Forever and Ever (15 page)

“I wonder what’s keeping Honoria.” Lily Hesselius spoke up from behind Sophie’s shoulder, startling her. “Not the rain, that’s certain. We could have had our tea outdoors after all, Miss Deene.” She had a girlish giggle that wasn’t always appropriate. A relative newcomer to Wyckerley, Lily was the doctor’s much younger wife, and some wagging tongues disapproved of her flighty manners, and especially her habit of flirting with her husband’s male acquaintances.

“It still might rain,” Anne countered. “When the clouds blow up from the south, anything can happen.”

Sophie smiled to herself at the thought that Anne was defending her, and at her tone of expert Devon weather forecaster—Anne was even newer to the village than Lily.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” All three ladies turned to see Reverend Morrell bearing down on them from the far side of the room. “This isn’t going to turn into one of those parties where the ladies steal off to whisper secrets and leave the men staring at each other. I’ve been sent to tell you that you must come back and save us.”

The women tittered, aware that he was joking, but were flattered in spite of themselves. That was Christy for you, thought Sophie. He didn’t even have to try to make people feel good; he accomplished it just by his presence. Her glance stole to Anne’s face, and she wasn’t disappointed: that look of wry tenderness softened her lovely green eyes, the way it always did when her husband came anywhere near her. Sophie wasn’t given to envy, an unsatisfying failing if ever there was one; but if anyone could make her feel its fruitless pangs, it was the Morrells. Their happiness together was prodigious and unqualified; they were the talk of the town.

They all drifted back to the others—Captain and Mrs. Carnock, Dr. Hesselius, Margaret Mareton and her parents. Lily wondered again what was keeping Honoria and her father, and the captain said there was no bench business today that he knew of—he and Uncle Eustace were local magistrates, along with Sebastian Verlaine. Mrs. Carnock—Jessica—was looking positively fashionable in a teal green carriage dress, with a silk mantel thrown back dashingly over her shoulders. They’d recently returned from a holiday in Southampton, Sophie recalled; shopping for clothes for Jessie must have been on the agenda. As usual, she hung on her husband’s every word, even though at the moment the captain was treating Dr. Hesselius to an account of his military experiences in the Aliwal campaign of ’46. The doctor, a mild-mannered, bald-headed man whose gentle brown eyes behind thick spectacles camouflaged a sharp and lively intelligence, sent his wife a smile along with a subtle message—softly stroking the seat beside him on the sofa—that he wanted her to join him, or possibly to save him. Lily didn’t see it, or she chose not to; in any case, she ignored him, and began telling Anne about the wonderful new console table she’d just ordered from a cabinetmaker in Bath.

Sophie nodded and smiled, spoke when spoken to, refilled teacups, and helped Maris pass plates. The hands of the clock on the mantelshelf seemed to have stopped; twice she surreptitiously checked its time against that of the watch pinned to the bosom of her dress. She caught herself staring blindly at her guests, the friends and neighbors she’d known most of her life, lost in imagining their separate reactions if they knew the truth about her and Jack—what they’d done, what they might do next. All of them would be shocked, many would be scandalized; some would feel obliged to distance themselves from her. Could she bear it? Yes, if she had to. But she prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

She heard the sound of carriage wheels, and saw Thomas through the west window, walking slowly around to the front of the house. Uncle Eustace and Honoria had finally arrived. She put on a pleased smile, but her thoughts were much less gracious: because of their tardiness, her tea party was bound to go on for at least an hour longer.

The thud of footsteps in the entrance hall was loud, fast. Before Sophie could rise from her perch on the arm of Anne’s chair, her uncle appeared in the arched parlor doorway. Conversation halted, and everyone stared. Anger radiated from him in waves; his sharp, handsome face was mottled with it. He had his cane in one hand, a rolled-up paper in the other, swatting his thigh with it with loud, violent smacks.
He knows
, Sophie thought reflexively.
He knows about Jack.

He was staring at everyone as if he didn’t know who they were, as if he’d forgotten about her party. “Uncle?” she ventured, taking a few steps toward him.

He fixed his furious gaze on her, and she stopped in her tracks. “I hope you’re satisfied.”

Behind him, Honoria bustled into the room. “Did you tell her?” Her dark eyes glittered with excitement. Eustace ignored her.

“What on earth is the matter?” Sophie tried. “Is something wrong at the mine?”

