A gift of daisies

Chapter 3

During the following week David cautiously enjoyed his temporary return to society. Over the previous five years his life had been one of somewhat intense study. At least, he amended for the sake of strict accuracy, the last two years had been intense. For the three years before that, he supposed he had studied and thought about as much as the average university student. Which was not saying a great deal.

Indeed he had always faced his future with some bitterness, though he had not known against whom he should direct that bitterness. He had always known that he could not expect to live a life of idleness. Though his father was a landed aristocrat and a viscount, he had never been a wealthy man. And almost all that he owned was to pass to his elder son, Rufus. David had always known that. It mattered not at all that Rufus had seemed far more suited to the studious life than he, or that he himself had wanted nothing but a life of idle pleasure.

His father had not wanted David to enter the army, and his own inclinations did not pull him in that direction either. There had been only one other choice for him. From an early age he had been destined for the church. But it had been a cynical, uncommitted young man who had entered Oxford. He had hoped that somehow he would advance in the church until finally he found a post to his liking. He had dreaded the thought of perhaps having to eke out a living somewhere in the country.

He had led a life of near-dissipation during his first years at Oxford. He had not been a virgin when he went there. But he quickly gained vastly more experience when he found just how many tavern maids and chambermaids were eager to oblige students. And it had taken very little money to satisfy them. He had also spent time playing cards, until he realized that his pockets just would not support the extravagance. He had drunk even when he did not have the money to finance his pleasure. It was very possible to live on credit, he had discovered.

And finally, despite himself, he had begun to learn, to read and study for pleasure, to realize that perhaps the life of the mind was not as deadly dull as he had always assumed. And then had come his meeting with Jonathan Forbes, a fellow student who had been much influenced by the Methodist preachers. Drinking, partying, womanizing had all been gradually and unconsciously neglected as he spent more and more time discussing and arguing with his new friend and a few other acquaintances.

And the end of it all was that he had found himself a changed man. Not a Methodist. He believed strongly in the established church, did not believe that fragmenting it could ever achieve any good. But he had found that his religion had come alive for him and that his desire to be a clergyman was no longer a matter of necessity, but one of deep personal commitment.

Since then David had no longer been bitter about his lot. Indeed he blessed the fate that had made it necessary for him to think beyond the next day's entertainment. No longer was he ambitious for the most glamorous job the church could offer. He wanted only to serve as a man of God was meant to serve, working mainly with the poorest of the poor. He was no longer interested in the acquisition of money or position or possessions. It was not that he gave them up in a spirit of painful self-denial. He just lost interest in them.

And he was happy. He had spent two years of utter contentment at Oxford. If there was one fact to disturb that mood, it was only his impatience to have a living of his own so that he could begin his life of service. And now he had that living. He had been extremely fortunate to find himself qualified at almost the same moment that the vicar in Algie's parish was retiring. He had not expected something so satisfactory quite so soon. He had accepted the offer with alacrity.

And now he was to have a holiday, back in his old life for a few weeks before leaving for his new parish with Algie. And it felt strange to be back. His old self seemed like someone from another life, and yet places and even many people looked familiar. He renewed several old acquaintances and watched with some ruefulness and some amusement as old friends became more aloof after a few days, puzzled at the change in him. He was no longer the riotous David Gower they had known.

Whereas several years before, he would have been eagerly seeking out some female or females of easy virtue with whom to amuse himself, now he looked around him at a different class of young woman. Not too high, of course. No lady of highest ton would be flattered by the attentions of a penniless clergyman. But nevertheless he thought it possible that he might meet someone of somewhat lower status who would be willing to share his life. It would not be an easy lot for any lady. He had almost nothing to offer. He had no money to start with, and he had no intention of even trying to build a comfortable fortune.

But David wanted to marry. Partly he felt it an obligation to do so. His father had always been loudly critical of the parson at home, arguing that as the man was a bachelor, he had no right to offer his advice on marriage and family life. No one should criticize the life of another until he had experienced that life or its kind for himself, the late Viscount Cardwell had said many times. And David agreed with him.

