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Chapter VII
Walter embarked on his new position as rector of Kellynch with great dispatch. He found that the church had been sadly neglected over the past seven years, with a series of visiting priests as its only guardians, and he set Delbert Stock to righting it. The curate, though he held a degree from one of the universities, was no philosopher; he was happiest when he had a set task and preferred to work with his hands, taking pride in keeping the two churches clean and in good repair. As payment for his increased duties, Walter gave Mr. Stock the rambling Kellynch parsonage-house to live in rent-free, no small consideration for a man with a wife and seven children. The grateful curate threw himself into his duties, and between them they were able to minister to the souls of two parishes with less difficulty than one might expect.
Word soon came that a tenant had been found for Kellynch Hall. Sir Frederick, attending a reception at the Court of St. James (grudgingly and only at the express command of the Lords of the Admiralty), had encountered a gentleman who had been made a Knight of the Bath that very day. He was an Irish merchant who had rendered a mysterious yet valuable service to the queen, and as the Crown's relations with Erin remained tenuous at best, it was thought that honouring one of her sons might buy Her Majesty some goodwill for relatively little cost. Unfortunately Sir Bernard Gilbride saw his new position as an excellent excuse to leave the country of his birth and the business that had brought him his fortune and establish himself as a real English country gentleman, thus neatly circumventing the Crown's purposes while satisfying his own. Having a superstitious bent, Sir Bernard saw his meeting with the dignified Sir Frederick Wentworth of the Royal Navy on the day of his own elevation as fortuitous, and agreed to lease Kellynch Hall sight unseen. He would take possession within the month, along with his two children.
The Gilbrides were not the only new faces in the neighbourhood. Walter was walking back from the post office one cold, sunny March day when an elegant cabriolet, attended by a driver and footman in spotless livery, pulled into the sweep in front of the parsonage. He continued up the walk curiously, not recognizing the equipage, and was startled to see the footman hand out Gwendolyn Clay. She glanced up at the parsonage with a smile as her maid, Jeanne, clambered inelegantly from the carriage.
"Good morning, Miss Clay," said Walter, walking up to the door. He made no move to invite her into the house.
"Mr. Musgrove," said Gwendolyn warmly, walking up to him with her hand extended. "It is so very good to see you, sir! It has been much too long." Walter took her hand and bowed over it, wondering if she expected him to kiss it; if she did she gave no indication. "So this is your house! It appears very neat and cozy."
"It serves me."
There was a silence, then Gwendolyn said brightly, "Your manners are abominable, sir. Do you often leave ladies standing in the public roadway?"
Walter refrained from pointing out that the sweep was located well off the roadway, saying only, "I am not in the habit of receiving unmarried, unattended ladies."
"Unattended?" Gwendolyn looked at him in mock surprise. "But here is Jeanne! She is small but I assure you she would not countenance any man taking liberties with her mistress." Jeanne nodded and gave him a gap-toothed grin. Walter nearly laughed aloud, remembering the nights that the little maid had led him to Gwendolyn's bed-chamber for that very purpose.
Just then the door opened and Mrs. Brumby came out. She looked Gwendolyn's fashionably-clad form down, then up, with eyebrow raised. She muttered a "humph" and looked pointedly at the rector. Walter knew that if he turned Gwendolyn away, the servants would spread the news across the countryside. He suddenly felt that he could not allow her to be embarrassed in such a way; he told himself that he owed that service to Miss Clay as one of his parishioners, not wishing to examine his real motives too closely.
"Mrs. Brumby, will you see the ladies into the drawing-room, please? Miss Clay and Miss...Jeanne" --suddenly realizing that he did not know the maid's surname-- "have come to call. Your timing is excellent, ladies," he added, moving to hold the door for them. "I was just returning with the mail. I shall take it into my library and be at your service directly."
He dropped the mail on the desk and went down the passage hastily to the drawing-room. As he approached the door, Mrs. Brumby came out and looked at him sharply. "You'll want tea, sir?" she said, disapproval evident in each word.
"Yes, thank you," he said in some embarrassment as the housekeeper walked down the passage toward the kitchen, shaking her head. He took a deep breath and entered the drawing-room.
Gwendolyn was perched demurely on the edge of the sofa by the window. She had placed herself with her usual care; the curtains were opened, the sunlight streamed in and lit the golden curls that had escaped from the sides of her elegant hat, and she positively glowed. Jeanne had wandered over to the watercolours hanging on the wall at the far side of the room and was looking at them with some interest. Walter knew that she understood little English and would be only a nominal chaperone in any case, but had the feeling that she had removed herself from their company at the command of her mistress.
Walter seated himself on the other sofa, across from Gwendolyn and with the tea-table between them, and said, "How may I be of service to you, Miss Clay?"
"Service?" she said in some amusement. "Can a lady not pay a call on her clergyman without requiring a service?"
"It is not a common practice for an unmarried woman."
"I see." She regarded him with thoughtfully. "Perhaps I require spiritual guidance."
This time he allowed himself to laugh, long and heartily. Gwendolyn smiled back at him, not at all offended.
The door opened and Mrs. Brumby brought in the tea, casting another disapproving look at the rector, who tried unsuccessfully to hide his grin. "I will pour," Gwendolyn told the housekeeper, dismissing her firmly yet politely, and she withdrew, shaking her head.
"She is very protective," said Gwendolyn, passing him a cup. "I am glad you have someone to look after you."
There was a small silence, and to fill it Walter said, "My condolences on your loss."
"My loss? Oh, you mean my mother. We meant little to one another in life, and she is not much missed. There, you have my confession. I have broken a Commandment by failing to honour my mother. That makes this visit official, does it not?"
Walter did not know what to say to that; he loved his mother, despite her many faults, and could not imagine sharing such enmity with her. He soldiered on gamely. "Is your brother in good health?"
"I believe so. Henry is not the best correspondent, although his wife writes to me occasionally. He is married now, you know." She sipped her tea and giggled. "He has young squire Musgrove to thank for that."
"Charles?" asked Walter in astonishment.
"Aye. My brother now bears a very ugly scar right here," brushing her fingers along her cheekbone. "I understand that it was inflicted by your brother with the business end of a horsewhip. He deserved it, of course; I told him he was foolish to meddle with Sophie Wentworth, but he would not listen to me. Pretty young ladies care not for his altered countenance, which as you might imagine put a crimp in his romantic conquests, so he managed to get himself leg-shackled to a cross-eyed consumptive shopkeeper's daughter with six thousand pounds."
The fell into an uncomfortable silence. Walter finally set the cup on the table and said bluntly, "Why are you here, Gwen?"
She raised an eyebrow. "So much for the social niceties."
"We know each other too well for those."
"I suppose we do." She set down her own cup. "I simply wished to call and tell you that I have returned to the neighbourhood."
"You are enjoying Sir William's legacy, then."
Gwendolyn blinked at the mention of the late baronet's name. Her smile disappeared and she said, "Yes, my stepfather was kind to me at the last. Ten thousand pounds and a life interest in Kellynch Lodge; think you that a fair price for my virtue, Walter?"
He was struck dumb by the bitterness in her eyes. He remembered the indifferent way she had referred to her affair with Sir William, remembered how she had insisted that she was not a victim, but he read a very different message in her expression. Then the mask went back in place and she said with a brightness that rang false, "Well, that is all in the past. Do you like my cabriolet?"
He smiled and said, "It suits you."
"I thought so." She sipped her tea and smiled.
Walter considered his words carefully, then said, "Gwen, if you have an idea that I wish to return to our former association, I assure you that I do not. I am not the same man that you knew before. I have worked hard these two years to build something for myself here, something of real value, and I will not endanger it for--physical gratification. Forgive me for speaking plainly."
"Then I shall speak plainly as well. I have not come here seeking to lure you to my bed." She gazed at him intently; he had forgotten how green her eyes were. "I am an independent woman now. I no longer conduct my life or claim a home by any man's pleasure, and I plan to take full advantage of my new position. You have indeed changed these two years, Walter; I saw it immediately. You are content, and you wear your contentment well. Is it too much to believe that I wish to change as well, to achieve such contentment for myself? You must believe that I never wanted the life I had before. These past two months--I cannot tell you how delicious my freedom is. And I have determined that there is no reason that I should not be respectable as well as independent. I mean to enter the life of this neighbourhood and be a real part of it. I have the fortune, and the connections. In six months I will be able to call on you and your housekeeper will not treat me disrespectfully and shake her head at me. Depend upon it, Walter, for I am determined, and when I am determined on something, more often than not I achieve it." She set down her cup and rose. "Come along, Jeanne," she called the maid, who trotted over obediently.
