When Harry did not immediately continue, Rebecca spoke with a cautious tone. “Yes. I have always liked the younger Ames girl.”
“You expressed your great regard for her desire to create a school for underprivileged girls.” Christian, as direct as ever, did not leave off there. “Though I suspected you admired her for more personal reasons.”
Of course Christian would suspect that. Harry had not said anything directly about his affection for the vicar’s daughter, but he had not bothered to hide his regard for Daisy either. His whole soul ached when he thought of their parting, of the hurt and betrayal in her eyes. How could she think so little of him?
“Harry.”
He pulled himself through the haze of regret to stare at his sister, realizing he ought to have started talking, explaining things, instead of losing himself to memory. He cleared his throat, which had closed up on him. His eyes burned. It was the first time he had allowed himself to think on Daisy without immediately changing the course of his thoughts.
“I am sorry.” He cleared his throat again and tried to get hold of himself, rubbing at his eyes with one hand. “I wanted what you two have. I thought maybe I had found—maybe Daisy was the other half of my life. It felt so perfect, to just be near her.”
He did not want to face his sister and see her pity. He turned his back to them and walked away several steps, until he could put his arm across the fireplace mantel and lean against it. “Everything fell apart. It was as if I stood on solid rock, only to find myself on a dune with sand slipping from beneath my feet. And just like that, it was over.”
It was Christian’s voice that rumbled, “You need to explain a little better than that, Harry.”
So he did. He explained. He told them everything, from his first seeing her beneath a tree, calling for a stubborn cat, all the way to their confrontation about the cottages. He left nothing out, save the kiss. Why did it hurt so much to speak of what could never be?
Almost since the moment he saw Daisy, he had been working to prove himself to her, building a dream where he was good enough for a woman such as her. Though he tried his hardest, he did not measure up. He never would. All that he had done up to that moment now seemed pointless.
When he finished his tale of woe, silence hung in the air, and his whole body drooped in exhaustion. How did something emotional effect his physical being that powerfully?
Rebecca spoke first. “When do you expect to go back to Whitewood?”
Harry stared at her, somewhat incredulously. Had she not been listening?
“I have not given any consideration to when I will return,” he said, somewhat slowly.
“But you are going back.” Rebecca’s statement was firm, and he saw her hand tighten over her husband’s. “You must see the thing through.”
Doubtful, Harry turned his attention to Christian. The earl was studying Rebecca, his eyebrows drawn together. “You are thinking of our first misunderstanding,” the man said to his wife.
For a moment Harry felt as though he ought to leave, given the intimacy with which his sister stared into her husband’s eyes. “Nothing had ever given me more pain than when I thought you did not want me.”
Harry had been there when they fell in love, had watched it happen day by day, and he suddenly remembered what they were talking about. Rebecca had doubted that Christian wished to marry her, had thought he would dishonor their agreement and leave her reputation ruined, or that he would wed her and never give her the love of which she dreamt.
And he, her little brother, had been the one to say she must tell Christian the truth of all she felt. He’d been young, not even at university yet, inexperienced and hopeful for her.
“It isn’t the same,” Harry blurted into the quiet, bringing their attention back to him. “Not at all.”
“Not exactly,” Christian corrected. “But it is a betrayal of trust.”
“Perhaps you are right, Harry.” Rebecca spoke quickly, before Harry could do more than glare at Christian. “Perhaps she does not trust you and never did. But please, won’t you consider the situation she is in? Men may prattle on about honor all the day long, but it is the woman who must guard against betrayal the most. If Miss Ames entered into an agreement with you, only to find you a villain, she would have ruined her life almost beyond repair. A broken engagement would end her chances at another advantageous match. It would put an end to her dream to teach. What parent would have her instruct their daughters? Marriage to a man without honor would be equally miserable.”
Rebecca leveraged herself off the couch again, Christian standing with her this time to steady her as she tottered on her heels.
