A gift of daisies

Chapter 7

rachel had promised the same set to david Gower. She had dreaded it all evening and in fact had a good excuse to avoid it altogether when the time came. Lord Morrison had been standing beside her as she rose from the chair on which she had seated herself to talk to one of the older ladies. Neither of them had noticed until they heard the loud tearing sound that he was standing on the hem of her gown. She was forced to withdraw to her room after listening to his exclamations of dismay and stammered words of apology. By the time her maid had made hasty repairs to the hem and she had returned downstairs, the orchestra had already started to play and the quadrille was in progress. She could see David standing at the opposite side of the room, close to the French doors, his hands clasped behind his back.

The temptation to leave him there and perhaps approach him later with an apology for having had to be absent during their dance was quite powerful. But she could not do so. He might already have seen her. Besides, of greater importance than that, she would find it more difficult to look him in the eye later and lie than to approach him now and dance the remainder of the set with him.

He smiled and held out a hand for hers as she approached. "I saw your mishap occur," he said. "I hope your gown has not been ruined. It is very pretty."

She would not succumb to the gentleness and charm of that smile, Rachel decided. She placed her hand in his and smiled dazzlingly. "It was a small matter," she said. "I am sorry to be late, sir. I think it is too late to join a set."

"Is it?" he said. "Shall we take a seat, then? Or walk on the balcony?"

Rachel hesitated. Taking a seat would mean sitting among the older women and chaperones. Their every word would be overheard. She would find such a situation embarrassing. "The walk, I think," she said, and took his proffered arm.

There was one other couple on the terrace, standing leaning against the stone balustrade and looking out into the garden. Mr. Robertson and Clara Higgins, Rachel saw.

"The evening is going well," David said. "You must be pleased, Lady Rachel. And very happy, I would guess."

"I always enjoy parties," Rachel said gaily. "They are my reason for living, I declare."

"Are they?" he asked gently. "You certainly shine in such a setting."

Silence fell between them. Rachel was feeling very conscious of her two acquaintances still standing there, not themselves talking. They would hear almost every word she exchanged with David if they continued to walk up and down. She drew to a halt as they reached the end of the balcony and leaned her arms along the balustrade. She looked out into the darkness and breathed in the smell of summer flowers.

"Have you settled in at the vicarage?" she asked as her companion stopped beside her. "Do you find that you have enough to occupy your time?"

He laughed softly. "The vicarage is a comfortable home," he said, "and I have Mrs. Saunders to fuss over me like a mother hen. And I find that there are not enough hours in the day to accomplish all I wish to do."

She looked up at him with raised eyebrows and then turned hastily away again. "What do you find to do?" she asked. "Both Algie and Papa have expressed surprise that you have not come visiting each day."

"I have been trying to become personally acquainted with each of my parishioners," he said. "I believe that I am succeeding, though it is a time-consuming task. Most old people especially love to talk, and the children too love to prattle and tell all their innermost secrets. Once one has penetrated their natural reserve, that is. Even the working men and women become surprisingly talkative once they know that one has not come merely for cakes and ale and social chatter or moralizing."

Rachel frowned into the darkness. "I would not have expected you to make all that effort," she said. "Vicar Ferney did not do it. I thought a vicar's duties consisted of sick-visiting, saying matins and evensong, and writing Sunday sermons."

"I am afraid I demand a great deal more of myself," he said with a laugh. "Being vicar here is not a job to me, you know, though of course I must work in order to earn my living. It is a way of life. My very life itself."

Rachel looked at him, forgetting for the moment both her distrust of the man and her embarrassment. "You mean you enjoy spending your time with the lower classes?" she asked. "It is most unusual to do so. You have been brought up to a different social class entirely."

His eyes were smiling. She must not look at his eyes, she told herself. She dropped her gaze to his mouth, curved at the corners. "I am a servant," he said. "And I can do no better than my Master. I remember explaining to you once before that Jesus spent by far the greater part of His time with the poor."

"That was different," Rachel said. "He grew up as one of them."

"That is true," he said. "But it makes no real difference. I have been happy during the past week, you see."

"Have you?" Rachel forgot her resolve and looked up into his eyes again. "And you are not happy here tonight, are you? And you were not comfortable in London."

"When I was younger," he said, "I was bitter in the knowledge that I would have to go out and earn my own way in the world. I thought I would be happy if I only had the money to give me an independence. I thought my restlessness was due to my unfortunate circumstances. And then I found that that was not true at all. My restlessness was due to the fact that I had found no meaning or useful purpose to my life. But I am one of the most fortunate of men. I have found both at a relatively early age."

