Chapter Eight Back to Previous Chapter A few days after the dinner at the Great House, Sir Bernard Gilbride called at the parsonage. A rather surprised Walter showed him into his library and asked how he might be of service. "I have come to beg a favour," said the older man. "My son, Michael, is not a hearty boy, as I believe you know." Walter nodded cautiously. "He was perfectly healthy when we lived in Kerry, but when my wife passed some five years ago we moved to Dublin--my business was there, you know, and without their mother at hand--well, Michael's health went down sadly, sir." "What is the nature of Mr. Gilbride's illness?" "We don't rightly know." The older man scratched his head. "He would have these fits, these attacks, you see. He would cough violently for a time and have difficulty breathing, and be left weak and tired. We had doctors, specialists, to see him, of course. All of them said something different and none of them were helpful. Eileen noticed Michael was better if kept inside, so we kept him in as much as possible, though he is naturally an active boy and it is a difficult task." He leaned closer to Walter. "My wife--Michael's mother--died of a consumption, and I fear that he has inherited that tendency. He has grown alarmingly thin in the last year, although he has always been a good eater." Walter smiled. "I would not trouble yourself about that, sir. I was tall and thin like Michael when I was fifteen, and I was perfectly healthy. And as for the other, I hope the country air will do him good." "Aye. That is why I came here to Somerset, you know." "We are delighted to have you in the neighborhood, sir, but may I be so bold as to ask why you did not return to Kerry?" Sir Bernard shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Ireland is not the same as it was when I was a boy." He sighed. "I wish it was, sir, for my children's sake. It was not easy for me to leave. But the country is dying. Too many people and not enough food, crop failures, what we manage to grow sold out of the country--no, I see no future for us there. I want to give my boy more." He leaned over and fixed his shrewd gaze on Walter. "I want to send him to one of the universities. He will inherit a fine fortune, and I want him accepted as a gentleman, want him to make those contacts he will need in his future life." "Are you seeking a recommendation of a school, sir?" "Nay. Michael is not yet well enough to go to school with the other boys, all rough and tumble, you know." Walter smiled, remembering the "rough and tumble" aspects of his own schooling; the phrase was apt. Sir Bernard continued. "I would like you to tutor the boy. He has taken an uncommon shine to you and your brother." Walter stared at the older man in some astonishment. He had never expected such a request; could not believe anyone could trust him with the education of a young boy. Sir Bernard misunderstood his silence, and hastened to add, "I'll compensate you, naturally. Make it well worth your while." "No, no, it is not the money," cried Walter. "I confess I am taken aback." "Indeed? I was given to understand that clergymen such as yourself often take boys to tutor until they are ready for university." He considered a moment. "Perhaps I should ask that curate of yours, Stock, is that his name? He has a large family, might be glad of the extra blunt." Walter nearly laughed aloud at the thought of Delbert Stock tutoring anyone. He sometimes wondered how the curate had managed to get through Oxford, then remembered his own sometimes indifferent university education, in which most of his learning was obtained through his own exertions rather than that of his instructors. "Very well, sir, I shall tutor your son." Sir Bernard was clearly much relieved. "Much obliged to you, rector, much obliged. You get him ready to go to one of the universities and I'll be in your debt." The next day, Walter went to the Cottage to consult with Charles about a plan of study. Charles went to the sitting-room he used as a library, took a book down from the shelf, leafed through it, and presented the open volume to his brother. The page to which he pointed was Locke's essay, Thoughts On Education. "That one is for you," said Charles with a grin. "Now let us find some texts for young Michael." With contributions from the libraries at the Cottage and the Great House along with his own, Walter was able to find sufficient books and determine what subjects young Mr. Gilbride would need to study for entrance into one of the universities. It was decided that three days a week would be sufficient time for the actual