“It sounds forward-thinking of her.” Thomas tipped his head to study his wife. “Although I imagine such an undertaking would require a bit of work on her part.”
“Yes. She was quite discouraged when she first spoke of the idea.” Christine went on to describe the difficulties Daisy had faced in the doubt and amusement of some of their neighbors, then said, “I told her she had my support. I will happily contribute funds and whatever influence I can to her cause. But there are women with more influence than I have who might help. Like Cousin Virginia.”
Harry listened with real interest but said nothing. Daisy dreamt of opening a school for girls, a school that sounded as though it would be more of a charitable organization than one based on payments received. It was a noble plan, showing her kindness and practicality in a way he could not help but admire.
I wonder if there is anything I might do to help? The coffers his father had built up over the years were substantial. If he could manage to find a steward to his liking, a portion of his money could be appointed toward good causes, such as the school.
“Have you decided what to do about the estate yet?” Thomas asked, interrupting Harry’s thoughts. The abrupt change in conversation gave him pause.
Whitewood. It had hardly been home during his school years. There were few warm memories of his parents there, though he could readily picture his sisters in the gardens and rooms. He’d hardly done more than enter the study since he’d returned. He met with the men under his employment and was gone again before dinner.
Daisy’s words came back to him, about the servants’ happiness to have him there. “I am thinking, more and more, that perhaps I should reopen the house,” he said slowly.
Christine jolted forward, eyes large and mouth falling open. “Really, Harry? You might stay?”
“I might. For a time.” He could not imagine his affairs coming into order speedily. Though he’d now spent three weeks working through ledgers, books, and interviews with farmers on the side of the road, he felt he had yet to attain more than a primary education on what it meant to have holdings such as his father left him.
“We would be delighted to have you in the neighborhood.” Thomas’s expression remained somewhat neutral as he spoke. “Though I caution you against raising the hopes of people round about. A man with your amount of lands and finances would be considered an important one, should you stay, and that would extend your responsibility in other ways. People would watch you, Harry.”
Harry wanted to groan and say it had been nothing but a wild thought, not an actual decision. But Daisy’s low soprano voice, the expectant tilt of her head when she spoke to him of sheep and shepherds, entered his mind again.
“Then I had better make very few mistakes.” Harry forced a smile. “I will begin preparations to move back into the house. I will tell the staff tomorrow. I imagine they will want to take on a few more servants.”
Christine moved to the edge of the couch, her hands clutched before her in something like glee. “The fair. It is next week. Your housekeeper and butler can hire anyone they need. The groundsmen, too. And there are to be carriage-makers. It is the perfect time for you to set up house.”
Thomas, still leaning back in his corner of the couch, appeared to be admiring his wife’s enthusiasm. “The house is set up, Chrissy. It just needs filling.” He redirected his grin to Harry. “And with more than servants. If you intend to stay, every young woman in the county not spoken for will set their hopes on you.”
Though he laughed at the teasing, Harry’s heart picked up speed. If Thomas’s prediction included a certain vicar’s daughter, Harry found he did not mind the idea of husband hunters as much as he otherwise might.
A month ago, he hadn’t a thought about courting anyone. Yet Daisy’s presence in his thoughts, her opinion growing in importance to him, bent his thoughts in that direction. He’d secured her friendship. What would it be like, and would it even be possible, to secure her heart?
And did he want to?
Chapter Ten
The image of Miss Ames’s indignant frown when Harry called her by her childhood name stayed with him, amusing him throughout the day. A time or two, he had nearly thought of her as Augusta, but the name did not suit her. Not so well as Daisy.
He needed that picture in his mind to get him through the day. His solicitor, Mr. Carew, had brought a box full of paperwork. There were contracts from every investment his father had made, lists of people who owed Mr. Devon money, and reports from overseas where his father had invested heavily in the West Indies and Americas. The sums were enormous, the variation in schemes too much for Harry to understand the reasoning behind all of them.
