Rebecca’s eyes widened. “Do you believe he would dare?” she asked. “I cannot think it.”
“And I trust you are right,” he said earnestly. “But I felt it my duty to speak. I would not be able to forgivemyself if anything happened because I had felt the mattertoo delicate to involve myself. Forgive me, Miss Shaw.My sister’s family has in a sense become my own. I mustbe concerned for the welfare of its members. If Sinclairbehaves as a gentleman ought, I shall be happy, though Imay lose credit in your eyes.”
“Not so, sir,” Rebecca assured him. “I thank you for taking me into your confidence. You may be sure that Ishall be properly concerned for Harriet’s welfare when Mr.Sinclair arrives.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, and his face relaxed into its accustomed smile. He took Rebecca’s hand in his andraised it to his lips before turning and leaving the room.
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. Sherang immediately for a maid and directed that bathwater bebrought to her dressing room. She ran a finger beneath thehigh neckline of her cotton dress and turned her head fromside to side. But it was no good. There was no cool air tobe felt.
She should not have stayed to listen to Mr. Bartlett. She should have told him quite firmly as soon as he began thatthe way Mr. Christopher Sinclair chose to run his life wasnone of her concern.
People were all the same, she supposed. Everyone liked to hear gossip, especially if it showed someone one knewin an unpleasant light. She always prided herself on herlack of interest in either listening to or spreading viciousrumors. Yet there were times when she could not resist.And she had heard so very little about Christopher inalmost seven years. She had taken a malicious sort ofpleasure in hearing what Mr. Bartlett had had to say, andreally she could not entirely blame either him for speakingor herself for listening. He had spoken from the best ofmotives—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. Sheundid 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 hershoulders 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 hewould never return, she had resolutely set herself to forgetting him. The self-discipline that she had built up duringher childhood and youth as her father’s daughter had aidedher outwardly. She had not crumbled, and no one—noteven Papa—had known the size of the battle raging within.But finally she had won that battle, too, though neverperhaps quite to the extent she would have liked. Occasionally she would think to herself with some satisfactionthat she had now forgotten Christopher. But she wouldimmediately 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 thatshe had never even suspected. She had always known, ofcourse, that he was not perfect. Her earliest memories ofhim were of a mischievous plague of a boy, whose greatestdelight seemed to be to tease the prim, rather shy daughterof the vicar. She could remember him at church, sittingwith his family in the second pew, behind her and hermother. She had worn her hair in long braids as a child,and she had liked to toss the braids over the back of theseat, where they would not dig into her back. One Sundaymorning she had been forced to sit through most of herfather’s lengthy sermon with her head tilted back at anunnatural angle while Christopher’s knee had kept herbraid held firmly against the back of the pew. She hadbeen released finally, she remembered, a moment afterhearing 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 hadwandered outside. She remembered sitting on a tombstonein the churchyard, finally too terrified either to get downor to turn her head as Christopher stood in front of her,very seriously and sincerely describing the ghosts thatcame out of the graves at midnight. For many nights afterthat 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 thebathtub and soak in the lukewarm suds. It had been justsuch a day when she had finally realized that both she andChristopher were growing up. She had always hero-worshiped him to a certain extent. He had always been atall 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 abouttwelve years old and had started to fantasize about hisrescuing her from terrible dangers: fire-breathing dragons,vicious highwaymen, treacherous quicksand. He had always been mounted on a white stallion in those fantasiesand he had always had a black cloak streaming behindhim. And the fantasies had always ended at the moment ofrescue.
The time she was thinking of was the summer when she was fourteen and he seventeen. The annual village fair hadlasted the whole day and was ending in fast and furiousfun as everyone danced on the village green. Rebecca, forthe first time, had been allowed to stay up until eleveno’clock, but finally Mama had instructed her to go home tobed. The whole village was alight. There was no need foranyone to acompany her. But Christopher had fallen intostep beside her, chatting in his amiable way as he walkedher home. By that stage of their lives they had becomefirm friends.
They had taken a shortcut through the churchyard on the way to the parsonage and Christopher had tried to reviveher old fear of the graves there. But she had tossed herhead, which was feeling very grown up with its hairpinned up for the first time, and thrown him a look ofcontempt.
“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 awoman grown. I am allowed to wear my hair up and Ihave 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 howto 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 tokiss.”
“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 tightlyshut 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 shehad assumed that that bruising, grinding pressure of lipsand teeth against lips and teeth was how it was supposed tobe done. She never did ask herself whether she had liked itor not. When she had stopped running and had the door ofthe parsonage safely between herself and any possiblepursuit by Christopher, she had been too deeply in lovewith him to consider anything more than the fact that hehad kissed her, and she had proved to him that she wasindeed a woman.
She had loved him mindlessly, passionately, for the following five years, until he had told her that he wasgoing away and never coming back. And even beyond thatshe had loved him, painfully and against her will, until shehad finally forced herself to forget. Or to tell herself thatshe had forgotten.
Rebecca slid down in the bathtub until her whole body was submerged to the neck. She put her head back againstthe metal rim and closed her eyes. The cool water felt verygood. She could feel all her muscles relaxing. Perhaps herheadache would not develop after all. It was pointless topursue these memories of Christopher now. It was allancient history. He was clearly a very different man nowfrom the one she had loved as a girl and very youngwoman.
Two days later, Rebecca was again walking home from a day at the school. The weather was still hot, thoughclouds had moved across the sky since she had left homethat morning so that at least she did not have the glare ofthe sun to contend with.
She was not feeling cheerful. She and Philip had come very close to quarreling during the morning. It was not hisday for teaching, but he had spent half an hour with herbefore luncheon.
She had been listening to the boys reading aloud. The performance was not an inspired one, but most of thepupils had managed to stumble their way through thewords on the page. However, there was one boy who hadnot. There was scarcely a word he could recognize, andeven Rebecca’s promptings and encouragement to soundthe words out syllable by syllable did not help. Philip hadwalked over to stand silently behind the boy, his handsclasped 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, andfor truancy. He had finally berated the lad with bittersarcasm for his dirty fingernails and uncombed hair. A fewminutes later Rebecca had given the boys a break andstood silently at her desk while they filed out, far moresubdued 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 presentedthem? I am bitterly disillusioned.”
