A gift of daisies

Chapter 13

ALgernon kept his hand over hers.

"What is it, Rache?" he asked when they were out of earshot of the couples strolling on the terrace in an attempt to escape the heavy heat of the ballroom. "It is unlike you to miss any of the dancing and to request that I do so. too."

"Will this storm never break?" she asked rather petulantly, glancing up to the dark sky. As if in answer, a distant rumble of thunder seemed to shake the air around them.

Algernon squeezed her hand. "You aren't afraid of storms, Rache," he said. "Tell me what is the matter."

"I can't marry you, Algie!" she cried, pulling her arm from his and turning to face him. "Just a few weeks ago I had the effrontery to ask you to offer for me and to persuade you almost to promise that we would be betrothed in the autumn. And you were so kind and understanding and have been ever since. But I have changed my mind, and I feel so dreadful about it. You are easily the nicest man I know, and I do love you dearly, believe me I do. But I can't marry you."

Algernon clasped his hands behind his back and looked down at her. "Don't upset yourself, Rache," he said calmly. "If you feel you cannot marry me, I am not going to force you. And neither is anyone else. It is nothing to get dreadfully upset about, you know. There was nothing official after all, was there? Do you want to tell me what has happened? Has Stanford offered again? And do you wish to accept him? You must not feel guilty about me if that is so. It will be a splendid match for you. And I believe he will make you a good husband. Come, talk to me. We have always been friends, have we not? We have always been comfortable together."

"Yes, we have," she said. "And loved each other. And that is the trouble. I cannot marry you because I would not be able to make you happy, and it would break my heart to know that I was causing you misery. Lord Stanford has nothing to do with this, Algie. I will not be marrying him either, though I believe he means to offer again later this evening. I am not going to marry anyone."

"Your Season in town has made you restless," he said, smiling kindly down at her. "I guessed when I saw you in London that the country would no longer suit you. You have learned that society has a great deal to offer someone with your beauty and your gaiety. And there is nothing wrong with that, Rache. You must not feel guilty that you now find me somewhat dull. I am dull, and make no apology for the fact. And if Stanford does not suit, you must not become upset over that either. You will find the perfect husband eventually, I promise, and be happy for the rest of your life. Come on, cheer up, you little goose."

"Oh, no," Rachel said, looking earnestly into his eyes. "You misunderstand quite, Algie. I do not want more of social life. All of that has grown remarkably tedious. It has meant nothing to me since I have discovered that what I really want is a useful purpose in life. I am not rejecting you because I consider you dull. Oh, please don't think that. I don't want London. I don't want balls."

"A useful purpose," he said, flicking one finger beneath her chin. "Like all this tripping off to your father's tenants and hauling along books to read to the elderly, Rache? Is that what you mean by being useful?" He frowned. "But you cannot make a way of life of that. You will need a home and family besides."

Rachel shook her head. "I am going to start a school," she said. "I want to teach the children to read."

Algernon grinned. "You, Rache?" he said, amusement in his voice. "And you are quite serious, are you not? I can see it in the set of your chin. What will your papa say to that?"

"I am not sure," she said. "But his opinion will make no difference, anyway."

Algernon placed his hands on her shoulders and continued to grin down at her. "You know, Rache," he said, "it is David you should be marrying."

Rachel stared at him numbly.

"Good God!" His hands tightened and his expression instantly sobered. "Have I been that blind, Rache? Is that it? Is it David?"

"I think I would have discovered what I have even without him," Rachel said carefully, "but probably not quite so soon. Perhaps I never would have found the meaning of my life and I would always have wondered why I was restless and not quite happy."

Algernon nodded slowly, his eyes searching hers. "And you love David too."

Rachel did not answer. She did not need to. Algernon's words had not been a question.

"I would not have expected it," he said. "He is devilish handsome, of course, but I wouldn't have thought that he would attract you in the least, Rache. You seem such opposites. And does he love you too?"

Rachel hesitated. "He is going to leave," she said. "He is waiting until his brother goes home and then he is going to talk to you. I will not be going with him."

"Even knowing that you are not going to marry me, he is still leaving alone?" Algernon asked. "Poor Rache." He spoke very gently.

"How can you sympathize with me?" she asked. "I have done dreadful things to you, Algie. Persuading you that we should be betrothed soon and all the time loving David. I should have told you sooner. I owed you that. We have never had secrets from each other, have we?"

"People always have to have secrets from each other, Rache," he said. "There is a part of each person that has to be private even from those we love. Otherwise we would lose our individuality, our very selves, perhaps. I think your love for David has been painful, has it not? Still is, doubtless. No, Rache, you have had every right to keep those feelings to yourself."

