A gift of daisies

Chapter 10

rachel drove over to singleton hall with the earl and countess the day after the arrival of Viscount Cardwell and his family. They took Celia with them in the barouche, though the rest of the houseguests decided that it would simply be too much if they all descended on the new arrivals to pay their respects on the same afternoon. Besides, all but the most energetic of them were glad to relax after a morning's vigorous ride through the hills.

Rachel was glad of Celia's company. Indeed, for the past week she had stayed close to her friend almost the whole time. She had even persuaded Celia to join her on her visits to her friends in the cottages. She could not give up those visits, she had found. Too many people had come to look forward to her frequent calls. Her reading to the elderly and storytelling to the children had been an unexpectedly great success.

Rachel admitted to herself that perhaps these friends of hers did not rely totally on her visits. Their very happiness would probably not be shattered if she ceased to appear. But the truth was that she had come to rely heavily on these daily chances to get away from the bustle and social activity of the house. Not that she was not enjoying the company of her guests and the gay round of entertainments that their presence made possible. But the house party seemed like a mere frill on her life. Nothing more. It was not real life itself. One's happiness, the substance of one's life, could not rest on such frivolity.

Real life was doing and giving and loving. And planning how one could give more and improve the quality of life for those less privileged than oneself. And learning that poverty was a relative state. It was not entirely a case of her being rich and having everything to give. In many ways her friends were richer than she and could give her gifts beyond price. The bunch of evil-smelling dandelions presented to her one morning by a scruffy, barefoot urchin, for example, was every bit as precious to her as the perfect rosebud that Mr. Hart had plucked from the formal gardens before the house and placed in her hand.

Only one thing marred her happiness. She was afraid everywhere she went that she would have to face David Gower again. And she did not believe that she had the strength to do so. She was not afraid of hating him. How could one hate David, a man so full of gentle love that it glowed from his whole person? It was one of the ironies of life that she had been hurt so deeply by a man whose whole life was devoted to the spreading of the Gospel of love.

No, her fear of meeting David had nothing to do with dislike or hatred. It was the strength of her own pride of which she was afraid. Or weakness rather. She was afraid that, given the chance, she would be begging him again, pleading with him to marry her. And she could not so humiliate herself again, even though she knew now beyond any real doubt that it would not be impossible for her to live as David's wife. She had been wrong when she had thought that such a life could not be for her. She had been wrong for several years, focusing all her energies on the hope of a come-out and a glamorous marriage, believing that in such a life she would find the missing part of herself, fill up the emptiness.

The emptiness had nothing to do with the absence of social activities. It had everything to do with the absence of commitment in her life. She had had no real dream, no goal in her life. Nothing really to live for. Nothing and no one on whom to focus her love. No real God.

And David did not know that she had found herself and that her life now had meaning and direction. He did not know that he had it in his power to make her life perfect. He thought he could only destroy her. And she could not tell him that he was wrong. At least, she corrected herself, she had told him, but he had not believed even enough to ask her what she meant. And she could do no more. She could not throw herself at his feet any more than she had done already.

And so she took Celia with her wherever she went. At least if she did meet him when Celia was with her, she would not be able to give in to the temptation to talk to him about personal matters. And indeed they did meet him one morning, or almost so. They had been on their way out of one cottage when they saw David approaching on foot. Rachel had scurried back inside again, claiming that she had left something behind. And she had held a puzzled Mrs. Powell in bright conversation for all of ten minutes until she could see through the window that David had raised his hat and taken his leave of Celia.

Rachel was relieved to find when they arrived at Singleton Hall that David was not there. She had been tense on the journey over, convinced that he would have come to be with his brother. Meeting Lord Cardwell gave her something of a pang. He resembled his brother to a certain degree. His face was thinner, his features sharper, and he was surely not as tall or as splendidly built as David. But he had the same dark hair and blue eyes. The viscountess was placid and rather pretty. Rachel set herself to talk with Lady Cardwell while her parents and Algie conversed with the viscount.

But even through the chatter Rachel noticed Celia's quietness. And she felt some guilt, as she seemed always to be doing these days. Was Celia disappointed to find that David was not present? Had Celia been delighted to spend ten minutes talking to him alone a few mornings before? Would David have seriously considered a match with Celia if it were not for her? His behavior in London had suggested such a possibility. Rachel did not know what Celia's thoughts and hopes on the matter might be. She had not had the courage to ask her.

Certainly there seemed no likelihood of any romance blossoming between her friend and any member of the house party. And Celia would be returning home in little more than a week's time to a life of dull loneliness.

