The Parson's Pleasure Page 14

  “Thank you, Papa,” said Claire, smiling in an attempt to appear unconcerned. She started back towards the house, frustrated by the delay. She worried that they might not get the chance to go this day, and that, even if they did, the visit might be so hurried as to prevent her from speaking to Mr. Bennett privately. She turned abruptly.

  “Papa,” she called, “would you have any objection to my riding over there and waiting for you to join us? I am feeling rather out of sorts, and the ride will do me some good."

  Lord Oliver looked at her searchingly for a moment, and Claire tried her best to look as though his answer would not seriously matter to her.

  “Surely there could be no objection,” she repeated.

  Her father returned to his normal briskness. “Of course not,” he agreed. “I will come to fetch you as soon as I have finished with Spradling here. Do not take all of the best books,” he teased. “Have some thought for your old father."

  She smiled lovingly at him and started off for the house to change into her riding habit.

  Claire redressed her hair, brushing it out first, then pulling it up and fastening it on the top of her head with tortoiseshell combs. The ends fell down in ringlets on all sides.

  She put on a forest-green, wool riding dress, with bunched sleeves, the only puffs at the shoulders. The bodice was military in style and ended in a V with braid descending in loops on both sides from the shoulders to the waist. Her collar was turned up with a ruffled betsie beneath it, and the skirt had loops of braid around the hem.

  She put on the matching green hat, which resembled a top hat except for the plumes in back and the scarf around the brim. Then, taking her riding crop and her short kid gloves, she headed downstairs, stopping by the morning room to tell her mother that she would be riding over to the rectory, with Papa “just behind.” Lady Sally was absorbed in letter writing and waved her off with a distant smile.

  The ride to the rectory was refreshing after such a poor night's sleep, and Claire could feel the colour returning to her cheeks. The morning sun was almost too warm for her wool dress, but the breeze refreshed her as she rode.

  Arriving at the rectory, she made straight for the stables to leave her horse, feeling rather odd to be seen coming on her own, but she smiled at Mr. Bennett's groom, whom she knew by now, as though her lone arrival were an everyday occurrence.

  “Could you stable my horse for me please, Gurney? I shall be meeting my father here shortly, so you can expect him at any moment.” The groom touched his cap to her, for he had grown to respect both her riding ability and her manners, and if he thought anything odd about her arrival, he did not let on.

  Claire's heart beat a trifle faster as she proceeded to the house, fearing that the rector's butler might truly frown on her actions. But that most correct gentleman received her with his usual degree of respect before announcing her to Mr. Bennett.

  He was in his study and did not appear to be occupied with anything in particular. He was simply staring off into space, which was unlike him, Claire thought. When he heard her name, he leaped eagerly to his feet, and Claire felt her heart jump in a response so strong that she could no longer fool herself as to its meaning. She felt flushed with the excitement of seeing him and lowered her head as he came to meet her, hoping not to give herself away.

  I love him, she thought with a confused kind of happiness, and he cares for me. How could I not have realized it before? The impropriety of her being there alone suddenly struck her, for the difference in their stations and her own forwardness were now of great significance.

  She began to speak rapidly to hide her nervousness. “It must seem very odd to you, my arriving like this, but the day was so fine that I decided to go for a ride. My father expressed a wish to come see you, so I thought that I would join him here,” she fabricated. “Has he not arrived yet?"

  Mr. Bennett had walked forward to meet her, recovering control of his own expression after the surprise of seeing her, for he had been thinking of none other. He found it almost impossible not to respond to the joy in her face, but it confirmed what he had seen for the first time the day before—that Claire was falling in love with him as he had with her.

  The time had come for him to make her understand how he must carry on and why, but the pleasure of having her here now to himself was so great he could barely speak. He had to turn away once she was greeted and walk to the window to gain control of his senses.

  “You are always welcome—you know that,” he said with no warmth in his voice. “Did you say your father would be along in a minute?"

  “Why, yes, of course,” said Claire with a bashful smile. She was feeling more embarrassed by the minute, knowing that her father might say something to expose her folly. The fact that Mr. Bennett had turned his back to her was alarming, and the coldness in his voice was both surprising and upsetting.

  “Perhaps it is as well,” the rector said enigmatically. He turned to her, paused, and then went on, “We were interrupted yesterday before I had a chance to finish telling you something."

  “I felt that,” Claire began eagerly. This was more like what she had hoped for, but he raised a hand to stop her and smiled in an offhand way.

  “Do not refine too much upon it. You will see that it is of little interest, but we have been such good friends that I felt a need—for myself, you understand—to make you more aware of my circumstances."

  The indifference in his voice chilled Claire. Her manner became grave, and she again waited without comment to hear the rest of his story.

  “I explained to you,” he began, “the events that led to my taking a position in the Church, and I think you know from the things you have learned of me how I mean to go about it. I have not made many friends by doing things my way—you and your family are the glorious exceptions—but I do not mean to let antagonism sway me."

  He laughed, but his laughter sounded bitter to Claire. She watched him as he began to pace the length of the room, keeping a good distance from her.