Walter rose to see her out, still reeling a little from Gwendolyn's impassioned speech. "Will I see you at services on Sunday?" he could not resist asking.
Gwendolyn turned back at the door and smiled at him. "Of course. All the respectable women in the parish will be there, will they not? Good morning, Mr. Musgrove." She swept out, trailed by the faithful Jeanne.
Walter stood by the door for a moment, then turned abruptly and went into the library. He closed the door and leaned against it for a moment with his eyes closed, trying to forget that he had spent most of Gwendolyn's visit wondering how his hands would feel tucked into the curve of her tightly-corseted waist.
Naturally, Mrs. Musgrove was one of the first to call on the Gilbrides, and reported back to her husband and younger son as they dined that evening at the Great House.
"Sir Bernard is not very genteel," she complained as she sipped a spoonful of soup. "Oh, he is agreeable enough, I suppose, but quite unrefined."
"What of the children?" asked her husband.
"The daughter keeps house for Sir Bernard. She appeared about five-and-twenty. Red hair, sallow skin, not a handsome young lady at all. Indeed, she is rather plain. On the shelf, you know. I did not see the son. He is of a sickly constitution, and Sir Bernard moved into the country mostly for his benefit."
"How old is he?"
"He is fifteen, Miss Gilbride said."
"A difficult age for a boy to be much abed," Walter observed. "Especially with spring approaching. One hopes the country air will benefit him sufficiently to allow him to enjoy the warm days."
"Yes, well," said his mother dismissively. "I am going to invite them to dine with us next week. In our position, we must be among the first to invite them, you know, or people will talk."
Mr. Musgrove laughed. "Who will talk, Mary?" he asked his wife with a grin. "Frederick and Anne would not, nor would Charles and Henrietta, nor anyone else in the neighbourhood. But if you wish to have a dinner party, by all means do so. A little company in the evening is always pleasant. I shall call on Sir Bernard tomorrow, and will take him a note if you like."
"I do not wish to have a dinner party, Charles," she snapped. "I am doing so because I must, as the wife of the squire and as the daughter of Sir Walter Elliot. As ill as I have been this week, such an event will completely drain me. I do wish you would learn to appreciate the sacrifices I make for your good name!"
Walter and his father exchanged furtive grins, both knowing that Mrs. Musgrove loved company and adored to give dinner parties. Insensible of the impertinence conducted under her very nose, she drowned her sorrows in some plum pudding, which fortunately was of a special recipe that never added to her indispositions.
As the evening of the dinner party approached, Walter found himself growing more curious about the new family living at Kellynch Hall. He had made a point of taking the Sunday service at Kellynch church, a function that he usually left for Mr. Stock, but the only Gilbride there was Sir Bernard, who explained that his son had been indisposed that morning and that his daughter had stayed behind to nurse him. Despite his mother's disparaging description, Walter found his new parishioner to be a pleasant enough man, not handsome, but extremely good-natured and unaffected by his new title. However, it was rare for new people to come into their small society, and such arrivals must always be interesting. Thus the rector walked into the drawing-room of the Great House on the appointed evening with a heightened sense of anticipation that was only slightly tempered by the fact that Charles and Anne were the only other guests yet arrived.
He kissed Anne, who smiled up at him. Charles had reported that the lowness and fatigue she had previously suffered had mostly passed, and she was glowing and lovely, her voluminous skirts no longer able to conceal her expanding waistline. "How are you feeling, love?" he asked her softly.
"Very well, I thank you," she said. "Perhaps a little off-balance at times." She lowered her voice and added, "I cannot help feeling that I should not have declined your mother's kind invitation."
"Why?"
She gestured toward her lap in embarrassment. "It cannot be entirely proper to appear in company in such a state!"
Walter laughed. "I suppose my mother would not be put off."
"No. She said that I was being missish and insisted that Charles and I attend. I hope the Gilbrides are not offended."
Having met the good-natured Sir Bernard, Walter felt comfortable in assuring her that they would not be affronted. "I hope my nephew is behaving himself tonight?"
"He or she is resting quietly at the moment," she said with a grin.
"I am glad that he has learned to act properly amongst company." Walter continually teased his sister about the sex of her child; he truthfully had no preference, only hoping for a healthy child and an easy birth for Anne.
"I do not really expect that happy circumstance to last the entire evening," she replied, and then her eyes widened in surprise at something behind him. He turned and saw that Gwendolyn Clay had entered the room, accompanied by Mrs. Fletcher, an eminently respectable middle-aged widow whom Miss Clay had recently engaged to live with her at Kellynch Lodge.
Mrs. Musgrove moved forward to greet the newcomers, and Walter found Charles at his side, gazing up at him with concern. "Walter, if I had known, I would have told you--I did not know that Mother intended to invite her."
Walter gave his brother a wan smile. "Miss Clay lives in one of my parishes, after all. I cannot avoid her forever."
"No, I suppose not," Charles agreed, but he did not look any more comfortable with the present circumstance. He exchanged a troubled look with his wife, who reached for her brother's hand and squeezed it comfortingly.
Walter smiled down at her. "Thank you, love," he said softly. "Thank you both for your concern, but I assure you that it is not at all necessary."
"Well, Anne cannot rise from her chair without assistance, so you have my leave to monopolize her all night," declared Charles, making both Anne and Walter laugh.
Mrs. Musgrove bore down upon them. "What is so amusing, Charles? Come, you must share the joke with all of us."
Charles stopped laughing, glanced toward Miss Clay, and said only, "I have forgotten." He went to join his father.
Mrs. Musgrove drew Walter aside. "Walter, you know your brother is hopeless as a host, so I depend upon you to help me entertain the ladies here tonight. I know when you see Miss Gilbride, you may feel it a hard charge, but a pretty young lady like Miss Clay will be easy to talk to, I am sure. You have been friendly with her in the past, have you not?"
His mother's innocent question gave Walter a moment's pause, but he managed to ask her why she had invited Miss Clay and her companion.
"Well, Miss Clay is Sir William's stepdaughter, and he saw fit to give her a legacy. I feel obliged to maintain the connection; my dear father would have wanted it, I am sure. And they are very close neighbours to the Gilbrides, after all. I am very glad to be able to introduce them."
At that moment the Gilbrides were announced, and Walter turned to the door with real interest. Sir Bernard came in, all red face and good nature, followed by his children. Miss Gilbride proved to be very much as Mrs. Musgrove had described, although a more discerning observer would have noticed that her hair was less red than it was warm, burnished copper, and her skin less sallow than translucently pale. No one would ever describe her as pretty, but she was certainly handsome, with an intelligence in her azure-blue eyes that must draw one's interest.
Master Michael Gilbride was tall and gangly, with his sister's coppery hair and blue eyes in an thin, eager face that looked around him with his father's good-natured, open friendliness.
Mrs. Musgrove was saying, "I am so glad that young Mr. Gilbride is able to join us. I know how vexing it is to be obliged to go into company when one is indisposed. I hope you did not exert yourself overmuch."
"I thank you, ma'am. I detest having to stay abed when there is a party, and I told Eileen that I would on no account miss it, and she agreed that I was well enough to come. I hardly coughed all day." Mrs. Musgrove, accustomed to her own invalidish protests, blinked at the boy in surprise; Walter smiled at his frankness, and at the affectionate expressions on the faces of Miss Gilbride and Sir Bernard. Michael caught his eye and grinned in a very friendly manner.
"Come, boy, you'll have these good people thinking you a gudgeon," Sir Bernard declared, moving forward to shake Mr. Musgrove's hand. "How do ye do, sir, how do ye do? I have had the pleasure of meeting the rector last Sunday at Mass." Mr. Musgrove performed the necessary introductions, and soon the call came for dinner.
"Walter, take in Miss Clay," whispered his mother as she took Sir Bernard's arm. Walter looked around; his father was taking in Miss Gilbride, and Charles was assisting Anne from her chair; he finally approached Gwendolyn and held out his hand silently. She smiled and rose, allowing him to tuck her gloved hand into his arm, and they walked into the dining-room closely followed by Michael Gilbride and Mrs. Fletcher.
The seating arrangements were no easier on his peace; he found himself between Gwendolyn and her companion. At first, Gwendolyn confined her attention to Sir Bernard on her other hand, and Walter tried to make conversation with Mrs. Fletcher; she proved to be pleasant but rather stupid, and he soon gave up the attempt. When Gwendolyn finally turned to him, her conversation was innocuous, mostly polite questions about the church and the parish. Walter found himself gazing at his father and brother, smiling and laughing at the conversation of Miss Gilbride, who was seated between them, her blue eyes sparkling.