But getting married was not just a duty. It suited his inclination to wed. He had given up promiscuity two years before, entirely from personal choice, but his desire for women had not died. He needed a woman, someone with whom he could regularly and lawfully satisfy the cravings that had troubled him for all of two years. Now that he was to have a living of his own, he could finally think of taking a wife. He had very little to offer her, it was true, but he was to have his own church, his own vicarage, his own parish.

His thoughts turned frequently to Miss Barnes. It seemed that, as he had suspected from the start, she was the daughter of a gentleman of small means. She was fortunate to have Lady Rachel as a friend. It seemed doubtful that she would have had a Season otherwise, Algie had told him. She perhaps would not react with contempt to his attentions.

She was, moreover, just the sort of lady he had thought to choose for a wife. She was quiet and unassuming, sensible. She seemed neither framed nor inclined toward a life of frivolity. She was not pretty, but on the other hand, she was not unattractive either. She was a little taller than her friend, and thinner. He felt no stirring of physical desire for her, it was true. But that would develop with time. He liked her, or at least he was growing to like her.

A week's acquaintance was very little, he supposed, when one was thinking in terms of a lifetime commitment to a very intimate relationship. He had visited her a few times when Algie called at Grosvenor Square. He had taken her driving and walking. He had shared a box with her and Algie and the Earl of Edgeley's family at the theater one evening. And he had danced with her twice at the Simpson ball and sat with her, Algie, and Lady Rachel at supper. He hoped to continue the acquaintance without giving too soon perhaps the impression that he was about to offer for her. He wanted a little time yet before making any irrevocable decision.

He wished only that his acquaintance with Miss Barnes did not bring him into such frequent contact with her friend. He always felt a little uncomfortable with Lady Rachel Palmer. She was a girl one could hardly prevent oneself from watching. She was always so full of life and gaiety. And she was very lovely to look at, of course. But she was an enigma to him. He could never be quite satisfied that he understood her.

She was ambitious, he had thought. She had her heart set on making a brilliant marriage and was working single-mindedly toward achieving that aim. She had set her sights on the Marquess of Stanford and appeared to be succeeding. The marquess had visited at Grosvenor Square the afternoon after the ball and had come to pay his respects at the Edgeley box when they were at the theater. David had felt somewhat sorry for Algie, who clearly loved the girl but was standing aside in his usual unassuming way, watching her try to make a more brilliant match for herself.

Yet all the evidence did not fit such an interpretation of Lady Rachel's character. She always greeted Algie with such exuberant joy that David could not escape the conclusion that she loved him too. And her face was always alight with happiness when she chattered away to his cousin. If she was ambitious, she was not attempting to achieve her goals at the expense of those dear to her. She was not turning her back on the faithful Algie. And she was loyal to Miss Barnes. She always made sure that her less-glamorous friend was included in any entertainment of which she was to be a part.

And there was her exuberance, her silliness, her frivolity. She undoubtedly expended a great deal of energy on trivialities. And her conversation was less than profound. The temptation was to dismiss her as a foolish, empty-headed young girl who was centered entirely on self. And yet he could not be satisfied that this was Lady Rachel either. There was a vibrance about the girl, and some inner force or restlessness that defied explanation.

And he did not even know why he wished to explain her. Was it because she was to be his parishioner and he knew that he must get to know her eventually? Yet he did not feel the same compulsion with her parents, and they would be just as much his parishioners. David would have far preferred to see a great deal less of Lady Rachel. He would have been more comfortable without knowing her.

And now he had a garden party to look forward to. There was nothing very remarkable about that except that the party was in his honor. It was all very embarrassing really. His godmother lived in Richmond, and he had paid a call on her on his arrival in London. He had done so from choice as well as duty, as he had always been fond of her. Indeed as a boy he had frequently spent holidays with her and the late Lord Wexford, and they had always sent him lavish gifts at Christmas and for his birthdays.

She was almost crippled with rheumatism and was a frequent victim of chills and coughs, she had told him. Indeed on the day she had received him David had felt that she should have been in bed. And yet a mere few days later she had sent a letter telling him-not asking him-that she was going to give a garden party in his honor. He had no chance to protest. The invitations had gone out the same day.

