A gift of daisies

by Mary Balogh

  Algernon shook his head, though he did not know if she could see the gesture, as he was sitting totally in shadow, his back to the door. She looked at him for a while and then simultaneously with a flash of lightning her head jerked downward. There was not enough light for him to see if she had changed color.

  "Did you just recall the rest of what I said?" he asked.

  She did not answer. But she did not ask him to explain his meaning.

  "I love Rache," Algernon said quietly, "and had she not spoken tonight, I would perhaps have felt honor-bound to contract a betrothal with her soon. If that had happened, I would have devoted most of the energies of my life to seeing her happy and protected. But I would always have known that I had wished to pursue the acquaintance of the woman with whom I might have been happy for the rest of my life."

  Celia looked up, an agony of embarrassment in her face. "My lord?" she said.

  "Algernon."

  "Algernon." She lost her courage suddenly, looked down, and jerked to her feet. "I must return to the ballroom," she said. "It will not look good if I am missed."

  Algernon too got to his feet. "It seems almost in bad taste, does it not," he said, "to pay my addresses to a lady a mere few hours after another has released me from a sort of promise? But you are to leave the day after tomorrow, Celia, and who knows if there will be any opportunity tomorrow to have a private word with you? I must speak now."

  "No." Celia looked at him again, her eyes not quite steady on his face. "It is just that you are naturally disappointed over Rachel. And you must know that I like you and admire you, my lord. That is all it is."

  "Algernon," he corrected. "And that is not all it is, Celia. You have such a poor opinion of yourself, do you not? You cannot imagine that a man could love you and want you for his wife?"

  "Not you," she said. "Oh, not you, my 1...Algernon. You are so very… handsome. You… Oh, no, you could not possibly love me."

  "But I do," he said. Her hands were like two blocks of ice when he took them in his own. "I have known for some time that you are the lady I would want for my wife if I were entirely free to choose. You are quiet and gentle and sensible, Celia. And quite lovely. I find you lovely. I want you, in every way it is possible to want a woman. And now I am quite free to tell you so. Will you have me, my dear?"

  "Oh," she said, and her hands moved convulsively against his, "I shall wake up in a moment and find that this is all a dream. And I shall laugh at my own foolishness."

  "Shall I pinch you?" he asked, smiling down gently at her. "I love you, Celia, and I want you to be my wife. My baroness. Lady Rivers. I want you as my companion, my confidante, my lover. Will you?"

  "Oh," she said again. It sounded more like a wail than an exclamation. "I have loved you so very much. I have been so envious of Rachel. I never dreamed that you could feel the same way about me. You love me? You really love me?"

  Algernon clucked his tongue with mock exasperation and jerked on her hands suddenly. "I must kiss you," he said. "Ever since I kissed you in the rose garden I have been obsessed by the need to do so again. And to hold you close to me, Celia. Ah, yes, I knew you would feel like this. So slender and so beautiful. Will you let me kiss you?"

  "Algernon." She whispered his name and looked up at him in wonder. She made no attempt to push away from him. Her breasts pressed against his satin evening coat, her thighs against his.

  He kissed her lips tentatively and raised his head again to look down at her. "How could I not have known I loved you the first moment I saw you?" he said in wonder.

  But he did not wait for her answer. He was too busy kissing her hungrily, his heart singing with the almost instant realization that he had been right about her inner passion. She was molten beneath the pressure of his hands, arched into his body, taut with the desire to be taken closer. There was nothing of the shrinking, timid virgin in her response to him. He opened his mouth over hers, nibbling at her lips with his teeth, ready to resume a more chaste kiss if she took alarm. But she moaned, wrapped her arms around his neck, and parted her lips beneath his. Algernon relaxed his control and responded to her surrender. Only the almost subconscious knowledge that the library door was wide open behind him kept the embrace from progressing completely beyond the bounds of propriety.

  "There," he said against her hair a few minutes later. It smelled clean and fragrant. "Now you will have to marry me, Celia. Your honor has been quite hopelessly compromised. And would be much more so if only I had had the good sense to close the door when we came in here. God, how I want you."

