Read Online Forever and Ever by Patricia Gaffney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patricia Gaffney
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looked, the tighter her nerves stretched. “She’s a bit of a meddler, isn’t she, Miss Deene? Horning in on other people’s affairs?”
“She did cause a lot of trouble,” Mrs. Thoroughgood admitted thoughtfully. “And she wasn’t very nice to Jane Fairfax.”
“She was jealous of her,” Susan Hatch realized. “She didn’t want anybody in the village being more important than her.”
The ladies were looking at Sophie expectantly and—she fancied—a trifle worriedly, as if their rock-solid faith in her judgment had been given a slight nudge.
She held out her hand, imploring their understanding. “Yes, she did meddle, but she always meant well. She fancied herself a matchmaker, and it’s true she wasn’t very good at it, but she
reformed.
Once she realized she’d blundered, she swallowed her pride and set out to make things right.”
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Nineways, “she did,” and Miss Pine said, “True.”
Sophie said, “And after she pokes fun at poor old Miss Bates at the Box Hill picnic—”
Mr. Pendarvis dropped his boot to the floor. “She makes fun of an
old lady
?”
“
Gentle
fun, unintentionally, and she’s ashamed of herself afterward, and apologizes sincerely—”
“I should think so.”
She gritted her teeth. Emma Woodhouse was her favorite heroine in all of fiction; she would not stand by while this—this—
miner
defamed her. “The point is,” she said again, louder, “she learns from her mistakes. It’s true that she’s not a perfect heroine, but that only makes her more interesting and human. Her flaws are forgivable because she has a good heart. She can be foolish and misguided, yes, but when she interferes in other people’s lives it’s because she really believes she’s helping them. And in the end everyone—Emma, Harriet, Jane Fairfax, even Mrs. Elton—each marries
exactly
the right person, not only according to their hearts and their temperaments, but their stations, too. All the couples—”
“Their stations? So Harriet could only marry a farmer because—that’s what she was
born for
?” No boyishness now; his pale gray eyes speared her, intense and unwavering.
Sophie considered the question and answered it honestly. “Yes.”
But she wasn’t prepared for the loaded silence that followed, or the uneasy feeling that accompanied her reply—although she believed it was correct. For the first time she saw uncertainty, perhaps even mistrust in the faces of her friends and neighbors. The look on Mr. Pendarvis’s face was subtler and better hidden, but she interpreted it easily. It was contempt.
With the keenest relief, she heard the church clock strike nine, the unvarying hour when penny readings concluded, and somehow the sound seemed to dissipate the vague tension that had crept into the room; the bustle and murmuring of the ladies as they gathered their belongings sounded relaxed and close to normal.
“Don’t forget, Captain Carnock will begin reading
The Compleat Angler
next Friday,” she reminded them. “Tell your husbands, ladies, that it’s a marvelous book about fishing. Among other things.”
The room began to empty. Margaret Mareton, the Sunday school teacher, had a word with Sophie about the children’s play she was directing for Midsummer Day; they spoke for a few minutes, and Sophie agreed to teach the seven-year-olds a song Miss Mareton had written especially for the occasion. All the while, she kept her gaze fixed deliberately on Margaret’s face, fighting the urge to look and see if Mr. Pendarvis was still there. But when Miss Mareton thanked her and walked away, she couldn’t hold out any longer.
He was gone.
Anne Morrell was leaning in the doorway, holding Elizabeth, her seven-month-old daughter. Anne attended almost all the readings—she was the vicar’s wife; it was expected of her—but Sophie hadn’t seen her tonight until now. “How’s Lizzy?” she asked worriedly. “Not sick, I hope.”
“Oh,
“She did cause a lot of trouble,” Mrs. Thoroughgood admitted thoughtfully. “And she wasn’t very nice to Jane Fairfax.”
“She was jealous of her,” Susan Hatch realized. “She didn’t want anybody in the village being more important than her.”
The ladies were looking at Sophie expectantly and—she fancied—a trifle worriedly, as if their rock-solid faith in her judgment had been given a slight nudge.
She held out her hand, imploring their understanding. “Yes, she did meddle, but she always meant well. She fancied herself a matchmaker, and it’s true she wasn’t very good at it, but she
reformed.
Once she realized she’d blundered, she swallowed her pride and set out to make things right.”
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Nineways, “she did,” and Miss Pine said, “True.”
Sophie said, “And after she pokes fun at poor old Miss Bates at the Box Hill picnic—”
Mr. Pendarvis dropped his boot to the floor. “She makes fun of an
old lady
?”
“
Gentle
fun, unintentionally, and she’s ashamed of herself afterward, and apologizes sincerely—”
“I should think so.”
She gritted her teeth. Emma Woodhouse was her favorite heroine in all of fiction; she would not stand by while this—this—
miner
defamed her. “The point is,” she said again, louder, “she learns from her mistakes. It’s true that she’s not a perfect heroine, but that only makes her more interesting and human. Her flaws are forgivable because she has a good heart. She can be foolish and misguided, yes, but when she interferes in other people’s lives it’s because she really believes she’s helping them. And in the end everyone—Emma, Harriet, Jane Fairfax, even Mrs. Elton—each marries
exactly
the right person, not only according to their hearts and their temperaments, but their stations, too. All the couples—”
“Their stations? So Harriet could only marry a farmer because—that’s what she was
born for
?” No boyishness now; his pale gray eyes speared her, intense and unwavering.
Sophie considered the question and answered it honestly. “Yes.”
But she wasn’t prepared for the loaded silence that followed, or the uneasy feeling that accompanied her reply—although she believed it was correct. For the first time she saw uncertainty, perhaps even mistrust in the faces of her friends and neighbors. The look on Mr. Pendarvis’s face was subtler and better hidden, but she interpreted it easily. It was contempt.
With the keenest relief, she heard the church clock strike nine, the unvarying hour when penny readings concluded, and somehow the sound seemed to dissipate the vague tension that had crept into the room; the bustle and murmuring of the ladies as they gathered their belongings sounded relaxed and close to normal.
“Don’t forget, Captain Carnock will begin reading
The Compleat Angler
next Friday,” she reminded them. “Tell your husbands, ladies, that it’s a marvelous book about fishing. Among other things.”
The room began to empty. Margaret Mareton, the Sunday school teacher, had a word with Sophie about the children’s play she was directing for Midsummer Day; they spoke for a few minutes, and Sophie agreed to teach the seven-year-olds a song Miss Mareton had written especially for the occasion. All the while, she kept her gaze fixed deliberately on Margaret’s face, fighting the urge to look and see if Mr. Pendarvis was still there. But when Miss Mareton thanked her and walked away, she couldn’t hold out any longer.
He was gone.
Anne Morrell was leaning in the doorway, holding Elizabeth, her seven-month-old daughter. Anne attended almost all the readings—she was the vicar’s wife; it was expected of her—but Sophie hadn’t seen her tonight until now. “How’s Lizzy?” she asked worriedly. “Not sick, I hope.”
“Oh,
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