"I would love to see your children," Rachel said suddenly, jumping to her feet and smiling brightly at Lady Cardwell. "May I?"

"Of course," Lady Cardwell said. "I would come with you, Rachel, but Algernon has promised to show me the rose garden and the hothouses. And after playing with the boys for most of the morning, I rather suspect that the flowers will be more peaceful companions."

"Are they in the nursery, Algie?" Rachel asked. "May I go up?"

"Yes, by all means, Rache," Algernon said, his expression rather blank for the moment. He had been deep in a conversation with Lord Edgeley when she spoke. "David is already up there," he added as the door was closing behind Rachel.

Lady Cardwell rose to her feet. "Do you have time to show me the flowers now, Algernon?" she asked. "Rufus has told me that your hothouses are quite famous. I have always wished to visit, but I am afraid I have been rather busy since our marriage, producing sons."

"Certainly, Madeline," Algernon said. "Perhaps the other ladies would care to join us. Lady Edgeley? Miss Barnes?"

Lady Edgeley declined the invitation on the grounds that the wind was chill and she feared she had caught cold during a walk the day before. Celia rose to her feet.

Lady Cardwell chose to walk without support when they left the house. Celia accepted Algernon's arm and listened quietly to his explanations as they walked through the hothouses examining all the exotic plants that grew there. Lord Rivers was very knowledgeable about them, she found, although it was his parents who had had the glass structure erected and who had collected the plants.

"The rose garden was my mother's real life work, though," Algernon explained as he shut the door of the last hothouse behind them. "It has several different varieties. If you wish to spend another half-hour outdoors, Madeline, I shall name each individual rose to you."

Lady Cardwell laughed. "Perhaps tomorrow, Algernon," she said. "I did not bring a shawl with me, and I must confess to having goose bumps on my arms after being inside the hothouses all this time. Besides, I do not believe my mind can cope with any more new information at present. Let us go inside."

"I'll wager Miss Barnes is made of sterner stuff," Algernon said. "Would you care to take a turn in the rose garden with me, ma'am, if I promise not to bore you with the names of a few dozen rose plants?"

"I should be delighted, my lord," Celia said, matching his light tone, "even if I must be subjected to a horticultural lecture."

They turned to walk beneath the trellised arch that formed the entryway into the rose garden while Lady Cardwell laughed and continued on her way to the house.

"I always feel almost apologetic about having such a very feminine part to my garden when this is really just a bachelor establishment," Algernon said. "But I like it anyway. It reminds me of my mother."

"Only a weak man has to shy away from any interest that might suggest femininity," Celia said. "You are not a weak man, my lord. What was your mother like?"

"A little like you in a way," Algernon said. "Oh, not in looks. My mother was small and quite dark. But she was quiet and self-possessed, like you. One always felt that one could rely on her entirely to soothe away troubles and help one cope with problems."

"And do you see me irt that way?" Celia asked.

"Yes," he said with a smile. "Am I right? I cannot imagine you in a panic. And I cannot imagine you with hartshorn and vinaigrette and laudanum drops and all the other paraphernalia without which many ladies would not be able to live through a single day. Have you ever had a fit of the vapors, Miss Barnes?"

"No, I am afraid I have not," she admitted somewhat ruefully. "I am afraid I am a rather dull person, my lord."

"Dull?" he said, coming to a stop on the path and looking full at her. "You, Miss Barnes? Absolutely not, I assure you. You are quiet, yes, and dignified. I suppose those qualities do not make a young lady shine in a London ballroom, but they are invaluable assets to a man's family in their country home. Any man would be fortunate indeed to have such a wife as you."

"Oh!" Celia's lips formed the word, though no sound came from her as she stared back at Algernon.

He seemed to realize what he had said only when the words were out of his mouth. He flushed slightly. "You see?" he said with an awkward smile. "I am your sincere admirer, ma'am. Come and see this peach-colored rose. You see how I am using layman's words so that you will not be weighed down with Latin names?"

"And this layman will be forever grateful," Celia said. "I shall remember, you see, that I have seen a magnificent peach-colored rose in your garden, whereas I should be racking my brains in vain to recall the five-syllable Latin name for it. What a very beautiful color it is."

"Here," Algernon said impulsively. He leaned forward and wrestled briefly with the stem of a bud before breaking it off and turning back to Celia. "It will complement your cream-colored dress. In your hair, I think. May I?"

Celia stood very still as he threaded the stem through the hair above her left ear. She had not worn her bonnet into the garden. She could feel his breath on her cheek.

