A gift of daisies

Chapter 15

Lord Rivers' ball continued long after it was scheduled to finish. The music and the dancing went on until dawn, and then a surprisingly lively group of people crowded windows or ventured out onto the terrace, all trying to assess the probable state of the roads merely from viewing the rain-soaked cobbles and grass. It was certain that those who had traveled any distance would be foolish to think of returning home yet. Any weighty carriage would at the very least get hopelessly stuck in mud, and there was the added danger of upsetting in a pothole or skidding off the road and overturning into a ditch.

Lord Rivers' staff belowstairs was frantically busy preparing breakfast for a large number of people. The housekeeper and chambermaids were as busy abovestairs preparing beds for those guests who wished to rest while they waited. These were mostly ladies. The gentlemen prepared to settle quite happily to cards or billiards and fortifying bottles of port.

A few guests from the village and the party from Oakland decided to take the chance of returning home. The worst that could happen, Lord Mountford said cheerfully, was that they would have to walk a mile or two over wet grass until their carriages could be pulled out of the mud. His wife's comment that there were many worse fates that might befall them went unheeded. Lady Edgeley was anxious to return home to assure herself that Lady Rachel was safe and had not died of fright during the storm.

The stranded ballgoers were just finishing a very early breakfast sometime later when the butler opened the doors into the main dining room and Lords Edgeley and Mountford strode in. Algernon rose to his feet at once, his face paling.

"Has there been an accident?" he asked. "I trust no one has been hurt. What may we do to help, Edgeley?"

But the earl did not give the news that everyone expected. "It's Rachel," he said. "She is not at home and has not been there all night. Damn me for a fool. I should have sent someone after her to make sure she had arrived safely."

Algernon strode across the room through the sudden hubbub of voices. But being close to the two men from Oakland did not make the message any more palatable: Rachel was missing and had been missing since before the storm the night before. Algernon felt fear and near-panic churn his insides.

"I shall have all the servants gathered," he said, "to search the grounds and all the likely routes she might have taken last night. She had my gig. Her choice of route would have been limited. We can use as many of the gentlemen as consider themselves suitably dressed for such a search." He turned to the company, which had hushed again and was paying him close attention.

"All our servants are searching already," Lord Edgeley said. "I must go back there, Rivers. Lady Edgeley is frantic."

"Perhaps Lord Mountford could return to assure her that everything possible is being done here," Algernon said. "You and I should maybe call at the village to see if there is any sign of her there. Perhaps David will know something."

Lord Edgeley frowned. "Why would he know anything of her whereabouts?" he asked. "He was not even here last night."

Algernon did not answer. He had stridden from the room to have the butler summon all the menservants.

***

David and Rachel had started out from the cottage somewhat before dawn. Old Mrs. Perkins had lent Rachel a shawl to protect her bare arms from the chill that had succeeded the storm. Her delicate ball gown was looking sadly bedraggled.

David guided the horse slowly and carefully over the wet and muddy road. Even so, it soon became obvious that they had been precipitate in their decision to take to the road so soon after the rain stopped. They should have waited at least a couple of hours longer. It did not help that the sky was still cloudy and they could see no more than a few feet in front of them. Eventually they reached a fork in the road, one branch of which led to the village, a mile away, while the other led to Oakland, two miles distant. The road to Oakland was slightly uphill. David brought the gig carefully to a halt.

"I do not see how the horse is to get up that hill," he said. "He will have no traction for his feet. I believe we have a choice. Either we abandon horse and gig and walk across the fields to Oakland, or you come with me to the vicarage."

Rachel glanced down ruefully at her feet and wriggled her toes. "Across the fields in these slippers, David?" she said. "Ugh!"

"Then the vicarage it must be," he said. "It may not be a very proper solution, Rachel, but under the circumstances it will be excusable, I believe. Mrs. Saunders will be there to lend some propriety to your presence. And I shall walk to Oakland as soon as it is light to set everyone's mind at rest. I very much doubt that anyone will return home from Algie's until dawn at the earliest."

