A gift of daisies

by Mary Balogh

  Rachel was glad of the opportunity to break the tension of her own mood. She looked down at her abandoned bonnet and giggled. "I believe I would shock not a few people if I walked back thus," she said. "I do hope the hem of my dress is not wet or covered with grass."

  "I shall turn away and admire the water," he said with a grin, "and I expect that while I do so, some power will transform you once again into the very proper Lady Rachel Palmer."

  Little more than five minutes later the Reverend David Gower emerged from the trees with an immaculate Lady Rachel on his arm, and they made their way across to the upper lawn, still crowded with guests.

  "You said that Lady Wexford believes you unhappy," Rachel said. "Does she think that you will not be contented with your new church?"

  He smiled down at her. "She has lived most of her life close to town," he explained. "She cannot imagine anyone choosing to live in the countryside."

  "And will you be content there?" she asked. "Will you not find your parish duties tedious? Or do you plan to spend most of your time with Algie and the rest of the gentry?"

  "I shall socialize with the gentry," he said carefully, "because they will be my parishioners and as much entitled to my services as anyone else. But I intend to spend most of my time with the poor, since there are far more of them than there are of the wealthy."

  "You will not be bored?" she asked, wide-eyed. "Or restless? You will not feel that your education and your talents are being wasted?"

  He looked down at her, his eyes as serious as she had seen them. "You read the Bible," he said. "You told me so. Where was our Lord to be found during his earthly life? Among the rich, yes. But far more often among the poor. And did He ever seem bored or unhappy? I am His servant, Lady Rachel, and therefore a servant of the poor. I believe I will be happy. You see, I am also a servant by choice."

  There was a depth behind his eyes that was not quite a smile. Rachel stared, fascinated. She had never heard anyone speak quite like this before. Certainly not anyone of her own class. And certainly not a handsome young man who was more or less fashionably dressed and in attendance at a garden party held in his honor at one of the mansions of Richmond.

  "Rache!" Lord Rivers was making his way across the lawn toward them, Celia Barnes on his arm. "We were about to call out the Bow Street Runners to search for you. And all the time you were ingratiating yourself with the new vicar. I hope you have been suggesting that he keep his sermons shorter than we have been used to. Forty minutes with Vicar Ferney, David, m'lad. And that was on the days when the text did not inspire lengthy reflections! Many is the time in the last few years I have regretted not having cushions installed in my pew as I am entitled to do."

  They all laughed and turned toward the tables, where a sumptuous feast was still spread out. Rachel looked up at David Gower and smiled as she caught his eye. He gave her a warm and comfortable smile in return. There was no worship in his eyes, but there was kindness and friendship, she believed. It was a sensible look, one she would do well to emulate. Not only had she chosen to fall in love with a clergyman, but she had had the misfortune to choose a man dedicated to his calling.

  Such an infatuation would just not do at all.

  ***

  It was two weeks later before Lord Rivers returned to the country and Singleton Hall, taking David with him. The Season was more or less at a close. He never particularly enjoyed staying until the bitter end. Once most people had left for the country or one of the spas, social entertaiments became somewhat tedious. One saw the same faces wherever one went.

  And as he explained to David, Edgeley and his family would be coming home in five days' time and they would soon be followed by a dozen houseguests who would be staying for a few weeks. Miss Barnes, of course, would be coming with Rachel. And then David would want to be in the country for a week before Vicar Ferney retired and removed thirty miles to take up residence with a bachelor brother of his. There would be many details that David would wish to talk over with his predecessor.

  And so they came to stay at Singleton Hall and David found that he was indeed busy, his days filled with happy activity and plans. He found himself impatient at having to wait out the final week until he could take up residence in the vicarage and start visiting his parishioners and getting to know his parish.

  The challenge facing him excited him enormously. And the move to the vicarage would be the symbolic beginning of his service. It was true that the house was the most imposing in the village of Singleton and perfectly comfortable within. And he would have the services of an excellent housekeeper, who had lived there for forty years and was reputed to be able to convert even bare stones into a banquet. But even so, the house would be far humbler than any he had lived in in his five-and-twenty years. Moving there would be a real beginning to the life he had set himself, a life divorced from the privileges he had always taken so much for granted. He was impatient to be in his new home.

  David was very thankful to be in the country at last, away from the noise and the constant round of activities of London. Not that he had participated in many events after his godmother's garden party, it was true. The enjoyment of going from one entertainment to another had palled, he had told himself as he refused more than once to join Algie at some event. He had seen something of town and society again, he had told himself, and now he was ready to begin his life's work.

  But he knew that he was not being quite truthful with himself. He could have continued to enjoy the holiday in London, though there was no question of the fact that he longed to be in his own parish. He could have continued to develop his acquaintance with Miss Barnes. Indeed he had done so to a very limited extent. No, it was his uneasiness and perplexity over Lady Rachel that had kept him at home when he would normally have been out with Algie. He had avoided meeting her whenever possible.

  It had not always been possible. She had been at the opera one evening with a party that included Lord Stanford, and he had felt obliged to accompany Algie to her box during an interval to pay his respects. And she had been walking in the park with Algie one afternoon when he was there with Miss Barnes. The four of them had ended up walking together. But apart from those two occasions, he had not set eyes on her for two weeks.

