A gift of daisies

Chapter 11

The arrival of Viscount Cardwell breathed new life into the final week of the house party at Oakland. Every day the members of the two households met for various activities. There were walks, rides, picnics, dinners, card parties, musical evenings. All the entertainments were to culminate in the dinner and ball at Singleton Hall two days before all the guests, including Lord and Lady Cardwell, were scheduled to leave. Even Celia had expressed her intention of returning home on that day, though Rachel had urged her to stay longer.

David attended rather more of the week's activities than he would normally have done. His brother was to stay with Algernon for only little more than a week altogether, and he seldom saw his brother or the children, who would grow up so quickly. He wanted to spend as much time as he was able with them while they were close by.

And so he saw Rachel almost daily. They did not often seek out each other's company, but the awkwardness that had kept them apart after their morning encounter in the gig had largely disappeared. They could be in the same room with each other without dreading a chance meeting of their eyes. Indeed, several times they spent some time in conversation together. It was on one such occasion that she told him with a giggle about her loss of an admirer.

"Mr. Hart confided to me yesterday that he has won Patricia Lacey's consent to speak with her papa when they both remove to Brighton," she said. "Does he not seem to have got matters the wrong way around, David? And he thanked me profusely for inviting him to this house party, as it gave him the opportunity to win her affection. How mortifying. Ail the time he appeared to be languishing after me, he was fixing his interest with the very demure Patricia." She laughed gaily again.

On another occasion she told him of the progress of her plans to teach some of the children of the estate to read. "I would never have time to go from house to house teaching a handful of children at a time," she said."There would need to be ten of me. I need someplace where I can gather them all together. A school, no less. But where, David? I thought I might use a room at Oakland, but the children might be shy and uncomfortable in such surroundings. Besides, Mama and Papa think I must have windmills in my head to even consider the idea. I am sure they would not agree to their home becoming a school."

David had not been able to offer any solution to that particular problem. But he did welcome the ease with which they could speak to each other again. There was a painful ache about being close to her, of course. When the guests left he would have to speak to Algie and leave as soon as possible himself. And then he would never see her again. But there would be some consolation in the knowledge that they would be able to part as friends. And they were that, he sensed.

On the day before the ball, however, David was forced to miss a picnic that was to be held on Oakland grounds. When his brother arrived with Algernon's curricle to take him up, he was already occupied with matters that could not be delayed.

"You must go without me, Rufus," he said when Mrs. Saunders showed his brother into his study. "I doubt if I shall be there at all this afternoon. Make my apologies, please? This is Mr. Macleod, Lady Wexford's solicitor. My brother, Viscount Cardwell, sir."

The two men exchanged bows.

"I hope you left Lady Wexford well," Lord Cardwell said.

The solicitor bowed his head again. "I am afraid her ladyship passed away suddenly five days ago, my lord," he said. "She had a heart seizure."

"David, I am so sorry," Lord Cardwell said, turning to observe his brother's drawn face. "We were all fond of her, of course, but I know she had a special place in your affection because she was your godmother."

"It is hard to believe," David admitted. "She had me to a garden party just a few weeks ago, you know, while I was in town with Algie. I would have wagered she had another ten years in her at least, despite her rheumatism."

"Is there anything I can do?" Lord Cardwell asked sympathetically.

"I think not," David said. "Mr. Macleod has only just arrived. He has business to discuss with me, he says."

"I shall go on to Oakland then," his brother said. "Madeline and the children will already be there. They went in the carriage with Algie. I said I would come for you, as you would be the one the boys would crawl all over if we brought the carriage this way."

The solicitor too left just an hour later, having declined David's offer of hospitality. He wanted to be well on his way back to London by nightfall, he said.

It was not too late to go to the picnic, but David decided not to. His mind was in too much turmoil. He needed time to think. And he suspected that he was going to need even more time to reflect and to pray. Some decisions were just not easy to make. Sometimes it was quite impossible to know which course of action was right and which wrong, which would help one progress toward one's destiny and which would set one forever on the wrong path.

Obviously, he had not made himself at all clear to his godmother during their final meeting. She must have still been convinced that only his pride held him back from accepting her offer of help. Had she realized when she changed her will a mere week before her death just what a dilemma she would be placing him in?

She had been an extremely wealthy woman, even more so than he had suspected. According to the solicitor, she owned a large and prosperous estate in Gloucestershire in addition to the Richmond home. Her jewels would have done justice to an Eastern potentate. Those on their own would have made her quite securely wealthy.

She had no family, no one to whom to leave her riches. So she had left them all to David, apart from some bequests to old and faithful servants. He had become instantly a wealthy man, far more so than his brother. But matters were not as simple as that. The will stated a condition. David must reside in the Richmond home or on the Gloucestershire estate for at least the following five years, and he must either give up the church altogether or accept a post deemed suitable by her friend Bishop Haines. If he failed to keep those conditions, then the whole of her estate would be given to various specified charities.

