“I really have not said I will not go,” Rebecca said. “I have not even read my invitation yet, Harriet.”
“I have no wish to coerce you,” Christopher repeated, “but I do hope that you decide to come, Miss Shaw.Those of us who learned and performed the waltz here lastweek must show off our accomplishment at the ball.”
His eyes, she saw when she looked directly at him over her shoulder, were positively dancing with merriment. Herstomach lurched. The old Christopher, some joke constantly on his lips.
“Go, Miss Shaw,” he said, “before your hands and face match the blue of your dress.”
Rebecca went.
Chapter 7
Rebecca returned a card accepting her invitation to the Langbourne ball. She had dithered long over the decision.She did not like to think it was true that she was becomingstuffy, and of course it was not necessarily true merelybecause Harriet had said so. But Rebecca had the feelingthat it would be very easy for her to cut off all ties with herown class. And she had no real desire to do so. As a girlshe had always enjoyed a party or ball or picnic. Indeed,Mama and Papa had done so too.
And she needed friends. She liked the poorer people of the neighborhood and enjoyed their company. But she waswell aware that there was an invisible barrier between herand them that would always prevent them from becomingtruly her friends. Her birth and her education set her apartfrom them. On the other hand, the people of her own classfrequently annoyed her with their seeming unawarenessthat people around them constantly suffered from theirpoverty. Yet these were her people, the ones with whomshe felt she belonged.
As a younger woman, Rebecca had succeeded in dividing her time to her own satisfaction, enjoying the pleasures that social life had to offer, yet using the bulk of her timeto minister to the needs of her father and his poorerparishioners. Looking back now, she could see that thechange had come with her rejection by Christopher. Socialactivities without him had lost their appeal, while serving others had helped dull the pain of her loss. The passing of Papa had completed the process, and she had had little todo with the various activities of her class in the yearssince.
It had not been a conscious choice. She had never rejected invitations out of hand. She had always considered them. But more often than not, she had found anexcuse for not attending that had always sounded quiteconvincing to her. Yes, Harriet was right, she had decidedat last. She had become staid, something of a killjoy. Shewould go to the ball, which was generally accepted as themost glittering event that the year had to offer in this partof the world.
Yet the decision had not been as easy as these thoughts might have made it. Christopher would be there, and hehad expressed a hope that she would go too. Should she goand perhaps let him think that his words had prompted herinto going? Should she allow him to think that his wishesstill mattered to her? And did they? Could she convinceherself that she was not now finding excuses to attend theball because she did not want to admit to herself that it wasthe certainty of his presence that was drawing her there?
Philip was the one who finally helped her make up her mind. He had accepted his invitation, he told her whenthey were visiting the sick together one afternoon. It seemedonly right that she should go too. Their relationship, whichhad seemed perfectly satisfactory to her in the monthssince they had become betrothed, suddenly seemed to belifeless. Had things changed between them in the previousfew weeks? Or had it always been like this, and she hadonly now become aware of the fact? Perhaps her memoriesof the way things had been with her and Christopher weremaking her realize the great contrast with her presentengagement.
Yet she must never complain. Love and passion were unreliable. They did not stand the test of time. Her relationship with Philip was undemonstrative, but in that factlay its very strength. They shared similar ideas, beliefs,and values. They were involved in similar work. They respected each other. She need never fear that he wouldabandon her as Christopher had done when he had tired ofhis love for her.
Thinking about Philip made Rebecca feel guilty. She did not believe that she had behaved differently toward him inthe last few weeks, but she knew that she had felt differently. She had been feeling dissatisfaction. She had noticed things about him that really did not matter at all. Hewas not a lighthearted man; he did not smile or laugh agreat deal; he did not spend time on activities or conversation that he felt did not relate to his work. Even attendingfunctions like the Sinclair picnic and the Langbourne ballwere duty to him.