tutoring; Michael could spend other time studying on his own, and Walter could tend to his duties as rector. He set up a table and sturdy chairs in his library, which was to be the study area. Michael Gilbride proved to be a joyful addition to the parsonage, his indefatigable good humour filling the house with light even on the bleakest winter days. Mrs. Brumby and Mrs. Wilson doted upon him, the former scolding the rector if she felt the boy was kept at his lessons for too long and the latter exerting herself to make delectable treats to tempt "Mr. Michael's" appetite. Walter observed that Michael's appetite, as healthy as that of any boy of fifteen, needed no such tempting, but he was as delighted with his pupil as his servants. When the lessons began, Walter quickly determined that Michael could read very well, and from his own account did so voraciously; many times the tutor had to call Michael back to attention when his eyes wandered to the bookshelves, sometimes rising from his chair to inspect various titles. He knew Latin very well, some French, but no Greek, and his knowledge of science and mathematics were not as advanced as they should have been. Walter moved to correct his deficiencies, and was satisfied that the boy would be ready to go up to one of the universities within two years' time. Sir Bernard spoke wistfully of Oxford, but Michael declared he would go to Cambridge as Mr. Musgrove had. Walter found Michael's open hero-worship a little discomfiting, though flattering, and sometimes even amusing, as when he attempted to imitate the rector's style of dress or way of tying his neckcloth. One morning a few weeks after the lessons had begun, Walter heard a carriage enter the sweep and went out to greet his pupil. He was surprised to see not the large, ponderous carriage decorated with Sir Bernard's crest on each door, but a gig driven by Miss Gilbride, with her brother seated beside her. He put out a hand to steady the boy as he scrambled eagerly out of the conveyance, then smiled up at the driver. "Good morning, Miss Gilbride," he said with a slight bow. She smiled back at him. "Good morning, Mr. Musgrove! I have delivered your pupil. It was such a fine morning I thought it would be best for Michael to be in the fresh air for a bit before he has to be cooped up inside with his books." "An excellent notion, madam." It was indeed a fine day for March, warm and bright. He turned to Michael, whose blue eyes were shining from the ride in the open carriage. "Are you ready to begin your day's studies, then, Mr. Gilbride?" "Yes, sir!" "Then let us go to it." They bid Miss Gilbride good-bye, and she called to the horse and directed the gig down the sweep and out onto the road. Walter watched her for a moment admiringly; she was an excellent whip, driving efficiently yet elegantly. When she was out of sight they went into the library, where several texts were spread out on a table. They worked together for a few hours until Walter declared it time for a rest period. Michael smiled at him, a lock of his coppery hair flopping into his eyes. "I would like to go outside for a bit, sir, if that is all right," he said hesitantly. "It is quite all right. Are you hungry?" He was, and Walter sent him into the garden and went to the kitchen to arrange for a table, chairs, and milk and sandwiches to be brought outside. They ate their nuncheon among the wild, overgrown plantings; Mrs. Smythe's beloved rose-bushes, neglected since her death ten years previously, reached up and out with tangled, brown branches. They would flower in June, but not well; many of the blooms would be stunted, and others strangled in the untamed foliage. The flower beds would be a mass of weeds until one of the Uppercross gardeners came to dig them up sometime in June; then they would be nothing more than beds of dry, dead earth. Walter never came into the garden without determining once again to improve it, but this would be his third spring in the parsonage and he had yet to follow through. When they were finished eating, Walter bid Michael to return to his books, but the protest in the boy's blue eyes prompted him to add, "You may bring them out here to study this afternoon, if you like. But I will hear you recite, and if you neglect your lessons, I will keep you inside all summer." Michael grinned and ran inside for the books, and settled under a tree with the Greek text while Walter tended to his correspondence. After an hour, Walter tested him, and he knew the lesson perfectly. They were at the table labouring over a mathematics lesson when Michael looked up from his book and