He was to be given sixty days in which to make his decision.

He could marry Rachel. That had been his first thought. He would be able to keep her in the manner to which she was accustomed. He would be able to afford for her the clothes and luxuries that she was used to. If they lived in Richmond, she would be able to continue to socialize with people of her own class. Yet at the same time, he could continue with his chosen way of life. He could accept the post the bishop would offer him. He had decided that he must leave this particular parish anyway, and he had no idea of where he would go. Why not to London and certain employment? He could serve God as well in London as he could in a country parish. And the money did not have to become a lure to him. Apart from the fact that he would be forced to live in the Richmond house for five years, there was no clause in the will that said he must use any of the money on himself. He could continue to live in the poverty he had chosen for himself. His riches he could use for the benefit of the poor, apart from what he would spend on Rachel, that is.

But the decision was not going to be as easy as these first thoughts might have led him to believe. An acceptance of his inheritance would be a betrayal of his commitment no matter how little he used of it for his own comfort. He had known for several years that for him service could not be a half-and-half affair. If he were to serve his Lord, he must do so with the whole of his being. He had never made any public vow of poverty, but he had made a private and solemn one before the altar of a chapel in Oxford. He did not believe it was impossible for a wealthy man to serve God, but he did believe it would be impossible for him. He could serve the vast majority of the people in the land only by becoming like them. Money would come between him and them even if it were money that he spent only on his wife and on charity. And how could he serve God unless he served His people?

The whole dilemma narrowed down to a choice between Rachel and God, he realized finally. But the thought chilled him. He did not want it to be as simple as that because then the answer was too glaringly obvious.

His godmother had loved him, he thought. She had given him an enormous gift of love: everything that was left of herself after she died. Could he reject that gift and deny her love? And was he rationalizing to think thus? Surely a gift of love must be free. Her gift was designed to set chains on him, albeit golden chains.

David finally pushed his chair back from beneath him and got restlessly to his feet. He was thinking in circles. He would go and visit the Perkins family. Mr. Perkins' mother was always glad of some company, and Mrs. Perkins' time was close. He must make sure that she had everything she needed when her time of confinement came. Mrs. Saunders had been baking. The smell of sweet spices was coming from the direction of the kitchen. He would take something with him. Mrs. Saunders would scold, of course, but she knew him well enough by now to make a double batch of almost everything she cooked.

It was oppressively hot the following day even though the morning was only half over. Rachel was wearing her finest muslin dress, but even so she was finding it hard to sit comfortably in old Mrs. Perkins' inner room. The leather binding of The Pilgrim's Progress was wet and sticky under her hand.

"There," she said, closing the book with a decisive snap. "That is the end."

"Ah." Mrs. Perkins sighed and laid her head back against the pillow. "I won't mind dying, my lady, if it can just be like that on the other side. That is a right good book."

"It is one of my favorites," Rachel said. "Shall we start another the next time I come? I thought you might enjoy one of Miss Burney's books. Camilla, perhaps."

"I don't know, my lady," old Mrs. Perkins said. "You must choose. But I would like to hear the whole story of that Ruth all the way to the end, if you would be so good. The reverend said that there is a whole book in the Bible about her."

"Yes, so there is," Rachel said. "Would you like to hear some now? I have the Bible out in the gig. And this morning's episode was very short, was it not?"

She smiled and went quickly from the room and out to the gig. She looked down at the child who grasped her skirt as she leaned across the seat to reach the Bible.

"Hello, Molly," she said. "You were helping Mam this morning by washing your own hands and face, were you not? What a helpful girl you are getting to be."

"I got a gap," the child said, smiling broadly so that Rachel could see where she had lost a front tooth.

"Oh, so you have," Rachel said. "And soon you will have a lovely new tooth to take its place."

The child danced off to her play again, satisfied that her gap had been seen and admired. Rachel picked up the Bible, only to have it taken from her grasp. She looked up, startled.

"It is too hot a day for a lady to be carrying even so slight a burden," David said with a grin. "Allow me."

Rachel smiled. "And so you should carry it," she said, "as it is on account of you that I need it. It seems that you told Mrs. Perkins that Ruth has a whole book to herself in the Old Testament. I have agreed to begin it today."

David stayed in the main room of the house for a while, talking to Mr. and Mrs. Perkins. He had two good reasons to be back at this house for the second day in succession. One concerned these two people. He had spoken to the Earl of Edgeley, he explained to Mr. Perkins, and his lordship was very willing to take him on as a footman, a job that would require a minimum of stooping and lifting. The job would be different, of course. A man who had spent his life working outdoors in the fields might find the rules and restrictions of life in a great house confining, and he might find the wearing of a grand uniform irksome. But the work was respectable and within his capabilities. He would be able to support his large family again without assistance.