Rachel did not put up any protest. Indeed, sitting silently beside a tense David as he eased the horse into a slow progress again, she felt almost happy. It had been a magical night, a wonderful night, a night in which she had felt close to David in a way she could not possibly have imagined. And it had not yet ended. There was this adventure of a slow and dangerous journey over muddy roads and a few hours spent at the vicarage with David at the end of it. It did not even occur to her to worry about propriety. How could it be improper to be alone with a man with whom one had just shared the unimaginably intimate task of bringing a child into this world?

She stole a look at David's profile, only barely visible in the darkness. It was a strong, handsome profile. He looked thoroughly in charge of the situation, though she knew that he was tense with anxiety. She would, she realized, trust David with her life under the most difficult of circumstances. With anyone else at present she would probably be fighting hysterics. With David she was totally relaxed. She marveled at her own lack of fear.

"We are almost there," he said with quiet reassurance. "You are a good companion, Rachel. Most females would be in a fit of the vapors by now. You are hiding your fear very well."

"I am not afraid," she said calmly. "I am with you."

He grinned unexpectedly. "If you realized how very undependable I feel at the moment," he said, "perhaps you would not be so trusting."

"I would always trust you, David," she said. " 'Whither thou goest…' " But she broke off the quotation. She had meant it as a light joke, but it came out of her mouth sounding quite serious.

Neither said anything more until he lifted her down from her seat after taking the gig around to the back of the vicarage. He quickly untethered the horse and stabled it in the small building that had housed the horse of the former vicar. Then he led Rachel inside.

"You must be very tired," he said, lighting two candles in the kitchen. "You were wonderful tonight, Rachel. There are not many young ladies who would have done half of what you did. And all without any fuss or hysterics. Thank you for your help. I no longer felt afraid once you arrived."

"I don't believe there are many clergymen who would do what you did either, David," Rachel said with a smile. "I don't think the midwife could have given more tender care to the baby or the mother. You are a beautiful person. I am glad that I have known you."

He stood and smiled at her, at a small young lady in a soiled and crumpled ball dress with wildly disheveled dark hair and tired, shadowed eyes. She had never looked more beautiful. He wanted to say something to her, something tender and meaningful, something to heal the pain he had caused her. He wanted to open his arms to her and hold her as he had at the cottage a few hours before. He wanted to tell her how totally he loved her.

"Come," he said, picking up one of the candles, "I shall take you up to the room Mrs. Saunders always keeps ready for guests. You must sleep, Rachel. I shall stay down here until it is light and then walk to Oakland. Mrs. Saunders will see to your needs when you wake."

He led the way upstairs and into a square, neat room, and set the candle down on a dresser.

"Thank you," Rachel said rather bleakly as he turned to leave.

"Sleep well," he said, turning back to smile that gentle half-smile that could always make her weak with love for him. "Good night, Rachel. My friend."

Perhaps he thought it strange that she did not reply. She merely gave him a tiny smile as he let himself out of the room and shut the door quietly behind him. She could not have said anything. Why had those last two words broken her control as no other endearment could have done at that moment? Why did it seem infinitely more precious to be David's friend than even to be his lover? Rachel brushed impatiently at the tears that had spilled onto her cheeks, and glanced with longing at the bed. She began the difficult task of undoing the long row of tiny buttons that extended down her back.

Downstairs in his study, meanwhile, David sank into the worn chair beside the empty fireplace, hooked one leg over the arm, and proceeded to keep vigil until the coming of dawn.

"Whither thou goest..."

The words had been running through his head for days. He had always loved the Book of Ruth, but he had never been obsessed with it as he had been lately. He had never been so aware of the courage of a woman who could give up everything with which she was familiar, even her country and her religion, for the sake of love. Love for a mother-in-law, in Ruth's case. He still felt that the story should not have ended as it did. She should not have adjusted to her new life, met the rich and kindly Boaz, married him, and become the great-grandmother of a king. She should have been wrong. The story should have proved that one cannot totally change one's way of life and be happy.

