My True Love Gave to Me Read online

  "Mrs. Pentercast is in the library, Squire,” Munson intoned. “Entertaining Vicar York."

  Alan rolled his eyes. “It only wanted that. I'm going to change, Munson. Should the good vicar take it in his head to leave before I return, detain him. I want a word with him."

  Even in his frustration he noticed the look of pleasure that quickly came and went in Munson's normally implacable gray eyes. That was one of things he'd always admired about Munson, even as a child: distinguished gray hair, distinguished gray eyes, distinguished gray personality. Everyone who had ever remarked upon him, and they were few as Munson was as unobvious as a favorite piece of furniture, had said the same thing: “What a splendid butler.” It was with an uncomfortable feeling of surprise that Alan heard him mumble with unbutlerish glee, “I'd be delighted, sir."

  Could nothing go smoothly, he wondered as he changed from his riding gear to his usual dark wool trousers and coat. He couldn't seem to do anything right when it came to courting the incomparable Miss Munroe. He remembered just last spring, a scant two months before her father had met his untimely death, when he had ridden to town determined to stay the entire Season if that was what it took to win her. Her father had convinced him otherwise.

  "Give her time,” he had counseled. “We'll be home for Christmas this year, I promise. By then, she'll be heartily sick of this social whirl, if I know my Genny. You'll be the answer to her prayers. Trust me, my boy."

  And like a fool, he had trusted the man, little knowing that fate was about to intervene. Once her father had been killed and the family was in mourning, he couldn't declare himself. It was only now, ironically during the Christmas Rutherford had promised him, that he could let her know his feelings at last. Then, just when he thought he was making headway, Geoffrey had to take it into his head to insult her sister! Not to mention his mother alienating her mother by taking up with the vicar of all people.

  That one at least he could nip in the bud. He had felt for some time that the gentleman was entirely too sycophantic. If this was another way for him to curry favor with the Pentercasts, Alan could jolly well stop now.

  He was rather pleased to find the vicar waiting for him in the entry way when he descended some time later. The gentleman was standing to one side of the mirror beside the door, making a show of not appreciating his profile displayed therein. Alan nodded to Munson and motioned the vicar into the sitting room for a private conversation.

  "Very good of you to see me like this, my boy, very good indeed,” York began as a footman was closing the doors behind them.

  Alan frowned. “I'm sorry; did you ask to see me?"

  The vicar nodded, his double chins quivering. “Most assuredly, most assuredly. I believe it the shepherd's solemn duty to advise our sheep when one is about to fall by the wayside, or run afoul of wolves, as the case were."

  Alan tried to still his rising impatience. “Vicar York, I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Exactly my point, exactly my point.” The older man sighed with a shake of his balding head. “I find the head of the family is usually the last to know in these kinds of cases, the very last."

  "Has this anything to do with my mother?” Alan demanded.

  "Good heavens, no! My dear boy, your mother is the very pattern card of virtuosity, the very pattern card. A finer lady is not to be found within a hundred miles, of that I am certain, quite certain. No, no, this concerns your brother, Geoffrey."

  Although he knew nothing good could come of the conversation, Alan felt himself relax. “Oh? What about Geoffrey?"

  Reverend York sighed again, leaning back on the sofa where he sat and folding his hands over his ample belly. Wide as they were, they almost hid the gap between his dark blue waistcoat and his darker blue trousers. “You've been preoccupied of late, Squire, quite preoccupied. Many have remarked on it. Courting, I believe?"

  "I thought this was about Geoffrey,” Alan said, eyes narrowing. That usually was a sign to anyone around him to cease that particular topic of conversation, he knew from experience, but the vicar was not to be deterred.

  "Geoffrey, most assuredly, did I not say so? It is your very preoccupation that has caused the difficulties, I'm certain, yes, I'm very certain. A man must put his own house in order before considering it's expansion, if you take my meaning."

  Alan rose. “Reverend York, I hope you don't take this amiss, but I don't understand a word you're saying. Without roundaboutation, if you please, what do you want from me?"