His other errand concerned the elderly Mrs. Perkins. He had brought her Communion since she could no longer go to church. It seemed that his predecessor had done so only on special occasions, and no more than two or three times a year. David had pledged himself to bring Communion to all the elderly people once a week. He stepped quietly into the doorway leading to the inner room.

" 'And they said unto her,' " Rachel was reading, " 'Surely we will return with thee unto thy people.

" 'And Naomi said, Turn again, my daughters: why will ye go with me?' "

She read with an eagerness that made the story sound very immediate, David thought. Why did so many people reserve a special, very sober voice for reading the Bible?

" Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go.' "

Naomi gave in to the pleading of her daughter-in-law, David thought. She was convinced that Ruth would be unhappy following her into a foreign land to live a life that was outside her experience, yet when she had seen that Ruth's heart was set on going, she had given in to her. She should have stayed firm. Ruth would surely be unhappy with her decision. So the voice of wisdom would have said. Yet Ruth had settled in her new country, made a good marriage, and become the great-grandmother of King David, and thus an ancestress of Jesus himself.

So much for caution, for wisdom, for common sense.

"I shall read the rest of the book next time," Rachel said, then looked around sharply and saw David standing in the doorway. She got hastily to her feet. "I shall leave you with the Reverend Gower."

David had had a third reason for stopping at that particular cottage that morning. "Will you wait for me?" he asked as Rachel turned to leave. "I wish to talk with you."

"There is going to be a storm, Reverend," Mrs. Perkins said when Rachel had left. "Make sure her ladyship gets home before the rain."

David smiled. "I think you are right," he said. "But I believe it will be night before the storm breaks.''

"She is very pretty," Mrs. Perkins said, giving him a shrewd look that stopped just short of a wink.

Rachel had missed David at the picnic the afternoon before. She was very conscious of the passing of each day. After tonight's ball there would be only one more day before the departure of all the guests. David would leave soon after that. In fact the whole of life would then change. She would tell Algie that she did not after all think it wise for them to become betrothed. And she would begin living without either of the two men she loved so dearly.

She held herself firm against panic. There were still a few days left. She must enjoy them to the full. The future was so very unknown that it would serve no purpose to try to look ahead. She must enjoy today and tomorrow and then face the future one day at a time.

She was afraid. If she allowed herself to think, she was terrified. But she should not be. It was a long-ingrained habit always to fear that life's yawning emptiness would claim her. Her new certain knowledge that it would not do so had not yet had time to take root in her unconscious mind. She did not know what her future would be. She did not believe that she would ever marry, though it might be a childishly romantic notion to think that one would mourn the loss of one man for a lifetime. She did not know for sure that she would stay at Oakland. Perhaps Papa would wish to remove to his principal seat of Greenslades at some time in the future. He frequently talked of doing so. Perhaps she would beg him to take her there if she found that her friendship with Algie was no longer the comfortable thing it had always been.

Of only one thing was she certain. She was going to allow the pattern of her life to unfold without resistance. She was going to put her faith in a higher power than herself. David had been quite right. She had done much thinking about what he had said in the nursery at Singleton Hall. And he was right. There was nothing restricting or dreary about accepting and living a religious faith. She had already started to do both without even fully realizing the fact.

And she had told David the truth. Her mornings were the happiest part of her days. The happiest part of her life, in fact. There was meaning in doing things for others. It was only in giving that one could receive. Jesus Himself had said it. What she had given over the years and especially in the past few weeks was paltry in return for the happiness and the friendships she had gained.

So for the first time she had abandoned herself to life without fear. And she had hunted through the New Testament until she found the passage she was looking for: "Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: and yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.... Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself."

And Rachel had known a measure of peace during the days of hectic activity that would culminate in the ball of that evening.

She was stooping down listening to one of the Perkins boys explain the significance of the crisscrossing trails marked out in the dust before him when David came out of the cottage. She stood up and held out a hand to him.

"Lord Cardwell told us yesterday about Lady Wexford," she said. "I am sorry, David. I liked her and I know she was someone very special to you."

He took her hand. "She and Lord Wexford were like grandparents to me," he said. "Generous and indulgent. Even though I have not seen her often since I grew up I shall miss her. Thank you, Rachel. May I walk along beside you? What I wish to say to you concerns my godmother." -

"Oh?" Rachel made no effort to persuade him to climb into the gig with her. There were too many bad memories of the last time they had ridden together. Instead, she walked beside him, leading the horse by the bit until David took her place.

"Shall we tether the horse to that tree," David suggested a few minutes later, when they were out of sight of the cottage, "and stroll out into the pasture? What I have to say is of some importance."