Harry sensed the conversation coming to a close, and he did not like the way it would end. “I never gave her cause to believe me anything less than a gentleman.”
“Our father was a gentleman,” Rebecca said quietly, “and a snake. Only those who knew him well, who saw the decisions he made leading to unhappiness, knew he could not be trusted. To the rest of the world, he appeared like the best of men. Miss Ames has known you a short time. You could easily present a good face to her and another to the rest of the world.” She took her husband’s arm.
“You wish me to leave?” Harry asked, ignoring the truth in her words. He loved Daisy, had fallen in love with her rapidly, completely—
Yet how well did she know him?
“Of course not,” Rebecca said. “I wish you to think about how you will return and finish what you have begun. If you will both excuse me, I need to prepare for dinner.” She did not curtsy and went from the room with less than her usual grace.
Christian watched her leave, and Harry watched Christian.
“She is right, of course.” Christian smirked, speaking more to himself than to Harry. “She almost always is.”
Harry said nothing, but collapsed into a nearby chair and dropped his head into his hands. “I need to think.”
“Take all the time you need, Harry. Matters of the heart should not be rushed.” Christian walked out, leaving Harry to the silence of his thoughts.
Chapter Twenty-two
Daisy would meet the girls of the village in an upstairs room above the seamstress shop. All was arranged. The rent already paid to Mrs. Chandler, the lessons organized, and Daisy had but to wait until January to begin teaching. Even the skeptical families had agreed that sending their daughters to her three mornings of the week could not hurt. It was a start, and a good one at that.
Daisy sat at her desk in the upstairs sitting room, considering the neat notes in the book before her, all her dreams coming together nicely. The local gentlewomen had offered funds and things necessary for teaching children, including books and supplies from their own children’s school days. The support had largely been won by the countess’s influence, which had come through Christine and Harry’s connection.
What is Harry doing now, I wonder? Where did he go? And, more importantly, would he come back?
The door to her upstairs parlor opened and in came Katie, her eyes almost comically large. “Mrs. Gilbert here to see you—”
Christine Gilbert sailed in before the maid had finished speaking. “Miss Ames, I cannot keep silent any longer and you will see me.”
The maid looked from Daisy to Mrs. Gilbert and back, her mouth hanging open.
Daisy came to her feet. “Thank you, Katie. That will be all.” After the girl curtsied and shut the door, Daisy fully faced her neighbor. “What might I do for you, Mrs. Gilbert?” At least she kept her voice steady.
“You can tell me what you did to Harry.” Mrs. Gilbert reached into her reticule and pulled forth a folded sheet of paper. “This is a letter from my sister. She has had the full story from Harry and I mean to know what you are going to do about it.”
Not exactly prepared for a confrontation, Daisy tried to hedge the question. “Do about it, Mrs. Gilbert?”
The woman sat down without waiting to be asked, the letter clutched in her hand. Her dark brown
eyes blazed with fury. “My brother, Miss Ames. You have injured him.”
Daisy stepped away from her desk, standing behind a chair to keep it between herself and the rather upset woman. “The whole village injured him, Mrs. Gilbert.” She lowered her eyes to the carpet. If Mrs. Gilbert and her sister had the whole story from Harry, did that mean he had spoken of their friendship? Of their shared kiss?
“Right under my very nose, I know.” Mrs. Gilbert’s tone was not at all friendly, but distraught. “I still cannot understand it. Why did no one seek me out? Why did you not come to me and ask about my brother’s doings? It is as though painting someone a villain was far too entertaining, too delicious a scandal, to even try and find the truth of the matter. Was that what it was for you, Miss Ames? A drama too wonderful to disprove?”
Is that what Harry thought? That Daisy had wanted to believe the worst about him? She said nothing. The hypocrisy of her actions stung her anew. She prided herself on never giving heed to gossip, except, apparently, when it involved someone she was afraid to love.
“Miss Ames, please.”