And she was remarkably well-informed, he had discovered. The Earl of Edgeley and his family and Algie had all been invited. David felt uneasy about the whole thing. Apart from that one visit on his arrival in London, a visit he had cut short out of concern for her health, he had not seen her for three years. She really did not know him now. He was no longer the sort of person for whom one gave a lavish party.

***

Rachel was wearing a rose-pink muslin dress, its hem scalloped and embroidered in a deeper pink, its sash of a matching shade. Her straw hat was held in place by a wide pink ribbon that passed over the crown, drew the sides of the brim against her ears, and tied in a dashing bow beneath her right cheek. She felt very fetching and had drawn a compliment from Lady Wexford on her arrival at the garden party.

It was an outfit that she had been keeping for a special occasion. And what more special occasion could there be than a garden party in Richmond on a perfect late-spring afternoon? Especially when Algie was going to be there to admire her. He always appreciated fashionable clothes. And more especially when she knew that the Marquess of Stanford was to be there and had expressed his gratification to know that she was to be in attendance too.

Rachel was very pleased with the progress of that particular relationship. He had sent flowers to her the morning after the Simpson ball and visited in the afternoon. He had singled her out for attention several times since. Indeed, she had heard that they had become quite an on-dit about town. The marquess just was not known to show such interest in any lady of the ton.

She was elated. She could not have hoped for any greater sign of success. At the same time, she was cautious. She did not wish to appear too eager to receive his attentions. She did not want to appear foolish if his interest in her faded as fast as it had arisen. Besides, she was conscious of the fact that he was a great deal older than she and that he treated her with a charming indulgence, almost as if he dealt with a child. She was not at all sure yet that she wished to marry the marquess. And she was equally aware of his own caution. Apart from that one visit after the Simpson ball, he had spent only a few minutes at each function in her company.

And the same thing had happened at the garden party. He had greeted her as she strolled with her parents and Celia down by the river, out of sight of the house and the upper lawn, where Lady Wexford presided and the tables were spread with refreshments. He had taken her arm and walked with her for ten minutes, amusing her with a description of a riverboat race in which he had once participated and been tipped into the water. And then he had returned her to her parents, bowed over her hand, and disappeared in the direction of the house again.

Rachel was not disappointed. She did not want him with her all afternoon. Algie was coming toward the river, and she waved her parasol gaily in his direction. He lifted her hand to his lips when he came up with them and complimented her on her appearance, did the same to Celia, drew an arm of each through his, and proceeded to stroll with them back along the riverbank again.

Algernon and Celia talked. Rachel did not. She could not seem to keep her head from turning in the direction of the hidden house and upper lawn. Had Mr. Gower not come with Algie? But he must have. He was the guest of honor. Of course, as such he would doubtless have to stay close to Lady Wexford. He probably would not come down to the river at all. But she could not concentrate on the conversation, and she could not stop her eyes from turning in the direction from which he would come, if he came.

"Shall we cross to those trees?" Algernon suggested. "I see General and Mrs. Harding over there. I played cards with him the other evening. Very decent sort of fellow."

Celia turned obediently.

Rachel drew her arm free. "You two go," she said. "I would really far prefer to return to the upper lawn. To tell the truth, Algie, I am starved. I shall follow Mama and Papa up to the house. No, no." She held up a hand and smiled dazzlingly at the other two, who had both turned back. "Don't let me spoil your pleasure. I should feel guilty if I dragged you back with me. And the Hardings may think you are trying to avoid them. I shall be with Mama in but a moment. There will be no impropriety at all."

She whisked herself around and began to stride purposefully up the slope before the other two could make any protest. She smiled brightly at the other strollers she passed.

But she stopped before she reached the top of the rise that would bring the house into full view. What was she doing? The hunger story was, of course, false. She was going in search of Mr. Gower. She was being more foolish than she had thought it possible for her to be. The man had shown no interest in her from that first day on. He treated her with the merest courtesy only, he had shown a marked preference for Celia. And she knew with her rational mind that it was right that it be so. Celia was eminently suited to life as a vicar's wife. The thought of herself in that role was ludicrous.

Why, then, was it that she could not put him from her mind? Why was it that she counted the hours until she might next expect to set eyes on him? Why must she be developing an obsession for the one man who seemed quite uninterested in her? Was that the attraction? Would she lose interest in him if he would just show some in her?