Trying to organize his thoughts on his estate and his father’s investments had left him with something of a headache. After days of sorting through numbers and percentages, Mr. Carew and Harry agreed to meet at the inn to speak of which investments could be dropped and which maintained.
A new steward needed to materialize quickly. Harry couldn’t continue managing everything on his own.
Clouds hung heavily in the sky when Harry prepared for his trip to the village. He ordered the old family coach to avoid coming home in the rain. But, once in Annesbury village, Harry thought of other errands he might see to before meeting with his solicitor.
“Simmons,” he addressed his coachman. “I have a few things to see to today. Why don’t you take an hour to visit with your sister? She lives nearby, does she not?”
The coachman’s eyes widened. “She does at that, sir. Thank you.” Then he glanced up at the sky. “Though it looks like rain might be falling soon.”
“Better make it two hours, then.” Harry grinned and waved the man along. “I’ll be at the inn if the sky starts to fall.” He turned on his heel and strode away before the surprised Simmons could utter another word of thanks. Though it was happening slowly, Harry learned more about his servants with each passing day. It was time to show them they were worth more than second-hand boxing gifts and a minimal salary.
The first place he visited in Annesbury was the seamstress. Mrs. Chandler was known throughout the county as a talented designer. He’d heard of her being called away to wait on entire families. As her work usually consisted of gowns for the gentry and nobility, he hoped his request would not be seen as a slight.
He entered her shop, a bell jingling merrily above him, and saw the woman herself sitting on a settee with notebook and pencil in hand. A girl sat on the floor near her, playing with a doll. He instantly recognized Janie from the bramble adventure and winked at her when she smiled at him.
“Mr. Devon,” the seamstress said, coming to her feet. “Good afternoon, sir.” She curtsied and he quickly bowed.
“Mrs. Chandler, good afternoon. How are you this cloudy day?”
She did not smile, though he offered up a broad grin of his own. She clasped her hands before her and pressed her lips together a moment before answering. “I am tolerably well, sir. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
One would almost think she did not like him standing there, in her shop. Ignoring the slight frost in her tone, Harry went on cheerily. “I have come with an odd sort of request, Mrs. Chandler. My sisters have spoken highly of your work for years. They say your dresses are finer than any that can be found in London.” It was flattery, but his sisters really had said such things about the woman.
“Most kind of them,” she said, her eyes growing wary behind her spectacles. “They are lovely ladies. I am happy to be thought of when they need something new.”
“It is because of your great talent that I thought to enlist your help with a particularly unique project. I hope you will not see it as an insult, but rather understand I am attempting to pay a compliment to your skills.” Harry took a step closer, but stilled when her frosty expression returned. “You see, I have discovered that the household staff, the women in particular, have been woefully neglected in my absence. Their salaries have remained stag
nant, and their uniforms cheaply made. I would not presume to ask you to outfit an entire household, of course, but I am wondering if I might commission you to make aprons for them. Serviceable, yet lovely. If you would consent to this, I would want them to be prepared so they may be given as Boxing Day gifts.”
Her nostrils flared and her chin came up. The lines around her mouth, though they appeared to have been created from years of smiles, deepened with her frown. “You wish for me to create garments for your servants? I think you would find Mr. Harper’s shop the better place to obtain such things.”
Heat flew up his neck and into his ears. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Chandler. I promise I meant no offense, but rather to pay a high compliment to the servants. You see, last year they received second-hand gloves. The year before, paper fans. I only wanted to make up for their neglect by offering a gift of true value. Everyone knows your handiwork is the finest in the county.” He bowed again, deeper than before. “But I have misunderstood what such a commission would mean. I apologize. Please, forgive me for wasting your time.”
When he looked up again, contrite and kicking himself for not asking Christine if his idea had merit, the woman’s expression appeared less affronted and more curious.
“Not at all, Mr. Devon,” she said at last. “I suppose I can understand the gesture.”