When the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing-room, Walter was careful to take a seat at the opposite end of the room from Gwendolyn, despite his mother's nods and winks, finding himself next to Michael Gilbride and his sister. After the tea and coffee were dispensed, Mrs. Musgrove said brightly, "How shall we entertain you, gentlemen? I would ask Anne to play, but she can no longer reach the keys!"
Anne turned bright red at her mother-in-law's reference to her condition in front of those outside the family circle. Charles rose gallantly to the occasion, saying, "Perhaps one of the other ladies will oblige us. Miss Gilbride, do you play the pianoforte?"
"Unfortunately, I do not," she said. "But perhaps I can entertain the company in another way."
Mrs. Musgrove looked confused. "Do you play the harp, Miss Gilbride? I am afraid we have none at Uppercross. My sister-in-law Mrs. Hayter has one, and had I known--"
"Oh, no, ma'am, I am not at all musical. But in Kerry I am well-known for my skill in storytelling."
Michael clapped. "Ah, we are in for a treat! Tell 'em the one about Pat Diver, Eileen."
She smiled at her brother and brushed an errant lock of hair from his eyes. "Very well, this is the story of Pat Diver the tinker, who had no story of his own to tell. I first heard this from a gentleman of Donegal who was one of my father's customers." She rose and stood in front of the fire; as she told the story, her movements punctuated her words, wrapping the listeners in a cocoon of imagination and carrying them off to the mists and green fields of Ireland.
"Pat Diver, the tinker, was a man well-accustomed to a wandering life, and to strange shelters; he had shared the beggar's blanket in smoky cabins; he had crouched beside the still in many a nook and corner where poteen was made on the wild Innishowen mountains; he had even slept on the bare heather, or on the ditch, with no roof over him but the vault of heaven; yet were all his nights of adventure tame and commonplace when compared with one especial night.
During the day preceding that night, he had mended all the kettles and saucepans in Moville and Greencastle, and was on his way to Culdaff, when night overtook him on a lonely mountain road. He knocked at one door after another asking for a night's lodgings, while he jingled the halfpence in his pocket, but was everywhere refused. Where was the boasted hospitality of Innishowen, which he had never before known to fail? It was of no use to be able to pay when the people seemed so churlish. Thus thinking, he made his way towards a light a little further on, and knocked at another cabin door. An old man and woman were seated one at each side of the fire.
'Will you be pleased to give me a night's lodging, sir?' asked Pat respectfully.
'Can you tell a story?' returned the old man.
'No, then, sir, I canna say I'm good at storytelling,' replied the puzzled tinker.
'Then you maun just gang further, for none but them that can tell a story will get in here.'
This reply was made in so decided a tone that Pat did not attempt to repeat his appeal, but turned away reluctantly to resume his weary journey. 'A story, indeed,' muttered he. 'Auld wives' fables to please the weans!'
As he took up his bundle of tinkering implements, he observed a barn standing rather behind the dwelling-house, and, aided by the rising moon, he made his way towards it. It was a clean, roomy barn, with a piled-up heap of straw in one corner. Here was a shelter not to be despised; so Pat crept under the straw, and was soon asleep.
He could not have slept very long when he was awakened by the tramp of feet, and, peeping cautiously through a crevice in his straw covering, he saw four immensely tall men enter the barn, dragging a body, which they threw roughly upon the floor.
They next lighted a fire in the middle of the barn, and fastened the corpse by the feet with a great rope to a beam in the roof. One of them began to turn it slowly before the fire. 'Come on,' said he, addressing a gigantic fellow, the tallest of the four--'I'm tired; you be to tak' your turn.'
'Faix an' troth, I'll no turn him,' replied the big man. 'There's Pat Diver in under the straw, why wouldn't he tak' his turn?'
With hideous clamour the four men called the wretched Pat, who seeing there was no escape, thought it was his wisest plan to come forth as he was bidden.
'Now, Pat,' said they, 'you'll turn the corpse, but if you let him burn you'll be tied up there and roasted in his place.'
Pat's hair stood on end, and the cold perspiration poured from his forehead, but there was nothing for it but to perform his dreadful task. Seeing him fairly embarked in it, the tall men went away.
Soon, however, the flames rose so high as to singe the rope, and the corpse fell with a great thud upon the fire, scattering the ashes and embers, and extracting a howl of anguish from the miserable cook, who rushed to the door and ran for his life.
He ran on until he was ready to drop with fatigue, when, seeing a drain overgrown with tall, rank grass, he thought he would creep in there and lie hidden till morning. But he was not many minutes in the drain before he heard the heavy tramping again, and the four men came up with their burthen, which they laid down on the edge of the drain.
'I'm tired,' said one, to the giant; it's your turn to carry him a piece now.'
'Faix and troth, I'll no carry him,' replied he, 'but there's Pat Diver in the drain, why wouldn't he come out and tak' his turn?'
'Come out, Pat, come out,' roared all the men, and Pat, almost dead with fright, crept out.
He staggered on under the weight of the corpse until he reached Kiltown Abbey, a ruin festooned with ivy, where the brown owl hooted all night long, and the forgotten dead slept around the walls under dense, matted tangles of brambles and ben-weed. No one ever buried there now, but Pat's tall companions turned into the wild graveyard and began digging a grave. Pat, seeing them thus engaged, thought he might once more try to escape, and climbed up into a hawthorn tree in the fence, hoping to be hidden in the boughs.
'I'm tired,' said the man who was digging the grave; 'here, take the spade,' addressing the big man, 'it's your turn.'
'Faix an' troth, it's no my turn,' replied he, as before. 'There's Pat Diver in the tree, why wouldn't he come down and tak' his turn?'
Pat came down to take the spade, but just then the cocks in the little farmyards and cabins round the abbey began to crow, and the men looked at one another.
'We must go,' said they, 'and well it is for you, Pat Diver, that the cocks crowed, for if they had not, you'd just ha' been bundled into that grave with the corpse.'
Two months passed, and Pat had wandered far and wide over the county Donegal, when he chanced to arrive at Raphoe during a fair. Among the crowd that filled the Diamond he came suddenly on the big man.
'How are you, Pat Diver?' said he, bending down to look into the tinker's face.
'You've the advantage of me, sir, for I havna' the pleasure of knowing you,' faltered Pat.
'Do you not know me, Pat?' And then he whispered, 'When you go back to Innishowen, this time you'll have a story to tell!'"*
When she stopped speaking, there was complete silence for a long moment; then the company burst into applause. Charles, who loved a good story, was the most enthusiastic, clapping heartily and grinning from ear to ear, but his brother was not far behind. Anne, who had clutched her husband's hand throughout the story, smiled with delight, her large brown eyes shining. Michael leaned over to Walter and confided, "She knows hundreds and hundreds of stories like that, and better, sir! Don't you, Eileen?"
Miss Gilbride had come back to her seat, and Walter rose to greet her. "In that case, I hope that you will oblige us again in the future," he said with a smile.
"I should be very glad to do so, sir," she said, returning his smile, her blue eyes dancing with merriment. "But I am afraid that Mrs. Musgrove thinks my story vulgar."
Walter glanced at his mother, who was staring at Miss Gilbride with an odd expression. "I think she is simply surprised at such an accomplishment in a young lady. It is not a common thing amongst our acquaintance."
Mrs. Fletcher had taken a seat at the pianoforte and was playing a bright air of no consequence, just the thing to stimulate conversation amongst a crowd of strangers. Michael was summoned by Charles, who had promised him a game of chess during dinner.
Walter turned to Miss Gilbride and said, "I was surprised to see your father at Kellynch Church last Sunday."
She set her cup in the saucer and looked at him curiously. "Why would that surprise you, sir?"
"Most of the Irish are members of the Roman Church, are they not? Especially those who do not live in Ulster."
She nodded. "I see. You must also know that it was illegal to profess that religion in Ireland until only a few years ago."
"I also know that many of your countrymen continued to profess that religion despite the law."
"And you do not approve?"
"On the contrary, madam. Such faith can only be considered admirable."
She laughed. "It is indeed. And your initial surmise was correct, sir. My mother raised me as a Catholic, even when it was illegal. I received my first Holy Communion shortly after the Emancipation Act was passed in 1829. However, since my mother has passed on and we are living here now, my father thinks it best that we join the Church of England."