She should be wholeheartedly wishing for an attachment between Mr. Gower and Celia. There was much in favor of such an attachment. She loved her friend. She wanted her to be happy. And she would have her close to Oakland if Celia married the vicar. But she could not wish for such a thing, Rachel thought in an agony. She could not.

Rachel's steps slowed. She must not go on. If she did, she would see him on the upper lawn and she might well begin to make a thorough cake of herself. People would begin to notice that she was pursuing the new vicar of her home parish and that he was in no way interested in her. She glanced back down the slope to the distant figures of Algie and Celia, standing with the general and his wife. She could not return to them. Her behavior would seem decidedly peculiar.

There were trees close to her on the right. They looked to be deserted. Perhaps she could lose herself among them for a while until she could feel sure that Algie and Celia had come back up to join the main party. In fact, Rachel thought as she walked far enough into the thicket to be out of sight of those people strolling on the lower lawn, it was an inspired idea. She had not realized just how much she was missing her life in the country and the frequent opportunities for solitude.

Rachel loved company, it was true. But it was equally true that she loved to be alone, especially when out-of-doors. It was during such times that she experienced her favorite and her most frustrating feeling, that feeling of excitement and exhilaration welling to the surface and sometimes even spilling over so that she was forced to run or to dance, to shout or to sing. The only thing she did not like about such feelings was that she could never explain them to herself. There was the exuberance, the reaching out for something more valuable than anything else in life or beyond it. But what was that something? She had often stood with her arms outstretched, her face lifted to the sky, and longed and longed for... what?

This was not quite such a moment, but it was very welcome, nonetheless, the unexpected interval of quiet peace. The little stream bubbling over the uneven ground was the item that finally took her mind completely away from the garden party and her dreadful infatuation for a man who should be no concern of hers whatsoever.

Two minutes after spotting the stream, Rachel was sitting beside it, her hat discarded on the ground at her side, her dress pulled safely up to her knees, so that it would not get wet, and her slippered feet resting on a large rounded stone over and around which the icy-cold stream gurgled its way to the river below. Her weight was braced on her hands behind her. She was humming a tune and watching her tapping toes.

***

David had indeed been detained on the upper lawn. He had deliberately stayed with his godmother for a while, taking her arm, leading her to a chair in the shade, and scolding her for putting herself to the trouble of arranging such an entertainment for him.

"Nonsense!" she said. "You know you are the son I never had. Or the grandson, rather. It is no compliment, is it, Davy lad, to be told that you might have been my son? Now, to business. You are to come to live with me immediately, my boy, and we will find genteel employment for you."

David smiled down at her. "I told you when I called on you, Godmama," he said, "that my cousin has given me the living of Singleton. I am most fortunate. And I shall be starting my work there at the beginning of summer."

"That is nonsense, of course," she said. "You would die of boredom in such a life within a month, Davy. I have been thinking about the matter, and I have decided to bring you to the attention of my friend Bishop Haines. He will find something more suitable for you here."

It took David many minutes of patient talk to persuade his godmother that indeed he had no wish for the appointment that she was convinced she could make possible for him. She seemed still not to believe at the end of their conversation that he really wished to begin his work in a country parish, longed to make a start, in fact.

"You are a proud and stubborn boy, Davy," she said at last, laying a gnarled hand on his arm. "You always were, I remember. I had forgotten that. But enough. This is a party. Let me introduce you to some people who might be useful to you when you do decide to settle in town."

And David had to be content to leave her unconvinced. And he was forced to spend another half-hour conversing with the people who she deemed would be useful to him. At the end of that time his face was stiff from smiling and he felt weary from the unaccustomed social activity. He longed to see a familiar face. Where was Algie? he wondered. But even greater than the desire to see someone he knew was the need for peace and quiet.

There was a thicket running down the eastern side of the grounds, and if he remembered correctly, there was a small stream trickling through it down to the river. He could imagine no more pleasant diversion at the moment than to go and find it. If only no other guests had decided to stroll that way! He slipped among the trees when he thought no one was observing him, feeling only a slight pang of guilt. No one would miss him for half an hour.