Daisy swallowed and met Mrs. Gilbert’s eyes again, a blush rising to her cheeks. “What do you wish for me to say, madam? I know now that I was wrong, like everyone else. Are you going to each house in the neighborhood to demand explanation?” She snapped her mouth closed, hearing the defensiveness in her voice. They both knew why Mrs. Gilbert sat before her. Perhaps the woman was right, and Daisy was somehow trapped within a theatrical drama of her own making.
Mrs. Gilbert’s chin came up and her eyebrows drew together. “I doubt the whole ire of the town would be enough to chase my brother from Whitewood. It truly only took the duplicity of one person to send him running.”
Daisy turned away, giving her back to her visitor in perhaps the first instant of true rudeness she had ever enacted.
Mrs. Gilbert continued, most forcefully. “Quite possibly the same person who inspired him to stay and try to build a life here.”
“Then it could not be me,” Daisy said, staring at the wall, not seeing the paintings she had arranged and rearranged when the room became hers after her sisters married. “I have done nothing to earn his regard to such an extent.”
The room fell silent, with such a stillness that Daisy could hear the branches creaking in the wind, outside in the garden.
When Mrs. Gilbert spoke again, after several moments of the aching quiet, it was with a different tone entirely. She sounded as if she was pleading. “Love doesn’t earn things, Miss Ames. It makes gifts of regard, trust, and honor.”
The truth in those words sunk deeply into Daisy’s injured heart, burning as alcohol poured upon a wound, cleansing in its pain. “As you are making such bold statements, perhaps I should do the same. Are you saying your brother loves me?” Daisy closed her eyes against the answer.
“I am saying you ought to find out.” A swish of fabric told Daisy Mrs. Gilbert had stood, was planning to leave. But then a hand landed on her shoulder and Daisy turned to look into the other woman’s brown eyes. “My brother will return, Miss Ames. He does not leave things unfinished, and he has committed to improving upon the estate and the legacy left to him.”
Daisy’s heart trembled. “I am afraid I do not know how to make things right again, Mrs. Gilbert.” She straightened her posture, tipped her chin up. “But I will try.”
Mrs. Gilbert gave her arm a pat. “That is all I ask, Miss Ames.”
It would not be enough. Not if Harry had loved her. She had hurt him too deeply to hope he still felt that way about her. Though Daisy had learned, over the course of time since he had left, that she had fallen in love with him. Her heart ached every time she thought of him, longing for him to come back, wishing she could change the past and prove herself worthy of him.
But that chapter had closed, and now she must write another. If only she knew how the story ended.
Chapter Twenty-three
Taking in a slow, deep breath, Harry readied himself to step out of his carriage. It was time to enter Whitewood again, to walk back up the steps, greet the staff, and pretend nothing out of the ordinary had happened. This time, he was prepared to face a village that did not trust him. People who would look at him with suspicion as they remembered his father.
It helped that he also knew that he had reinforcements coming. His sisters would soon be at the house where they had all grown up. Perhaps, together, they might make it a home again.
It did not take long to give instructions to the eager-to-please butler, and then take himself to the steward’s office. Ellsworth answered Harry’s knock immediately, calling for him to enter.
“Mr. Devon,” he said, standing from his desk with a wide grin. “Welcome home.”
“Ellsworth.” Harry stood in the doorway, surprised by the man’s enthusiastic expression. “I assume all is well with the estate.” He came further into the room.
“Excessively. I was about to forward this packet of letters to your sister’s home. The time you spent in London seems to have interested a great many people. I have notes from several political officials asking you about your interest in the education of London’s poor.” Ellsworth held up a thick packet tied with string. “And I have a collection of letters from newspapers asking if you intend to run for public office.” He gestured to another stack of paper. “And finally, of course, personal notes from several local tradesmen. I have not opened those, but I can only imagine the contents are both sincere and contrite.” He gathered
up several folded letters and brought them around the desk to Harry.