Rachel's eyes were troubled and tear-filled as they looked up into his. "You are such a dear man, Algie," she said. "Will you still be my friend? You will not hate me and shun me after this embarrassment? I do not think I could bear it if I thought I could no longer run to you with my troubles. I will not feel quite safe without you."

Algernon squeezed her shoulders again and drew her against him. "Silly little goose," he said. "When two people have loved each other all their lives, as you and I have, their feelings do not alter just because of one very minor embarrassment. Of course you will always be able to come to me. And of course I will always protect you from harm whenever I can. You must never doubt that. Just as I will never doubt that you will always bring a little ray of sunshine into my life whenever I see you."

"Algie," she said, lifting her face to look up into his. She paused as there was another low rumble of thunder from the distance. "You will marry? You must marry. Though I shall probably be horridly jealous of your wife and will kick myself from here to London and back for giving you up when I had the chance to marry you."

He laughed. "You will probably be one of the first to know if I ever decide to marry anyone else," he said. "So you will still have a chance to engage the lady in fisticuffs and win me back, Rache. I rather fancy the idea of two females fighting a duel over me."

Rachel laughed in spite of herself. "Oh, you do say some absurd things, Algie," she said. "I do love you so."

"Yes, I know," he said, grinning down at her. "Like a devoted sister." He bent his head and pecked her lightly on the lips. "I told Madeline that I would partner her in the next set instead of this one. I must not miss it, Rache. It would not do at all."

She smiled and pushed away from him. "I am going to stay here for a while," she said. "Algie? Thank you. You have made me feel as if it is the most ordinary thing in the world to break one's promise."

"Just don't stray far from the house," he advised. "That storm is going to be moving over fairly soon. And the sooner the better, I think. It will clear the air."

Celia was dancing with Viscount Cardwell. The atmosphere in the ballroom was very sticky even though all the doors and windows were open wide. Several couples were walking outside. Among them were Rachel and Lord Rivers. Celia had seen them go and had ruthlessly tried to quell the stab of envy she had felt. She could picture them strolling now in the garden, arms linked, talking easily, looking at each other in that way they had, their eyes glowing with their affection for each other.

She would have liked a relationship like that. She did not suppose it would ever happen now. But perhaps at some time in the future she might meet someone with whom she could be comfortable. She would not lose hope. It would be easy to go home with the idea that she had been a participant in a grand tragedy, when in reality she had merely allowed herself to indulge in a foolish infatuation.

She had known from the start that Lord Rivers was going to marry Rachel. In fact, she had known it even when they had still been at school. And she had known too from the start that it was a match in which there was deep and mutual affection. It had been foolish indeed to allow herself to be attracted by a man who could very obviously never be hers. It had been foolish to indulge in infatuation. She had allowed herself to daydream to the point at which she now felt that she was about to lose the love of her life.

How very childish! How upset Rachel would be if she knew. And how amused Lord Rivers would be. No, he would not be amused. He was too kindly a man to derive pleasure from another's pain. He would be concerned, sympathetic. How humiliating it would be if he ever found out. She would find his sympathy far more mortifying than his laughter.

He had kissed her in the rose garden, of course. By the wildest stretch of the imagination she could convince herself that he had been attracted to her, even if only for a few moments. But, no. The time for daydreams was past. At the time, he was being his usual gentle, kindly self, trying to convince her that she was neither ugly nor dull. He had kissed her in an attempt to make her feel good about herself. He had not really meant to kiss her. He had been quite distressed afterward to realize what he had done. But the very fact that he had kissed her unconsciously proved the extent of his kindness.

At least she would have that kiss to cherish for the rest of her life. Her one and only kiss. And one that had made her so dizzy and weak at the knees that she still marveled that she had not committed the ultimate blunder of clinging to him and leaning against him. Her cheeks burned now at the very thought.

"It is hardly the night for strenuous dancing, is it?" Lord Cardwell asked solicitously. "Are you all right, ma'am?"

"Oh, yes," Celia said, blushing an even deeper red when she realized the direction she had allowed her thoughts to take. "I heard thunder a few moments ago. Perhaps the air will cool off once the storm has moved over."

"I hope so," he said. "And I hope David does not get caught out in it. He must surely have had a call or he would have come. He said he would be here."

"I think you are right," Celia said. "The Reverend Gower would always put the needs of a parishioner before his own pleasure, you know."

Lord Cardwell smiled down at her, looking very much like his brother for a moment. "Yes," he said, "I have realized that. This visit has reassured me greatly. I was worried about David. I was not sure that the church would suit him as a career."

"I cannot imagine one that would suit him more," Celia said. "Everyone speaks very highly of him, even the poorest people."

The next dance was the supper dance, Celia thought. And then, immediately after supper, she was engaged to dance with Lord Rivers. A half-hour in which to be close to him and converse with him and see those kindly eyes focused on her. Probably she would see him tomorrow. And the day after, she was to leave for home, at her own insistence. She did not think she would even see Rachel again after that. She would not be able to visit Singleton Hall after those two were married.