"There, very becoming," he said, looking down into her face and grinning. Then his expression became more gentle. "Do you really think of yourself as dull?" he. asked "Why?"

Celia resisted the urge to take a step back, away from the powerful magnetism of his closeness. "I do not suffer from self-pity," she said. "I have quite calmly accepted the fact that I have none of the qualities that attract most people. I am not beautiful or particularly accomplished and I have no wealth or important connections. And I find it difficult to communicate with more than one person at a time. Even then, I have no bright and interesting conversation. But this is an embarrassing confession, my lord. I am not looking for your pity. Or for your reassurances either. I have accepted what I am and I am happy with my life."

"Are you?" he asked. He still had not moved away from her. "Do you not want what most other ladies want, Celia? Do you not want a husband and a family? A home of your own?"

Celia swallowed. "Of course I do," she said. "But I have only just had my twenty-first birthday, my lord. I do not consider myself too firmly established on the shelf yet."

He nodded. "Pardon me," he said. "I gather that young ladies do not like to talk about such matters. I would like to see you happy. It says a great deal for the male mentality, does it not, that the featherbrained chits that litter fashionable drawing rooms are snatched up during their first Season? Probably to the lifelong regret of those who do the snatching."

Celia's smile was somewhat stiff. "I would imagine a man would regret snatching up an antidote too," she said. "At least the featherbrains are pleasant to look at for a time."

Algernon laughed and then sobered. "Now, you have never been seeing yourself as an antidote, have you?" he asked, frowning down at her. "That is utter nonsense, as I told you once before. I cannot allow that, you know, Celia. Why, an antidote would look quite grotesque with a peach rose in her hair, while you look lovely."

Celia laughed and looked down. But his hand beneath her chin forced her face up again. "If I were not a gentleman," Algernon said, "I would show you how much of an antidote you are, indeed. In fact..." He lowered his head and kissed her firmly and lingeringly on the lips. "There. You see? You are very kissable. Didn't feel like an antidote at all. Not that I would know what an antidote would feel like. I've never kissed one. But she wouldn't feel like that. Good Lord, have I offended you?"

Celia had paled considerably. She pushed at his hand now, turned abruptly from him, and began to move away. Algernon caught at her arm. "My apologies, ma'am," he said. "I have insulted you. Can't think what came over me. I am not in the habit of kissing females in that way. Good Lord, I have never… I truly did not mean to insult you. Please forgive me. I just seem to forget when I am with you that you are an acquaintance merely. I… Please allow me to escort you back to the house."

Celia looked back at him, biting her lip. "I am sorry," she said. "It was nothing. I was embarrassed, that is all. No one has ever kissed me before even as a jest. Yes, please, I would like to return to the house. The breeze is quite chilly."

She took his offered arm and they walked in an awkward silence back to the house. Algernon stopped before they went inside. "Can that episode be forgotten?" he asked. "I like and respect you, Miss Barnes, and value your friendship. Will you say you forgive me?"

Celia smiled up at him and placed her own hand in his outstretched one. "There is nothing to forgive," she said. "Thank you for the things you said. And thank you for the rose. Yes, my lord, I would like to think of you as my friend."

They shook hands and smiled at each other before walking up the marble steps to the door.

An hour earlier Rachel had run lightly up the stairs and along to the nursery. She wanted to see these children, aged three and one. She grinned at herself as she knocked softly on the door and opened it. She would far prefer to spend the next hour playing with David's nephews than to look at flowers with Lady Cardwell and Algie or converse in the drawing room with the viscount.

She looked around her with a smile, preparing to introduce herself to the children's nurse. She found herself smiling instead at David Gower. He was standing at the opposite side of the room by one of the long windows. He held a baby in his arms. An older child stood on the window seat before him looking out through the window.

"Oh," Rachel said foolishly, "I am sorry. I did not know you were here."

"Hello, Rachel," David said. His eyes were smiling at her in that way that made her feel weak at the knees. "Do come inside. Did you come to meet my nephews? I am very proud of them, you know, and quite delighted to have someone to whom to show them off. It is more than six months since I saw them last. This little one, in particular, was a very small baby then."

"Where is their nurse?" Rachel asked.

He grinned. "I sent her to have tea with the housekeeper," he said. "Little Simon here was running her off her feet. Once one sets his legs to the floor, he believes that they should be in continuous motion. And he moves at a run, destroying everything in his path. I have enabled myself to have something of a rest by the simple expedient of picking him up. Right, cherub?" He pinched the stomach of the baby, who chuckled with delight.