  The vicar squinted up at him. “One mustn't be too precipitous, dear boy. Moderation in all things, I find, moderation. You might pass that lesson on to your brother as well."

  "Out with it,” Alan snapped.

  The vicar started. “No need to be harsh, my boy, no need at all. I only go slowly to spare your sensibilities. But I cannot be silent when one of our own strays so far from the righteous path, so very far. It has come to my attention that your brother has been spending a great deal of time with a certain Tom Harvey, said person being known as somewhat less than a gentleman, I believe."

  Alan shrugged. “Tom's been a bit on the wild side since we were children, but I don't believe there's any harm in him. Do you feel he's influencing Geoffrey?"

  "I cannot say to that, my boy, I cannot say. I merely point it out as an example of the direction your brother seems to be heading. I further understand he's been frequenting the village tavern of late, following a rather predictable path home each night quite well to live, yes, quite well to live. Much as it pains me to have to tell you this, Squire, the last few nights, a variety of events has occurred along that path—fence posts uprooted, tree limbs broken down, barn doors let open for the animals to wander. My parishioners tell me these things, you see. It seems some think these events might be connected with your brother?"

  "That's ridiculous. Geoffrey's no vandal. Just because he's been spending time with Tom doesn't mean he'd do anything harmful. I know he's been at the tavern. He's even come home a bit drunk once or twice. But I can't believe he'd damage anyone's property, even inebriated. Who told you these tales?"

  The Reverend heaved his bulk to his feet. “I am not at liberty to say. Sanctity of the cloth, you know, sanctity of the cloth. However, I thought perhaps you'd appreciate the warning. Best look to your brother's well being, my boy, and stay away from the likes of Genevieve Munroe."

  Alan had been about to thank him, seeing as the Reverend's thoughts had mirrored his own, but the last remark changed his thoughtful look to a glare, and York shrank under the look. “Thank you for the warning, Reverend. And perhaps you'd take one from me. I understand you're courting my mother."

  York paled. “Courting? Oh, no, no, my boy. You mistake me entirely, you surely mistake me. A charming woman, your mother, utterly charming. The most thoughtful, witty, sensitive woman in our county, haven't I said so repeatedly? A blessing to our fair village. A saintly..."

  "Stow it,” Alan snapped, all patience fled. “Just remember that the designation of your post resides with this estate. I think it would be a distinct conflict of interest should I become the son-in-law of the local vicar. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Abundantly, oh quite abundantly,” York assured him, nodding his head so vigorously that the hairs on either side of his small ears flapped like the wings of a white dove. “Yes, certainly, I understand you completely. And you needn't worry yourself on that score, no indeed you need not. Your mother is too fine a lady to ever consider someone as humble as myself. I would never encroach on her good will, which I hold in the highest esteem, as I do your own, Squire. I cannot imagine where you could have conceived such a notion as myself daring to even consider courting your mother. Why the very idea is laughable, entirely too laughable.” To prove his point, he threw back his head and laughed.

  "I am not laughing, Vicar,” Alan pointed out when the fellow finished to mop his sweating brow with a lace handkerchief. “Thank you for sharing your concerns for Geoffrey, but I
assure you they are unfounded. Now, good day, sir."

  "Yes, good day, good day, Squire,” the older man muttered, bowing himself toward the door. As Alan turned away, he caught a motion out of the corner of his eye and looked back to find the Vicar eyeing him sadly.

  "And I do hope you'll heed my warning about that Munroe chit,” he put in, easing one foot out the door. “They really can be the most disagreeable family, as I know you all realize from long standing. I hear she was quite the rage in London, quite the rage. No doubt she finds Wenwood a bit quiet for her tastes and can't wait to return. As soon as Christmas is over."

  "I think you'll find, Vicar,” Alan said quietly, “an entirely different outcome at the end of the twelve days of Christmas."

  "We shall see, my boy, we shall see” he said, pushing his bulk through the door at last. “The acorn does not fall far from the tree, and I'm afraid Miss Genevieve is more comfortable in the forests of London."

  Alan shook his head, and the door closed behind the Vicar York. He could only hope the man was wrong, about Geoffrey's behavior and about Genevieve most of all.

