Read Online To Love and to Cherish by Patricia Gaffney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patricia Gaffney
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lovely old house, as fine as any of its kind in England.”
“Elizabethan,” Miss Pine chimed in.
“I look forward to it,” said her ladyship, smiling across at Christy.
Old Mrs. Weedie, who had been following the conversation only intermittently, got up suddenly from her place by the fireplace and sidled toward the door to the scullery. On the way, her hand grazed Christy’s shoulder, and he thought she murmured, “Follow me.” Her surreptitious tone prompted him to stay seated until Honoria launched a new topic, the sad state in which the old lord had left the once-beautiful gardens at Lynton Great Hall. Then, as inconspicuously as possible, he got up and followed Mrs. Weedie into the passage.
She was already at the far end of the pantry, bending over the shelves, running her hand along the stacked foodstuffs and crockery. The frail curve of her back made him think of the time, not so long ago, when she had been tall and upright, a vigorous, no-nonsense woman. Now, every day, she depended more and more on her self-effacing daughter, and the change frightened both of them.
“Here it is.” She pulled a folded piece of paper out from between two flour bags. “If you mail it, it’ll get there,” she told him, pushing the paper into his hands, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of conspiracy.
He looked down and saw the name “Robert James Weedie” scrawled on the outer fold, but no address. Perplexed, he asked, “Who is it?”
“My son,”
she said in a fierce whisper. “I’ve never written to him before. I was wrong not to. They need guidance at that age. Bobby—”
“Mother?” The casual trilling note in her voice couldn’t disguise Miss Weedie’s anxiety.
The old lady put her finger to her lips and pressed the letter in Christy’s hand to his waistcoat. “Put it away and don’t tell Jessie,” she warned. “She disapproves. More tea, Vicar?” she asked in her normal voice, ushering him past her daughter in the narrow passage without looking at her.
Christy only had time to give Miss Weedie a reassuring smile and a quick shake of the head. Later, he would decide whether she needed to know that her mother was writing letters to a son who had been dead for thirty years.
Shortly after that, Lady D’Aubrey said she had better be going. Everyone stood up. Amid the thanks and farewells, Christy surprised himself by asking if he might walk back with her to the Hall. She thanked him and said she would like that very much.
V
16 April—Easter Sunday
Reverend Morrell is the first clergyman I’ve known—not that I’ve known very many—who listens more than he talks. I think he has no idea of the effect he has on people when he does speak, either—another appealing quality. It’s fascinating to watch the faces of the four old ladies (I call them that, and it’s not fair; Miss Weedie is not old) when they look at him; they listen intently, hanging on every word he utters. It’s no wonder they love him, he is so very kind to them. He told me a little of their history as he walked home with me this afternoon, and the very real affection he has for them shone in his face like a soft light. I like them, too—who would not? Particularly Miss Weedie—Jessica. She’s a gentle woman, nervous and high-strung, anxious to please. I can’t help wondering if she ever had hopes of something more than the companionship of women and the satisfactions of self-sacrifice. If so, she seems to have forgotten them. And if she’s lonely, she’s much too well-bred to let it show.
But I don’t think she will be my friend. She and the others will maintain the social gap they think is between us, in spite of anything I could do to bridge it. The irony is that it’s a false gap, this peeress-commoner nonsense. The
real
gap is even wider; it’s the one that separates goodness and simplicity (theirs) from emptiness and ennui (mine).
Honoria Vanstone, on the other hand, would be my friend in a minute if I
“Elizabethan,” Miss Pine chimed in.
“I look forward to it,” said her ladyship, smiling across at Christy.
Old Mrs. Weedie, who had been following the conversation only intermittently, got up suddenly from her place by the fireplace and sidled toward the door to the scullery. On the way, her hand grazed Christy’s shoulder, and he thought she murmured, “Follow me.” Her surreptitious tone prompted him to stay seated until Honoria launched a new topic, the sad state in which the old lord had left the once-beautiful gardens at Lynton Great Hall. Then, as inconspicuously as possible, he got up and followed Mrs. Weedie into the passage.
She was already at the far end of the pantry, bending over the shelves, running her hand along the stacked foodstuffs and crockery. The frail curve of her back made him think of the time, not so long ago, when she had been tall and upright, a vigorous, no-nonsense woman. Now, every day, she depended more and more on her self-effacing daughter, and the change frightened both of them.
“Here it is.” She pulled a folded piece of paper out from between two flour bags. “If you mail it, it’ll get there,” she told him, pushing the paper into his hands, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of conspiracy.
He looked down and saw the name “Robert James Weedie” scrawled on the outer fold, but no address. Perplexed, he asked, “Who is it?”
“My son,”
she said in a fierce whisper. “I’ve never written to him before. I was wrong not to. They need guidance at that age. Bobby—”
“Mother?” The casual trilling note in her voice couldn’t disguise Miss Weedie’s anxiety.
The old lady put her finger to her lips and pressed the letter in Christy’s hand to his waistcoat. “Put it away and don’t tell Jessie,” she warned. “She disapproves. More tea, Vicar?” she asked in her normal voice, ushering him past her daughter in the narrow passage without looking at her.
Christy only had time to give Miss Weedie a reassuring smile and a quick shake of the head. Later, he would decide whether she needed to know that her mother was writing letters to a son who had been dead for thirty years.
Shortly after that, Lady D’Aubrey said she had better be going. Everyone stood up. Amid the thanks and farewells, Christy surprised himself by asking if he might walk back with her to the Hall. She thanked him and said she would like that very much.
V
16 April—Easter Sunday
Reverend Morrell is the first clergyman I’ve known—not that I’ve known very many—who listens more than he talks. I think he has no idea of the effect he has on people when he does speak, either—another appealing quality. It’s fascinating to watch the faces of the four old ladies (I call them that, and it’s not fair; Miss Weedie is not old) when they look at him; they listen intently, hanging on every word he utters. It’s no wonder they love him, he is so very kind to them. He told me a little of their history as he walked home with me this afternoon, and the very real affection he has for them shone in his face like a soft light. I like them, too—who would not? Particularly Miss Weedie—Jessica. She’s a gentle woman, nervous and high-strung, anxious to please. I can’t help wondering if she ever had hopes of something more than the companionship of women and the satisfactions of self-sacrifice. If so, she seems to have forgotten them. And if she’s lonely, she’s much too well-bred to let it show.
But I don’t think she will be my friend. She and the others will maintain the social gap they think is between us, in spite of anything I could do to bridge it. The irony is that it’s a false gap, this peeress-commoner nonsense. The
real
gap is even wider; it’s the one that separates goodness and simplicity (theirs) from emptiness and ennui (mine).
Honoria Vanstone, on the other hand, would be my friend in a minute if I
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