cried, "Eileen!" Miss Gilbride had entered the garden and was walking toward them. Walter rose and waved his hand at his pupil to indicate that he should do so, as well. Michael rose reluctantly to his feet. "She's only my sister!" "Nonetheless, she is a lady, and a gentleman always rises to greet a lady." Miss Gilbride overheard the conversation and called, "Mr. Musgrove, if you are trying to teach my brother manners, I assure you that many before you have tried and failed. I do not envy you your task." She approached the table and reached up to rumple her brother's head, a caress that could have been ridiculous considering that Michael was a head taller than his sister, but she made it seem perfectly right. "Open-air lessons! I am persuaded you would not get such at Rugby or Eton! What are you studying?" She glanced at his book. "Ah, Euclid. How do you get along?" "Not at all, I am afraid," said Michael sorrowfully. "Mr. Musgrove says I must memorize the formulae but there are so many of them!" Walter pointed out, "If you wish to attend Cambridge, you need a good background in mathematics and the sciences. I would not have the ghost of Sir Isaac Newton rising at midnight to confront you about your ignorance." Michael laughed, but Eileen gazed up at him gravely. "If you want to learn this, you must apply yourself, and listen to your tutor." "I shall." "Good. Go inside and get your coat and things, it is time to go home." When he was gone, she turned to Walter. "Mr. Musgrove, I thank you for bringing Michael out here for his lessons. The fresh air does him such good. You see how his colour has improved after just one day." "I did notice, and will bring him out as much as possible when the weather is fine. However, I suspect we will have some more cold, rainy days before spring really arrives." "Fear not, sir, spring is on the way. See how the bushes here are beginning to bud!" She walked over to one of the rose-bushes and pulled out a branch. She pointed to a tiny green bulge and said, "See?" Walter, who did not profess to be a botanist, nodded politely. Satisfied, Miss Gilbride dropped the branch and looked around her. "Do you have someone to tend this garden, sir? If so, you should turn him off directly, for he does not do his job." "The disgraceful state of the garden is my fault, I am afraid," he confessed. "I have not devoted the time to it that it deserves, and it was neglected by my predecessor as well." She turned her intense blue eyes to his. "Does your father not have gardeners that he could lend you?" "Oh, yes, but I have not had the opportunity to direct them." Sensing that this lowered himself in her eyes, he added rather lamely, "I have many demands on my time." "Of course." She walked around, reaching out occasionally to stroke a branch or run her gloved fingers through the dirt of a flower-bed. "If you will accept some advice from me, the first thing to do is prune these rose-bushes. They cannot bloom well as they are." "They probably will not," he agreed. "They have not in the past two summers that I have lived here." Miss Gilbride's eyes swept around the garden walls, considering. "This bed here, and this one here, should be planted with bulbs. That way you will not have to replant every year. And over here, a bench would be just the thing! Like the ones at the Cottage, the wrought-iron and painted wooden ones near the veranda." She laughed and turned to him, and then drew back, remembering herself. "Forgive me, Mr. Musgrove. It is certainly not my place to tell you anything about your household. In my defense I can only say that the gardens at Kellynch Hall are so well tended that there is nothing for me to do, and I miss working in the garden." She gazed about her wistfully. "Even in Dublin, we had a garden. But tell me," she added, turning back to him, "how would you like the garden to be?" Walter was startled by the question. "I have not really given the matter any consideration." He looked around him, trying to see how he would like the garden to appear. "Nothing too manicured, I suppose. Natural, and perhaps somewhat unrestrained, but still proper and pleasing." He looked at her and added, "Can you understand what I am trying to convey?" She smiled warmly. "I can indeed. I believe we have similar tastes in gardens, sir. I too prefer them proper, but not too much so." Walter smiled back at her, and the fleeting thought occurred to him that his mother was not quite right when she said that Miss Gilbride was plain. It could be that Mrs. Musgrove had not seen the young lady in question in a particularly fetching blue hat and driving-habit