Mary Balogh - The constant heart

"If he attended school regularly," Philip had said coldly, "perhaps he would not have fallen so far behind."

"It is not that," Rebecca had protested. "He has not missed so many days, Philip. He is incapable of learning as fast as the other boys. He needs a great deal of extra help and encouragement."

"We are here to teach, Rebecca," he had said passionately, "not to coddle and baby these village lads."

The argument had ended abruptly as the pupils began to file back into the schoolroom. Philip had left soon after, and she had not seen him again. This was his afternoon for visiting the elderly and sometimes, she knew, he did not arrive home until well into the evening. Visiting the sick and elderly for Philip meant more than sitting at bedsides holding hands and saying prayers. Frequently it meant chopping wood or hauling water or even preparing a meal.

And remembering that fact as she walked along the country lane, still a good half mile from the stile that would lead her into the pasture and across to the house, Rebecca's heart softened. Philip could be a strange mixture of harshness and dedication. He certainly did not spare himself in his devotion to his parishioners. And even his harsher moments, she realized, resulted from his zeal. He wanted these village lads to learn, wanted them to have a better future than they could otherwise expect. Unfortunately, he did not always have enough patience to allow for anyone with less drive than himself. He meant well and that was the important fact for her to remember.

She had not been in high spirits, though, even before the altercation with Philip. Christopher was coming home today, was probably already with his family, in fact. Tomorrow or the next day he would visit at Limeglade or her uncle's family would visit the Sinclairs. If she was fortunate, she would miss that first meeting. But she could not avoid it forever. The two families lived only two miles apart and had always been on the most intimate of visiting terms.

Within the next week at the longest she would have to meet him again. And she had no wish to do so. The battle to forget him had been a long and hard one. But she had won eventually. Her life for the last several years had not been a wildly happy one, but it had been of moderate contentment. She had a comfortable home with relatives who treated her with affection even if not with demonstrative love. She was continuing the works of charity that had been dear to her father's heart. And she was betrothed to a man who embodied those ideals for which she lived. She did not want to be reminded of a time when she had desired more of life, a time when she had wanted passion and romantic love. And she did not want to be reminded of how Christopher had changed. She wanted to remember him, if at all, as he had been before.

Rebecca looked ahead to the stile, not far distant now. She quickened her step. A cup of tea would be very welcome at the end of the walk. She slowed down almost immediately, though, and moved over the side of the road until her dress was brushing against the hedgerow. She could hear the approach of a horse behind her and had no desire to be ridden down. She gazed ahead absently, her mind swinging back to Cyril and his obvious learning problem.

"G'day, ma'am," a deep masculine voice said as a horse drew level with her on the road.

Rebecca looked up, startled, into the politely smiling face of a large young man, whose high shirt points pressed into his cheeks as if trying to burst them. He was touching a riding crop to his hat. She smiled in quick relief. She had feared for one horrid moment that it might be Christopher.

"Good day, sir," she said, inclining her head to him, and he rode on.

She had not realized there were two horses until the second One drew level with her and the performance was repeated.

"Good day, ma'am," the second rider said.

"Good day, sir," Rebecca replied, and glanced up at the speaker.

Did time stand still? she wondered later. Probably not. It just seemed to have done so. He was instantly recognizable, though changed in the course of almost seven years. He looked as tall and straight in the saddle as he had always looked then. His hair was as dark and straight and as long. His eyes were as intensely blue, his nose as straight, his mouth as wide. Yet the years had taken away his boyish slimness and left a solid, well-muscled man in his place. And time had taken away the open, pleasant expression that he had habitually worn and replaced it with a controlled, almost stern look. His jaw looked a lot firmer than she remembered.

He lowered his riding whip from the brim of his top hat and drew his horse to a halt. "Hello, Becky," he said quietly, unsmilingly.

"Hello, Christopher," she replied. She had stopped walking without realizing it.

There seemed to be nothing else to say. Both looked for a moment as if sorry they had stopped.

"How are you?" he asked.

"Well, thank you," she replied. "And you, Christopher?"

He nodded. He had removed his hat, and Rebecca could see that his hair was as thick and shining as it had ever been.

"I am sorry about your bereavement," she said.

He nodded once more. "Thank you."

They looked at each other awkwardly again. "You are living with your uncle now?" he said. "I was sorry to hear of your father's passing."

"Are you on your way home?" he asked. "You have still a long way to go. May I offer you a ride?"

"Oh, no, thank you," she said hastily. "I enjoy the walk across the pasture. Uncle Humphrey always urges me to take the gig."

There was another awkward pause. The first rider broke it. He had turned his horse back to find out what had delayed his companion.

"I say, Sinclair," he said, sweeping off his hat. "Meeting old acquaintances already?"

Christopher smiled, a rather tight grimace that did not quite reach his eyes. "Miss Shaw, may I present Mr. Lucas Carver?"

Mr. Carver leaned down.from his horse and stretched out a hand to Rebecca. His shirt points dug even more dangerously into his cheeks, she noticed.

"Pleased t'make your acquaintance, Miss Shaw," he said.

Christopher had pulled himself together by the time Rebecca and Mr. Carver had exchanged civilities. "We must allow you to continue your walk, Becky," he said. "It is good to see you again."

She inclined her head to both men and watched them ride away from her before continuing on her way. She was over the stile and well across the pasture before she came out of her daze. She had met him again, had talked to him. And she had survived. Here she was walking home as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

She stopped suddenly and looked down at herself, aghast. What would he have seen? How had she appeared to Christopher after six and a half years? She had been a girl of nineteen last time he saw her. She was a woman of six-and-twenty now. She had changed, she knew. She was still only of medium height, still very slight in figure. She sill wore clothes of simple, unfashionable style. But her face and her hair must have appeared very different to him. Her face had paled and thinned over the years. She had lost her youthful look and sparkle, she knew. Her gray eyes, when she looked at herself in the mirror, looked back at her calmly with the look of a woman who had experienced the vicissitudes of life and not been destroyed by them. Her fair hair was no longer worn in loose curls. Years ago she had grown it longer and confined it in a loose knot at the base of her neck.

She looked her age, she knew. And her appearance was eminently suited to her station. While she tried always to look neat, she did not feel it appropriate to aim for elegance or prettiness. She was betrothed to a village vicar and she taught at the village school. She was six-and-twenty years old. She was usually unself-conscious about her appearance. Why would she care now? Why care that Christopher Sinclair had seen the changes? If Philip liked her the way she was, why worry about the opinion of any other man? After all, he had changed too. He was clearly now a man of nine-and-twenty rather than the very young man she had known.