"I have not," Rachel said, her eyes looking troubled as they gazed into his. She looked abruptly away again. "I should say I had not. I believe I am going to marry Algie soon, and then I shall have a reason for living. He will keep me safe."

David hesitated. "Algie is a good man," he said. "He will make you a kind husband."

"I know that!" Rachel turned on him, suddenly fierce. "I know he is a good man. Do you mean that I am not worthy of him? I know that too."

David winced as if she had slapped him. "I did not mean that at all," he said. "I… I wish for your happiness. I cannot forget what happened between us little more than a week ago, and my mind is weighted down by guilt."

"It need not be!" Rachel said tartly. "It was nonsense, sir. I have forgotten it already."

"No," he said quietly, "I think you have not. I hope you have not because forgetfulness of such an incident would denote a careless heart and an undeveloped conscience. But I hope you can forgive both yourself and me. What is most on my conscience is the fact that I lied to you. Yet we all have the right to know the truth in matters that concern us. I told you that when I embraced you I had been merely wanting…" He drew a somewhat unsteady breath. "I said that it had been a purely physical thing. It was not. It was more than that."

"What do you mean by 'more than that'?" Rachel's eyes were huge as she stared up at him.

"You are a beautiful and a vibrant woman," he said carefully, "and you add to both qualities an awareness of the mystery of life and a yearning to do more than merely exist. It is difficult not to be attracted to your character. And I would not wish to deny that attraction. Unfortunately, the circumstances under which we met that night invited a physical response, which was quite inappropriate to what I felt. Forgive me, please, and forgive yourself for what I am sure you must be seeing as indecorous and quite impulsive behavior. I am not at all the man you should be feeling any attraction for."

"I want to hate you," she whispered. "It is safer to hate you."

"No." His eyes smiled back into hers. "You do not hate me, I think. You are afraid merely, as I am, because we like and respect each other and because we understand each other. We both demand a great deal of life and of ourselves. We both demand meaning. But it is never good to hide from ourselves or to lie to ourselves, Rachel. Safe, perhaps, but not good. We have to risk loving. You and I are afraid to love each other because we might end up loving in the wrong way. But you love Algie, I believe, in the way a wife should love her husband. And I hope that soon I will have a wife whom I can love in the same way. You and I must not hate each other. We must love, and have faith that ours will be the love of deep friendship."

"David…" she whispered, and she closed her eyes and lowered her head. "David, I cannot take the risk. I cannot. It is far too late already."

"No, it is not," he said, laying a hand lightly over hers where it rested on the balustrade. "I have seen you and Algie together, Rachel. I have seen you tonight, sparkling when he is in your sight. You could not feign that response. You must trust your feelings for him. I am a latecomer, someone who came across you on two occasions when you were alone and relaxed and dreaming. I am only a part of your daydreams. In reality I am a dull, impoverished clergyman, my dear, who has pledged his life and all his energies to the poor. I am not the sort of man who could aspire to the hand of Lady Rachel Palmer."

Rachel said nothing. She kept her eyes tightly closed and her head lowered. His hand burned through the flesh of hers. He lifted his hand after a while and put it beneath her chin to lift her face.

"Oh, don't cry," he said, his voice suddenly distressed. "Don't cry, Rachel." He brushed at a tear with his thumb. "I cannot even take you into my arms to comfort you. We are in an appallingly public place. Rachel. Please."

Rachel swallowed, every nerve in her body tensed to try to control the humiliation of her tears. She wanted to cast herself into his arms and bury her face against his chest and howl out her misery. But there were light, noise, and music coming from the open French doors a few feet away. Someone might step through them at any moment. Her mind vaguely registered the fact that Mr. Robertson and Clara had left the balcony.

"I can't bear to see you cry," David said. "You were made for happiness and laughter. Don't cry." He had taken a linen handkerchief from his pocket and was dabbing gently at her cheeks.

Rachel laughed shakily. "What a goose I am," she said, taking the handkerchief from him and blotting her face resolutely. "You should have stayed away from me tonight, David, and let me continue avoiding you. I was quite happy doing so, you know. I don't like taking risks. And that was the theme of your sermon last Sunday, was it not? We have to risk giving of ourselves, you said. It is not enough to give alms or to give help or to give of our time and talents. We have to give ourselves. I don't think I can do it. I have to keep some of me for myself. Your idea is terrifying. But, there. Perhaps it is as well we have spoken this evening. It is embarrassing to avoid someone one has to meet frequently, is it not? We will not have to avoid each other now, will we? We will be friends?"