“You could say that.”

Her panic shifted. “Is someone hurt? Has there been—”

“Read this!” he thundered, thrusting the scrolled paper at her.

She looked down at a small bound pamphlet with gilt lettering on the cover. Her uncle’s grip had broken the cheap spine and torn the first page. She read the word
Rhadamanthus
on the cover, and immediately her original foreboding returned. With stiff fingers she opened to the contents and read the title of the first article, “Englishmen in Danger: A Factual—”

“Pendarvis wrote it!” he roared. “Read it!”

“Jack?” she said, numb. “Jack wrote this?”

“Jack?”
He advanced on her. “You call him
Jack
?”

Christy Morrell stepped to her side, looking big and alert. She felt grateful; she’d never known her uncle to be physically violent, but he looked capable of it now. “You’re in it, too, Reverend. He doesn’t name you, he only slanders you! Read it, damn you, Sophie. The good part begins on page ten—that’s when he gets to your mine.”

She made an effort to control her voice. “What makes you think Mr. Pendarvis wrote this?”

“Because he all but says so. Who did you hire on the twelfth of June?
Read it.
”

But she had already started to.
I began work as a tut laborer at Guelder mine in Wyckerley, St. Giles’ parish, the county of Devonshire, on 12 June 1857. The mine owner, Miss S. Deene, offered a wage of £5 per fathom, and a £2 subsist, which I repaid on 30 June from my second week’s earnings.
She kept turning the pages, hardly able to see the words. Her eyes swam in and out of focus, picking out dreadful phrases—
heat so enervating, a man faints nearly every day—miner’s consumption a direct consequence of the thick, unbreathable air—complete disregard for even the minimal comfort of grass workers, such as a hot drink at dinnertime in the winter.
Her uncle’s strident voice became a blur. She found herself in a chair with no recollection of sitting down, and Anne Morrell bending over her with a worried expression. “It’s a mistake,” she heard herself say, “he couldn’t have done this. It must be someone else. How did you get this paper?”

“Clive Knowlton gave it to me,” Eustace snapped. Knowlton was the district MP. “Every member of the Commons got one, so they’ll know how to vote when this
Rhadamanthus Society
”—his lips curled with revulsion—“puts its socialist mouthpiece up to bringing in a bill on mine reform next term. They’ve sent it to the newspapers, too. By Monday everyone in the county can read it!”

She felt sick. Words swam in her vision—“unsafe,” “intolerable,” “inhumane.” She put her head in her hand.

“What do you know of him?” Eustace demanded, standing over her. She couldn’t think. “You hired him. Who is he? Didn’t you know he was an impostor?”

“He’s not. He’s who he says he is.”

“Did you try to find out? Did you ask for any proof that he was—”

“Yes! I wrote to Carn Barra, and they knew him. He’d been ill, hadn’t worked in half a year. Everything he told me was true.” She stood up. “It’s a mistake, it must be someone else. I
know
him,” she said boldly. “He would not do this to me. To us.” Behind her, Honoria made a shocked sound. Sophie ignored her and said with shaky confidence, “If there’s been a—a spy at Guelder, it was not Jack Pendarvis.”

“No, it wasn’t Jack Pendarvis.”

There was a collective gasp as everyone in the room turned toward the man standing stiff and straight in the threshold, the dim hallway at his back. Sophie almost ran to him. She put her hand on her heart, going weak-kneed with relief. She didn’t speak, but she sent Jack a message with her eyes:
I knew it.

“But I wrote that report,” he said in a rough voice, looking only at her. “I am Connor Pendarvis. I used my brother’s name to gain employment at Guelder mine.”

Time stopped for Sophie. She couldn’t make sense of his words at first, kept trying to make them mean something else. She whispered, “No, Jack,” shaking her head over and over. “Don’t say that. Oh, no, Jack.”

Connor couldn’t see anything but her. He watched her face go from white to bright pink as the truth sank in. Her eyes had been frightened before; now they were glassy and blank. She had a weird, stiff smile, and she was shaking her head in spasmodic jerks, staring hard at him, not blinking, not crying. He couldn’t go to her, but he couldn’t stand still and watch her disintegrate before his eyes. “Sophie, I’m sorry.”

He didn’t see the cane, only heard it, slashing through the air an instant before it sliced across his cheek. White, blinding pain; a woman’s scream. Another blow across his right forearm staggered him. He looked up to see Christy Morrell wresting the stick out of Vanstone’s fist with a deft, muscular movement.