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  Chapter Ten

  New Years Eve

  Verse Seven, Seven Swans-a-Swimming

  "Geoffrey Pentercast is the world's greatest lout,” Allison declared in the music room doorway.

  Gen looked up from her place at the spinet, where she had been trying in vain to lose herself in a sprightly minuet. “And you claim I continue to harp on the same chord? I thought we exhausted that topic yesterday."

  Allison flounced over to the window seat and threw herself down in a huff, only to leap to her feet with a squeal. She snatched Gen's embroidery out from under her and scowled at her sister. Gen offered a contrite smile.

  "That topic cannot be exhausted,” Allison told her, sitting more gingerly, “because he continually finds new ways to insult me."

  "What has he done now?” Gen asked, closing the lid over the keys in resignation to her fate.

  "I was attempting to convince Reverend Wellfordhouse that he must come visit us tonight right after midnight..."

  "After midnight?” Gen interrupted with a frown. “Whatever for?"

  "New Years, silly,” Allison scolded with a shake of her flaxen curls. “We shall have good luck if the first person to set foot through our front door is a fair-complexioned gentleman, and William certainly fits that bill, unlike some others I could name."

  Alan's dark head came to mind, and Gen forced it away. “I suppose he does. What does that have to do with Geoffrey?"

  "I was getting to that, if you please. There I was, to the point of convincing William that he must be our salvation, when who should walk into the conversation as bold as brass but Mr. Geoffrey Pentercast. Oh, the absolute gall of the man! He teased me that he will show up instead of William, and that will ruin everything!"

  Gen raised an eyebrow. “As if we would open the door after midnight anyway."

  Allison clapped her hands with glee. “That's it! We just won't let him in. That will keep him from being our first footer.” She jumped to her feet. “I will tell Chimes this very minute."

  "Tell Chimes what?” their man-of-all-work asked, appearing in the doorway with an armload of firewood for the rack. He hustled it into place by the little stone fireplace and stood back to dust off his hands. It did little good from what Gen could see—his entire uniform was coated with dust and grime.

  "You'd better not let Mother see you,” she whispered in warning as he paused beside her.

  He shrugged, offering her a wink, then focused on Allison. “Go on, Miss Allison, what was it you wanted to tell me?"

  "You are not to let Geoffrey Pentercast into this house after midnight tonight,” Allison announced grandly, head high. “I will brook no resistance on this issue, Chimes. Do I make myself clear?” When he merely eyed her with a frown, she dropped her pose and wrung her hands. “Please?"

  He grinned. “Now, don't you worry, Miss. I know we need a blond head in that door first off. Neither Mr. Geoffrey nor the Squire get through that door after midnight."

  Gen nudged him with her foot. “I don't suppose you could begin that tradition a little early?"

  Chimes turned his gap-toothed grin on her instead. “Now, don't you start on that again. I thought you liked your goose eggs this morning."

  "They were delightful,” Gen agreed with a sigh, “especially the way Mrs. Chimes prepares them. However, I would just as soon not have to think about any more gifts from the Squire."

  "Oh, I can arrange that, Miss,” Chimes assured her. She looked up with a cocked head, wondering at his sudden capitulation. He winked at her. “All you have to do is give up."

  "Never,” Gen swore, straightening her shoulders.

  "Give up what?” Allison put in, her blue eyes round with wonder.

  "Nothing you need worry about,” Chimes assured her, hustling back to the door. “Just remember: You come by your stubbornness honestly in this family.” With a humph for good measure, he disappeared down the corridor.

  "Has this something to do with that wager you don't want to talk about?” Allison persisted.

  Gen snapped open the lid of the spinet. “Here, you probably want to practice. I promised mother I'd help her make some salve for Mrs. Gurney.” She fled the room before Allison could protest otherwise.

  Once safely in her room, she wandered to the window that overlooked the back garden and pressed her forehead against the cold glass. New Year's Eve—she had almost forgotten that until Allison had reminded her. The twelve days of Christmas were half over. Six more days until she had to tell her mother and sister the truth about their situation. Worse, six more days and six more gifts until she was trapped into marrying Alan Pentercast. Despite her best efforts, her mood of despair threatened to return. She fought it back.