"Friends," he agreed. "And I am amazed that you heard any of my sermon. You did not raise your eyes from your psalter all through the service, I swear. Give me the handkerchief. Yes, I know it is wet, but I have a pocket, you see, and you do not. Now, let us talk about trivialities for a few minutes so that your eyes can recover before we have to return to the ballroom. What are you planning to do with your guests for the remainder of their stay?"

"Oh, I have lots of plans," Rachel said, depositing the crumpled handkerchief in his hand. "Picnics, walks, rides. No one will be bored, I can assure you. I shall be so busy enjoying myself that I shall not have a single spare moment in which to think."

David smiled. "I feel exhausted just looking at the energy in your face," he said, and they both laughed.

Only a few of the gentlemen were up when Rachel left the house the following morning. She had left them in the breakfast room without telling them that she was going out. She did not want company. Later perhaps, but not during the morning.

She should be still in bed like all the other ladies. She had not gone to bed until nearly dawn. But she had never been able to sleep until noon and waste the best part of the day. She had always loved the morning, she supposed because it was the least structured part of the day. Or at least it had been since she had left the schoolroom. There was very often an obligation to do something in the afternoon and evening, but one was usually free to do what one wished to do during the morning.

And Rachel had decided that it was time for her life to return to normal. Or as near normal as it was possible for it to be with a houseful of guests waiting to be entertained for the next couple of weeks. She had looked forward for so long, it seemed, to going to London and being presented at court and meeting other members of the ton that it was difficult now to adjust her mind to the fact that she had been there and done those things. And she was back home again, the same person she had been before.

Except that she was not the same person. She had met a large number of people, had been successful in her come-out, had been offered for by one of the most eligible bachelors in the country. She had come home still excited and intent on filling her days with social activity. She had jumped at the chance to have house-guests when Mama and Papa had suggested it to her. She was still feeling the restlessness that had driven her when she was in town. If she was less than happy, she had told herself all through the Season, it must be because she was not active enough. She must be happy. This was what life for a young lady of the ton was all about. Her life up until then had been childhood. Now she was a woman and must behave as a woman behaves.

Her conversation with David Gower the evening before, however, had changed her outlook somewhat. He was undoubtedly not a child. He was beginning his adult work, his life's work as he had described it, and he seemed to be a person who knew very well what he wanted of life. She had seen right from the start that he was a happy man. And he was happy working with the poor. In fact, he was happier with them than he was with people of his own class. He was not comfortable at ton events. She had seen that in London.

He did not think it necessary, then, to mix exclusively with his own class, to put behind him lesser activities that he enjoyed. In fact, he seemed to think it right to do as he did. If it was right for him, then why not for her? Why should she feel that it was no longer acceptable to spend time alone enjoying nature and her own thoughts? And why should she feel that it was immature to want to be with her friends? Her friends included Algie and several other members of the gentry in the neighborhood, as well as several of their houseguests. But they also included many of her father's tenants of all ages.

The Earl of Edgeley had always been a pious man. But his religion consisted of more than occupying his pew at church every Sunday and reading the Bible with his family at home. His religion also involved works of charity. His own people were well-looked-after. No one on the Edgeley estates ever starved or suffered in any material fashion. And Rachel had been brought up to visit the laborers and tenants, to take baskets of food when any was sick, to offer comfort to any who needed compassion.

The visits had become far more than duty to Rachel. All through her girlhood she had spent as much of her days wandering or riding from cottage to cottage as she had spent at Oakland or at the homes of the friends of her own class. She had always been a great favorite, her sunny nature and ready conversation making the tenants forget their usual awkwardness and shyness with the upper classes.

And Rachel had not seen any of them since before she went to London. There had been far more important things to do: houseguests to prepare for, the dinner and ball to dream about, a marquess's proposal to consider, a future marriage with Algie to plan for. There was no time for her childish friendships any longer.

But why not? she had thought that morning when she woke burning with restless energy. Why should she not go to see some of her friends? Why should doing so be of less importance than mixing with the friends who had come from London to be with her? She would go alone, of course. Anyone else, even perhaps Celia, would be impatient with such an activity. And with anyone else present she would be conscious of her dignity and unable to behave naturally.

She would go to see the Perkins family. Was Mr. Perkins' back injury still making it hard for him to work for his large family? And the family was getting larger. Mrs. Perkins was expecting their ninth child. Indeed, her time must be close already. And it was always interesting to talk to old Mrs. Perkins.

Soon after breakfast, then, long before most people were up at Oakland, Rachel was driving the gig down the rutted lane toward the Perkinses' cottage, a basket of food on the seat beside her. Mrs. Greene, the cook at Oakland, had grumbled at having to prepare the basket, but she had done so when Rachel had called her "Cookie," the old pet name, and had threatened to take over the kitchen to make some cakes herself if she might not take some of Mrs. Greene's. She had been favored with a good hard look in exchange for her threat, but she had got the cakes too.