  He did not know quite why he felt uneasy. After all, nothing had happened during that meeting at the garden party. Nothing at all. They had talked and laughed together, and he had taken her to tea. That was all.

  But the trouble was, that was not all by any means. He had seen a different side to Lady Rachel Palmer there at the stream. She had not been her usual self, brightly sociable, chattering on about trivialities. She had been enjoying her solitude, enjoying it utterly, with no regard for her appearance, and with no concern for what she might be missing at the party. It was as if she had put off a mask. Even when she had seen him, there had been no trace of flirtatiousness in her manner or conversation. And paradoxically he had found her quite enchanting.

  Dangerously enchanting, in fact. He had felt the pull of her attractiveness as if it were a tangible force. He had wanted to stay there and talk with her. He had felt relaxed and happy for a few minutes. Until there had been that tension between them. And then quite unexpectedly, without any warning at all, he had wanted more. His arms had ached to reach out for her. She had looked infinitely desirable. Afterward, in fact, he did not know by what good fortune he had overcome the urge to close the distance between their mouths. The pull had been almost irresistible.

  And she had felt it too. When he had withdrawn in confusion, she had leapt to her feet, clearly agitated. And she had assured him that she had not been flirting with him. And she had told the simple truth. There had been no flirtation on either side. Nothing that might explain or excuse what had happened. And something had definitely happened, even if they had not so much as touched each other.

  Perhaps he was refining too much on a small matter, he had thought in the days that followed. Perhaps she had forgotten about it as soon as t
hey returned to the party. But he did not think so. She had blushed and looked quite unlike her usual bright self on the two occasions on which he had seen her since. She remembered too. And she was as uncomfortable as he.

  But what could he do? David thought now at Singleton Hall, knowing that soon she would be arriving at Oakland and that he would no longer be able to avoid frequent meetings with her. Apologize? But how could one apologize for something that had not happened? Openly discuss his unease with her? Impossible. He could only hope that the embarrassment would have passed with time. After all, she would be busy with her houseguests, and he would be occupied with his new parish work.

  The trouble was that he liked the girl. That was the hard part. He would find it far easier to fight this attraction he felt for her if only he could continue to see her as a frivolous, silly, selfish young girl. An attraction that was merely physical could not survive long. But he could no longer see Lady Rachel that way. There was far more to her than those qualities. He was not sure how much more, but of one thing he was sure. She was a complex character, an interesting character who would be well worth getting to know.

  But how could he risk getting to know her? He certainly could not allow any deeper infatuation to grow. He could not allow himself to fall in love with her. He was an impoverished clergyman, pledged to be a servant of the poor. She was the daughter of a wealthy earl. He had his quiet life of service all planned out. She had a dazzling future ahead, perhaps as the bride of the Marquess of Stanford, perhaps as Algie's wife. There could be no question of any connection whatsoever between him and Lady Rachel Palmer, except that of vicar and parishioner.

  He must concentrate his mind on finding himself a wife. And he still felt that he could do no better than to court Miss Barnes. He had seen nothing to censure in her character during his encounters with her in London. He was not at all sure that she would be pleased by a marriage proposal from him. Perhaps she hoped for something better. But there was no hurry anyway. She was to be at Oakland for several weeks. He would take the whole business slowly. He would want both of them to be very sure before taking any irrevocable step.

  If only it were not at Oakland that she was to be a guest! If only he did not have to see Lady Rachel every time he saw Miss Barnes.

  ***

  Rachel was chattering brightly to Mr. Holland and Mr. Robertson, two gentlemen farmers who had been flirting with her ever since she had left the schoolroom three years before, though Mr. Robertson was now betrothed to Clara Higgins. All the evening's guests were now assembled in the drawing room at Singleton Hall. Algie's butler would be summoning them to dinner at any moment.

  It was fortunate that they had arrived home before Vicar Ferney retired and left the neighborhood altogether. Rachel was remarkably fond of the old man, as they all were, even though they were in the habit of complaining and joking about the length of his sermons and his tendency to hide away in his study from one week's end to another if no one happened to bring to his attention a serious illness or an imminent death. Papa had deliberately arranged their homecoming so that they would be in time to attend this farewell dinner that Algie had planned.

  Rachel was feeling very happy. Just half an hour before, she had met Algie for the first time in five days, and she had been so delighted to see him that she had had to restrain herself from rushing into his arms and hugging him until she broke every bone in her arms. She had only to see his unruly fair hair, his large, distinguished nose, his absurdly high shirt points, and his broad, well-set shoulders to know that she still felt as great an affection for him as ever. She had been dreadfully afraid that it would no longer be so. She would have felt as if the ground had been pulled from beneath her feet if she could no longer think of Algie in terms of her future.

