Mary Balogh - The constant heart

The changes in him were all improvements, though, some inner part of her mind told her, unbidden. He had been a very good-looking boy. Now he was an unusually handsome man. And a selfish, unprincipled man, she must constantly remind herself.

Yes, he had been a very good-looking boy. She had always been aware of the fact. Being three years younger than he, she had always looked up to him as an older, heroic male. But perhaps she had been fully aware of his good looks and attractiveness only when he had come home after his first year at Oxford. He was nineteen, vastly self-assured, and inclined to patronize the sixteen-year-old daughter of the vicar. He had been friendly, had sought her out whenever circumstances brought them into the same company, and had talked to her a great deal. But perhaps the friendship at that time owed more to the fact that there were very few other people in the area close to his age than to any special preference for Rebecca.

That had had to wait another two years until he came home after his final year at university. Rebecca had acquired poise in the few years since the death of her mother. She had also recently become more conscious of her looks and had had her hair styled so that the length and heaviness that had pulled it straight were replaced by soft curls over her head and down her neck. She had fashioned herself some light muslin gowns for the summer instead of the usual cotton ones.

Christopher had noticed the changes immediately. He had looked at her with admiration when they met the day after his return home.

"Well," he had said, "aren't you the fine lady, Becky! You must be beating back the suitors from the door."

"Silly," she had replied, pleased. "Where would they come from in a place like this?"

He had grinned. "I must be thankful that we do not live in a large place," he had said. "Does this mean I have you all to myself?"

His voice had been teasing. And that manner had set the tone of their relationship through most of the summer. They had met a good deal during various visits, and they had frequently walked and ridden together. But there had been nothing more than a very casual friendship until the night of the annual village fair.

They had spent part of the day together but had drifted apart several times to pursue their own interests or to mingle with other acquaintances. It had been a hot day, so that by the time the dancing started in the evening everyone was feeling rather tired and very thankful for the coolness that came after sunset. The dance Rebecca had with Christopher had been a particularly strenuous one. They had been laughing but panting at the end of it.

"Come and walk with me, Becky," he had said, pulling her arm through his and really offering her no choice. "Mrs. Pugh has been eyeing me purposefully for the past half hour. I shall feel obliged to ask her to dance if I stay. I should much prefer to walk with you."

"I am suitably flattered, sir," she had said with mock primness.

"I should think so, too," he had assured her. "It is a signal honor, you know, to be preferred to Mrs. Pugh."

And they had talked on, exchanging light banter, while they strolled along the village street and out onto the country lane that led eventually both to her uncle's house and to his own. They had not noticed leaving the lights of the village behind because the moon was bright. Only when there was a lull in the conversation had they become aware that the sounds of the village too had receded into the distance.

Christopher had looked down at her and smiled, and she smiled back. The silence was suddenly oppressive. Conversation, which usually flowed between them without thought, suddenly refused to come. And their steps slowed until they stopped walking altogether.

"I should take you back home," he said, turning to face her.

"Yes," she agreed.

But they had not moved. They continued to look at each other. And then his mouth came down to cover hers in a light and slow exploration. It was not the hard, tooth-grinding kiss that she remembered from years before. He did not touch any other part of her. And then he raised his head and they looked at each other again.

"I have gone and done something very silly, Becky," he said, flashing her a grin. "I have fallen in love with you. You will think me very foolish, will you not, old friend? I have been fighting it all summer."

"I don't think you are foolish, Christopher," she said, gazing earnestly back at him. "I have loved you for a long time."

"No. Really, Becky?" He became serious again.

"Yes, really."

He had laughed and then reached out to cup her face in his hands. Neither of them said anything for a while as they gazed into each other's eyes and he traced the line of her lips with his thumbs. She smiled.

And then he had kissed her again, drawing her against him, moving his hands in gentle caress down her spine and around to her breasts, teasing her mouth open with his lips and tongue, and finally kissing her closed eyes, her temples, her chin, her throat. And this time, she knew, he did know how to kiss, and by instinct and by love, so did she.

They had drawn shakily apart after several minutes, though he still held her within the loose circle of his arms.

"Oh, God, Becky, I want you," he said shakily. "I must get you back home quickly, love. It is dangerous to be alone like this."

She had looked at him blankly, not quite comprehending his meaning. She was in love, and it had been her first real kiss. It had been enough in itself. At that early point in their courtship she had not felt any urgent need of anything else. It was only later that she realized that his own reaction indicated that he had had other women before her.

That night had been the beginning of an idyllic few months. They had already been friends. Now they were also deeply in love. And he talked of marriage almost from the start. He did not know how he would support her. His parents were not wealthy. In fact, they had made great sacrifices just to send him to university. And they had three other children, all considerably younger than he. He talked frequently about becoming a physician. It was not an occupation that would bring him great wealth or prestige, and some would consider it beneath the dignity of a gentleman, but it would suit his wish to serve humanity. He had been very idealistic in those days, and Rebecca had loved him all the more.

They had not announced their betrothal or even spoken to their families of their plans, though everyone must have suspected that they had an understanding. They did little enough to hide their love for each other. But Christopher had promised to spend Christmas with an old friend from university. It was his chance to see something of London and to make a final decision about his future. When he came home again, he told her, they would announce their betrothal and plan for a wedding in the summer.

He had been gone for longer than she expected. And it had been an uneasy time for her. At first his letters came frequently and were full of satisfying ardor. But after a while they came more sporadically and finally stopped altogether. At the same time the Sinclairs themselves seemed to change. They stayed at home and kept to themselves more. When they were seen, Mr. Sinclair, usually so placid, looked grim, and his wife looked as if she wept frequently. Later Rebecca concluded that they must have known before she did.

Christopher came home in March. She had been given no notice of his coming. He called at the parsonage on a particularly raw and gray morning and asked her to walk into the churchyard with him. There he came straight to the point. He was betrothed to a lady from London. They were to be married the following week. He was sorry for any misunderstanding there had been between him and Rebecca. He felt that he owed her an explanation in person. But he was to leave again for London that same day. He wished her well.