Her expression was noncommittal, but Walter had a sense that she did not agree with her father's decree. "And this is acceptable to you?"
Those remarkably blue eyes met his once again. "It is all the same God, is it not?"
Walter laughed. "My bishop would disagree with you, I am afraid."
Miss Gilbride smiled in response. "I suppose your bishop has not read 'Tract 90.'"
"He has indeed, madam, as have I." Walter was familiar with the work to which she referred, a tract by John Henry Newman, an Anglican priest. The tract argued that the Thirty-Nine Articles of the Anglican Church, which enumerated the ties between the Church of England and Her Majesty's government, were compatible with the doctrines of the Roman Catholic Church. Walter had heard Bishop Prescott refer to the Reverend Mr. Newman as a "popish apologist" who was secretly endeavouring to tempt good Church of England members into the ranks of Rome. "My bishop is an old-time Evangelical, a sympathizer of John Wesley, I am afraid. He does not embrace such radical ideas as those espoused by Mr. Newman."
"And you, Mr. Musgrove? Do you have sympathy for those ideas yourself?"
"Miss Gilbride, I leave such debates and high ideals to the bishops. My own observation is that the common Englishman, especially the working people who make up a large proportion of my parishes, are only seeking a quiet place to worship in peace and have little or no interest in doctrinal analysis."
She laughed aloud, and Walter smiled at her, and neither of them noticed Gwendolyn's glowing green eyes watching them over the top of her teacup.
At last Mrs. Fletcher finished playing, to a smattering of polite applause that made her blush profusely, and Mrs. Musgrove asked Gwendolyn to take her place. Gwendolyn sat at the instrument, rebuffed an offer from her companion to turn, and said, "I shall play from memory, Juliette dear, I thank you."
She glanced over at Walter, who was still speaking with Miss Gilbride, and began to play the "Moonlight" sonata, the piece she had played for him on their first night together. The haunting notes caught his attention and made him turn his head; he could not see her face, but he could see the tension in her arms and back as she played, bringing a passion and fire to the piece that he had never before heard. Memories crowded his head, and he knew that Gwendolyn intended that they should; she was making love to him with the music, and it was as if the two years and a half since their separation had never occurred. He watched her play, remembering. Miss Gilbride observed him carefully for a time, then rose and went to sit with Anne; Walter did not notice that she was gone.
Soon afterward young Michael began to yawn over the chessboard, and Sir Bernard called for his carriage. Walter bowed to Miss Gilbride and said, "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, madam, and I thank you for the fine entertainment."
She smiled at him and held out her hand. "I look forward to more conversations with you, Mr. Musgrove. It is the rare man who treats me as a reading, thinking, rational creature, and I treasure such acquaintances." She shook his hand cordially and followed her father to the carriage after promising Anne that she would call at the Cottage in the morning.
As the carriage rumbled away, the cabriolet drew near, and Gwendolyn and Mrs. Fletcher took their leave. "Good evening, Mr. Musgrove," Gwendolyn said quietly. "It was very good to see you again."
"And you," Walter said softly, raising her hand to his lips. "Good night, Miss Clay."
When she was gone, Walter turned to see Charles gazing at him with a look of dismay. "Have a care, brother," he said quietly. "I would not have you misused by the likes of Gwendolyn Clay."
"She no longer has any power over me."
"I hope not," said Charles, smiling faintly. Walter smiled back at him and put his arm around his brother's shoulders as they went back into the house.
*The story of Pat Diver is taken from Irish Fairy and Folk Tales collected and edited by W.B. Yeats, first published in 1892.
Chapter VIII
A few days after the dinner at the Great House, Sir Bernard Gilbride called at the parsonage. A rather surprised Walter showed him into his library and asked how he might be of service.
"I have come to beg a favour," said the older man. "My son, Michael, is not a hearty boy, as I believe you know." Walter nodded cautiously. "He was perfectly healthy when we lived in Kerry, but when my wife passed some five years ago we moved to Dublin-my business was there, you know, and without their mother at hand-well, Michael's health went down sadly, sir."
"What is the nature of Mr. Gilbride's illness?"
"We don't rightly know." The older man scratched his head. "He would have these fits, these attacks, you see. He would cough violently for a time and have difficulty breathing, and be left weak and tired. We had doctors, specialists, to see him, of course. All of them said something different and none of them were helpful. Eileen noticed Michael was better if kept inside, so we kept him in as much as possible, though he is naturally an active boy and it is a difficult task." He leaned closer to Walter. "My wife-Michael's mother-died of a consumption, and I fear that he has inherited that tendency. He has grown alarmingly thin in the last year, although he has always been a good eater."
Walter smiled. "I would not trouble yourself about that, sir. I was tall and thin like Michael when I was fifteen, and I was perfectly healthy. And as for the other, I hope the country air will do him good."
"Aye. That is why I came here to Somerset, you know."
"We are delighted to have you in the neighborhood, sir, but may I be so bold as to ask why you did not return to Kerry?"
Sir Bernard shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Ireland is not the same as it was when I was a boy." He sighed. "I wish it was, sir, for my children's sake. It was not easy for me to leave. But the country is dying. Too many people and not enough food, crop failures, what we manage to grow sold out of the country-no, I see no future for us there. I want to give my boy more." He leaned over and fixed his shrewd gaze on Walter. "I want to send him to one of the universities. He will inherit a fine fortune, and I want him accepted as a gentleman, want him to make those contacts he will need in his future life."
"Are you seeking a recommendation of a school, sir?"
"Nay. Michael is not yet well enough to go to school with the other boys, all rough and tumble, you know." Walter smiled, remembering the "rough and tumble" aspects of his own schooling; the phrase was apt. Sir Bernard continued. "I would like you to tutor the boy. He has taken an uncommon shine to you and your brother."
Walter stared at the older man in some astonishment. He had never expected such a request; could not believe anyone could trust him with the education of a young boy. Sir Bernard misunderstood his silence, and hastened to add, "I'll compensate you, naturally. Make it well worth your while."
"No, no, it is not the money," cried Walter. "I confess I am taken aback."
"Indeed? I was given to understand that clergymen such as yourself often take boys to tutor until they are ready for university." He considered a moment. "Perhaps I should ask that curate of yours, Stock, is that his name? He has a large family, might be glad of the extra blunt."
Walter nearly laughed aloud at the thought of Delbert Stock tutoring anyone. He sometimes wondered how the curate had managed to get through Oxford, then remembered his own sometimes indifferent university education, in which most of his learning was obtained through his own exertions rather than that of his instructors. "Very well, sir, I shall tutor your son."
Sir Bernard was clearly much relieved. "Much obliged to you, rector, much obliged. You get him ready to go to one of the universities and I'll be in your debt."
The next day, Walter went to the Cottage to consult with Charles about a plan of study. Charles went to the sitting room he used as a library, took a book down from the shelf, leafed through it, and presented the open volume to his brother. The page to which he pointed was Locke's essay, Thoughts On Education. "That one is for you," said Charles with a grin. "Now let us find some texts for young Michael."
With contributions from the libraries at the Cottage and the Great House along with his own, Walter was able to find sufficient books and determine what subjects young Mr. Gilbride would need to study for entrance into one of the universities. It was decided that three days a week would be sufficient time for the actual tutoring; Michael could spend other time studying on his own, and Walter could tend to his duties as rector. He set up a table and sturdy chairs in his library, which was to be the study area.
Michael Gilbride proved to be a joyful addition to the parsonage, his indefatigable good humour filling the house with light even on the bleakest winter days. Mrs. Brumby and Mrs. Wilson doted upon him, the former scolding the rector if she felt the boy was kept at his lessons for too long and the latter exerting herself to make delectable treats to tempt "Mr. Michael's" appetite. Walter observed that Michael's appetite, as healthy as that of any boy of fifteen, needed no such tempting, but he was as delighted with his pupil as his servants.
When the lessons began, Walter quickly determined that Michael could read very well, and from his own account did so voraciously; many times the tutor had to call Michael back to attention when his eyes wandered to the bookshelves, sometimes rising from his chair to inspect various titles. He knew Latin very well, some French, but no Greek, and his knowledge of science and mathematics were not as advanced as they should have been. Walter moved to correct his deficiencies, and was satisfied that the boy would be ready to go up to one of the universities within two years' time. Sir Bernard spoke wistfully of Oxford, but Michael declared he would go to Cambridge as Mr. Musgrove had. Walter found Michael's open hero-worship a little discomfiting, though flattering, and sometimes even amusing, as when he attempted to imitate the rector's style of dress or way of tying his neckcloth.