that brought out the deep azure colour of her eyes. But while he ate his solitary dinner and afterward read a book upon which he found it difficult to concentrate, Walter found his thoughts returning time and time again to the sight of Eileen Gilbride in the slanting late-afternoon sunlight, her blue eyes sparkling with the thought of bringing his garden back to life. One cloudy, chilly day in late March, Walter found himself obliged to go into Crewkerne on a commission from his mother and some business of his own. He rode his mare, Rebecca, which he had received as a gift from Charles upon his ordination. The creature was as strong and proud and spirited as her sire, Wilfred, and the sight of the handsome rector on the chestnut mare had excited many a flutter in the hearts of the young ladies of the neighbourhood. It was market day, and the square in front of the old town hall was crowded with persons and animals and carts of all descriptions. Walter left Rebecca at a posting-inn in the care of a groom, then tended to his business at the bank; that completed, he made his way to Smedley's dry-goods store. Mr. Smedley had opened his shop some twenty-five years previously and had been extremely successful in the endeavour. An ambitious man, he had purveyed his new-found fortune into social acceptance of a sort. He built a large, elegant house near Uppercross, and gained admission into the drawing-rooms of the neighbourhood by virtue of his wife, a woman of some education and gentility but little fortune. Mrs. Smedley had suppressed her own ambition, marrying a tradesman when faced with the alternative of being left on the shelf; however, she transferred that ambition to her daughters, particularly to Charlotte, the eldest. Miss Smedley was a blooming girl of nineteen who had determined to settle for nothing less than becoming Mrs. Walter Musgrove, and who just happened to be in the shop choosing a length of fabric for her spring ball-gown when Walter entered. Walter went to the counter and opened his mouth to speak when he felt a hand on his arm and heard a voice that made him cringe internally. "Mr. Musgrove!" exclaimed a very happy Miss Smedley. "It is perfectly delightful to see you." "Good day, madam," he said politely, trying to disengage his arm from hers. "I have come to match some ribbon." He handed a short length to the clerk behind the counter. "Three yards, please." Miss Smedley waved the clerk away officiously. "La, matching ribbon is not a job for a man! Let me see it." She snatched the ribbon away from the clerk and went to a wall of bobbins, standing in front of them consideringly. The clerk, a Mr. Timothy Jones, stared after her disconsolately. Mr. Smedley, having no sons, had taken him as a partner shortly before. Mr. Jones had given his heart to Miss Smedley some time previously, but she would not consider his suit; not while the rector remained umarried. Walter gave him an embarrassed smile, but Mr. Jones refused to look at him. "This is the very thing!" Miss Smedley brought a bobbin of ribbon back to the counter and handed it to Mr. Jones to measure it. She laughingly dangled the length that Walter had brought with him in front of his coat. "It will suit you admirably! It is just the colour of yellow to bring out your eyes." She smiled up at him through her eyelashes, apparently thinking that Walter would find such an affectation flirtatious. "It is for my mother," said Walter, rather stiffly. "For your mother? Not for your sweetheart?" she laughed up at him. "To tie around a bundle of wildflowers, perhaps?" Before the somewhat revolted Walter could form an answer, Mr. Jones said haughtily, "It is not the time of year for wildflowers." He closed the scissors on the ribbon with a deliberate snap. Miss Smedley ignored him. "Are you to go to the ball at the Tollers' Wednesday fortnight?" "No, madam, I have not been invited." Thank heaven, he added mentally, imagining an evening of fending off her overwhelming attentions. "No?" She frowned thoughtfully. "I must speak to Amanda. I am sure that I told her…" Her voice trailed off, and then suddenly she started, as if realizing for the first time that Walter was standing in front of her. He took the opportunity presented by her confusion and said hastily, "It was very good to see you, Miss Smedley, but I am afraid that I must be on my way." He accepted the package of ribbon from Mr. Jones and turned to the door with relief that he hoped was not entirely visible. "Wait!" she cried, following him with an eagerness that could hardly recommend herself to the rector. He halted and turned back to