  "Algernon." She buried her face against the high starched collar of his shirt. "I am the most fortunate of women. I will always try to make you happy."

  "There will be nothing easier, my love," he said. "You will not even have to try. But tell me: how are you planning to make me happy-as my wife? Is it too much to hope?"

  "Oh." She jerked back her head and looked up at him. "I have not answered you, have I? The answer seems so obvious to me that it hardly needs to be stated. Yes, Algernon, of course I will marry you. Oh, of course I will. And what a wonderful dream this is. Usually one awakens just before the really good part."

  Algernon chuckled. "I am afraid it is time to wake up for now," he said, "much as I regret having to do so. I seem to recall signing Miss Higgins' card for a set sometime after supper. And I have only just realized that the storm is still raging. What an unusually long time it is lasting."

  "I had not noticed either," Celia said. "How safe I feel here with you, Algernon."

  He hugged her to him once more. "Shall we keep our secret for a while?" he suggested. "Perhaps it would even be a good idea for you to return home as planned in two days' time. I shall follow after you within a few days so that I may talk with your father, as is only proper. Will he approve of me, do you think?"

  "Oh, yes," she said. "Papa will love you." She giggled suddenly. "He will approve, anyway."

  "I am going to work on making you laugh more often, Celia," Algernon said, lifting her hand and placing it formally on his sleeve before leading her back into the main hall. "You are quite hopelessly adorable when you do so. Not that I have an easy time resisting you even when you are as serious as a judge, mind you."

  ***

  The wind was howling outside the cottage. Lightning was flashing and thunder crashing almost incessantly. At any moment the rain was going to lash down. Mr. Perkins and the children had come in from outside and had disappeared into the inner room, where the youngest children had been sleeping for some time. Mr. Perkins had hovered in the main room, it was true, looking down at his wife in acute distress, but when she tensed again against pain, he turned and almost staggered into the room with his mother and children. Only the two older daughters remained with David to tend their mother as best they could.

  David was scarcely aware of any of these happenings. His starched collar had been shed long ago. The top button of his shirt was undone. His damp hair had been pushed back from his forehead so many times that it was thoroughly disheveled. His shirt and knee breeches, so carefully tended for the past few years so that they might last, were creased and stained.

  He was sponging off Mrs. Perkins' hot face yet again with gentle hands. He was smiling down into her tired eyes.

  "It should not be long now, should it?" he said. "Your mother-in-law has said that it is usually not long after the water has broken."

  Thank goodness for that quavering and constant voice from the inner room, David thought. Without its direction he would not have even known about the breaking of the water before birth. He certainly would not have prepared for it by settling layers of rags over the mattress.

  "It has never been this long, Reverend," Mrs. Perkins said. "I am sorry. I don't seem able to do anything to help you." And then she shut her eyes tightly and arched her back against yet another onslaught of pain.

  Thank God it was this long, David thought, feeling a pang of guilt over wishing an extension to the agony of th
e poor woman before him. Would the midwife never come?

  The swift knocking on the door that ensued seemed an answer to his prayer. David felt his shoulders sag with relief as one of the girls ran to open the door. Rain lashed against the window at the same moment, almost as if a giant hand had hurled a mammoth pailful of water against the cottage. But he did not turn. He was still clasping Mrs. Perkins' hand and murmuring soothing words to her, waiting for the now familiar signs of the subsiding of the pain.

  "Oh," a breathless voice said from behind him, "just in time. I am so glad there was a light in your house still, Tess. I hope you do not mind my coming in."

  David turned sharply, and his eyes met the startled glance of Rachel. She was dressed for the ball, with no cloak or bonnet. Her hair was blown into wild disarray.

  "David?" she said. "What is it? Is someone sick? Oh. It is Mrs. Perkins' time?"

  The voice of old Mrs. Perkins came from the inner room. "Is that you, my lady?" she called. "You had best come in here. That is no place for a young lady to be. I am afraid we are crowded, but you must have the chair."