  “I have been disillusioned by many things in my life. My cousin was more or less a stranger to me because of the difference in our ages. I saw little of him until my father died and I became his ward. I knew that he did not get on well with my uncle. But I have to admit that his character was a surprise, even a shock, to one who was supposed to call him cousin.

  “He conceived an instant dislike for me, whether it was jealousy of his father's fondness for me I do not know, and it does not really matter. Suffice it to say that for whatever reason, he took a certain pleasure in tormenting me.

  “I have already told you of some of the ways he managed to stifle my ambitions. What I didn't say was how much pleasure he showed at my frustration. I am almost certain that he purchased my commission in a regiment going to America with the hope of seeing me killed—if not that, then at least for the purpose of preventing my acquiring any glory through military distinction. He is a clever man. His ignorance is entirely willful."

  Claire was turning pale with the pain she felt for Mr. Bennett, and she at last understood the source of the sorrow she had always detected in him. She could not help herself from saying, “It sounds as if you hate him."

  “Does it?” he asked softly with irony in his voice. “Well, I do."

  He waited a moment, then continued, “I know for a fact that he wanted a Church career for me for the pleasure he anticipated in seeing me toady to my benefactor. He used to joke often enough about it,” he recalled bitterly. “It amused him to think of me, sitting at the elbow of one of his friends, fawning for favours, and running about eagerly to please his wife. But he made one mistake, my cousin. He used his influence to get a preferment for me, without stopping to think that it could not be taken away, no matter how I chose to use it."

  The rector paused again, almost as if he could not make himself go on. At last he said quietly, “He joked that, if I did not like my situation, I might hang out for a rich wife."

  There was nothing
Claire could say. His words had dropped into the air like small pebbles into still water, but their ripples swept over her like a tidal wave. A small “Oh!” escaped her lips, but Mr. Bennett refused to look at her.

  He cleared his voice before speaking again. “You are a reader of Miss Austen, are you not, Miss Oliver? I do not fancy myself a Wickham, or even a Mr. Elton, and yet either of those two characters would have a happier wife than I am likely to have with the enemies I expect to make. Because of my calling, I cannot be denied the front door, but who would there be to stop someone from showing my wife or my children to the back by way of insulting me?” He shook his head sadly. “I do not think I shall ever marry."

  He seemed to feel that he had dwelt long enough on his own prospects for he turned to face her now, his expression under control, his look impersonal. “My cousin's poor wife died in childbirth. It must have been a blessed release for her, pitiable creature, for John treated her abominably. Now he has another, even younger. I pity her."

  He fell silent then, and Claire felt herself incapable of speech, but at length the rector broke the silence. “You must think it strange of me to bring all this up,” he said with an uncertain laugh, “but we have been such friends—that is, you and your parents have been so kind to me—that I wanted you to understand why I sometimes behave the way I do, or why I make certain decisions."

  Claire smiled at him bravely. He had been completely honest with her, and though he had made no attempt to bind her to him, she knew in her heart that his pretence of indifference had cost him much effort. She felt that she owed him the same. It could serve neither of them to be more open with their feelings. His decision was made, and the integrity and independence that had caused him to make such a decision were two of the things she most loved about him. She would not have it otherwise.

  “I cannot think what must be keeping my father,” she said finally. “It is not like him to keep me waiting. I hate to go without him, but I have preparations to make for the ball tomorrow and should not tarry. You will tell him for me that I could not wait?” she asked.

  Mr. Bennett nodded. It seemed that he had at last run out of words. For a moment, Claire felt that her shoes were weighted to the floor and she could not move. It was as though leaving that room would place a seal on all that had been said. Finally, though, she crossed the room to leave. He made no move to stop her, nor did he walk her to the door. She left the rectory in a trance, somehow located her horse, and rode off.

  Christopher Bennett remained motionless as long as he could still hear the slightest sound that indicated her presence. It wasn't until the last hoofbeat was heard that he walked over to a chair and fell into it, his head in his hands.

  She will marry that fool Babcock, he thought, and I shall be here to see them, and watch them, until I can stand it no longer. Well, John, you really have won now, and in a way that you will never know. Then, with his fists clenched, he declared, “And I shall never let you know!"

  He heard a sound in the hallway and raised his head just as Lord Oliver was announced. There was nothing he could do but explain to her father that Claire had already gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Lord Oliver returned to his home rather annoyed with his daughter. He had made an effort to conclude his business with all possible speed to accommodate her wish to go to the rectory, and she had not bothered to wait for him. It was possible, of course, that she had given up on him, but he had not taken very long. Perhaps it was because Mr. Bennett had received her coldly. He certainly did not seem to be happy to see Lord Oliver, so the baron had left as soon as he could without seeming to be affronted.

  No doubt the young man had business to attend to.

  Claire was nowhere downstairs when he got back to the house, so he waited till dinnertime to speak to her. But when she joined her parents at the table, she looked so unwell that he did not have the heart to reprimand her. She apologized, saying that she had continued to feel unwell in spite of her ride and had cut her visit short.