  She had not either cried or hugged him. She had merely offered her hand in such a way that he was obliged to carry it to his lips, even assuming that he had not intended to do so anyway, and told him so eagerly of all she had done in the days since they saw each other last, including a detailed account of their journey from town, that her words tripped all over themselves and she was quite breathless when she finished. Algie had laughed and squeezed her hand and called her "Rache" in that endearing way of his, and she had been entirely happy. She had been able to turn to Mr. Gower and offer him her hand without giving away to any observer the fact that her heart was beating right up into her throat. She had almost been able to meet his eyes. She had fixed her own quite firmly on the bridge of his nose, between his eyes. She did not think she had even blushed.

  The last two weeks and more had been dreadful. She did not think she had ever been so unhappy or so out of charity with herself. Ever since Lady Wexford's garden party she had been feeling almost sick with love for David Gower. Just the thought of him as he had looked stooping down beside her at the edge of the stream in the not-quite-fashionable, not-quite-shabby clothes he had worn several times since she had known him, their less-than-new state doing nothing to disguise the splendidness of his frame and certainly nothing to distract one from the loveliness of his face: just the thought of him was enough to make her stomach lurch uncomfortably. She had wanted to touch him. She had wanted him to touch her. Not just to touch her but to… to touch her!

  She had indulged her longings for the remainder of their stay in London. At night before going to sleep she had imagined herself holding long conversations with him, and because it was imagination and she could control what they said, she was witty and wise. And he was respectful and admiring. And she had imagined him touching her, his fingers light and soothing in her hair, his shoulders and chest firm and warm beneath her fingers. She had imagined a kiss that was warm and very, very tender. And love words that they murmured to each other.

  And yet on the two occasions when she had met him before he left for the country with Algie, she had found it almost impossible to meet his eyes, and quite impossible to behave and converse naturally. And she had realized just how wild and unrealistic her dreams were. David Gower had been his usual quiet, charming self on both of those occasions, no trace left of the magnetism she had thought was between them at the garden party. She had imagined it all. He felt nothing at all for her.

  Her days were otherwise troubling. She had seen a great deal of the Marquess of Stanford. As the Season drew to an end, he had seemed to throw off the caution that had kept him at something of a distance for the previous weeks. He had called on her frequently, taken her driving, invited her to join parties at the opera and at Kew Gardens.

  And she had been thrown into turmoil, sensing that he was about to declare himself, not knowing how she was to respond. She liked him. She was flattered and excited by his attentions. She knew that marriage to him would represent success beyond her wildest dreams. She would have wealth and social prominence for the rest of her life. She would be mad to refuse him. She would never have a more advantageous offer.

  But how could she concentrate on preparing for his declaration when her dreams were taken up with David Gower? How could she bear to accept him when she knew that to do so would take her away from Oakland and David? What should she do?

  And during the final days, when the marquess had already called on her papa, and she knew the day and hour when he would pay his addresses to her, she had longed for Algie. Her dear, undemanding, kind, safe friend! She had neglected him so much. She had come to London convinced that she would marry him one day. And what had happened? She had grown to contemplate marriage with another man, and she had fallen in love with a third man. She had all but forgotten about her faithful neighbor.

  She had not refused the marquess. She had not accepted him either. She had told him only that she did not know, that she was quite unable to make a decision at that time. He must consider her answer to be no, she had said, because she could not expect him to accept such an indefinite answer. But he had smiled at her in his charming way, raised her hand to his lips, and assured her that such an answer suited him admirably, sinc
e he had promised to spend the summer at Tunbridge Wells with his sister and would prefer to leave the celebration of his betrothal until the autumn.

  She was fortunate, Rachel thought. She might still make that advantageous marriage, but she had the summer during which to sort out her feelings, to put behind her a foolish and pointless infatuation, and to find out exactly what her feelings for Algie were.

  All she knew now, at the start of her first evening back home, was that she was happy. She was back with Algie again, and safe. And she had met Mr. Gower once more without the earth shattering at her feet.

  Chapter 5

  It had been a successful evening, Rachel judged a few hours later. Algie's cook, unused to catering to large numbers, nevertheless always seemed able to rise to the occasion. And Algie had entertained them all before the ladies left the dining room with a farewell speech to Vicar Ferney, his words expressing the affection they all felt. The old man had looked delighted to be reminded of several little anecdotes about incidents that might have been embarrassing or even annoying at the time they happened. There had been a great deal of laughter at the table, and they had all risen at Algie's bidding to drink a toast, first to the vicar who was leaving them and then to the man who was to take his place.

  Rachel, warmed by her renewed fondness for Algernon, had found herself able to drink both toasts with equal goodwill. And afterward she and Celia had sung the songs they had practiced in London for the occasion, and other guests had also played or recited or sung for the entertainment of the nodding old vicar. They had even smiled through his lengthy speech of thanks, knowing that it was the last time they would be called upon to sit through one of his orations and well aware of the fact that his heart was in the right place even if he had not been granted the gift of interesting eloquence.

  The Misses Farraday, spinster daughters of the old vicar's predecessor, had suggested cards eventually, and Algie, ever good-natured, obliged them. Most of the guests joined while Vicar Ferney and David retired to the library to discuss some last-minute business. Rachel was left to her own devices, it being an accepted fact in the neighborhood that she did not play cards and that when she was forced into doing so she played so badly that no one at her table could enjoy the game.