She would have to do a great deal of living during the half-hour of that set. And then, once she was on her way home, she would have to behave in a manner worthy of her one-and-twenty years and forget her foolish infatuation. But not quite yet. She would live through tonight and tomorrow first.

Rachel wandered into the rose garden. She had to find her way more by touch than by sight, as no light from the house penetrated that far; hence she was sure of finding solitude there. There was the occasional wafting of cool air from somewhere-a harbinger of the approaching storm, she suspected. She should, of course, return to the ballroom as Algie had done. She had already missed the set she had promised to Lord Morrison. The next set, the supper dance, was engaged too, though she could not recall by whom and she could not look at her card because it was too dark. But the dance after supper she knew was engaged to the Marquess of Stanford.

But she would not dance any more that night. She simply could not face the necessity of smiling and chattering as if she had never a care in the world. And how was she to face that meeting with Lord Stanford? He had made it very clear earlier that afternoon that he was going to offer for her again this evening. Her answer was not in doubt. She had no decision to make. But she did not feel that she had the emotional strength this evening to face the embarrassment of saying no to a gentleman who seemed fully to expect the opposite. She did not believe she could behave with the required poise.

In reality she felt sick. It was true that the talk with Algie, which she had planned to postpone for at least two more days, had gone surprisingly well. It had gone far too well. She was feeling wretched enough that it would have been some comfort to be confronted by an angry, accusing young man. She should have been made to feel like some kind of monster. She should be smarting now from some blistering home truths. After all, the way she had treated him in the past few weeks had seemed uncomfortably like using him for her own ends.

Instead he had been gentle and understanding, and quite his usual affectionate self. He had not accused her of not knowing her own mind. He had not even expressed anger when he knew that she loved David. Dear Algie. She might have known that he would not create a nasty scene. Had she not always been able to turn to him with her problems and know that she would be comforted? Even this problem she had been able to bring to him. It had felt so good to tell him, to feel his hands firm on her shoulders, to be held against him, to be kissed. Strange! That was the only kiss of Algie's that she had enjoyed. That warm, sympathetic, brotherly kiss.

Rachel sighed, felt about her for the wrought-iron seat she knew was close by, and seated herself. The trouble was, she should not feel comforted. She did not deserve to feel good about herself at all. She had been very selfish in her relationship with Algie. She did not at all know the state of his feelings. Had she made him unhappy? Or was he perhaps relieved to find that after all he was not to be trapped into marrying her? She had always claimed to be his dear friend, yet she did not know this most important fact about him. But then, perhaps he had not intended her to know. Everyone had to have some secrets, even from his closest friend, he had said.

She must ask him, Rachel decided, the next time they met, if he were disappointed or not, if he had every truly wished to marry her. It would take a load off her mind to know that he was not brokenhearted over her defection.

The orchestra was playing a waltz. She had loved to waltz with Algie in London. And she thought of that one occasion when she had waltzed with David and found that he performed the dance quite as well as Algie.

David! Her pain became localized as a raw ache at the back of her throat. David. She had had her chance that morning. She had glimpsed heaven. For the space of a few minutes she had thought that all was to be well between them, that they were to marry. She had laid all her love at his feet. She had surrendered utterly to his embrace. She would have given all of herself to him there in the field if he had chosen to take her. There had been no thought of holding back.

And why now was she sitting here alone, that pain in her throat making even breathing an agony? Why was David not there with her as he had been a few weeks before? It was on just this seat she had been sitting when he had come to her that other time. The first time he had kissed her. Where was he now? Had he stayed away because of her? The popular theory at the house was that he must have been called away to a sick or dying parishioner. She was not so sure.

Rachel allowed her thoughts to return fully to the events of that morning for the first time since then. So far she had felt only the pain. Now she recalled the source of the pain-her realization that David had been willing to sacrifice all his principles, all his happiness with his chosen way of life, for her. He would never be happy living in a mansion close to London with a wife who spent his money on fashions and frivolity and her time on social pleasures. And he would be doing a job that had been found for him as a favor to his deceased godmother.

He would soon become desperately unhappy with such a life. She knew. She had, of course, not known David when such a life was the one he was used to. He was, after all, Lord Cardwell's brother. But that life would no longer suit him. David would lose his soul under such conditions. If she had accepted his proposal, she would have lived to see that smile, that look of inner peace behind his eyes, die away.

But he had been prepared to risk that for her sake.

She had been inclined to anger that morning. She had known immediately that he could do no such thing. And she blamed him for thinking that that was what she would want. Did he know her so little? Did he really consider her so shallow that she would accept him with his wealth and cheerfully watch him destroy himself?