  She couldn't let him win. There had to be some way to stop him! What was today—seven swans a swimming? Were there swans in England this time of year? She glanced again to the ponds at the back of the garden, her blood turning cold as she remembered the flock of swans she had seen from the hilltop days before. She shook off the chill. Alan could scarcely claim her own swans as a gift. He had to have something else in mind, but what?

  He had been inventive so far, she'd give him that. She felt herself smile as she remembered the bonnet. French hens, colly bird bonnets, what next, a swan's down comforter? There didn't seem to be anything she could do but wait.

  And wait she did, throughout the quiet afternoon and quieter evening. She took dinner with her mother and sister in the candlelit dining room and sat afterward before the fire in the withdrawing room, her mother embroidering, Allison reading aloud from Shakespeare. Watching her mother's calm stitches and listening to her sister's gentle voice, Gen knew she was the only one who was at all tense. The day was almost over, and Alan had not arrived with his gift. All she had to do was wait until the last stroke of midnight, now a little over two hours away, and she would be free of the cursed wager. She couldn't understand why the thought only made her more depressed.

  They had agreed to stay up until midnight to see the new year in together, but by ten Allison was nodding, and by eleven even her well-bred mother was stifling a yawn. Allison, however, urged them to stay awake. Gen knew she was still hoping William would heed her request and show up a few minutes after midnight. As for herself, she kept expecting a knock at the door, a knock that would spell the end of her waiting.

  It was still only a few minutes after eleven when there came a fierce pounding on the front door, echoing down the long corridors of the Abbey, making her mother startle in her seat and Allison leap to her feet. Gen swallowed, rising to her feet despite herself.

  "Chimes! Don't let him in!” Allison cried, dropping the book onto the floor as she dashed out into the corridor.

  "Allison Ermintrude Munroe,” her mother warned, also rising. “Moderate your tone."

  "Yes, Mother.” Allison paused i
n the corridor, straining to view the front door where the pounding had only intensified. “But you see ... “.

  "I see only that you are behaving in a completely unladylike manner,” her mother said.

  Gen's nerves snapped. “Chimes! Can't you stop that commotion?"

  Her mother turned her frown on her. “Genevieve! Has everyone gone mad this evening?"

  The pounding continued, with a voice behind it now, muffled, but urgent. Gen couldn't stand it.

  "I'll go, Mother.” She stepped out past her agitated sister, forcing herself to think about someone else's worries instead of her own. “Don't be concerned, Allison, it isn't even midnight yet."

  Allison relaxed. “Oh, that's right."

  "Allison, I think you had better explain yourself,” their mother prompted, crossing her arms over her chest. Leaving her sister to her fate, Gen hurried down the corridor.

  She reached the entry just as Chimes appeared from the back of the house. She stood aside as he approached the arched doors, which trembled under the furious pounding.

  "Easy, now!” Chimes shouted through the wood. “I'm coming!"

  He fumbled with the lock as the pounding subsided, then swung open the heavy doors. Gen braced herself for she knew not what. To her surprise, Geoffrey Pentercast spilled into the room, eyes wild, great coat askew. His boots dripped water across the parquet floor. She recoiled, thinking him drunk, but as he glanced about and met her eyes, she saw he was more scared than anything else.

  "The dam's broke!” he cried as Chimes scowled at him. “The water's pouring down the old channel. Do what you can, then for God's sake follow me to the Manor!” Turning, he dashed back out the door.

  Chimes turned to Gen, shaking his head. “Bit early to be so drunk, if you ask me. Young men these days ... “.

  Gen frowned. “I don't think he was drunk, Chimes. Get one of the groomsmen to investigate, would you?"

  Chimes scratched his balding head. “Well, now, Miss, I went and gave them the night off. It being New Year's and all."

  Gen could feel the urgency left in the room from Geoffrey's plea. “Then you'll just have to go check yourself."