He bowed again. “You are most gracious, Mrs. Chandler. Thank you. Good day. And good day to you, Miss Janie.” At least the child’s name had returned to him in time to bid her goodbye.
The little girl, who was frowning up at her grandmother, turned to smile and wave goodbye to him. Harry left with a tip of his hat and the bell ringing mockingly behind him. He hadn’t realized making aprons would be such an affront, but he supposed one did not ask such things of women who had created gowns for countesses.
He went, as she suggested, to the shop owned by Mr. Harper. No bell clanged above the door when he stepped inside, but Mr. Harper and his daughter were at the counter. Behind them on shelves were bolts of cloth, most of somber colors meant to be serviceable rather than eye-catching, Harry imagined.
Miss Harper was a girl of perhaps fifteen. She stepped up to the counter before Harry, her eyebrows raised and an expectant smile appearing on her face. He relaxed somewhat and opened his mouth to greet her, but her father’s voice spoke first.
“Betsy, go on back and inventory the thread. I need to send to London for more black, I think.”
The girl’s smile vanished and she looked to her father with consternation. “Yes, Papa.” She cast a look over her shoulder at Harry, who offered her one last smile, and disappeared behind a curtain into a back room.
Harry turned his attention to Mr. Harper, a tall, reedy man with more gray hair than brown. “Good afternoon, Mr. Harper. I have come today to inquire about the possibility of commissioning aprons for my household servants.” Best to get to the point this time, Harry decided.
“Aprons?” the man asked. “Usually your housekeeper orders the cloth necessary and I deliver it to her. The maids do their own work. It’s cheaper that way.” His eyebrows drew downward and he folded his arms over his chest. “Would you like me to ask the missus what sort of fabric the maids will need for aprons?”
Why such a simple idea for a gift had spiraled into such a complex situation, Harry couldn’t understand. Had he gone about everything wrong? Was the housekeeper supposed to supply the family’s gifts to the servants? It didn’t seem right.
“No,” Harry answered, his spirits drooping. “I suppose I should consult her myself. I had hoped to secure the aprons as boxing day gifts. But perhaps that was impractical. Thank you, Mr. Harper. Good day to you.” Harry bowed, which seemed to take the man by surprise, but he didn’t wait to see if the gesture was returned.
Here he had thought the people of the village would leap at the chance to have his funds, whatever he asked. Obviously, he had been sorely mistaken. His plan to obtain new grooming kits, the finest he could find, for the male members of the household had also withered away to nothing. When he returned to the Gilbert house, he would apply to Christine for better ideas. Boxing Day was weeks and weeks away. There was time to think of something else. Maybe he ought to just give everyone especially large bonuses.
Hopefully, Mr. Carew wouldn’t mind Harry turning up early for their meeting. There was nothing else he could accomplish in the village today, it seemed.
§
Rain came at the most inappropriate moments, of that Daisy felt certain. She stood in the doorway of the inn watching the torrent of water fall from the sky. In her arms she clutched a parcel delivered to the inn with her father’s name upon it. The hand was firm and dark, and she knew it must be from her sister Lily and her husband. All she wanted was to get home swiftly and open it with her father. The thunder rolling overhead mocked her wish most cruelly.
Mr. Ellsworth, a gentleman only a few years older than Daisy, stood at her side. His arms were crossed and he glared at the rain, too. “If I had my carriage,” he said to her, “I would see you home, Miss Ames. But blast it, I rode to the village today.”
“Language, Mr. Ellsworth.” Daisy raised her eyebrows and shook her head at him, but she smiled before he could make an apology. “You must simply be in debt to me another time. As we are both rather stuck today, I will forgive you this once.”
He chuckled and looked behind them at the inn’s common room, where there were a handful of patrons scattered among little square tables. Some drank, others smoked. Daisy had several acquaintances among them. A few were fathers to girls she hoped to one day teach. That thought kept her from wishing to converse with them. It would only make her heart ache, to keep back her dreams still longer. She wouldn’t speak of her desire for a school to the people who needed it most. Not with things so uncertain still.