  "Where is the midwife?" Rachel asked, ignoring the voice. "Has she not been sent for?"

  "She has been busy all day attending another birth," David said. "She is supposed to come as soon as she is able."

  "But she will not come now," Rachel said. "Listen to that rain, David. And the wind. Travel will be impossible for several hours at least."

  "Go into the other room, my lady," Mrs. Perkins said weakly. "Oh, Reverend, I'm so sorry." She began to gasp again, and David turned back to her.

  "Please to go inside, my lady." Mr. Perkins had emerged from the inner room, looking rather like a ghost, Rachel thought. "I shall go and see to your horse."

  Rachel stared guiltily as he opened the door and had it almost whipped from his hand. He disappeared outside. "David, do you have any experience in this?" Rachel asked when he had finished talking to Mrs. Perkins and was dabbing at her face with a cloth.

  His soft laughter sounded genuinely amused. "It is not part of the training of a clergyman," he said, "though perhaps it should be. Go on into the other room now, Rachel."

  "No," she said. "You need help. Let me do that, David."

  She reached out a hand for the cloth, but he dropped it hurriedly into the bowl in order to take the hand of Mrs. Perkins, who, to Rachel's horror, turned rigid and even redder in the face. She began to moan and bite on her lower lip, which was already looking swollen and bruised.

  "Let the sound out if you must," David was saying to her. "Scream if it will help. We will endure it, and the children have company."

  Mr. Perkins had just come back in from outside, looking drenched to the skin.

  Rachel dipped a finger into the bowl, found that the water was tepid, and hurried over with it to the pail that stood beside the door. By the time Mrs. Perkins had again relaxed, Rachel was back at her side with fresh cold water. She knelt and began to sponge off the hot, tired face and neck. She turned her head and smiled at the two young girls, who were hovering at the foot of the mattress, their eyes wide with tiredness and fright.

  "Have you been helping?" she asked. "How very brave of you. I think you deserve a rest. Would you like to go in and join your grandmama or perhaps go up to the attic to lie down? I shall help the Reverend Gower now. I shall call if we need you. All right?"

  Lil almost sagged with relief and even Tess put up no argument. They both disappeared up the ladder into the attic, taking no light with them. Indeed, they needed no light. The lightning was still almost incessant.

  On old Mrs. Perkins' instructions and some weak affirming murmurs from her daughter-in-law, David had gathered up the remaining pile of dry cloths that the girls had set on a chair and brought them over to the bed. He and Rachel spread them in a thick layer on the mattress. A smaller pile was left beside the bed for wrapping the baby after the birth. Rachel stared at them and realized suddenly and for the first time exactly what was about to happen. But there was no time to panic. Mrs. Perkins was moaning beside her. Soon she would need the mercy of the cool cloth again.

  Over the next hour Rachel forgot the storm, the imminence of birth, and all else in her efforts to relieve the mother's pain.

  "It's time," the woman said at last with some urgency. Her breathing quickened. "It's time, Reverend. Where is the midwife?" The last words were almost screamed as Mrs. Perkins gripped the sides of the mattress and bore down against her pain.

  David's eyes met Rachel's across the bed. He was looking very pale, she noticed, but not panic-stricken. He looked quite in charge of the situation. She forgot that he had no more experience than she with such an event. She looked calmly to him for instructions.

  "Grip both of her hands, Rachel," he said, "so that she can push with more force. I will receive the baby. Mrs. Perkins senior has given me full instructions on how to proceed."

  Rachel obeyed without question and watched quite calmly the preparations David made as surely as if he had delivered a hundred babies.

  And then, quite unaware of the pain in her hands caused by Mrs. Perkins' viselike grip, she watched in growing wonder and awe the slow miracle of birth. And finally there was the moment when David held in his hands the tiny red and slippery child, and it cried without any encouragement to take its first breath. The newest Perkins boy had made his appearance.

