Daisies and Devotion

by Josi S. Kilpack

  “It is not true that our connection is based upon them,” he cut in.

  “It is true, and that is all right,” she said. “I value your friendship, but you know my position in this carnival of matchmaking, so I hope you understand why I am so . . . sensitive. Not just to you, of course, but to all men who seek to be a suitor. I do not mean to hold you to that place, Mr. Mayfield, and I fear that is the impression I have given this afternoon.”

  He nodded an understanding of her apology, but his discomfort continued. She does not consider me a suitor? That was likely for the best. At least he knew for certain she considered him a friend.

  “So then, enough of that. You must tell me of your visit to your uncle,” she said. “I have never been to Norfolk.”

  “It is lovely country,” he said, but he felt he could not discuss a new subject without settling her mind first. “Miss Morrington, as we are friends and as I have caused you some discomfort, I think I should confess something to you that will explain the change of my recent . . . pursuits.” He swallowed nervously, debating the wisdom of sharing his secret with her, but landing on the portion that would benefit her. And him, really. He would not feel responsible for her confusion once she understood, and he quite liked the idea of being able to say out loud the things that had been turning like a mill in his chest and mind. If anyone would understand the change of his position it would be her.

  “Oh?”

  “My visit to Norfolk was exceptional for a variety of reasons, but one reason in particular. If I tell you, may I count on your absolute discretion? You and I both know how loud the whispers can be in town, and I do not wish this to become a matter of gossip. But neither do I want you to take responsibility for something that is unconnected to you.”

  “I can promise you, Mr. Mayfield, that I am no gossip.”

  He looked at her and drew her to a stop. “You cannot even tell your sister, or Lucas—certainly not Lucas.” Lucas had not revealed Maryann’s financial situation to Timothy, and so Timothy saw no reason to confess his circumstance to Lucas. At least not yet.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Of course, I shall keep your secret, Mr. Mayfield. Even from them if you ask me too.”

  Though he had not known her long, he believed her to be a woman of character. And so, in a big, rolling jumble of words and gestures and expressions, he told her the whole of Uncle Elliott’s offer, even easing her to the side of the pathway when two women came upon them so that his explanation might not be interrupted. She listened without taking her eyes from his face. Timothy found himself experiencing the same excitement he’d felt when he’d first learned how his destiny was forever changed. When he finished, he felt the flush in his cheeks.

  “Is it not remarkable?” he said, almost breathless.

  “It is remarkable,” she said. “Um, congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” He pushed out his chest a bit. There was something validating in having someone else agree that this was as much a boon as he thought it was. “After all these years, it is as though a tiny hole in a curtain has been torn wide open. I can now let my heart make the choice without restraint. I can, literally, find the perfect woman without having to factor something as gauche as money into the equation.” He was tempted to throw his arms toward heaven in a display of gratitude. Perhaps dance a little jig.

  “The perfect woman,” Miss Morrington repeated. “And, what are the aspects you are now able to look for since money is no longer your goal?”

  Timothy immediately ticked the desired traits off his fingers: blonde, tall, graceful, with blue or green eyes, a bow-shaped mouth, dainty fingers, and rosy cheeks, even in winter. His perfect wife must come from a large family, possess a hearty appetite without giving toward plumpness, and have a tinkling laugh. She should enjoy dogs and riding horses, traveling at a moment’s notice, dancing in the rain, fine wine, and society events. She should have a mother who thinks Timothy is wonderful. She should speak French and Italian, have musical prowess, love babies, and possess an affinity for art, especially watercolor.

  “I adore a solid watercolor.” He grinned, feeling light as a balloon to have put these words out into the world. They felt more real, now that they’d been spoken. And, oh, so very possible.

  “That is your perfect woman?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I might make some exceptions for things like eye color and language proficiency, but, yes, for the most part what I have just described is the woman I have always wanted. And now, I can have her. Upon my return from Norwich, I wrote it all down.”

  He patted his coat pocket, where he kept the list. Each time he remembered how wonderfully things had changed for him, he would touch his pocket and imagine the woman he was determined to find amid the finest city in the world.

  Maryann blinked at him, then looked away for several seconds. She took two deep breaths. When she looked back, he noticed that the warmth of her golden-brown eyes was missing, replaced with an emotion he did not know how to interpret. “Mr. Mayfield, such a woman does not exist.”

  “Oh, she does,” Timothy said with a grin. “I am sure of it. She is my destiny.”

  “What you have described is a fantasy—a caricature of what a real woman is. And it is extremely shallow.”

  His joy wavered and fell to the ground between them like a stone. “I am not shallow.”

  “No, you are not,” Miss Morrington said in a way that sounded like an agreement but wasn’t. “Which is why hearing such shallowness from you is so surprising. You have described what a woman looks like and what a woman knows and does, yet you’ve said nothing about a woman’s character and virtue and flaws.”

  Timothy harrumphed. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, Miss Morrington, but a man does not go looking for a woman with flaws.”

  “No, but that is what he will find. Every time.”