But truly these things were unimportant. Philip was a man of great integrity, and he really did cater to the needsof his flock without regard to his own comfort. On theafternoon when he told her of his acceptance of his invitation to the ball, for example, he had also told her of a newscheme of his. It was to visit the elderly and the sick—people who were confined a great deal to their homes—inorder to read to them. Some of them had never heard astory, except perhaps the type of folktale that parents toldtheir children. Surely it would help relieve the tedium oftheir days if he could read to them for an hour a few timesa week from the great works of literature.
It was a simple enough idea, yet it was typical of Philip. He listed several people whom he intended to serve in thisway. And Rebecca, doing quick calculations in her head,realized that this new project would add many hours to hiswork schedule each week, and miles of extra travel.
She must return her thoughts to him. She must concentrate all her attention on his good qualities and ignore those things about him that were less attractive. After all, no onewas perfect, and she hated to think of what would happenif he started to dwell upon her weaknesses. So she wouldattend the ball and devote herself to showing her esteemfor him during the evening. It did not matter that Christopher would be there too. She must get used to seeing him without being affected by his presence. After all, he wasthe son of the Sinclairs. She was likely to see a great dealof him in the coming years.
She hoped to avoid meeting the visitors at the Sinclair home during the week before the ball, but it was not to be.The chilly, windy weather continued and seemed verylikely to turn to rain as Rebecca walked home from schoolone afternoon. Her shawl did little to keep the wind fromcutting through to the very marrow of her bones. Severaltimes she felt an isolated spot of rain, and there was stillalmost half a mile to walk before she could tum off ontothe shortcut through the pasture. For once she was definitely sorry that she had not accepted Uncle Humphrey’soffer of the gig. He had been quite insistent that morning.She bent her head to the wind.
This time she did not hear the horses come up behind her until they were almost level with her. When she didhear them, she looked back anxiously, and sure enough,there they were again, Mr. Carver in the lead, and Christopher slightly behind him.
“Miss Shaw,” Lucas Carver said in his usual amiable way. “You look like a damsel in distress, if ever I sawone. It’s a pity damsels are not attacked by dragons inthese days. The fire from its nostrils might warm us allup.” He shook with mirth at his own joke.
“Everett should have brought you home,” Christopher said. “Does he not have a conveyance?” His face andvoice were quite severe. He also looked quite snug in hisgreatcoat.
“Philip was from home this afternoon,” Rebecca said curtly. “He is a busy man.”
“Too busy to look after the welfare of his betrothed?” Christopher asked, one eyebrow raised.
Had Mr. Carver not been there, Rebecca would have answered with the anger she felt. As it was, she merelystared back, tight-lipped. “If you will excuse me,” shesaid, “I shall continue on my way. I fear the rain is aboutto start in earnest.” She held out a hand and looked up tothe heavy clouds overhead.
‘‘It is too far for you to walk in such weather,” he said. ‘‘Come, take my hand and step on my boot. I shall pullyou up and take you home.”
“No, really,” Rebecca said, pulling her shawl closer around her and stepping back, “I shall be quite warm onceI start walking again.”
But he would not let her pull her eyes away from his. “Come,” was all he said, his hand still outstretched.
If only Mr. Carver were not there! Rebecca could feel her face burning, cold or no cold. She stepped forwardagain and placed her hand timidly in his. She raised herskirt with the other hand and placed a foot on his Hessianboot. He was very strong, she thought through the confusion of her mind. Beyond those two actions, she seemed tomake no effort at all, yet a mere few seconds later she wasseated sideways on the horse in front of his saddle, one ofhis arms firmly holding her in place.
He prodded the horse into motion. Rebecca was utterly mortified. She tried to sit upright, away from him, but itwas impossible to do so. The only way she could keepfrom losing her balance was to lean sideways, one shoulder and arm pressed firmly against his chest. His armstayed around her.
“Wish now that I had thought of playing Sir Galahad,” Mr. Carver said. “Only trouble is, ma’am, that m’horsewould probably sag in the middle if it were forced to bearone ounce more than my weight.” He laughed as he rodeon slightly ahead of his companion on the narrow countrylane.
