Daniel's True Desire

by Grace Burrowes

  The school ran well in part because Ralph brought a perfect blend of good humor, common sense, and adult authority to his dealings with the boys, and yet a remove to the vicarage would be quite the come down for Ralph.

  He gave the globe a spin, much as Thomas did whenever he passed it. “Me? To the vicarage?”

  “I realize it’s asking a lot, for you to leave the household of an earl, but you do an excellent job with the boys, you know their routine, and you know every cricket rule ever invented.”

  A gap in Daniel’s education that Ralph and George were quickly addressing.

  “I hadn’t considered it, is all,” Ralph said, bringing the globe to a halt. His auburn brows were knit, his focus on the New World.

  “I’ve asked Annie to come with us as well,” Kirsten said, examining the point of the pencil on Matthias’s desk. Not sharp enough, so she traded it for one of the pencils kept in a jar at the front of the room. Fred’s and Frank’s pencils were in good repair, Danny’s middling, and Digby’s much in need of a trim.

  “Our Annie’s removing to the vicarage?” Ralph asked, to all appearances engrossed with the jungles of Peru.

  Ralph’s Annie, more like. “The wages will be comparable, though I daresay you’ll have more work at the vicarage and a great deal less consequence.”

  Ralph spun the globe again, gently. “At the vicarage, we’ll have more laughter, less gossip, and regular cricket matches. That sounds rather jolly to me. No more putting up with Mr. Sherwin’s lectures on dust and sloth, no more having to knock endlessly on the library door when the earl and his countess are in—beggin’ your pardon, my lady.”

  “I won’t miss that either, Ralph. We’re taking Beulah for our cook, and Parsons as the footman, and I agree with you: the vicarage will be a jolly place.”

  Though who would ever have associated Lady Kirsten Haddonfield with jollity? Such were the powers of Daniel’s affections, Kirsten was jolly nearly all the time these days.

  Also tired. Looking after the boys, preparing the vicarage, planning the wedding breakfast, all took energy.

  Disporting with Daniel took a lot of energy but also resulted in the best naps.

  “Think about coming with us, Ralph, because I’m sure Mr. Banks will bring it up with you when he returns. I’m off to the stable, and I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

  Ralph bowed to her in parting, and as Kirsten left, he was humming an old hymn. She couldn’t recall the name, but a snippet of the lyrics came to her.

  Kirsten was humming the same tune—Elsie would know the name—when she left the house. The garden was coming to life, colors unfurling in the spring sunshine, the topiary dragons once again pruned to perfection.

  They’d have no topiary at the vicarage of course, and who needed dragons when one had a fine pack of little boys?

  Kirsten’s excellent mood carried her into the stable, where her mount waited in a stall, already groomed and saddled. She was intent on leading the mare out to the mounting block without bothering a groom—they’d have no grooms at the vicarage—except a sound caught her ear.

  A noise, a muffled distress signal from Buttercup’s stall across the aisle.

  The mare was nestled in her bed of straw to the extent a ton of equine could nestle anywhere. Curled against her shoulder was a small boy.

  Matthias clutched Buttercup’s coarse mane in one hand, his other arm was looped over Buttercup’s withers, while the child softly cried his heart out.

  Kirsten was assailed by a need to comfort the boy, to simply gather him in her arms and promise him all would be well. And yet Matthias was a dignified little soul. He would not want Kirsten to witness his suffering.

  Daniel would know what to do. Daniel would know whether to ignore the lad, hunker in the straw with him, or retrace his steps and come whistling into the barn as if all were well.

  While Kirsten had not a single clue how to help the boy.

  * * *

  Perhaps George Haddonfield’s finery was to blame, but as Daniel headed for the St. James’s neighborhood, more than one well-dressed lady—and virtually every lady’s maid—gave him appreciative glances.

  He wished Kirsten were there to see him—and to tell him how to go on. Did one smile back? Ignore the glances? Tip one’s hat to ladies one hadn’t been introduced to?