Was he wrong about Rachel? He loved her so very dearly. He wanted her to be happy. He knew she was not happy now. Incredible as it seemed, she apparently did love him as much as he loved her. But he had thought he had the wisdom to look into the future. She would be far more unhappy than she was now, he had concluded, if he married her. She would discover that his life was not hers, and yet she would be forced into making it so as his wife. He had forced himself to watch her unhappiness now, knowing that he was protecting her from greater and lasting misery in the future.

But was he right? Who was he to say what was right for Rachel? A completely new way of life had worked for Ruth. And it had worked for him too, had it not? Who would have said just a few years before that he could live the type of life he was living now and be happy? He certainly would not have believed it possible. Was he God that he could decide Rachel's future for her?

David closed his eyes and laid his head against the back of the chair. Should he allow Rachel to make the choice? Should he allow her to decide whether to take him as he was or to continue with her present way of life? Would he be utterly selfish to do so, knowing that her answer would probably be yes? Or would he be showing her the ultimate love, giving her the freedom to choose her own life?

David passed a hand wearily across his forehead. He thought back to the previous morning, to the memories that had been almost too painful to face all of the previous day. Rachel had rejected him. He had offered her the respectability and security of his godmother's wealth and she had refused him. Yet it was not he whom she had rejected. She had been overjoyed when he had first offered her marriage. He could remember now the total surrender he had felt in her body as he had held her and kissed her.

It was the wealth and the security she had rejected. She wanted him. She did not want anything else.

And he realized for the first time the selflessness of her rejection. She had known that by accepting his compromise she would be taking from him everything that made his life meaningful. And everything that made her life meaningful too? He had seen her several times with the poor people of his parish. She had always seemed happy with them. And she had new ideas. She wanted to start a school. And there had been no mistaking her joy that night in the very unladylike scene she had witnessed and participated in.

Perhaps for Rachel too happiness lay in turning her back on the world with which she was familiar and devoting her life to the service of the poor. Perhaps. Who was he to say? It was a decision only she could make. She and her God.

He could not deny her that decision. He could not deny her the freedom to choose him if she wanted him. Or to reject him again. It must be her choice.

David slept just as dawn began to lighten the windows behind the drawn curtains.

Mrs. Saunders showed the visitors into the parlor, keeping her face expressionless despite the strange fact that the hour was very early and both gentlemen were dressed in evening clothes that had somehow lost their sparkle. She had been housekeeper to a vicar for long enough to know that all manner of people might arrive at the vicarage at any hour and in any garb. Matters had grown even worse with this new vicar, who would not turn back even the most suspicious of beggars from his door and whose fame had quickly spread through the world of vagabonds.

She sighed when she found the vicar's room empty and his bed unslept-in. He had set out for Lord Rivers' dinner and ball the evening before, but the Lord only knew where he had ended up. Holding the hand of some elderly person who was pretending to be at death's door just in order to have his company, more than likely. And the vicar would have fallen into the trap, as he had done on numerous occasions already. And would not even know that it had been a hoax until she informed him of the fact.

She checked the vicar's study halfheartedly and was surprised to find him fast asleep in his chair, one leg thrown over the arm, his head drooped forward on his chest, his best clothes-his only really respectable clothes, apart from his church vestments-looking as if they were ready for the rubbish heap. His hair-that lovely dark, thick, shiny hair that made her so proud of him on a Sunday morning when he stood in the pulpit- looked as if it might have been lifted straight from the head of a scarecrow.

Mrs. Saunders clucked her tongue and woke the vicar up.

Two minutes later a wide-awake and dismayed David rushed into the parlor without having made any attempt to tidy himself for his visitors.

"Lord Edgeley," he said, "your pardon, please. I fell asleep. How could I have done such a thing. Algie?"

"Rachel is missing," the earl said. He had not sat down. "You have not had any word of her, have you, Reverend?"

"Yes, indeed," David said. "She is asleep upstairs."

He knew as soon as he had said the words that the mistake he had made in falling asleep was a far more serious one even than he had first thought. For the few minutes since he had awoken, he had been concerned merely with the unnecessary worry he must have caused Rachel's parents. Only now did it strike him how dreadfully improper it must appear to the two guests to arrive at the house and find that both he and Rachel were sleeping in it. Somehow the presence of Mrs. Saunders in the same house did not add the respectability that he had mentioned to Rachel the night before.