“How is your family, Mr. Ellsworth?” she asked, attempting to be a good companion.
“Well enough. My younger brother wishes to start at Oxford soon.” He sighed and fiddled with the hat in his hands. Robert Ellsworth was a steady gentleman, his family in reduced circumstances. He was the second son, which meant he had a decent education but no property of his own.
“That would be exciting.” Daisy looked back at a table near where they stood. It was unoccupied. “Would you care to sit, Mr. Ellsworth?”
“Oh. I beg your pardon. I should have offered to get you a chair.” He turned and helped her into a seat at the table, then sat across from her. “I am afraid I am rather preoccupied. You see, I rode here today to the apothecary. My father hasn’t felt well of late.” Mr. Ellsworth gave her a tight-lipped smile.
Daisy well knew the rumors surrounding his father’s health. Mr. Ellsworth’s father had been poorly for some time. The old gentleman had three sons, and as they’d lost their mother young they were devoted to their father. The eldest ran the estate, though there was no longer much to it, and Mr. Robert Ellsworth shifted about as best he could. The youngest son possessed a studious nature and dreamt of the life of a bachelor academic.
“I am very sorry to hear he is unwell. I will tell my father. He will wish to visit.” She knew all too well how difficult it was to watch a parent struggle with ill health. Her mother had been sick for some time before passing away. “Is there anything I might do to assist your family, Mr. Ellsworth?”
He shook his head and tapped his fingers against the tabletop. “I am afraid not, Miss Ames. Unless you can find me a position in the village that will assist with my family’s situation.” He grimaced. “Forgive me. I ought not to burden you.”
“I am the vicar’s daughter,” she said, leaning slightly across the table. “Who better to speak to, besides the vicar himself? I will speak to him on your behalf, and I will not share your business with others. You are looking for a position of employment?”
Mr. Ellsworth tapped his fingers again. “I am. But this is a small village, a humble neighborhood. There will not be a place for me that someone’s brother or uncle or nephew
will not hear of first.” He looked to the window again. “Blast the rain.”
She smiled at his mild curse and cast her eyes about the room again, looking for another topic of conversation.
Two men were coming down the steps from the second floor, and she sat taller when she recognized one of them as Harry. Mr. Devon. Blast. It was difficult to think of him as Mr. Devon when every time she saw him they committed some sort of social impropriety.
Harry appeared every bit as handsome and charming as usual, dressed well with hair that looked to have been carefully tousled. His expression was certainly earnest as he spoke to the other man, who must be at least twice Harry’s age. The stranger wasn’t dressed as finely either, though he appeared respectable.
His solicitor, Daisy remembered. Though she couldn’t recall the man’s name. When they came to the bottom of the stairs, the two shook hands and the solicitor turned and went back up the steps. Harry turned to the door, but stopped when his eyes met hers.
An infectious grin spread across his face and she found herself answering it with a smile and a wave, almost without thought. He came directly toward her, then his eyes fell to Mr. Ellsworth and Harry froze a moment.
Daisy supposed he wouldn’t remember meeting the man at the ball, even though he’d practically run over Mr. Ellsworth and his dance partner.
She stood to make the introductions again, and Harry took the final steps to the table as Mr. Ellsworth stood politely.
“Mr. Devon, it is good to see you this afternoon. You remember Mr. Ellsworth, from the assembly ball? Will you join us for a moment? We are waiting out the rain.” Daisy gestured to an empty chair at the table. Harry’s conversation, while at times unusual, was at least always diverting. Truthfully, Daisy enjoyed his company.
“I do not wish to intrude.” Harry looked from her to Mr. Ellsworth again.
Courting the Vicar's Daughter: A Regency Romance (Branches of Love Book 6) Page 10
