. Sinclair, usually so placid, looked grim, and his wife looked as if she wept frequently. Later Rebecca concluded that they must have known before she did.

Christopher came home in March. She had been given no notice of his coming. He called at the parsonage on a particularly raw and gray morning and asked her to walk into the churchyard with him. There he came straight to the point. He was betrothed to a lady from London. They were to be married the following week. He was sorry for any misunderstanding there had been between him and Rebecca. He felt that he owed her an explanation in person. But he was to leave again for London that same day. He wished her well.

Rebecca had not said a word until he turned and began to stride away.

"Christopher," she called then, her mouth and whole face feeling numb. "Why?"

He smiled then, an unpleasant expression, approaching a sneer. "She is wealthy, Becky," he said. "Her father is loaded with money."

"I do not understand, " Rebecca said. "Since when has money mattered to you?"

The unpleasant smile still twisted his mouth. "Since I met Angela," he said. "Good-bye, Becky. I shall never come back here. You need not fear that you will ever have to face your faithless lover again."

Rebecca was stumbling now in her haste to cross the pasture and reach the safety of the house. Safety from what? From the memories? She had put those in their place long ago. And she would again. It could make no possible difference that he had broken his promise and come back again. He was a stranger to her now. And if she was to believe what Mr. Bartlett said of him, she had been well rid of him. He would not have been the husband that she had expected him to be.

She must not let him ruin the tranquillity of her life again. She would not let him do so!