"They are lovely," Rachel said. "The older one looks like your brother and you." She smiled at the little boy, who had turned from the window to stare at her. She held out a hand. "May I present myself? I am Lady Rachel Palmer. I do not know your name, sir."

The boy placed a small hand in hers. "Rufus Gower, ma'am," he said, bobbing his head in a swift bow.

"Ah," she said. "You share your papa's name. I am pleased to meet you, sir." She curtsied.

"When I sent the nurse away twenty minutes ago," David said, "it was with the promise that I would try to get these boys to bed. They usually sleep for an hour immediately after luncheon, but the upheaval of the journey for more than two days and the strange house at the end of it all has upset their routine. I had them almost persuaded when you arrived. Shall we try, boys? Lady Rachel is an expert storyteller. If you go to bed immediately and settle down quietly, perhaps she can be persuaded to tell you a story."

Rachel looked at him in alarm, to find that his eyes were twinkling. "Well, I know some of Aesop's fables," she said.

"Uncle David, carry me," Rufus begged, directing large blue eyes his uncle's way.

"Uncle David's arms are already full," Rachel said. "Will I do?"

"Here," David said, "you take Simon. But please do not set his feet anywhere close to the floor or we will spend another twenty minutes chasing him."

The baby's arms closed around her neck. His cheek as it brushed hers was hot, she felt. He was clearly tired and holding himself awake by sheer willpower.

The scene in the children's bedchamber seemed an incredibly domestic one to Rachel. She tucked the baby into one bed while David did the same with the older child in the other. The baby immediately gathered the silk border of the blanket into his fist, put a thumb in his mouth, and addressed himself to sleep. Rufus watched her wide-eyed as she sat on the edge of his bed and told him fables. It was not until she was halfway through the third one that his eyelids began to droop. She finished the story, kissed his forehead, and rose to leave. Simon was already asleep. David was standing at the foot of the beds.

"Have you always loved children?" he asked Rachel as they stepped back out into the nursery and he closed the door behind them. "You certainly have a gift for holding their attention."

"Yes, I have always enjoyed playing with children," she admitted. "Papa says it is because I have never grown up myself. I think the local children should be taught to read, David. Do you think I would be able to teach them? And would there be any real point? I mean, I know there would be a point, but would their parents and everyone else see that? I am not at all sure. I have never really thought about it before." She was staring eagerly at him, the old Rachel he remembered from London.

"I suppose you can only ask," he said. "But yes, if you really wished to do that, Rachel, I think you would do it successfully. You have a great deal of energy and enthusiasm. It would be a great commitment of time, though. Are you sure you will have the time to spare?"

"Oh, yes." Rachel gazed earnestly back. "I will have a great deal of time. My whole life." She flushed suddenly.

He smiled and changed the subject. "I should have come downstairs when I saw your barouche arrive earlier," he said. "Did no one think to tell you I was here?"

"No," Rachel said. "I would not have come up had I known. You must stay until the nurse returns, must you not? I shall go back downstairs."

"Must you?" he asked with a smile. "Come and sit with me by the window for a while. It is a great shame that there must be an awkwardness between us, Rachel. We could be very dear friends, could we not, if there were not the other to make it painful to be in each other's presence?"

Rachel came and sat at one end of the long window seat. He sat at the other. "Yes," she said, "I believe we could." Her eyes rested on his face. She smiled.

"Why do you do what you do?" he asked. "Why do you spend your mornings with the poor?"

"For very selfish reasons," she said. "It makes me happy. The mornings are the happiest time of my days."

"It is not because of me?" he asked. "It is not that I have made you feel you ought?"

"You reminded me perhaps," she said, "of the way things were before my attention was completely taken up with London and the Season. And I think I wanted to win your respect, and even admiration. But it is not just for you, David. Not by any means. I shall continue after you are gone. All my life."

"Do you do it at all for God?" he asked curiously. "I do not know much about the state of your faith, Rachel. I know that you know a great deal of the Bible, of course."

Rachel was silent for several moments, staring across at him. "I am not quite sure," she said. "Religion seems so restrictive. It makes people sober and unhappy. It is full of things one must not do. I want to be happy. I want joy in my life. I want to run and dance and be free. I don't think I am a very good member of your flock, David."