When she had rejected him, she had been very angry. She had felt insulted rather than honored by such an offer. And was she still angry? He must have known what he was doing. David was not a man to act impulsively. He must have pondered and prayed much over his decision. And he had decided that she was more important to him than the kind of life in which he knew himself happy. He had laid a gift at her feet-the gift of his devotion, the gift of an inheritance which, on his own, he would have rejected. How could he know that the only gift she wanted from him was the gift of himself?

He had quite consciously made a great sacrifice for her sake. How could she be angry even if his decision had been misguided? She tried to see herself through David's eyes. He had known her in London, where she had lived a deliberately gay social life, given over to fashion and the pursuit of frivolity. And he had known her here, where she was still surrounded by gay young blades and bright young ladies, where every day was given over to some mindless delight. It was true that he had also seen her during the mornings reading to the elderly, telling stories to the children. But it must have looked as if that were novelty only, a very small part of her life of privilege.

Could she blame him for believing that she would not fit in with his life as it was? She would live at the vicarage, a smaller building than she had ever so much as spent a night at. There would be very few social activities with the people of her own class. She would have a husband who would be at home very little and would frequently be called from home even at night. And there would be very little money. Algie was generous in the salary he gave, she was almost sure. But she was equally sure that David spent the bulk of that money on everyone but himself.

Was he right? Would she find such a life as impossible as he would find life in that mansion in Richmond? It would not be easy. She knew that. She could see beyond the romance of marrying David and renouncing all her bright prospects for a country vicarage with the man she loved. And she knew that she would face many problems of adjustment.

But David was not right, for all that. She would be able to do it, Rachel knew. She was familiar with her present way of life, comfortable with it. But happy? No, she had not been a truly happy person since she had begun to realize that she was growing up and that certain things were expected of her as a lady and the daughter of an earl. She had learned to enjoy herself and to be at the center of activity and attention. But that did not equal happiness.

To be happy, she needed to be able to look inward and be satisfied that there was some substance, some meaning to her life. She had started that inward looking in the past few weeks and she had begun to feed her soul. Even without David she felt that she would continue in the direction her life had begun to take. It was the only direction she could take. For however long she lived, she would be forced to live with herself. And how could she do that if she found that she could not look herself in the eye? She would have to live without mirrors-either physical or spiritual.

She had already changed far more than she had realized, in fact. She could not remember another occasion when the thought of participating in a ball, dancing, and talking and being admired had driven her outside to hide.

Rachel shivered as a gust of cool air rustled the plants around her. The rumble of thunder that followed sounded closer than before. And the sky had been lit up in the far distance for a few seconds before the thunder. She would have to go inside soon.

But she could not. Facing anyone at the ball was becoming a physical impossibility to her. She could not walk back through the doors into the noise and the lights and the heat and force a smile to her lips and a sparkle to her eyes. She could not dance. Her feet might as well be loaded down with leaden weights. And she could not face Lord Stanford. She could not cope with his proposal tonight. However cowardly and rag-mannered it was to run away, run she must.

Where could she go? Should she walk home across the fields and go to bed? The thought was attractive. And she did not fear the darkness of the fields, with which she was thoroughly familiar. But she did not fancy being alone during the storm. Storms did not usually alarm her, but she did not believe she would enjoy the fury of nature that night.

She wanted to go to David, but that was an absurd wish, of course. She had an almost amused mental image of herself knocking on the vicarage door and announcing that she had come for a visit. How lovely it would be, though, to sit inside that rather austere and quiet building, curled up on a sofa with her head on David's shoulder, just talking quietly while the storm raged around them. Rachel sighed.

She had another notion, almost as ridiculous. She wanted to visit one of the cottages, sit down inside, and just soak up the atmosphere of humble family life. It might not be impossible to accomplish. It was true that some of the families fussed a great deal when she arrived, as if she were some creature from another world. But many accepted her as they had all through her childhood and girlhood, and treated her with cheerful courtesy and even affection.

The only trouble with visiting any family now was that it must be late already. Only the idle rich could afford the energy expended on staying up until midnight and even beyond, someone had told her once. It was unlikely that she would find anyone still up. Should she try? If all the cottages were in darkness, then she would go home. She would probably still race the storm, which seemed to be moving over very slowly. If worse came to worst, she would just have her maid sleep in her room for company.

Rachel jumped resolutely to her feet. That was what she would do. Ten minutes later she was driving Algernon's gig away from the stables, having persuaded a doubtful and disapproving groom that it would be quite all right with Lord Rivers for her to do so. She had left with the man the message that she would see her family at home. She rather regretted the worry she would probably cause them, but there was no point in even considering going back to the house to give the message to a more official person, like her papa. She would never be allowed to leave alone, especially with a long-threatened storm on its way.

Lightning lit her way as the gig bounced its way over the rutted road, and thunder rumbled at her back.