My Last Duchess, стр. 72

On the fifth day in the early afternoon, her father found her, sitting in a back room without a view of the dusty road leadingin the direction of the castle. She was tired of leaping to her feet every time she heard the slightest sound that might bea carriage.

“My dear,” he said, “would you do me a great kindness and take this book to the vicar? I borrowed it sometime ago, and I expecthe’d like it back.”

She took the book from his hand. “The Hellenica, by Xenophon,” she read. “What on earth is it?”

“A most interesting account of military prowess,” her father said. “Xenophon was an ancient Greek warrior.”

“Of course, Papa,” she said. “I’m trying to finish hemming before suppertime, but I’ll take it to the vicarage first thingin the morning.”

“No, the vicar is waiting for the book,” her father stated. “Please do so at once.”

Philippa saw that her father’s jaw was set. He seemed to be vibrating with a kind of wordless excitement, one that she instantlyinterpreted.

“You’re having another argument with the vicar, aren’t you?” she asked, with a sigh. “And I suppose The Hellenica proves your point.”

“Exactly,” her father said with satisfaction. “Riggs will be quite surprised.”

“Must I go this very moment?”

“You could . . . do your hair,” her father said, waving vaguely at her. “After all, no one has seen you since your return.”

Philippa made her way upstairs, thinking about that. No doubt the villagers were agog with excitement. Certainly by now theyknew all about her stint as a nursemaid in the castle. The realization made her put on her second-best gown, a fetching paleblue one caught up under her breast with navy ribbons. She had a bonnet to match, a silly little thing that emphasized thecolor of her hair.

Once in Little Ha’penny the first person she saw was the baker’s wife, delivering hot rolls to the Biscuit and Plow. “Aye,so you’ll be a baroness as of Saturday,” Mrs. Deasly said comfortably. “When I think of you as just a little scrap, comingin here with your nursemaid, I can hardly believe you’re all grown-up. Your hair was like sunshine, even then, and you werethe prettiest little thing I’d ever seen. It’s a lucky girl you are, Miss Philippa!”

“Yes,” she said, smiling at Mrs. Deasly. Even if she had to marry Rodney, she had loved and been loved, and that was morethan many a woman could say.

As she approached the village square, she saw the vicar in front of his church, chatting with the blacksmith. Father Riggswas a gentle, stooped man, as dear to her as a grandfather. He was standing under an oak tree. The sun was slanting throughthe boughs, and his black cassock was dappled, as if it had been spotted with rainwater.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, my dear Miss Philippa. And it will be my honor to perform your wedding ceremony on Saturday,”he said, rocking back on his heels.

Philippa couldn’t quite manage a smile, but she nodded.

The vicar drew a little closer and scrutinized her face. “My dear, are you . . .” He stopped and began again. “Often thoseof the fair sex feel a trifle reluctant to marry, but I assure you that the rewards of being a dutiful and loving wife areremarkable, and realized not merely in heaven.”

Philippa nodded absently. She was wondering whether a broken heart ever scarred over. She returned her attention to the vicarwhen she saw that his face had grown soft and regretful, as if he were consigning her to the gallows rather than the altar.

He put a consoling hand on her arm. “I will certainly—” But at that moment she heard the clatter of horses’ hooves on cobblestonesand her heart bounded. Surely it was Wick at last! She spun about so quickly that the priest’s hand fell from her arm. Itwas—

It was Rodney.

As soon as he saw her, he jerked his head to the two young men riding with him. They withdrew to the opposite side of thesquare, and Rodney swung off his horse. For a moment, he simply stood before her, his face tight, before by an effort of will,it seemed, he regained his habitual sleepy look.

At last, he bent into a bow. “Miss Philippa.” At the bow’s lowest point, she saw that he would be bald quite soon. Bald asan egg, likely.

She curtsied, and held out her hand to be kissed. “Mr. Durfey.”

“Ah, the dear betrothed couple!” Father Riggs chortled beside her.

They ignored him.

Rodney took her hand in his, raised it to his lips, and didn’t release it. “Philippa,” he said, with a windy sigh. “Ah, Philippa.”

Philippa said nothing. Instead, she looked at Rodney as a naturalist might examine a specimen, cataloging the thinning hair,the arrogant yet indolent slope to his chin, the genuine—yes, genuine—affection in his eyes.

“I am sorry,” he said finally, still clinging to her hand.

Philippa forced her mouth to curve upwards, but pulled her fingers away. “It’s quite all right.”

“I—I didn’t understand. I was slightly mad, I think. Your beauty is intoxicating.”

Philippa didn’t think he was mad. She thought that he was simply lustful, and that he would always be lustful. It was partof Rodney, together with his fleshy thighs and his warm eyes. She knew in that second that he would not be faithful to her.Not Rodney, not once he was a baronet. He would rove on, cheerfully deflowering maidens in barns, or perhaps even inns.

But at the moment, he was all hers, for good or ill. He snatched up her hand again, and held it tightly. “I love you,” hesaid, turning his shoulder on the vicar. “I love you, Philippa. I’ll do whatever you wish.”

She could see that he meant it. Rodney would frolic now and then with a willing woman—in a barn or otherwise—but at nighthe would return to her, with that love shining in his eyes.

For a second she felt as if she couldn’t breathe, as if she were trapped behind a pane of glass, looking out at a world shecouldn’t touch. Panic filled her, the