her, and she stood staring at him, wide-eyed. She had obviously spoken hastily, meaning only to stop him, without consideration for how she would keep him in the shop, and Walter felt his impatience rising to a dangerous level. Just then the door to the shop opened, and Gwendolyn Clay walked in, accompanied by the ever-present Mrs. Fletcher. Gwendolyn took in the scene instantly, and though she did not smile, her eyes displayed her amusement at Walter's predicament. After savouring the absurdity for a moment, she said, "There you are, Mr. Musgrove! Have you finished your business? Are you ready to accompany me back to my carriage?" Walter stared at her wildly, wondering what in the world she had in mind. "So that I may give you that package," she prodded. "For your mother." "Oh," he said, comprehending. "The package. For my mother. Yes, I am ready." He turned to Miss Smedley and said, "I thank you for your assistance, Miss Smedley, and you, Mr. Jones." Charlotte was staring at Gwendolyn, her expression an odd mingling of resentment and admiration. Miss Smedley privately held the sophisticated and elegant Miss Clay as her sartorial ideal, but the evidence of a closer than usual acquaintance with the rector could not but be distressing. "Must you go now?" she said plaintively. "Do not you have business here, Miss Clay?" "We shall come back tomorrow," she said sweetly. "Mr. Musgrove is a busy man. We should not keep him from his duties." She looked Miss Smedley down and up and added, "Charlotte, dear, that hat is just lovely! And that is a new dress, is not it? That colour is perfect for you. You should wear it more often." Unable to help herself, Miss Smedley blushed and smiled at such attention from her idol, certainly more than she blushed over her shameless behaviour just now, thought Walter in some annoyance. "I must be on my way, Miss Clay," he said rather sharply. "If you have the package." "Of course," she agreed, and took his arm as they passed out of the shop, trailed at a discreet distance by Mrs. Fletcher. "The carriage was unable to get close to the shop because of the market," Gwendolyn told Walter when they were outside. "The groom is walking the horses." They walked toward the road at the end of Market Square. As they walked, Walter felt his pique dissolving. "You dealt with that situation quite admirably," he observed. Gwendolyn smiled up at him. "Consider it my act of Christian charity for the day." Walter laughed. "It was a truly Christian act, madam, and I thank you for it." "It was my pleasure." She hesitated, then added cautiously, "You do not entertain Charlotte Smedley's attentions, then?" "Good God, no," he said, again revolted. "And I suspect that she has no more real regard for me than I do for her. That mother of hers has filled her head with foolishness, depend upon it." "'Twould not surprise me," Gwendolyn agreed. "Mrs. Smedley is quite ambitious." "Charlotte should accept Jones and be done with it. He can make her happy as I could not." "Here is the carriage." They had reached the road, and the groom alertly brought the carriage to the curb, then sprang to open the door. Gwendolyn indicated that Mrs. Fletcher should precede her into the conveyance, and Walter handed her in with a polite smile that caused her to giggle rather unattractively. Walter then turned to Gwendolyn and took her hand to help her up the step. "Thank you, love," he said softly. "I'll not forget this favour." She laughed. "I would not have let you forget it." She put her foot on the carriage step, then turned back to him and added in a low voice, "And never discount your ability to make a woman happy, Walter. It is prodigious indeed." His heart too full for words, he raised her hand to his lips. As he did so, he heard his name being called out by a familiar voice and realized that it came from a gig just behind Gwendolyn's. He turned, Gwendolyn's hand still in his, and saw that the driver was Eileen Gilbride. She was smiling, but then caught sight of his companion, and the smile faltered. She bowed politely to Gwendolyn, who returned the salute, her green eyes once again full of amusement and, perhaps, a note of triumph. "Good day, Miss Gilbride," she called with a sweet smile. Miss Gilbride directed her gig smartly around Gwendolyn's stopped carriage. As she passed, her eyes caught Walter's, lingered for a moment, then resolutely fixed on the road in front of the gig. Continued in Next Chapter ~ Table of Contents By A Lady Comment on this story Home ~ Site Map ~ Contact Original Images and Content Copyright © 2002 by Margaret C. Sullivan. All Rights Reserved.