One morning a few weeks after the lessons had begun, Walter heard a carriage enter the sweep and went out to greet his pupil. He was surprised to see not the large, ponderous carriage decorated with Sir Bernard's crest on each door, but a gig driven by Miss Gilbride, with her brother seated beside her. He put out a hand to steady the boy as he scrambled eagerly out of the conveyance, then smiled up at the driver. "Good morning, Miss Gilbride," he said with a slight bow.
She smiled back at him. "Good morning, Mr. Musgrove! I have delivered your pupil. It was such a fine morning I thought it would be best for Michael to be in the fresh air for a bit before he has to be cooped up inside with his books."
"An excellent notion, madam." It was indeed a fine day for March, warm and bright. He turned to Michael, whose blue eyes were shining from the ride in the open carriage. "Are you ready to begin your day's studies, then, Mr. Gilbride?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Then let us go to it."
They bid Miss Gilbride good-bye, and she called to the horse and directed the gig down the sweep and out onto the road. Walter watched her for a moment admiringly; she was an excellent whip, driving efficiently yet elegantly. When she was out of sight they went into the library, where several texts were spread out on a table. They worked together for a few hours until Walter declared it time for a rest period.
Michael smiled at him, a lock of his coppery hair flopping into his eyes. "I would like to go outside for a bit, sir, if that is all right," he said hesitantly.
"It is quite all right. Are you hungry?" He was, and Walter sent him into the garden and went to the kitchen to arrange for a table, chairs, and milk and sandwiches to be brought outside. They ate their nuncheon among the wild, overgrown plantings; Mrs. Smythe's beloved rose-bushes, neglected since her death ten years previously, reached up and out with tangled, brown branches. They would flower in June, but not well; many of the blooms would be stunted, and others strangled in the untamed foliage. The flower beds would be a mass of weeds until one of the Uppercross gardeners came to dig them up sometime in June; then they would be nothing more than beds of dry, dead earth. Walter never came into the garden without determining once again to improve it, but this would be his third spring in the parsonage and he had yet to follow through.
When they were finished eating, Walter bid Michael to return to his books, but the protest in the boy's blue eyes prompted him to add, "You may bring them out here to study this afternoon, if you like. But I will hear you recite, and if you neglect your lessons, I will keep you inside all summer."
Michael grinned and ran inside for the books, and settled under a tree with the Greek text while Walter tended to his correspondence. After an hour, Walter tested him, and he knew the lesson perfectly. They were at the table labouring over a mathematics lesson when Michael looked up from his book and cried, "Eileen!"
Miss Gilbride had entered the garden and was walking toward them. Walter rose and waved his hand at his pupil to indicate that he should do so, as well.
Michael rose reluctantly to his feet. "She's only my sister!"
"Nonetheless, she is a lady, and a gentleman always rises to greet a lady."
Miss Gilbride overheard the conversation and called, "Mr. Musgrove, if you are trying to teach my brother manners, I assure you that many before you have tried and failed. I do not envy you your task." She approached the table and reached up to rumple her brother's head, a caress that could have been ridiculous considering that Michael was a head taller than his sister, but she made it seem perfectly right. "Open-air lessons! I am persuaded you would not get such at Rugby or Eton! What are you studying?" She glanced at his book. "Ah, Euclid. How do you get along?"
"Not at all, I am afraid," said Michael sorrowfully. "Mr. Musgrove says I must memorize the formulae but there are so many of them!"
Walter pointed out, "If you wish to attend Cambridge, you need a good background in mathematics and the sciences. I would not have the ghost of Sir Isaac Newton rising at midnight to confront you about your ignorance."
Michael laughed, but Eileen gazed up at him gravely. "If you want to learn this, you must apply yourself, and listen to your tutor."
"I shall."
"Good. Go inside and get your coat and things, it is time to go home."
When he was gone, she turned to Walter. "Mr. Musgrove, I thank you for bringing Michael out here for his lessons. The fresh air does him such good. You see how his colour has improved after just one day."
"I did notice, and will bring him out as much as possible when the weather is fine. However, I suspect we will have some more cold, rainy days before spring really arrives."
"Fear not, sir, spring is on the way. See how the bushes here are beginning to bud!" She walked over to one of the rosebushes and pulled out a branch. She pointed to a tiny green bulge and said, "See?" Walter, who did not profess to be a botanist, nodded politely. Satisfied, Miss Gilbride dropped the branch and looked around her. "Do you have someone to tend this garden, sir? If so, you should turn him off directly, for he does not do his job."
"The disgraceful state of the garden is my fault, I am afraid," he confessed. "I have not devoted the time to it that it deserves, and it was neglected by my predecessor as well."
She turned her intense blue eyes to his. "Does your father not have gardeners that he could lend you?"
"Oh, yes, but I have not had the opportunity to direct them." Sensing that this lowered himself in her eyes, he added rather lamely, "I have many demands on my time."
"Of course." She walked around, reaching out occasionally to stroke a branch or run her gloved fingers through the dirt of a flowerbed. "If you will accept some advice from me, the first thing to do is prune these rose-bushes. They cannot bloom well as they are."
"They probably will not," he agreed. "They have not in the past two summers that I have lived here."
Miss Gilbride's eyes swept around the garden walls, considering. "This bed here, and this one here, should be planted with bulbs. That way you will not have to replant every year. And over here, a bench would be just the thing! Like the ones at the Cottage, the wrought-iron and painted wooden ones near the veranda." She laughed and turned to him, and then drew back, remembering herself. "Forgive me, Mr. Musgrove. It is certainly not my place to tell you anything about your household. In my defense I can only say that the gardens at Kellynch Hall are so well tended that there is nothing for me to do, and I miss working in the garden." She gazed about her wistfully. "Even in Dublin, we had a garden. But tell me," she added, turning back to him, "how would you like the garden to be?"
Walter was startled by the question. "I have not really given the matter any consideration." He looked around him, trying to see how he would like the garden to appear. "Nothing too manicured, I suppose. Natural, and perhaps somewhat unrestrained, but still proper and pleasing." He looked at her and added, "Can you understand what I am trying to convey?"
She smiled warmly. "I can indeed. I believe we have similar tastes in gardens, sir. I too prefer them proper, but not too much so."
Walter smiled back at her, and the fleeting thought occurred to him that his mother was not quite right when she said that Miss Gilbride was plain. It could be that Mrs. Musgrove had not seen the young lady in question in a particularly fetching blue hat and driving-habit that brought out the deep azure colour of her eyes. But while he ate his solitary dinner and afterward read a book upon which he found it difficult to concentrate, Walter found his thoughts returning time and time again to the sight of Eileen Gilbride in the slanting late-afternoon sunlight, her blue eyes sparkling with the thought of bringing his garden back to life.
One cloudy, chilly day in late March, Walter found himself obliged to go into Crewkerne on a commission from his mother and some business of his own. He rode his mare, Rebecca, which he had received as a gift from Charles upon his ordination. The creature was as strong and proud and spirited as her sire, Wilfred, and the sight of the handsome rector on the chestnut mare had excited many a flutter in the hearts of the young ladies of the neighbourhood.
It was market day, and the square in front of the old town hall was crowded with persons and animals and carts of all descriptions. Walter left Rebecca at a posting-inn in the care of a groom, then tended to his business at the bank; that completed, he made his way to Smedley's dry-goods store.
Mr. Smedley had opened his shop some twenty-five years previously and had been extremely successful in the endeavour. An ambitious man, he had purveyed his newfound fortune into social acceptance of a sort. He built a large, elegant house near Uppercross, and gained admission into the drawing rooms of the neighbourhood by virtue of his wife, a woman of some education and gentility but little fortune. Mrs. Smedley had suppressed her own ambition, marrying a tradesman when faced with the alternative of being left on the shelf; however, she transferred that ambition to her daughters, particularly to Charlotte, the eldest. Miss Smedley was a blooming girl of nineteen who had determined to settle for nothing less than becoming Mrs. Walter Musgrove, and who just happened to be in the shop choosing a length of fabric for her spring ball-gown when Walter entered.
Walter went to the counter and opened his mouth to speak when he felt a hand on his arm and heard a voice that made him cringe internally. "Mr. Musgrove!" exclaimed a very happy Miss Smedley. "It is perfectly delightful to see you."
"Good day, madam," he said politely, trying to disengage his arm from hers. "I have come to match some ribbon." He handed a short length to the clerk behind the counter. "Three yards, please."