  Mrs. Perkins relaxed her hold on Rachel's hands and reached out her arms. She was laughing weakly, her whole attention focused on her son. "Oh, give him to me," she said.

  Rachel reached for some warm cloths in a daze and wrapped them around the tiny, noisy little bundle before placing it in the mother's arms. As she crossed the room to fetch warm water in the bowl, she noticed with puzzlement that David was still busy. It was not over yet. Old Mrs. Perkins was calling instructions from the inner room, and the new mother was adding details.

  And then it was all over and Rachel was able to take the baby in trembling hands, wash him off gently with the water, and wrap him in the remaining clean cloths before handing him again to his mother, who was covered up and smiling tiredly, her eyes following every move Rachel made with her precious bundle of humanity.

  And then Rachel called in Mr. Perkins, and he came, pale and trembling, and stared down in humble timidity at his wife and son. David was beside the door washing off his hands and rolling down his shirtsleeves. Rachel followed him there. Their eyes met and held.

  "David," she said. "Oh, David. How very wonderful." Her eyes were brimming with tears. Had she been able to see clearly, she would have seen that his were brighter than usual too.

  Neither knew afterward whether he offered his arms or whether she came into them unbidden. But in his arms she was, and they leaned against each other, weak with the wonder of the miracle they had just witnessed and participated in to a small extent. He held her head against his damp shoulder and Rachel breathed in the smell of perspiration, surely more wonderful than any perfume at that moment.

  "How very privileged I have been," he murmured against her hair. "Most men experience only the guilt of having caused their women's agony and then the pride of parenthood. I have seen the wonder of pain turned to joy, Rachel. How good our Lord has been to me."

  "David," she said. "Oh, David." Foolish to say his name over and over again. But messages passed without the medium of words. They looked into each other's eyes eventually and smiled, a totally unself-conscious look of deep and mutual love.

  Mr. Perkins had taken his new son into the inner room to be inspected by his grandmother, and Mrs. Perkins was shyly trying to attract the attention of her doctor and nurse. Now that it was all over, she was flustered and apologetic. It took all of David's gentle reassurances to restore her calm joy in what she had just accomplished.

  David and Rachel spent the next couple of hours talking in low voices to old Mrs. Perkins and her son. The new mother was enjoying a well-earned sleep, and her new son had decided to cooperate. None of the other child
ren had stirred during the excitement of the birth or afterward. The storm eventually passed over, and an hour later both David and Mr. Perkins thought that perhaps a vehicle as light as Lord Rivers' gig might be able to travel the road back to Oakland. David would drive Rachel. He would not hear of her going alone.

  Chapter 15

  Lord Rivers' ball continued long after it was scheduled to finish. The music and the dancing went on until dawn, and then a surprisingly lively group of people crowded windows or ventured out onto the terrace, all trying to assess the probable state of the roads merely from viewing the rain-soaked cobbles and grass. It was certain that those who had traveled any distance would be foolish to think of returning home yet. Any weighty carriage would at the very least get hopelessly stuck in mud, and there was the added danger of upsetting in a pothole or skidding off the road and overturning into a ditch.

  Lord Rivers' staff belowstairs was frantically busy preparing breakfast for a large number of people. The housekeeper and chambermaids were as busy abovestairs preparing beds for those guests who wished to rest while they waited. These were mostly ladies. The gentlemen prepared to settle quite happily to cards or billiards and fortifying bottles of port.

  A few guests from the village and the party from Oakland decided to take the chance of returning home. The worst that could happen, Lord Mountford said cheerfully, was that they would have to walk a mile or two over wet grass until their carriages could be pulled out of the mud. His wife's comment that there were many worse fates that might befall them went unheeded. Lady Edgeley was anxious to return home to assure herself that Lady Rachel was safe and had not died of fright during the storm.

  The stranded ballgoers were just finishing a very early breakfast sometime later when the butler opened the doors into the main dining room and Lords Edgeley and Mountford strode in. Algernon rose to his feet at once, his face paling.