Connor drew back his own murderous fist and someone else, a man he didn’t know, stepped between him and Vanstone, spoiling his aim. He cursed, feeling the hot blood slide down his face, his neck, inside his collar. Morrell pressed him back with his hands on his chest, pushing harder when he resisted. “Get out,” Vanstone was shouting, while the unknown man hung on to his arm. “Get out.”

Sophie hadn’t moved. Her face looked frozen, her eyes wide and shocked. Slowly, so slowly, she turned her back on him. She was shaking. Connor saw her rigid shoulders, the brittle-looking nape of her neck, and he knew he was finished.

***

“She’s not at home.”

Sophie’s maid blocked the doorway, tall as a tree, mad as a bull terrier. Maris, her name was. Connor used to like her, liked exchanging quick pleasantries with her in the garden when she brought him a glass of tea or a plate of sandwiches. She had a long, plain face and kind eyes, a lanky, lean body, and oddly graceful hands at the end of long, sharp-jointed arms. Loyalty was an admirable quality in the abstract; in Maris, to Connor, it had become insufferable.

“She’s home,” he contradicted her. “I can see the light in her window.” And in his mind, he could see every detail of her room.

The maid was unmoved. “She’s not at home.”

“Did you give her my letter?”

“I did.”

“Did she read it?” He flushed, angry and embarrassed because of what he’d been reduced to—questioning the housemaid to gain intelligence about her employer.

“As to that, I’m sure I couldn’t say.” She had both hands on the edge of the door, preparing to shut it in his face—again. This was the third time he’d come. He gritted his teeth, controlling his temper, aware of how often it had got him into trouble.

“Tell her I’m not leaving.” He stuck his foot in the door—to hell with his temper. “Tell her I’m not going anywhere until she comes down and speaks to me. Have you got that?” He leaned in, baring his teeth. “Tell her I’m here, and I’ll bloody well stay here till hell freezes over.”

Maris blanched but didn’t budge. He could see her indecision: she couldn’t close the door because his shoe was blocking it, but if she left her post and went away to deliver his message, he might force his way into the house. Bloody well right, that was exactly what he would do. “Listen here,” she blustered. “You can’t come in, I’m telling you, because she don’t care to see you.” He didn’t move. “I’m fetching Thomas,” she tried next. “He might not look it, but he’s terrible strong, so you’d best have a care and get along.”

“It’s all right, Maris.”

The maid whirled at the sound of her mistress’s voice, and Connor took advantage of the opportunity to push the door all the way open. Sophie stood on the last step of the staircase, holding on to the newel post with one hand. His anger collapsed when he took in her paleness. She was fully dressed, and her hair was perfect, but her red-rimmed eyes gave her away. His heart twisted in his chest.

Maris was gnawing her lip, indecisive. “You sure, Miss Sophie? I can run for Thomas. Between us we—”

“No, it’s all right. I’ll speak to Mr. Pendarvis in the drawing room.”

A telling word choice; two nights ago it had been the “parlor.” Connor feared he was going to fare much worse with Sophie in the “drawing room.”

He watched her glide across the hall without looking at him, and when he followed her into the room, she backed away from him in the archway to make sure they didn’t touch. She closed the sliding doors and turned around, keeping her hands behind her back. She looked bruised and untouchable.

He’d been thinking of what to say to her for the last twenty-four hours. Now he couldn’t remember anything, not a single one of his excuses. No loss there; they’d all sounded stupid and self-serving. The awful suspicion that what he had done was truly indefensible had kept him in a state of dread, unable to think straight.

“Sophie, I’m sorry.”

That got him nowhere. She continued to stare, glittery-eyed, waiting for his next keen-witted utterance. Nerves had him prowling the room, picking up objects and setting them down. She never moved, and her complete stillness was a silent, lacerating reproach. He made himself stand still in front of her, empty-handed, and say, “I lied to you. I did it in cold blood, and nothing excuses it. Some of the things in the journal I wrote, some I didn’t. The society printed a preliminary report. They had no right to do that, and I’ve disassociated myself from them.”

He streaked his hands through his hair, goaded by her unresponsiveness. “I was going to tell you all of this last night. I’ve hurt you, and I swear I never intended to. I thought I could make it right between us, but—I ran out of time.”