Algernon turned without a word and stood looking out of the parlor window, legs slightly apart, hands clasped behind his back. The Earl of Edgeley stood very still.

"Lady Rachel came to the Perkinses' cottage last night just as the storm broke," David explained. "I happened to be there with Mrs. Perkins, trying to comfort her until the midwife arrived. Rachel had to help me deliver the baby, and then we set out for Oakland. But I am afraid we left too early. The uphill road to the house was far to dangerous under the circumstances. I brought her here."

The earl coughed. "I see," he said. "This is a devilish coil."

"I will gladly offer her the protection of my name if you consider her honor has been compromised, my lord," David continued quietly.

Algernon turned from the window. He was looking more grim than David had ever seen him. "I'll be damned before I see Rache forced into marriage out of any notion of honor. Begging your pardon, Edgeley. I shall offer for her myself. At least I can offer her a lifelong affection."

"I have my heart to offer, Algie," David said. "Very little else, I am afraid. But if his lordship is satisfied with respectable employment and Rachel with the devotion of my love, then I will offer her all I have to give."

Algernon searched his cousin's eyes for a few silent moments. He nodded finally. "Good luck then, David, my boy," he said.

The earl cleared his throat. "If only this whole incident were not quite so public," he said. "We have two housefuls of servants, my houseguests, and most of the guests at last night's ball out hunting for my daughter. There will be a scandal. I am going to leave the decision to Rachel, Reverend. Her mother and I will advise her that she need not feel herself compromised to the extent that she must marry you. We will be prepared to help her live down the gossip. Whether you will be able to live it down, sir, with those parishioners who demand total moral rectitude from their pastor, is a problem that you must face."

David bowed. "May I have the honor of calling on your daughter and paying my addresses this afternoon?" he asked.

When Rachel appeared in the doorway in a gown that looked even more crumpled than it had a few hours before as a result of the fact that she had just let it fall to the floor when she undressed, she was looking extremely ill-at-ease. Mrs. Saunders had told her that David had been sleeping in his study when her papa and Algie arrived. He had not gone at dawn, then, to explain the situation. Poor David. He must be feeling dreadfully guilty.

He was standing with his back to the fireplace opposite the doorway, looking pale, tired, and incredibly untidy. For once even his eyes were not smiling.

And then somehow she was in Algie's curricle with her papa while Algie took his gig from the back of the vicarage. And Papa was gravely advising her that her unwise behavior of the night before had put her in a very compromising situation but that she should not feel herself totally bound to accept Mr. Gower when he called on her that afternoon. There would be a nasty scandal, of course, and all their guests were to leave the following day to carry news of it to the far corners of the kingdom. But what was that to them? They would brave local opinion in the knowledge that scandals were quickly forgotten.

David was coming to offer her marriage! And all because road conditions had forced them to spend the night in the same building, albeit on different floors and with the added presence of a female housekeeper!

He was going to do the honorable thing and make an honest woman of her.

Over her dead body!

***

Rachel was not in the house when David called that afternoon. She was supposed to be. She had been excused by the countess from the ride that was to be the final daytime activity for the houseguests and sent to her room to get ready. Both Mama and Papa had explained to her that they would not try to force her to accept David's offer, but both had been insistent that she receive that offer with the proper decorum.

But she had slipped outside. She had been tempted to leave altogether, to walk up into the hills, or to go and visit the Perkinses. The urge to see the new baby was strong on her anyway. But she could not bring herself to be quite so openly disobedient. As it was, she had been roundly scolded-by both parents separately-for her irresponsible behavior of the night before.

She was sitting on the uphill slope north of the house, weaving an endless daisy chain. She was almost unaware that she did so, but she had to keep her hands busy. And her mind blank.

David found her there. She saw him come even though she did not look up from her task. Her heart turned over inside her, and she compressed her lips.

"Hello, Rachel," he said, stopping in front of her so that she was aware of the shiny worn leather of his top boots.

She had expected him to be very formal, rather as the Marquess of Stanford had been earlier that morning before he left, when he had explained that under the circumstances he thought it wise not to renew his offer.