Miss Smedley waved the clerk away officiously. "La, matching ribbon is not a job for a man! Let me see it." She snatched the ribbon away from the clerk and went to a wall of bobbins, standing in front of them consideringly. The clerk, a Mr. Timothy Jones, stared after her disconsolately. Mr. Smedley, having no sons, had taken him as a partner shortly before. Mr. Jones had given his heart to Miss Smedley some time previously, but she would not consider his suit; not while the rector remained unmarried. Walter gave him an embarrassed smile, but Mr. Jones refused to look at him.
"This is the very thing!" Miss Smedley brought a bobbin of ribbon back to the counter and handed it to Mr. Jones to measure it. She laughingly dangled the length that Walter had brought with him in front of his coat. "It will suit you admirably! It is just the colour of yellow to bring out your eyes." She smiled up at him through her eyelashes, apparently thinking that Walter would find such an affectation flirtatious.
"It is for my mother," said Walter, rather stiffly.
"For your mother? Not for your sweetheart?" she laughed up at him. "To tie around a bundle of wildflowers, perhaps?"
Before the somewhat revolted Walter could form an answer, Mr. Jones said haughtily, "It is not the time of year for wildflowers." He closed the scissors on the ribbon with a deliberate snap.
Miss Smedley ignored him. "Are you to go to the ball at the Tollers' Wednesday fortnight?"
"No, madam, I have not been invited." Thank heaven, he added mentally, imagining an evening of fending off her overwhelming attentions.
"No?" She frowned thoughtfully. "I must speak to Amanda. I am sure that I told her..." Her voice trailed off, and then suddenly she started, as if realizing for the first time that Walter was standing in front of her.
He took the opportunity presented by her confusion and said hastily, "It was very good to see you, Miss Smedley, but I am afraid that I must be on my way." He accepted the package of ribbon from Mr. Jones and turned to the door with relief that he hoped was not entirely visible.
"Wait!" she cried, following him with an eagerness that could hardly recommend herself to the rector. He halted and turned back to her, and she stood staring at him, wide-eyed. She had obviously spoken hastily, meaning only to stop him, without consideration for how she would keep him in the shop, and Walter felt his impatience rising to a dangerous level.
Just then the door to the shop opened, and Gwendolyn Clay walked in, accompanied by the ever-present Mrs. Fletcher. Gwendolyn took in the scene instantly, and though she did not smile, her eyes displayed her amusement at Walter's predicament. After savouring the absurdity for a moment, she said, "There you are, Mr. Musgrove! Have you finished your business? Are you ready to accompany me back to my carriage?"
Walter stared at her wildly, wondering what in the world she had in mind.
"So that I may give you that package," she prodded. "For your mother."
"Oh," he said, comprehending. "The package. For my mother. Yes, I am ready." He turned to Miss Smedley and said, "I thank you for your assistance, Miss Smedley, and you, Mr. Jones."
Charlotte was staring at Gwendolyn, her expression an odd mingling of resentment and admiration. Miss Smedley privately held the sophisticated and elegant Miss Clay as her sartorial ideal, but the evidence of a closer than usual acquaintance with the rector could not but be distressing. "Must you go now?" she said plaintively. "Do not you have business here, Miss Clay?"
"We shall come back tomorrow," she said sweetly. "Mr. Musgrove is a busy man. We should not keep him from his duties." She looked Miss Smedley down and up and added, "Charlotte, dear, that hat is just lovely! And that is a new dress, is not it? That colour is perfect for you. You should wear it more often."
Unable to help herself, Miss Smedley blushed and smiled at such attention from her idol, certainly more than she blushed over her shameless behaviour just now, thought Walter in some annoyance. "I must be on my way, Miss Clay," he said rather sharply. "If you have the package."
"Of course," she agreed, and took his arm as they passed out of the shop, trailed at a discreet distance by Mrs. Fletcher. "The carriage was unable to get close to the shop because of the market," Gwendolyn told Walter when they were outside. "The groom is walking the horses." They walked toward the road at the end of Market Square.
As they walked, Walter felt his pique dissolving. "You dealt with that situation quite admirably," he observed.
Gwendolyn smiled up at him. "Consider it my act of Christian charity for the day."
Walter laughed. "It was a truly Christian act, madam, and I thank you for it."
"It was my pleasure." She hesitated, then added cautiously, "You do not entertain Charlotte Smedley's attentions, then?"
"Good God, no," he said, again revolted. "And I suspect that she has no more real regard for me than I do for her. That mother of hers has filled her head with foolishness, depend upon it."
"'Twould not surprise me," Gwendolyn agreed. "Mrs. Smedley is quite ambitious."
"Charlotte should accept Jones and be done with it. He can make her happy as I could not."
"Here is the carriage." They had reached the road, and the groom alertly brought the carriage to the curb, then sprang to open the door. Gwendolyn indicated that Mrs. Fletcher should precede her into the conveyance, and Walter handed her in with a polite smile that caused her to giggle rather unattractively.
Walter then turned to Gwendolyn and took her hand to help her up the step. "Thank you, love," he said softly. "I'll not forget this favour."
She laughed. "I would not have let you forget it." She put her foot on the carriage step, then turned back to him and added in a low voice, "And never discount your ability to make a woman happy, Walter. It is prodigious indeed."
His heart too full for words, he raised her hand to his lips. As he did so, he heard his name being called out by a familiar voice and realized that it came from a gig just behind Gwendolyn's. He turned, Gwendolyn's hand still in his, and saw that the driver was Eileen Gilbride. She was smiling, but then caught sight of his companion, and the smile faltered. She bowed politely to Gwendolyn, who returned the salute, her green eyes once again full of amusement and, perhaps, a note of triumph.
"Good day, Miss Gilbride," she called with a sweet smile.
Miss Gilbride directed her gig smartly around Gwendolyn's stopped carriage. As she passed, her eyes caught Walter's, lingered for a moment, then resolutely fixed on the road in front of the gig.
Chapter IX
Anne was no longer going out, and Walter tried to stop by the Cottage daily, if only for a few minutes. He rarely found her alone; Lady Wentworth was often with her, as was Sophie Wentworth, and sometimes Mrs. Musgrove would sit for fifteen minutes and offer child-rearing advice which Anne received with admirable composure. However, Anne's most faithful visitor by far was Eileen Gilbride. The ladies had become fast friends and Eileen was willing to keep Anne company for a few hours nearly every afternoon.
One bright day in late winter he found the two ladies companionably established with their respective needlework in the drawing room of the Cottage. He dropped a kiss on Anne's cheek and admired her work, a tiny frock embellished with handmade lace and embroidery.
"The stitchery is beautiful, love," he observed. "You exert yourself more on these clothes than you ever have on your own."
Anne smiled at Eileen. "You may direct your admiration to Eileen. The embroidery is hers. My talents do not lie in that direction."
Walter directed a gallant bow at Miss Gilbride. "Please accept my congratulations and admiration on behalf of my family, madam," he said to her with a grin that belied his solemn words. "You have outdone yourself on my nephew's behalf."
"Or niece," said Anne serenely.
Miss Gilbride smiled up at Walter. "I thank you, Mr. Musgrove. May I add that Anne should not be so quick to denigrate her skill with the needle. I observe that landscape done in silks that hangs above the sofa bears her initials."
"Oh, heavens," said Anne, embarrassed. "I did that old thing years ago at school."
"And I dare say you can still embroider beautifully." Eileen took the gown from Anne and held it up. "It is a pretty thing, though, is not it?" she asked wistfully.
Walter regarded the gown with mingled appreciation and amusement. He had baptized enough babies to form a strong opinion on how long the exquisite little garment would retain its pristine condition once placed on an actual infant, but judged that at the present moment it might be better to keep his opinion to himself, so he simply asked after his brother.
"Charles is at the stables with Michael," said Anne. It had recently come to Charles' attention that young Mr. Gilbride had never learned to ride a horse, and had convinced Sir Bernard that the activity could have only salutary effects on the boy's health, with the happy result that Michael presented himself to Charles for riding lessons on the days that he did not meet with his tutor.
"I had a letter from Eliza today," Anne told Walter.
He pretended to be offended. "She does not write to me."
"Probably because she knows that her brothers are miserable correspondents."
"Probably," he agreed cheerfully. "Does she send any news of my nephews?"
"Of course! She says that little Jemmy never stops talking. His favourite word, unfortunately, is no."
"He takes after his uncles," said Walter comfortably. "My mother says that Charles and I were tyrannical little beasts at that age. I do not envy Eliza, especially when George starts walking. She shall be run off her feet."