Rachel glanced at him in curiosity. They said nothing until they had climbed a stile into one of the pastures of the estate and strolled along one side in the shadow of a high hedge, where they were partly sheltered from the oppressive rays of the sun.

"I have the chance to change my life quite radically," David said, breaking the silence between them abruptly at last. "I am in a position to ask you to be my wife, Rachel."

Rachel stopped walking instantly and spun to face him. Her face looked stunned but her eyes widened. "David?" The word could scarcely force itself past her stiffened lips.

"It is true," he said, laughing at her expression. "I can marry you, Rachel, if you will have me, and provide you with the sort of life you are accustomed to." He took both her hands in his when she continued to stare at him.

"If I will have you?" she whispered then. Her face lit up and she snatched her hands away from his and threw her arms around his neck. "If I will have you? David! David, what a very foolish thing to say. You know I will have you under any circumstances you might name. I love you. Oh, how I love you."

David wrapped his arms around her and held her tight against him. "Rachel." He lowered his head and buried his face against the side of her neck. "Rachel, my love, how could I contemplate life without you? You are my life, my inspiration, my joy." There were tears glistening in his eyes when he lifted his head to look down into her eager face. "I love you."

The heat of the day was such that the touch of another body, even the chance brushing of hands, should have been an agony. But what is the heat of the most oppressive of days when compared with a love that at last is allowed an outlet? Rachel was somehow free of her bonnet, and somehow her hands and her body had found their way past the barrier of David's coat and waistcoat, and his mouth was over hers, all with never a thought between them of the discomforts of the day that continued to blaze around them.

And the only need that expressed itself was to draw closer and closer yet. His mouth opened over hers. One hand cupped the back of her head and held it firm while his tongue ravaged her mouth. She pressed her breasts and thighs against the firmness of his body and opened her mouth wider to his invasion. When his hands on her shoulders did remove her from him, it was only so that he might kiss her throat and slide his hands down to touch and caress her breasts. Rachel threw back her head and pushed her palms in circles over the firm muscles of his chest.

It was only when his hands came behind her hips and pulled her hard against him that they looked again into each other's eyes and knew a measure of reality again.

"Rachel," he said with a somewhat shaky laugh, "I want you so badly. But I would not dishonor you, love. I fear I have done so already. Forgive me." His hands were gentle on her shoulders as he put her from him. He bent and kissed her softly on the lips, his breathing still not quite under his control.

"I do not care," she said, the dreamy passion of her eyes giving place to a bright shining. "I am going to trust you with the whole of the rest of my life. I trust you now whatever happens. David. Oh, David, is it true? Have you finally seen that you will not be the ruin of my happiness? Oh, I do love you, and there can be no dishonor in showing each other that love."

"I had expected to have to make a long explanation," he said, drawing the backs of his fingers across her cheek. "I see that I underestimated the power of your feelings. You will marry me, then, Rachel? It is settled?"

"How could you have doubted for a moment that I would?" she said, turning her head and kissing his wrist. "I have never made a secret of my feelings for you. Will we continue to live here, or will you feel it better to move away? I shall not care. As long as I am with you, and as long as I can share your vision of life, I could live quite happily in a Gypsy caravan. I will not be a burden to you, David. I have found the purpose of my life through you."

"You will not need to make any sacrifices for me," he said, framing her face with his hands. "We will be living in Richmond, and you will be able to continue with the sort of life you have been brought up to. Nothing need change except that you will be living in my home instead of your father's, and that you will be a wife."

Rachel's eyes had lost their sparkle. They looked wary now. "I don't understand," she said.

“My godmother left me everything," he said. "She was an extremely wealthy woman, Rachel."

Rachel stared at him, frowning. "And you are going to give up your way of life," she said, "because you have inherited a fortune?"

"I shall still work as a clergyman," he said. "But now I can afford to marry you, Rachel."

She shook her head slowly and he removed his hands. "No," she said. "You cannot do that, David. You will lose yourself if you move away to a different life from the one you have been leading here. Will you not? I don't like it. I wish she had not done it. Oh, it will spoil everything if you become nothing but a wealthy gentleman."

"I do not have to accept," he said. "I have sixty days in which to decide. Fifty-nine, to be exact. If I refuse to accept the conditions, the whole estate will go to certain charities. If I accept, I must live in Richmond and I must accept a post found for me by a bishop friend of my godmother's."

"Don't accept," Rachel said.

He stared blankly at her.

"If it were not for me," she said, looking directly into his eyes, "if I did not exist, what would you do, David?"

"I would refuse my inheritance," he said slowly.

"Then I refuse your offer, David," Rachel said quietly. "I thank you for the honor you have done me and for the sacrifice you are prepared to make for me. But I cannot marry you. My answer is final."

She stooped to pick up her bonnet from the grass, turned, and walked back the way they had come. David did not move from where he stood until long after he heard the horse and gig pass behind the hedge at his back.