  Except Daniel had been introduced to several of them. The Countess of Bellefonte, whom Daniel was to call Leah, was determined to see both Lady Susannah and Lady Della well matched, and thus Daniel had been dragooned into attending a ball, a Venetian breakfast, and a musicale.

  A tedium, on top of an inanity, interspersed with silliness, followed by a trial of the nerves, and Kirsten had endured years of such nonsense.

  On St. James’s Street itself, no proper ladies were to be found at this hour, lest they attract the censure of the toffs lingering in the various windows of the gentlemen’s clubs. Bellefonte had explained this afternoon stricture to Daniel—toffs remained safely abed of a morning—which had struck him as absurd.

  A liveried footman at the earl’s club held the door for Daniel and a butler ushered him into a formal antechamber. The walls were hung with red velvet, and a sideboard topped with pink marble sported a bouquet of red roses. On the parquet floor, a thick carpet runner absorbed sounds like a moonless night absorbed candlelight.

  “The Earl of Bellefonte is expecting me,” Daniel said, passing over his hat and walking stick. Daniel expected to be on the premises less than five minutes, and yet the rituals of privilege would be observed in their smallest details.

  Much like a church service.

  How did Bellefonte, a fellow who liked to nap and to cuddle with his countess in the library, build birdhouses, and sing to his mare, tolerate this folderol?

  “Very good, sir. And whom shall we say has come to call?”

  The butler’s diction was reminiscent of Reimer’s in full cathedral regalia, and the creases on the sleeves of his livery would have done credit to a scythe.

  “Reverend Daniel Banks,” Daniel said.

  By the slightest pause, the butler’s surprise showed. Perhaps clergy didn’t frequent such lofty environs, or perhaps Bellefonte wasn’t often in ordained company. The earl in all his Town finery came bustling into the foyer a few moments later, a more modestly attired older fellow with him.

  “Banks, you’re punctual,” Bellefonte said. “A fine quality in a prospective brother-in-law. Have you met Bishop Howley?”

  The Bishop of London? His official residence was only a few streets away, but Daniel would never have presumed—

  Daniel bowed and found a hand thrust in his direction.

  “Reverend Banks, a pleasure,” Howley said. “Christ Church man, if I recall? Bishop Reimer sings your praises at every turn. You must come around for tea when next you’re in Town. Bellefonte tells me you’ve pressing matters to see to in Kent. Mustn’t neglect the pressing matters, especially the pretty ones. Bellefonte, don’t corrupt him too awfully. The good ones are hard to find.”

  Howley marched off to do whatever it was the Bishop of London did when he wasn’t lurking in gentlemen’s clubs of an afternoon.

  “The Right Reverend is rumored to cheat at whist when he’s partnered with certain duchesses,” Bellefonte murmured, catching the butler’s eye. “And he’s a flirt, in a subtle way. My grandmother numbers him among her cronies, which speaks to his credit.”

  Hats and walking sticks were produced and Daniel was once again strolling along fashionable streets in the mellow afternoon sunshine.

  “Did you plan that?” Daniel asked.

  “Oh, perhaps. Howley wanders from his palace occasionally, and being in the good graces of the lords and heirs lounging about the better clubs benefits his ambitions.”

  Howley’s name was mentioned whenever the office of the Archbishop of Canterbury came up
.

  “Thank you, I suppose, but you needn’t have bothered.” Kirsten would be pleased though. Daniel tipped his hat at some duchess he’d been introduced to at the Venetian breakfast, then realized he knew one of the lady’s sons from Oxfordshire.

  A pianist, of all things.

  “I did need to bother,” Bellefonte countered, “else Kirsten would have been wroth with me. You’re a member of the family now, Banks, and thus subject to the benefits of my titled influence. Howley would have expected me to introduce you, if nothing else. Don’t suppose you lose gracefully at whist?”

  “I’ll work on that very skill, my lord.” The fashionable hour approached, when all of Polite Society indulged in an inane parade about Hyde Park, as much a show of wealth and fine tailoring as an opportunity to socialize. The streets were thus getting busier, and the sidewalks more crowded.