"I cannot believe that you and your brother were disobedient little boys," observed Miss Gilbride as she snipped a piece of thread.
"I can," said Anne tartly. "And not just when they were infants. I recall our rector, who sits there looking so very virtuous, pushing Eliza and me into a large puddle when we were very little girls and he was a much bigger boy."
Walter's laughter mingled with that of the ladies. "And Charles fished you out," he reminded Anne.
"Yes, he did," she said, gazing down at her sewing dreamily.
"Charles has always been the best of us," said Walter without rancour.
"You are catching up," replied Anne with a warm smile.
Walter smiled back at her, quietly accepting the compliment. "Did Eliza say if she and James are going to town?"
"Not until next month, I think. The Leighs went down a week ago, but James and Eliza want to stay with the boys as long as possible. Will you be going to town at all?"
"I? No, no." Thoughts rose, unbidden and unwelcome, of his last season in London, and of Gwendolyn Clay. Walter looked away from his sister-in-law, flushing slightly. Since their encounter in Crewkerne, thoughts of Gwendolyn had often intruded on Walter's consciousness. He had to admit to himself that he was as attracted to her as he had been when they had first met, and the memories of their nights together would not be banished no matter how he tried.
Anne watched him, frowning slightly, and finally turned to Miss Gilbride. "Is your family going to London for any part of the season, Eileen?"
"No, my father thinks that Michael is getting on so well in the country that it might not be beneficial to expose him to city air quite so soon."
"Capital!" exclaimed Walter. "Michael will be here for the match! I shall have to take him out, see if he is fit for the team."
"Oh, no!" cried Anne, while Eileen chimed in curiously with, "The match?"
"A football match," explained Walter. "Every year around May Day, the Uppercross men play a match against a group from Lower Barstow."
"They call it a football match," said Anne darkly. "It seems to me to be nothing more than an excuse for grown men to wallow in dirt. Last year Charles came home covered from head to toe and a great deal more pleased about it than he had any right to be. He had mud caked in his hair. We had to draw two baths to get it all out. His clothes had to be thrown away; there was no help for them. Thomas should have just taken him down to the stables and dumped buckets of water over him. It would have been less work for everyone."
"My dear sister neglects to add," said Walter to Miss Gilbride, "that she stood on the sidelines jumping up and down and shouting her approval in an entirely unladylike manner when Charles scored a goal and everyone piled on top of him." Anne laughed good-naturedly at his teasing, but Eileen looked grave. Walter read her thoughts and added in a low voice, "You need not worry, Miss Gilbride. If Michael is not fit, I shall not let him play."
She smiled at him, her dark blue eyes warmer than the midday sunlight streaming into the drawing room. "I thank you, sir. I appreciate your concern, and know I may trust my brother to your care."
"I am at your service," Walter said softly, and then added, almost as an afterthought, "and your family's."
Eileen's smile widened, and neither of them noticed Anne look up from her work and watch them with barely-concealed amusement.
"You must give us men our diversions, after all," Walter said after a moment. "And I submit that football is a very innocent diversion indeed."
"I have long thought that football is a fine substitute for warfare for idle gentlemen," replied Eileen archly. "Striving to dominate a disputed piece of land, trying to gain the enemy's defended territory-it is really quite warlike, do not you agree? In olden times, if the men of Uppercross had a dispute with the men of Lower Barstow, they would have ridden there with swords and pikes and either laid waste to the village or demanded ransom to go away."
"We live in civilized times now," Walter reminded her with a grin. "The business in jousting tournaments seems to have fallen off, and it would be a trifle rude to lay waste to a village for no good reason, so we must make do with what is at hand."
"Indeed," cried Miss Gilbride. "Now you simply kick a leather-covered pig's bladder at one another, but still may come home covered in mud, blood, and glory to fall into the devoted arms of your women."
"'Devoted arms of their women' my foot," complained Anne. "The only place my husband shall fall is the bath until the mud, blood and anything else is washed away."
"You know perfectly well that I am speaking in metaphors, dearest Anne," laughed Eileen. "I hope that Mr. Musgrove knows it, as well."
"Mr. Musgrove is enjoying himself thoroughly," Anne said with a smile. "He likes nothing better than a battle of wits, and you, my dear, provide a formidable opponent."
Eileen lifted her eyes from her needlework to glance at Walter. "Is that true, sir?"
"Anne knows me too well for me to deny it," he said quietly.
Before she could reply, the door opened and Charles and Michael entered the drawing room in a burst of cold air and high spirits. "Here's company!" cried Charles. "Is that tea hot, love? Are there more of those biscuits? You have two hungry horsemen here."
Anne started to rise to ring for more refreshments, but Charles stopped her and gently propelled her back into her chair. "Forgive me, Anne, I do not mean to impose. I am perfectly capable of ringing the bell." He brought forth a small bench and placed it in front of her. "Are your ankles swollen? Here, put your feet up."
"Charles," said Anne in a sharper tone than normal. Her husband looked down at her, perplexed. "Just ring the bell, please," she said finally.
Charles hesitated for a moment and then grinned at Anne sheepishly. "I am hovering, am not I?"
"You are," she replied rather severely. Anne sometimes found her husband's anxious solicitude over her impending confinement a trifle wearying.
Charles took her hand and kissed it, still grinning, and Anne's annoyance melted visibly. "Ring the bell," she reminded him, smiling, and sat back with her needlework.
Mrs. Rudd soon brought in tea and biscuits, and knowing both the master's appetite and young Mr. Gilbride's, she set out cake and a plate of sandwiches as well. Miss Gilbride silently waved Anne back to her seat and poured out the tea while Michael and Charles fell on the food ravenously. Once their immediate hunger was assuaged, they went to the chessboard and continued their seemingly never-ending game.
Walter accepted a slice of cake and a cup of tea and stretched his feet lazily toward the fire. He had only intended to stay for fifteen minutes, but he had been at the Cottage for nearly an hour already and felt no inclination to leave. He always enjoyed visiting with Anne and Charles, and he also enjoyed his conversations with Miss Gilbride. Anne had been correct; Walter enjoyed a battle of wits, and Eileen was never afraid to challenge him and never hid her intelligence and quick mind, a refreshing change from most of the young ladies of his acquaintance. He appreciated her intellect and sometimes found himself making a mental note of something he had heard or read to pass on to her. He never purposely sought her out; they usually met at the Cottage, or when Eileen drove Michael to the parsonage. She often came in to speak with her brother's tutor, ostensibly for a few moments, which usually stretched into a half-hour of pleasant, lively conversation while Michael contentedly rifled the library shelves. Yet had anyone suggested to Walter that his attentions to Miss Gilbride were in any way particular, he would have been surprised. Gwendolyn Clay was a great deal too entrenched in his consciousness to admit thoughts of another.
As spring approached and the days grew steadily longer, Walter began to think about improvements to the parsonage. A shrubbery, he thought, would not go amiss; there was an empty meadow behind the enclosed garden that would suit admirably. He laid out a path and drafted a couple of menservants from Uppercross to dig up the turf, spread fine gravel, and plant shrubs. It would be an excellent, sheltered walk when the foliage grew sufficiently to offer shade and privacy. Walter regarded his creation with satisfaction and turned his attention to the long-neglected garden.
Here he was lost, and found himself obliged to consult Mrs. Wilson. She tore herself away from her work in the kitchen garden and was soon supervising the gardeners as they weeded, pruned, and planted. Walter came out to watch them from time to time, but rarely ventured an opinion. The garden seemed to him to be cleaner and in better order, but he felt little ownership of it.
They had a great deal of rain in early spring, but when the weather permitted, Walter took Michael out to the meadow in the afternoon to teach him the Uppercross brand of football. Michael had played some when he was younger and could dribble the ball quite well, but his kicks were usually off-target. They set up a makeshift goal between the shrubbery, and Michael entered into the activity with natural enthusiasm.
One afternoon they stayed out longer than usual. Walter suddenly noticed the angle of the sun and called his pupil to attention. "Your sister is probably waiting for you and swearing terrible oaths on tutors," he said as he pulled on his coat.
Michael made a face. "I know not why she thinks she must drive me around. Mr. Charles says I am fit to ride over by myself. Then she should never have to wait."
"Probably because it has rained for a time nearly every day this month, and she wants to be sure you will not take a chill." Walter affectionately pushed the boy through the door in the high stonewall that surrounded the flower garden.