His eyes smiled deeply into hers and his mouth was curved up at the corners. "Oh, I think that perhaps you are far closer to God than many of my other sheep, Rachel," he said. "The type of religion you fear is best suited to those who wish to create their own God. It is a human tendency to stress the negative, to emphasize what one should not do rather than what one should. It is not God's way. God gives us only two commandments: to love Him and to love one another. They are very positive commands. And you are beginning to live them already. If you will learn to accept that it is what God wants you to do, I think you will be able to sing and dance and be incredibly happy. You should be happy, Rachel. You were made for joy."

"My own private sermon," she said. "And it is not even Sunday."

"Pardon me," he said. "I did not mean to preach. It is just that I feel an enormous responsibility for you. Not just the responsibility of vicar to parishioner, but that of lover to beloved. I know I have hurt you. And I believe that the hurt I have inflicted may be deep enough to wound you for a lifetime. But you need not be unhappy, Rachel. That seems like a paradox, does it not? But I believe it. You can be happy if you realize that you need not depend on a poor weak human for your joy. I could bring you only unhappiness ultimately, you know."

Rachel smiled rather wearily and stared out through the window.

"With Algie you will live the life you are suited to," he said. "With religious faith you will also be able to live a rich life. I will be quite superfluous to your life, you see."

"David." Rachel turned back to look full at him. "Whom are you trying to persuade? Do you not think I have sense enough to have told myself all these things and more in the last week? I have already adjusted my mind to the type of future I am facing. And I am not going to marry Algie, you know."

His face paled noticeably. "Not marry Algie?" he said. "But your betrothal has been planned, Rachel. And you love him."

"Yes, I do," she said. "Far too dearly to use him as a refuge from a bruised heart. He deserves to have all of the woman he will marry. I could offer him only a part of myself."

David closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. "Does he know?" he asked."

"No," she said. "I do not wish to broach the topic while your brother is here and while our guests are still at Oakland. When they have all left I shall tell him. You see, I can be as courageous as you, David."

David got to his feet and stood with his back to the window. "I am sorry," he said finally. "I am truly, sorry, Rachel."

"You need not be," she said. "I think you have saved both Algie and me from a bad marriage. It is only recently, you see, that I have realized that we do not love each other as a husband and wife should. Perhaps Algie already knows that. I am not sure. He has been the one to advise caution, to insist that we wait until autumn before making our betrothal official. But I have now realized it. I admire Algie, and even love him, for his placid good nature. I suppose I have always felt that I would take on some of that nature if I married him. I thought I would be safe with Algie. But of course that was nonsense. I have grown up a great deal in the past few weeks. I would still be me if I married Algie a thousand times. I would still be restless and frightened."

"Frightened?" He turned back to her with a frown.

"Yes," she said. "I have always been frightened by life. It is so vast, so without form or logic, so..." She let out her breath in a rush. "So meaningless. I have always tried to drown out the silence with the sound of my own voice and laughter and fill in the vast empty spaces with movement and gaiety. Life terrifies me."

David was on his knees in front of her suddenly, both her hands in his. "Rachel," he said earnestly, "it must not. Oh, you have so much to give: your gaiety and sunny nature, your gentleness and compassion, your energy. There is meaning in life, dear, even in the bleak and painful moments. There is a pattern that we will see clearly as we get older. Already I can see purpose in some of the experiences in my past. I can see purpose, for example, in the existence of those two little boys in the next room, though when they were born they distanced me further from hopes of a title and a fortune. There is a meaning to your life too. You will see it one day and be glad of it. Just have faith, Rachel."

He lifted her hands one at a time and pressed his lips to her palms. "Even this," he said. "There is even meaning in this. We will understand one day why we had to love and why our love had to shatter both of our plans for the future. I believe we will even admit that it was best it happened exactly the way it has. Pain and all. Perhaps then we will each be able to love the memory of the other without any of the pain and guilt and confusion that make our feelings almost unbearable at the moment."

"Perhaps you are right, David." Rachel lifted her hands to smooth back the hair at the sides of his head. "I know already that I will never be sorry that I met and loved you. I believe I am the richer for knowing you. You have helped me to face myself and my own fears."

She was smiling into his eyes, her hands still in his hair, his resting on her knees, when the children's nurse bustled back into the nursery. David rose and turned to her with a smile.

"Task accomplished, Mrs. Jones," he said. "Both children are sleeping soundly. Have you met Lady Rachel Palmer?"

Five minutes later they were walking together down the staircase toward the salon, both feeling strangely comforted after almost a week of studiously avoiding all meetings with each other. Their pain over the fact that their love could know no satisfactory outcome had almost blinded them to the fact that they had also grown to be close and dear friends.