  “I miss Kent,” Bellefonte said as they approached Piccadilly. “I miss my woodworking shop, my horse, my blue sofa, and having my lady more or less to myself. You’ve just heard a pathetic confession, Banks. Have you any advice?”

  “Come back to Kent with me,” Daniel said, though the earl’s lament had sounded curiously like a fraternal whine. “You’re expected to give your sister away when we wed, and the countess appears to have things in hand here.”

  “Why not move the wedding here?” Bellefonte argued, all reason, when Daniel was certain the Haddonfield ladies had hatched this scheme.

  Oh, it was very good to no longer be young Reverend Banks.

  “Thank you, but I shall decline that suggestion,” Daniel said.

  “Decline? May I remind you that I hold the living, Banks? You refuse me at your peril.”

  Bellefonte bluffed well, but Daniel told the truth better. “May I remind you, my lord, I’m marrying your sister, and at her one and only wedding, she should not be plagued with Society’s petty opinions and gossip. Moreover, neither she nor I want to put you to the expense of a Town wedding.”

  And finally, a vicar should be married in his own church, with the parishioners there to celebrate with him and his lady. Howley was firmly High Church, aligned with the aristocracy and the prevailing order.

  Daniel was aligned with Kirsten and his flock, and until the sub-dean position was a possibility—

  Cold slithered through his vitals.

  “Banks, are you well?” Bellefonte asked, for Daniel had come to an abrupt halt, foot traffic flowing around him.

  The woman was the right height, and she walked exactly the way Olivia had, shoulders back as if to announce her presence with her very posture. Daniel had thought Olivia’s carriage dignified a lifetime ago, but he’d come to see it as self-important. Was this woman a trifle rounder than Olivia?

  “Bellefonte, do you see that woman in blue, near the corner?” Because of his height, the earl could see over much of the crowd. The lady was dressed in a blue satin ensemble Olivia could never have afforded.

  “I see her.”

  The cold in Daniel’s middle spread upward and tried to wrap around his heart. The woman—not Olivia, please, God, not Olivia—was walking away from them, oblivious to her lady’s maid, the same way Olivia had pretended indifference to the maid of all work in the Little Weldon vicarage.

  “I am nearly certain that woman is my wife, the late, unlamented Olivia Banks.”

  * * *

  “A two-bishop jaunt up to Town,” Kirsten marveled, because excitement quivered through Daniel and marveling was apparently in order.

  “And not just any bishop,” Daniel said. “The Right Reverend William Howley, Bishop of London. He said I’m to come for tea the next time I’m in Town.”

  Daniel was like a boy with a basket of sweets, and his animation was disquieting. He’d tarried an extra day in London, so Kirsten hadn’t seen him until Sunday services.

  They were alone, sitting in the front pew of the church, though the doors and windows were wide open to admit the lovely spring air. As sometimes happened, a swallow flitted in the side door and perched upon a rafter.

  The boys loved it when birds blundered into the church.

  “I also met with Reimer,” Daniel went on. “He was in great good spirits and asked after you at length. You’ll like him, Kirsten. He isn’t priggish, the exact opposite of my father. He was very understanding about my previous marriage.”

  Kirsten took Daniel’s hand, for he’d neglected to take hers. “That would mean a lot to you, that your bishop understood your situation.”

  Daniel studied the bird, who fluttered from rafter to rafter, perhaps considering where to build a nest.

  “Reimer’s involved with his housekeeper.”

  Maybe husbands and wives shared that sort of gossip, but it made Kirsten mildly uncomfortable.

  “You caught them in bed, then?”

  Daniel left off bird-watching and pressed a fleeting kiss to Kirsten’s knuckles. “I caught them holding hands.”

  When would Daniel tell her he’d missed her? “Your grasp of theology exceeds my own, sir, but is that classified as a sin?”

  “Far from it,” Daniel said, rising and drawing Kirsten to her feet. “It’s not good for a man to be alone.”

  Genesis, Kirsten knew that much—the explanation for a woman’s existence as man’s helpmeet, and a pernicious bit of pontificating in her opinion.

  In the face of growing irritation, Kirsten fell back on honesty. “Daniel, I missed you.”