"I do not wish to talk to you, David," she said, splitting the stem of a daisy with her fingernail and fitting another through it with great care. "It is only because Mama and Papa insisted that I am here at all. I do not wish to hear you offer me marriage just because the world will not believe that we could spend the night under one roof without also spending it in the same bed. I feel a little insulted, sir, though I suppose I must thank you for the sense of honor that has brought you here."

"Rachel." He stooped down on his haunches in front of her so that she became suffocatingly aware of his nearness. She joined the two ends of the chain. There were no more daisies to add unless she moved from her place. "It is not merely or mainly for that reason that I have come."

"And I will not live in Richmond with you, basking in the luxury of your inherited fortune," she said. "I will be totally insulted by such a proposal again."

"I don't blame you," he said quietly. "It was very wrong of me to make that offer to you yesterday. I beg your forgiveness. I did it because I love you and I want you. And I have always thought it a man's responsibility to protect the woman he loves from all harm and hardship. I love you, Rachel, and I have tried to protect your way of life even if you were unwilling to do so for yourself. I have not credited you with any mind of your own or any strength of character. I have been very wrong. Please forgive me. I erred out of love, not out of any malice."

"You think me frivolous, pampered, and empty-headed," she said. "You really do not know me at all, David. I have always been happiest living quietly here, visiting my friends at the cottages. I have never craved social pleasures. I sought them out this year merely because my education as a lady had taught me that that was what I should want."

"When your father came to the vicarage this morning," David said, "I realized the necessity of making this visit. But I would have been making it anyway, Rachel. Please believe me. You see, last night I accepted the fact that I love you and wish you to be my wife. I have very little to offer except my devotion. But I will offer you that. Your feelings and your response must be yours to decide. I can see all the reasons why you should not make such a match, but the decision is not mine. It is yours. And I am yours, Rachel, if you will have me."

"Not in Richmond," she whispered, looking up at him for the first time.

"Here," he said. "We would stay here."

"And not with that fortune to buy me clothes and jewelry," she said. ›

"I have rejected my godmother's legacy, Rachel," he said.

"And you must not guard my dowry to spend on me," she said. "You must spend it as you do the money you earn."

He reached for her hand. "We will be very poor, dear," he said.

"No, we will not," she said, grasping his hand tightly. "We will not, David. You do not really believe so and neither do I. 'Consider the lilies of the field.' "

He smiled into her eyes. "You are quite right," he said. "We will be the wealthiest family in the parish. You see what beautiful jewels you will wear?" He took the daisy chain from her lap and looped it twice about her neck. "I will give you gifts of daisies, Rachel. Will you marry me?"

"Yes, I will, David," she said, her eyes shining into his as she put her arms up around his neck. "And you will teach me to make the adjustments to a new way of life. For I know I will find it difficult even though I know equally well that I will be able to do it and that I will be happy."

"And you will teach me to be joyful and trusting," he said. "To trust other people's strength as well as my own. You are a strong person, Rachel. You will be a better wife than I deserve. I love you so very dearly."

"Kiss me," she said, tightening her arms around him. "Before we go to find Mama and Papa and before we go to visit and admire the newest Master Perkins, kiss me. And I really do not think there is any hurry, for everyone else has gone riding, you see, except Lord and Lady Mountford. So Mama and Papa have nothing to do except relax and wait for us to come. And I will have plenty of time later to tell you Celia and Algie's news. They are going to be married, you know, and I am very delighted for both of them. They will suit, do you not chink?"

David's arms had closed around her so that they knelt together on the grass, clasped in each other's arms.

"The first thing I remember about you is your prattling," he said, smiling at her, his lips beginning to tease hers. "On Bond Street. I shall enjoy it for a lifetime, dear, I swear I will, provided only that you control the urge when you have asked me to kiss you."

"Oh, yes, of course I will," she said, her lips responding to the teasing of his. "David. Oh, David, have I told you how much I love you?"

"Mm," he said. "Tell me later. As many times as you wish, dear. But much later."

"Yes," she said, "much, much later, David, if you please. Mmmm."