“Contrition is not something I looked for.” Harry took the papers and stared at them a moment, uncertain as to whether he should read them. Ellsworth could be mistaken, after all. “Thank you.”
Ellsworth’s cheerful expression faded. “Mr. Devon, I feel I ought to add my apology to the others you will likely receive. If I had informed the tenants of your intentions before leaving, a great deal of pain might have been avoided.”
“I have never once resented you for any of this,” Harry said firmly. He looked back down at the letters in his hands, almost wishing one might be from Daisy. But a young, unmarried woman would never write to an unrelated male. “If anything, I ought to be grateful. I understand now how my neighbors perceive me. I can act with greater caution in future.”
“I hope we have all learned a lesson, and your neighbors will only regard you as the gentleman you are.” His steward’s eyebrows raised and his smile inched back into place. “But does this mean you are going to stay? Whitewood will still be your home?”
“Of course.” Harry barely managed a grin. “A man ought to finish a thing he starts, after all.”
“I must say, Mr. Devon,” Ellsworth said, his tone more earnest. “It is an honor to be your steward. I could not wish to work for a better gentleman”
Finally, for the first time in days, Harry smiled without trying. “Thank you. I will accept the compliment. And the work. I had better start going through these letters.” Ellsworth gathered the rest for him and soon Harry was at the desk in his own study, determining which letters he must answer personally and which he might consult Ellsworth about. He also started considering hiring a secretary.
After he sorted the last letter from London, Harry began going through the letters from the local tradesmen. Each were thanking him for his patronage, and some were even kind enough to offer him special services. But a few stated what he read between the lines in the rest. His neighbors were apologizing for not trusting him. By the time he folded the last and put it away, from the seamstress who offered to assist should he ever wish to order new maids’ uniforms, Harry was exhausted. What was he to say when he met these people again?
He sat back in his chair, lifting his eyes to look out the window across from his desk.
Snow drifted from the gray skies, falling past his window in swirls. Standing, Harry went to the window and stood gazing out over the front of his property. The house s
at upon a slight hill, allowing him to look down the lane, toward the road. He could just make out the blackberry hedges bordering his land.
A figure moved up the lane, coming to the house.
Harry’s heart jumped into his throat and he leaned against the glass, as though it would help him see more clearly. A dark blue cape fluttered around the woman’s figure as she walked at a quick pace.
It cannot be her.
It had to be a servant, perhaps returning from a village errand. He watched a moment more, then escaped the study. He started for the stairs, practically leaping across the landing in order to run down the flight to the ground floor.
Harry did not stop for his greatcoat, but went straight to the door, ready to fling it open—
He skidded to a stop, his heart galloping wildly, and hesitated to touch the handle.
“Are—are you going out, sir?” a voice asked, startling him. A footman stood in the entryway, staring at him with wide eyes.
Harry looked back at the door. “No.” He took a step back. He should not be in a hurry to see her. If it even was her.
Of course it is Daisy. He released a shaky breath. “And I am not at home to visitors,” he said firmly. Starting for the stairs, and ignoring the baffled footman, Harry stretched his mind back to the business of answering his letters. He went up the steps slowly, his ears straining to hear any sounds beyond the portal to his home.
After he gained the landing, Harry looked down. The footman had disappeared, going about his business again.
Who would answer the door when she knocked?
It hardly mattered. He’d already decided that Daisy would not see him. Not today. He wasn’t ready for that. Of course, he wasn’t sure he ever would be ready.
His hand was on the latch to his study when he heard the three light raps upon the door, echoing through the halls of Whitewood. Frozen, he listened for the steps in the hall. There they were, rapid, business-like. The front door did not creak when it opened—it was too well oiled. But he heard the lift of the latch. He released his study’s handle and walked back to the landing, staying just out of sight.
Courting the Vicar's Daughter: A Regency Romance (Branches of Love Book 6) Page 19
