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Authors: Patricia Gaffney
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Constrained by good manners, fiercely proud of their independence, there was only one subject they never discussed at their thrice-weekly gatherings: money.
“Will you do any renovations to the Hall, do you think?” Honoria broke in, bored and wanting attention. “Lord D’Aubrey—the new lord’s father, that is—invited Papa and me to tea last Christmas,” she continued, with an air of satisfaction that came from knowing that no one else in the room except Reverend Morrell could make
that
claim. “I must say, I couldn’t help noticing how . . . how . . .” She stumbled as an idea of where her tactlessness was leading finally dawned on her.
“How run-down the place is,” Anne finished for her, smiling faintly. “It’s true, the viscount’s first priority doesn’t seem to have been domestic comfort. My husband and I haven’t discussed any changes to the house yet. From what Mr. Holyoake tells me, there are many things that need tending to more urgently than the Hall.”
That was Mayor Vanstone’s cue to fill her ear with a recitation of as many improvements and pet projects for the district as the social nature of the occasion permitted. While he spoke, Christy studied Anne over the rim of his cup, trying to fathom exactly what it was about her that intrigued him so. Geoffrey had told him that she’d lived much of her life in Italy, where her father had made a modest living as a painter. That made sense: her accent was British and so was her roses-and-cream complexion, now that she’d lost what he thought of as her city pallor; but everything else about her was emphatically un-English, from her dress to her hair to the way she listened when someone spoke to her—alertly, directly, without affectation or excessive demureness. The clothes she wore were respectable but a trifle odd, a little off, not quite what Christy imagined was the fashion in London nowadays, and she wore them with a careless panache that fit with his—perhaps naive—image of impoverished bohemianism on the Continent. For that and a number of other reasons, he couldn’t get over how little she resembled his idea of any woman Geoffrey would have married.
Did they love each other? His curiosity was inexplicably strong, stronger even than the tense, ambiguous atmosphere he’d observed between them warranted. Geoffrey, for all that Christy had loved him, had never struck him as a deep man, or even a particularly thoughtful man, and his adult career as a perennial soldier had surprised everyone in Wyckerley except Christy. And although they’d parted when they were only sixteen, Geoffrey’s predilection for coarse, undemanding women was already well established. Unless he’d radically changed, his choice of Anne Verlaine for a wife made no sense. She was lovely, yes, but subtly so, and her sexuality was anything—everything—but overt. Her social smiles were frequent and reassuring, but she never laughed, never; in fact, the longer Christy knew her, the more unthinkable it became to imagine her gay or exuberant, playful or silly, convulsed with helpless hilarity. “Tragic” was too strong a word to describe the fine, elusive essence of her—he hoped; yet beneath her limitless composure he sensed the soul-sick desperation of a life gone out of control.
Mrs. Thoroughgood was speaking to him. “I say, have you given Lady D’Aubrey a tour of the church yet, Vicar?” He said that he hadn’t. “It dates from Norman times, you know,” she told Anne, whose interest appeared genuine. “You can see the Norman influence in the chancel arch and the carvings on the pillars, but most of the rest was added later.”
“Our village was named by the Saxons in the seventh century,” Miss Pine said softly. “We’ve been invaded by the Celts, the Romans, the Saxons, and the Normans.”
“‘Wic’ is Old English for hamlet,” Mrs. Thoroughgood contributed. “Reverend Morrell must take you through the rectory as well. It’s a
“Will you do any renovations to the Hall, do you think?” Honoria broke in, bored and wanting attention. “Lord D’Aubrey—the new lord’s father, that is—invited Papa and me to tea last Christmas,” she continued, with an air of satisfaction that came from knowing that no one else in the room except Reverend Morrell could make
that
claim. “I must say, I couldn’t help noticing how . . . how . . .” She stumbled as an idea of where her tactlessness was leading finally dawned on her.
“How run-down the place is,” Anne finished for her, smiling faintly. “It’s true, the viscount’s first priority doesn’t seem to have been domestic comfort. My husband and I haven’t discussed any changes to the house yet. From what Mr. Holyoake tells me, there are many things that need tending to more urgently than the Hall.”
That was Mayor Vanstone’s cue to fill her ear with a recitation of as many improvements and pet projects for the district as the social nature of the occasion permitted. While he spoke, Christy studied Anne over the rim of his cup, trying to fathom exactly what it was about her that intrigued him so. Geoffrey had told him that she’d lived much of her life in Italy, where her father had made a modest living as a painter. That made sense: her accent was British and so was her roses-and-cream complexion, now that she’d lost what he thought of as her city pallor; but everything else about her was emphatically un-English, from her dress to her hair to the way she listened when someone spoke to her—alertly, directly, without affectation or excessive demureness. The clothes she wore were respectable but a trifle odd, a little off, not quite what Christy imagined was the fashion in London nowadays, and she wore them with a careless panache that fit with his—perhaps naive—image of impoverished bohemianism on the Continent. For that and a number of other reasons, he couldn’t get over how little she resembled his idea of any woman Geoffrey would have married.
Did they love each other? His curiosity was inexplicably strong, stronger even than the tense, ambiguous atmosphere he’d observed between them warranted. Geoffrey, for all that Christy had loved him, had never struck him as a deep man, or even a particularly thoughtful man, and his adult career as a perennial soldier had surprised everyone in Wyckerley except Christy. And although they’d parted when they were only sixteen, Geoffrey’s predilection for coarse, undemanding women was already well established. Unless he’d radically changed, his choice of Anne Verlaine for a wife made no sense. She was lovely, yes, but subtly so, and her sexuality was anything—everything—but overt. Her social smiles were frequent and reassuring, but she never laughed, never; in fact, the longer Christy knew her, the more unthinkable it became to imagine her gay or exuberant, playful or silly, convulsed with helpless hilarity. “Tragic” was too strong a word to describe the fine, elusive essence of her—he hoped; yet beneath her limitless composure he sensed the soul-sick desperation of a life gone out of control.
Mrs. Thoroughgood was speaking to him. “I say, have you given Lady D’Aubrey a tour of the church yet, Vicar?” He said that he hadn’t. “It dates from Norman times, you know,” she told Anne, whose interest appeared genuine. “You can see the Norman influence in the chancel arch and the carvings on the pillars, but most of the rest was added later.”
“Our village was named by the Saxons in the seventh century,” Miss Pine said softly. “We’ve been invaded by the Celts, the Romans, the Saxons, and the Normans.”
“‘Wic’ is Old English for hamlet,” Mrs. Thoroughgood contributed. “Reverend Morrell must take you through the rectory as well. It’s a
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