The Tarnished Necklace. Trish Inc. DuffinЧитать онлайн книгу.
he asked as they gently moved up the dirt road leading from the house. The first house was Penelope’s home, about three miles away. The entire trip was filled with the laughter of four small girls as they bounced around in the wagon, leaving Maria and Peter to sit in the front and look at the scenery. Peter was dwelling on the day and turned to Maria. “I had a great time today. I didn’t know birthdays could be so nice.” He regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth, he didn’t like to talk about his past.
Maria turned to him. Talking to Peter and getting to know him as a single man rather than the husband of her friend was still new to her and she felt both shy and a little unsure how to handle the change in their relationship. She was mystified and realised she actually didn’t know anything of his past, except for a hint of a British accent. “What do you mean? Didn’t you have birthday celebrations as a child?”
Peter paused and looked out onto the road with a small frown on his face. In his eye he could picture his birthdays. Sometimes it was a quiet affair with his father’s brief appearance, one or two friends and his nanny attempting to make things jolly. Usually he was at his boarding school and then his birthday was all but ignored, bar his friends giving him a few gifts. He even got caned one birthday, that wasn’t a good day. “No, not really. My father didn’t have much interest in me as a child. Also I attended a boarding school which obviously didn’t acknowledge every boy’s birthday as there were well over two hundred of us.”
“Boarding school, what is that?” queried Maria.
Peter snorted. “Technically it is a place where young boys are sent to become young men, educated to the highest degree and emerging as men, well-equipped to face the world and be gentlemen of society. In reality it was a place where I was perpetually cold, fed the most awful food and got caned more times than I can count. On the flip side I was away from my home, so that was a bonus. I was surrounded by friends and - yes - I was well educated.”
Maria looked at him, trying to read his face. It had flickered between emotions ending in a grin when he mentioned the caning. She wondered what his childhood was like, but felt it wasn’t a happy one. “You grinned when you mentioned the caning. Dare I ask what that is about? I suspect you were somewhat mischievous and possibly still are.” Then she quietly muttered under her breath, “Poor Jake.”
Peter laughed. “Okay, I’ve been found guilty. You know, you are very observant. I trimmed the hair from Jake’s tail and I gave him a pat on the head in appreciation. Please forgive me for my transgression.” His laughter didn’t quite indicate true remorse.
Maria persisted, “…and the caning?”
He laughed. “Well, I don’t know why they caned me for the toad. It was Frederick’s idea.” He paused, waiting for Maria’s imminent reply, which came.
“Where was the toad?”
Peter explained, “Somehow a toad ended up in a chamber pot in the Head Cook’s bed, alongside some of that awful stew she gave us.” He shuddered at the memory in an exaggerated fashion.
Maria pictured the sight of a toad sitting in a puddle of stew in a chamber pot and a screaming cook in her nightclothes. She laughed, the picture in her head being quite hilarious. “So why did they cane you?” she enquired, barely controlling her laughter.
“Probably because I was spotted with a big toad in my hand by one of the masters on the night, when I was supposed to be studying in my room. Actually, in my defence, I didn’t put the toad in the chamber pot, I merely caught the beast. John supplied the stew and Stanley was the only one brave enough to go to cook’s room with it. We all got caned.” He attempted to look put out and rubbed his backside but they both laughed.
“Oh dear, it sounds like their work was cut out trying to turn you into an English gentleman,” said Maria, wiping a few tears of mirth out of her eyes. “You are English, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am,” came the short reply and then he quickly switched subject by bringing attention to a rather beautiful birdsong. Maria got the hint he didn’t want to pursue the subject any further but was still amused by his story. She spent the next few minutes imagining the scene of a younger Peter diving through a bog attempting to capture a belligerent toad and another boy attempting to smuggle some stew from a dining room. She shook her head in amusement. She could see the funny memory lurking on his face too.
All too soon they arrived at Penelope’s house and her mother came out to greet them. She stiffened a little when she saw Peter was at the reins. He was the one who brought his Indian wife to their settlement and she hadn’t grieved for a second when she heard of Chenoa’s death. She turned to Maria and smiled.
“Thank you for having Penelope. It looks like she had a lovely time, and thank you young man for bringing her home.” Peter tipped his hat in acknowledgement. He hadn’t forgotten her either and the way she very pointedly snubbed Chenoa one time in the street. Chenoa was in tears later that day because of this lady’s attitude and it had hurt him deeply. However he was polite enough to control his thoughts and smile at her.
Maria and Penelope chatted for a few more minutes. Penelope said ‘thank you’ and they made their goodbyes. Peter flicked the reins and the horses moved down the lane towards Elizabeth’s house. Maria broke the silence. “You’ve got a nice singing voice.”
He turned to her with a bemused look on his face. “How do you know?” he queried.
“I heard you when we sang happy birthday, you were seated next to me,” she replied, thinking back to that moment. Her father couldn’t sing if he tried, her mother could hold a note, but Peter had a lovely voice.
“I got my voice from my mother, apparently she sang well.”
“Doesn’t she sing anymore?” asked Maria, before wondering too late if that was an inappropriate question.
Peter was quiet for a moment before giving the true answer. “She died having me, so I have never heard her voice. People who knew her told me of my mother’s beautiful voice and how she sang in the choir and as a soloist. I gather she played the harp well and often sang for her guests. I was put in the choir at boarding school.” He shrugged and looked at Maria. “I guess I do have a good voice. I just don’t get much of a chance to sing, I don’t know if singing in the fields counts.”
Maria thought immediately of the church choir. She went along to it as did five other people, two who regretfully couldn’t sing if their lives depended on it. “Why don’t you join the church choir?” she innocently asked and then it dawned on her. He had only ever come to church once in all the time they had lived in Sundance.
Peter turned to her and again considered his reply as he didn’t want to offend her. “Thanks for the offer. It’s just, well, ah, you may have noticed I don’t go to church.” Maria didn’t reply though she was sorely tempted to and Peter was taken aback by her silence. He felt she was due an explanation, and that came quietly. “We went there once, shortly after we arrived. However Chenoa and I didn’t receive the warmest of receptions and she spent the rest of the day crying. It was a bit hard sitting there listening to a sermon of Christian love and charity when you could see the women literally cringing from Chenoa.” His hands were tightly clenched on the reins and the muscles in his jaw were tight.
“Sorry,” murmured Maria, aghast that this lovely couple should have received such a frigid reception.
Peter continued, his voice quiet and reflective. “I reckon most people try to ignore the fact that Jesus had brown skin and black hair. His colouring was probably closer to Chenoa’s than your father’s. So it angered me to be surrounded by hypocrites. Don’t get me wrong, Maria, there were a few people who were very genuine, your family included. The majority, however, made it clear that we shouldn’t have come to church that day.”
Maria was quiet, trying to think back to the day. “You know, I have to admit I haven’t given it a moment’s thought about the colour of Jesus’ skin.”
Peter glanced over to her. “Admittedly I hadn’t until that day,