  Her parents were worried about her, but they knew she would not wish to be fussed over, so they expressed their loving sympathy and suggested she have a tray sent up to her room. Claire, who was finding it difficult to hide the reason for her misery from them, agreed and left the table.

  Alone in her room, Claire lay on her bed and thought over Mr. Bennett's words. His revelations about his cousin had horrified her. It was impossible to think of there being anyone related to such a good man who could be so unfeeling, so cruel. Her mind dwelt lovingly on all his qualities. She could close her eyes and see his face before her smiling with swift understanding at one of her father's quips, frowning with intensity when talking about the working conditions for children. It was such a sensitive face.

  She pictured all the lines around his eyes and his mouth. They had formed in all the right places—laugh lines for his splendid sense of humour and worry lines that showed how he cared about others. It was so hard to believe that anyone could hate him, as his cousin obviously did.

  Claire knew that his concern for the welfare of others was sincere. It was as much a part of him as the lines of his face or his smile. He had to be true to his nature, no matter what the cost to himself or those around him. That was what he had said to her.

  If he had given her the chance, if he had spoken of marriage to her, she would have told him that it made no difference to her if she were considered the “rich wife,” that she would gladly have brought her fortune to him, that they could have used it to do the things he wanted to do. But he had not, and while she admired him for making that decision alone, she knew that in his place she could not have done the same.

  All of this hurt, but what hurt most of all was the assumption she knew Mr. Bennett had made—that she would marry Lord Babcock. It was one thing to decide that he could not have her himself, for reasons of his own, but it was another to make a decision for her. Did he really think that she would marry Babcock? It made her so angry she could scream. Perhaps he thought it was already decided, as everyone else did. But if he did not know that she loved him, why had he told her any of this?

  All the rest of that day and for much of the night, Claire thought about the things they had said, the many times they had talked and strolled about the garden, their pleasure in the same activities and enjoyment in the same stories. But now all that had changed. He had deliberately placed a distance between them, and she understood why. He did not trust himself to be around her anymore.

  The knowledge gave her a sense of power, but she knew that she must never use it. She must learn to be content with seeing him far less frequently, and never privately—but he would see after a time that there was nothing between her and Babcock!

  By morning she was sleeping soundly. The tears she had expected had never come, but the ache in her throat was worse, and only the fatigue of hours of lying awake, tormented by her thoughts, had let her sleep. Lady Sally did not waken her because the ball was to be that evening and she hoped that with additional rest Claire would feel up to going.

  By early afternoon Claire had come downstairs and declared herself well enough to go. The Olivers exchanged worried glances because it was obvious that something was wrong. They knew instinctively that Claire was not ill, but they said nothing because they did not wish to meddle in her affairs. They knew that she would tell them if she wanted them to know.

  When she left the room, Lord Oliver looked at his wife significantly and said, “Claire went to the rectory on her own yesterday."

  Lady Sally responded at first, “Oh?” And then after a moment, “Oh! Oh, dear! “ She looked truly concerned. “Do you think that I should speak to her?"

  “No,” replied Lord Oliver confidently. “Claire will know what is best to do.” Still, he felt guilty for not having noticed the signs before.

  “Of course, you are right,” said Lady Sally unhappily. She looked at him and he could see how she was suffering along with their daughter. “But he is s
uch a good man, and so handsome!"

  Claire, meanwhile, hardly noticed the passage of the day, so lost in thought was she. Mostly her mind was occupied with a vision of a future without Christopher Bennett. She had thought her life a happy one before he came, but now she knew that something had been missing.

  If only he had never come, she thought, I might have gone on contentedly forever. But the future now stretched bleakly before her. She would return to the life she now saw as lonely. It was amazing that one could be surrounded by loving people and yet be lonely, but if the one person who mattered more than all others was absent, no amount of affection could make up for it. She began to understand that the isolated existence her family had always led was all right for her parents, for they had each other's love, a love she had not understood until now. But for her, the days would be forever the same; she would be forever alone.

  As evening approached, Claire reluctantly began to prepare for the ball. She had looked forward to the evening with such delight, in spite of the prospect of uncomfortable scenes with Babcock, and now she knew why—it was the prospect of seeing Mr. Bennett. Now all her delight was gone, and she would have pleaded illness and stayed home, but such behaviour was so unlike her, it would have caused comment. And, besides, what difference would one evening make when she was faced with a lifetime of loneliness?

  The thought that Christopher might be at the ball was enough to make her dress with even more than her usual care. She put on a fresh chemise and one thin petticoat of cotton, trimmed with tucks and broderie anglaise. Bowing to fashion, she wore a soft corset, which both nipped in the waist and supported the bust. Her stockings were white silk and her slippers the softest kid. Her gown was of white satin, with off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves and a trim of fine lace stretching from the top of one sleeve across the décolleté neckline to the other sleeve. It clung tightly the full length of the bodice and almost to the hips before it began to flare. A large white sash was tied in back at the waist. The only colour came from a row of red rosettes which began just under her right breast, descended and crossed diagonally over the front of the gown to the point where the skirt became fuller, then swooped gracefully into a triple row round the hem.