Miss Gilbride stood in the garden, deep in consultation with Mrs. Wilson; she did not notice them until Michael playfully kicked the football in her direction. She stopped it expertly with one booted foot and kicked it back to him, then laughed at her brother's amazement. "I played football in my hoydenish girlhood," she reminded him. "I taught you, remember. Now go fetch your books. Father will be pining for his dinner." Michael picked up the football and ran off toward the house.
Mrs. Wilson said, "You've reminded me of my duty, miss; I must check on the rector's dinner. I will take your advice about the bulbs, though, and I thank you for it." She followed in Michael's wake, though a great deal more slowly.
Walter watched her limp away, his face troubled. "I should not have asked Wilson to take on so much of the work. She is not a young woman. It cannot be good for her to kneel in the dirt every day in this damp weather."
"I would not tell her that," said his companion with a smile. "She thrives on working in the garden. I confess I am sympathetic."
"The kitchen garden is enough of a responsibility for a woman of her years. I should hire a proper gardener."
"There is time enough for that. Allow her to finish what she has started. It is shaping well! You need to fertilize those beds, though."
Walter's shook his head. "Your wisdom is wasted on me, Miss Gilbride. I can tell the plants apart but as for that which makes them grow, I fully acknowledge that my information is deficient."
She tilted her head and looked up at him speculatively. "Very well. I have passed on some of my wisdom, as you call it, to Mrs. Wilson."
"I am sure that you will find her a most receptive audience."
Michael called impatiently from the sweep, and Walter offered Miss Gilbride his arm and escorted her out to the gig.
One warm, sunny morning about a week later, Walter heard a commotion outside the parsonage. He glanced through the library windows, which overlooked the sweep, and saw Miss Gilbride's gig with a wagon following behind. Michael looked on as his sister spoke to two menservants, who proceeded to unload boxes of tiny plants from the wagon.
Walter went outside and confronted Eileen. "What is all this?" he asked her.
"I have brought you some plants that I started in the conservatory at Kellynch," she told him, winding a thick veil around the wide brim of her hat. "I have more than we shall ever use. The sun is terribly bright today, is not it? My skin is so fair that it burns in no time."
"Did Wilson ask you to bring these?" asked Walter.
"No, she did not." Miss Gilbride hesitated beside the wagon for a moment. "Do not neighbours exchange plants in Somerset?"
"I suppose so," said Walter doubtfully. "I would know nothing of it."
"Well, I am sorry if I have done something wrong," said Eileen with a smile that showed no remorse, and went into the garden. Walter watched her, frowning, then followed his pupil into the library.
After a few hours of study, Michael was restive, staring out the window at the sun-drenched landscape. Walter told him to take the football out to the meadow and went out to the garden. Eileen was there, a borrowed wrapper tied around her elegant driving costume, kneeling by a flowerbed and gently transferring young plants from the small pots to their new homes.
The cook looked up as Walter approached. "Mr. Musgrove, sir, was it not kind of Miss Gilbride to bring us these plants? I knew it was too late to put out seeds and thought we should have to make do with what we had."
Eileen sat back on her heels and regarded her work with satisfaction. "I am afraid some of these will not bloom until the fall, but with what is already here, you should have something blooming at all times till the first frost."
"This is very kind of you, Miss Gilbride," said Walter, offering her his hand to help her rise. "However, I must insist that you let me call some of the men over from the Great House to do the planting."
"But I enjoy this! There is nothing more satisfying than the smell of newly-turned earth in the spring, drenched by the rain and warmed by the sun." She breathed deeply, her head tilted back, then gave a sigh of pure enjoyment.
Walter turned to the cook and asked, "Wilson, can you find some fruit or cold meat or something for young Michael? I dare say he will be complaining about his empty stomach soon enough."
The older woman limped back into the house and Walter turned back to Eileen. He hesitated, trying to frame the words in a way that would not offend her. "Miss Gilbride, please do not think that I am ungrateful. It is all very well to send over your extra plants, but I confess that I fear what people will say when word gets about that you are working in my garden. And I assure you that word will get about."
Eileen had removed the wrapper and undraped the veil from about her hat as he spoke, and her usually fair cheeks were becomingly pink; whether from the warmth of the sun or from something else, he could not tell. "I understand. I did not think about such things. I shall trouble you no more." She turned away and began to walk toward the sweep.
Walter ran after her and touched her arm. She stopped but did not turn around. "I am sorry," he said softly. "I did not express myself well. Thank you, again and again, for your generosity. I hope you and your family will visit the garden in June when the roses are blooming. It will be beautiful, and that is due in great part to your advice and help."
She gazed up at him for a moment thoughtfully, her eyes seemingly a deeper blue than normal; finally she gave him a faint smile. "You are welcome. I know you are trying to protect me from unkind gossip, and I thank you for it. My behaviour today was born of my concern about Mrs. Wilson, which I know you share, so I stepped in as best I knew how. I meant no harm."
"I know that," Walter assured her.
She shook his hand with her usual cordiality and left him alone in the garden.
"Did you give Mr. Michael and the rector their nuncheon, then, Mrs. Brumby?" The cook sat down with a heavy, satisfied sigh and inspected her teacup. "This scullery-maid is a great deal better than the last one, ma'am. I was tired of finding spots on my cups."
"Aye, that she is. A good, hard-working girl, but too pretty. We shall never keep her. One of the young bucks from the Great House will take her away and marry her and I'll have to start all over again with a new girl." The housekeeper poured a cup of tea and took her own seat. "There was not a scrap of food left of the nuncheon, ma'am. It does my heart good to see an appetite like young Mr. Michael's."
"It does indeed, Mrs. Brumby." Mrs. Wilson helped herself to a piece of shortcake. "He's a good lad, that one, a well-mannered young man, even if he does read too much."
"He does read a great deal, ma'am. More than the rector, more than Mr. Charles, even. He'll strain his eyes before he's finished, depend upon it. This shortcake is delicious, Mrs. Wilson."
"I thank you, ma'am. This is a particularly good batch, if I may say so myself."
"You may, ma'am."
Mrs. Wilson had no trouble picking up the various threads of their conversation. "The rector does his best to get Mr. Michael outside in the fresh air. That's what the boy needs, fresh air and exercise. He's to play in the football match, you know."
"Is he now? I wonder if his sister will like that."
"Miss Gilbride is a young lady of good sense, Mrs. Brumby, and kind to her brother, and she knows the rector would never lead him to harm."
"I will depend upon your information, ma'am, not being acquainted with the young lady." The housekeeper sipped her tea thoughtfully. "Do you think she's set her cap at the rector?"
"I think not. Miss Gilbride's not like the silly young things around here, throwing themselves at the rector's head."
"I am glad to hear that, ma'am. I confess that I was afraid that Miss Gilbride might be putting herself forward as she is spending so much time at the parsonage."
The cook shook her head firmly. "No, Mrs. Brumby, the young lady was being neighbourly, giving the rector some plants she had started. I am persuaded she meant no offense." She leaned closer to the housekeeper and said in a confidential tone, "You know Miss Gilbride has no mother, the poor thing. You can't blame her if she doesn't always know the right way to go on."
"I suppose not, Mrs. Wilson. I have observed, though, that the more retiring young ladies sometimes get more attention from the gentlemen than the bold, forward articles. Perhaps the rector will begin to like Miss Gilbride all the more for it."
"I must say, ma'am, that if he did it would not be such a bad thing."
Mrs. Brumby was much struck by this. "Indeed, Mrs. Wilson? You think Miss Gilbride would be a good wife for the rector?"
"I do, ma'am. She is a modest young woman who knows her place, and I hear in the village has a bit of money of her own."
"But her father is a tradesman, Mrs. Wilson! The rector's grandfather was a baronet! You know Mrs. Musgrove can be terrible proud sometimes."
"Tradesman's daughter or no, I would place Miss Gilbride ahead of some of the ninnyhammers hereabouts. That Clay creature, for one."
"Oh, yes, Mrs. Wilson, we are of one mind there. Though I feel I must point out that Miss Clay has been living very retired since she moved into Kellynch Lodge, and has a respectable widowed lady living with her, just as she should." She took another piece of shortbread and added, "And I think the rector likes her."
"Does he, now!"
"Aye. She's certainly a beautiful young lady, and they say in the village that the rector always stops to speak with her when they meet, the pair of them smelling of April and May."
"The rector could never marry her, though," said Mrs. Wilson. "She lived under the protection of a lord for a while, I hear. The rector wouldn't consider making such a disrespectable connection, no matter how beautiful the lady."
"He's just a man," said the housekeeper ominously.
"Aye, that he is," sighed the cook. "I'll take another cup of tea, Mrs. Brumby, if it's not too much trouble."