  For the first time that morning, he focused on her, didn’t simply look at her as if to say, “Oh, hullo! Lovely weather we’re having!” Better than that, he drew her into his arms.

  “I missed you until I nearly choked with it,” he said. “The staying up until all hours, mincing about, stuffing yourself with ridiculous delicacies five times a day, parading around in the park, everybody trussed up in silk and satin—I don’t know how you stood it.”

  Relief washed through her. Now, Daniel—her Daniel—was home.

  “It’s all they know, Daniel. All they want to know, and I never felt the Season was wrong morally, but it was wrong for me. How is our family?”

  The bird took a winged tour of the altar, an occasion for some anxiety because where birds flew, they could also leave signs of their passing.

  Daniel kissed Kirsten’s forehead and dropped his arms. “The family is all in good form. They send their love. George’s wardrobe fit me very well, by all accounts. Let’s fold up the altar cloths, shall we?”

  I am marrying a vicar. Adjusting to that perspective would take time.

  Kirsten assisted with the altar cloths, while the bird perched on the pulpit as if to supervise. In repose, it was simply a nondescript avian specimen, darkish on top, lighter across the belly, and touched with russet on its little chin. In flight, it became a blue-and-cream streak, agile and lovely.

  “I haven’t let you in on the best part yet,” Daniel said, setting the snuffed candles under the altar. “Reimer got around to telling me about a sub-deanship that is soon to become available, and the dean himself is getting on.”

  “Deans work at cathedrals, don’t they?” Kirsten had been to both Rochester and Canterbury Cathedrals, and had never liked them. All those brooding effigies, folk buried right beneath one’s feet, and a vague smell of damp throughout.

  “Deans work at cathedrals,” Daniel said, in much the same tones as the boys discussed the pony race Daniel had promised them at the end of the school year. “Aldchester is one of the older cathedrals, not quite the most northerly.”

  The bird took off, this time heading for the church’s side door but veering away at the last instant to perch on the organ’s music rack.

  “In the north, Daniel? You’ll drag Danny hundreds of miles from everything he’s only now become accustomed to, and what of your scholars? What of the congregation just getting to know you here in Haddonda
le?”

  What of Danny’s poor mother? What of me?

  Daniel left off tidying the altar. “I thought I’d drag you as well, but clearly that plan requires discussion.”

  His almighty plan required a trip to the jakes, there to be summarily tossed down the nearest hole.

  “Daniel, this is all quite sudden. One moment I’m planning my wedding breakfast and the next we’re off to the north for a sub-dean’s position, whatever that is.” Kirsten’s entire engagement had been quite sudden, in fact, and she wasn’t sure she liked this fiancé who’d come back from London.

  The bird had resumed its position on a rafter, where it strutted back and forth as if declaiming a speech on a stage.

  Daniel approached Kirsten, consternation in his eyes. “My dear, a vicar’s life can involve a succession of different positions. If you cannot be happy with the opening at Aldchester, then I will decline it, but Reimer assured me that I have been noticed.”

  Kirsten had noticed Daniel too. Noticed his compassion, his integrity, his honor and kindness. Ambition and looking good in borrowed finery had had nothing to do with anything.

  Kirsten took Daniel’s hands, hands that had caressed every inch of her, when his only ambition had been to share glorious intimacies with his prospective wife.

  “This part of the two becoming one flesh will not be easy for me, Daniel. Everybody I have loved my entire life is here in Kent. My sister Nita and brother George are settling here. Beckman and Ethan aren’t far. Ald-wherever sounds cold and far away.”

  Daniel took her in his arms, this embrace more settled than the previous one. “Danny and I will be with you, and a few years in the north can lead to more years in the south. Cathedrals have schools and little choristers, and all manner of beautiful services.”

  Kirsten burrowed closer while the swallow took another unsuccessful run at the door.

  “Cathedrals frightened me when I was a child,” she said. “I thought when you died, you turned to stone if you were very good, and you lay on your tomb through all the ages, looking stern and short, to inspire small children to be good.”