  “With the right woman, even the flaws will seem like virtues.”

  She shook her head and laughed dryly, not her usual bark. No one enjoyed laughter as much as Timothy did, but not when it was at his expense. He felt himself tightening. “I shared this with you because I thought it would help you understand why my intentions have seemed different of late. I did not want you to feel that there was some failing on your part—”

  “Except that there are failings on my part.” She began ticking off his list with her fingers the same way he had done. “I am not tall, blonde, green-eyed, nor do I have—what was it?—oh, yes, perpetually rosy cheeks or a bow-shaped mouth. I speak French but not Italian, though I can read Latin. I am not particularly musical, I do not come from a large family, and my mother is dead, so she cannot think you are wonderful. Apparently, all those things are failings when compared to this goddess you are searching for.”

  “That is not what I said.” She was twisting his words, and he hated the heat burning his neck. “I refuse to apologize for seeking out certain qualities in a wife now that I have the chance to do so.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Instead of having to settle for one of us who is so far below your standards?”

  “You have aspects you are also looking for in a husband, Miss Morrington. Does that make you shallow?”

  “If I wanted only beauty and accomplishment, yes, it would, but my hopes include things like an appreciation for my honesty, the ability to look past physical beauty, a temperament that lends itself toward being a good father, and devotion to me and our future family. Those things will take time for me to know about a man, and through that process, I fully expect to learn even more about him, including those imperfections which every man possesses. To say I shall only consider fair-haired men or men raised in the north would make me as shallow as are all the men seeking my attention only because I am wealthy.”

  Timothy shook his head and looked around as though there might be some mode of escape nearby. But they were standing on the side of a path
in the middle of Hyde Park. Plus, he was Miss Morrington’s escort back home so he could not storm off, though he was tempted.

  “Well, I am very sorry that I burdened you with this information,” he finally said. He put his arm out stiffly, barely containing his anger. “I had best return you home as we have both worked up to far more temper than is comfortable.”

  She narrowed her eyes, and he turned back the way they had come—back when the day had still been lovely and his mood cheery. They walked to her house in silence. It had been so freeing to tell someone of his good news, but she had turned it inside out to the degree that he looked like a fool. And he was a fool. Obviously, he and Miss Morrington were not friends the way he had thought they were. Well, at least now they both knew where they stood with one another. She could focus on all those other men vying for her attention and her fortune, and he could see to his own happiness. They would never have made a solid match. It was best they knew it sooner rather than later, but he hated the discord.

  When they reached the front walk leading to her father’s house Timothy stopped and turned to face her, keeping his expression guarded, which was not his strong suit. He was relieved to see she had lost some of her tension. He hoped that would help his apology find its mark.

  “I apologize for upsetting you, Miss Morrington. That was not my intent. I had only . . . I had only meant to try to explain so that your feelings would not be hurt at what seemed like my slighting you. I have never meant to annoy you, but I seem particularly adept at doing so.”

  “And I am sorry for reacting so strongly, Mr. Mayfield.” She spoke calmly, and he was relieved that she was not going to continue the flogging. “It really is none of my business nor my concern. I hope you can find what it is you are looking for and that you realize every happiness.” She met his eyes and smiled, though there was sadness behind her expression. Or maybe just discomfort. All of this was terribly uncomfortable. “I truly do want your happiness. I am only sorry that I won’t be the woman to share it with you.”

  They said their goodbyes, she went inside, and Timothy turned toward his rooms. He was a few steps away from the house when he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. I am only sorry that I won’t be the woman to share it with you.

  Gracious. She’d thought . . . She hoped . . . And he’d . . .

  Timothy groaned as his eyes closed and his chin dropped to his chest. After a few seconds, he began walking again, but his steps dragged as he replayed the afternoon—what he’d said, what she’d said, and, most importantly, what he now realized she’d felt.

  When they had spoken in her father’s drawing room before he left for Norfolk, he’d told her that he needed to marry for money but that he also wanted to find a woman he could love, which is why he was being attentive to her. Today, he’d essentially told her that since money was no longer his goal, she was no longer a consideration. Gracious.

  The day following their walk in Hyde Park, Maryann received flowers from none other than Timothy Mayfield. She’d have thrown them out the window except that they were daisies.

  Instead, she fell into a chair in the drawing room, holding the bouquet that had been wrapped in cheap paper, and tried not to cry. It was ridiculous that she should feel so hurt by what he’d confided to her yesterday. But she felt it all the same.

  She put her nose into the flowers and inhaled deeply. The fragrance was nothing like roses or lilies or freesias, but daisies reminded her of home and happiness and simple pleasures—all of which seemed far away just now. As children, she and her sister had picked daisies from the woods and made chains and crowns and played “he loves me, he loves me not” while picking off the petals. When Mother had been ill, Maryann and Deborah had taken turns picking bouquets every few days when the wildflowers were in bloom to keep the vase near Mama’s bed full. Maryann had wreathed Mama’s headstone with a daisy chain made from the very last blooms of the season, having had to search all the woods to find enough. She missed her mother, both the woman who had been vibrant and full of life when Maryann had been young, and the failing woman who had needed Maryann so much in the last years.

  Who needed Maryann now? Who noticed her first when she entered a room?

  Not Timothy Mayfield now that he did not need her money.

  He loves me not.

  She looked at the flowers again, wishing he’d sent roses or something she could dismiss more easily than these. The bouquet was not from a shop, which would have used finer ribbon and paper. Instead, this was a haphazardly gathered bunch, like what she would have picked from the woods at home. He had not picked them himself, had he? From one of the public gardens? She imagined Timothy standing in the middle of a cultured garden and snapping stems as quickly as possible before he was caught. She smiled slightly.

  More likely he had bought the flowers from a street vendor who would have the best prices. Did that mean his current allowance was the same as it had always been despite his promised inheritance? He still wore too-small boots and owned just three coats he traded around with his waistcoats—not always in the best combination—for different events. He would be embarrassed to know she’d noticed such things; maybe she would tell him so that he would feel as low as she did.

  “You are being petulant,” she told herself and stood. A card tumbled out from within the folds of paper. She retrieved the card but rang for a vase before she read it. Only when the bouquet was centered on the table in front of the parlor window did she sit down and open the letter.

  Dear Miss Morrington,

  I am beyond humiliated at my actions yesterday and hope you will forgive me for being unkind. I shall always value our friendship as a great treasure and hope that it might continue.

  Sincerely,

  T Mayfield

  Maryann curled up in the chair by the window, knees pulled to her chest as she read the words again. Friendship. Value. Treasure. She pushed away some of her hurt so she might see his position more clearly than she had yesterday. A great boon had come his way, of course he would take advantage. Any man—or woman—would. Should Maryann wake up beautiful one day, perhaps she would pursue the new prospects that would be opened to her with the same self-interest.

  She read the letter again and then tapped it against her chin as she looked out the window to London beyond. A carriage rattled down the cobbled street going one direction, and two women holding parasols crossed before her window going the other way. Life moved forward, and her hurt would not stop or change Timothy’s new circumstance. She could respect that he had not hidden anything from her. His honesty was proof that he valued and trusted their friendship. However, she faced the prospect of either keeping Timothy at a distance, having now seen a side of him she did not like, or keeping him in her circle for all the things she admired.

  She looked at the envelope again, and then at her hand that held it. One of Timothy’s requirements had been dainty fingers. All the Morrington children had inherited their father’s hands—short fingers, blunt at the tips. Her hands were not masculine, necessarily, but they fit with the rest of her, which was not up to par with Timothy’s expectations of feminine perfection. And perhaps not other men’s expectations either. She was not willowy and thin. She had square shoulders, though Deborah assured her it gave her a balanced figure that men appreciated. Only penniless men, it seemed.

  Her thoughts were interrupted when a young man turned into the walkway of her father’s house. She quickly fixed her position in the chair, hoping he had not seen her curled up like a child. She recognized Mr. Fetich the moment before he disappeared from view. It was too early for callers, and yet she had no reason to turn away a man who was interested in her company. Timothy’s goal, before his uncle’s offer of financial independence, had been to find love with the woman he married for money. She could do the same. Never mind that she’d hoped Timothy might have been her match—she felt things for him she did not feel for other
men.

  When Herrington, the butler at Father’s London house, knocked on the door a minute later to see if she would receive before hours, Maryann agreed. Mr. Fetich had arrived merely twenty minutes before calling hours; it was not so poor a breach. “Will you please inform my sister so that she might join us?” she added. Herrington nodded, and Maryann pinched her too-full cheeks to add some color.

  Mr. Fetich was shown in, and she welcomed him with a smile. Deborah joined them a few moments later, only somewhat frazzled by the unexpected request of her company, and after exactly a quarter of an hour, Mr. Fetich gave his goodbyes, bowing over Maryann’s hand and leaving a rather wet kiss there, which she wiped on her skirt once he’d been escorted out of the room.

  “Well,” Deborah said, returning to her chair. “At least he has manner enough not to overstay a visit, though why he did not wait until calling hours gives him no credit.” She met Maryann’s eyes. “You are not overly impressed with him, are you?”

  Maryann shrugged. “I suppose not, but he is kind.”

  “What do you know of his circumstance?”

  “I believe it falls to my sponsor to manage such details,” she said with a smile.

  “Well, I shall be sure not to fall short, then. Lady Dominique will know. We can ask her at tea this afternoon.” Deborah’s eyes seemed to land on the daisies for the first time. She smiled, stood, and crossed to them, touching one of the petals before turning to look at Maryann.

  “Daisies,” she said under her breath, and Maryann was sure she was remembering their mother the same way Maryann had. “Did Mr. Fetich present these before I arrived?”

  “They arrived before Mr. Fetich. From Timothy.” The card was tucked in her sash though there was no reason to keep it. It was not a love note to read over and over again so as to relive the thrill of the words. But it was the continued offer of friendship, and maybe that was just as valuable.