Mrs. Perkins came to the doorway of the cottage as Rachel drove up to the gate with the gig, drying her hands on an apron, a tiny child clinging to her skirts. Four other children were playing in the dirt of the yard before the door.

Rachel climbed down from the gig and reached for the basket. "Hello, Mrs. Perkins," she called gaily, "and everyone. Is that Molly hiding there? You have not forgotten me, have you, Molly?"

The child whisked herself completely behind her mother's skirt.

Mrs. Perkins bobbed a curtsy, made awkward by her considerable bulk. "Good morning, my lady," she said. "You really shouldn't have troubled yourself. And you all busy at the house with guests."

"I felt like an outing this morning," Rachel said. "And almost everyone is still sleeping. Can you imagine such laziness?"

She accepted an invitation to step inside. She was always fascinated by the interior. The main room served as kitchen, dining room, and living room. It contained a stove, a table and chairs, and a dresser. All were set on a floor of pressed dirt. There was another room beyond the first, and a wooden ladder leading up to an attic beneath the thatch. The whole house would fit inside her bedchamber, Rachel was convinced.

Mr. Perkins, seated at the table, tried to rise hastily, failed, and sat down heavily again.

"My man is took bad today, my lady," Mrs. Perkins explained, dashing forward to pull back a chair for Rachel and dusting at it with her bare hand.

"Please don't trouble yourselves," Rachel said. "I merely came to see how you all were and to tell Molly about London."

Half a head, including one eye, appeared around Mrs. Perkins' skirt and ducked back again.

"Who is it?" a querulous voice called from the next room.

"It's Lady Rachel from the house, Ma," Mrs. Perkins called back.

"Hello, Mrs. Perkins," Rachel called. "I shall come to see you in just a moment. But I have just remembered something I brought from London for Molly."

A whole head appeared from behind Mrs. Perkins' skirt, its eyes wide.

Rachel took off her bonnet and pulled loose a ribbon that was threaded through the brim. "It is pretty, is it not?" she said to the child. "And very smooth. It is satin. Would you like to touch it?"

Soon both Molly and two older girls were smoothing their fingers along the ribbon while their mother hovered behind, anxious lest they crease or soil the costly trim.

"Would you like me to put it in your hair, Molly?" Rachel asked. "You have such pretty blond curls. I think the green will look prettier on you than on me."

"Oh, no, my lady," Mrs. Perkins protested. "It is too costly."

"Oh, please, may I?" Rachel begged with a laugh.

"Go and fetch the comb, then, Tess," Mrs. Perkins directed one of the older girls.

Rachel soon had the child sitting very still on her lap while she combed out the soft and tangled baby curls and threaded the ribbon through in such a way that it would not immediately fall out again.

"Oh, you do look pretty," she said, hugging the little girl when she was finished and laughing at the rather ludicrous effect of the wide ribbon in the baby hair. "Do you have a mirror so that you can see yourself?"

The child slid from her lap and ran into the adjoining room. The other two girls gazed wistfully at Rachel.

"The ribbon is yours now, Molly," Rachel said when the child returned with the mirror. "And I shall bring some tomorrow for Tess and Lil, shall I? What are your favorite colors?"

Rachel crossed the floor to look into the inner room. She smiled at the elderly woman propped up in bed there, where she had spent the last four years. Old Mrs. Perkins smiled back at her through a thousand wrinkles.

"As pretty as a picture," she said. "Such clothes, my lady. I'll wager everyone in London took you for a princess. And I bet all the gentlemen had eyes for no one else."

"The streets were quite congested wherever I went," Rachel said, "with all their carriages and horses."

The old lady laughed heartily. "I can just picture it," she said. "And you are not married to any one of them yet, my lady?"

"There were far too many to choose among, alas," Rachel said. "And what are you finding to do with yourself, Mrs. Perkins?"

"I have not had you to come and talk to me this long while," the old lady said. "But I keep talking myself. I give orders all the time." She chuckled. "Though nobody ever follows them. Not since I can't chase them with a broom anymore."

"Perhaps I can bring you some books," Rachel said.

Mrs. Perkins chuckled again. "Now, what would I be doing with books, my lady," she asked, "when no one in the house can read? No. I used to like to listen to the old vicar read from the Bible in church. There must be wonderful things in books."

"But I should have thought of it before," Rachel said eagerly. "I could read to you, Mrs. Perkins. Maybe not as well as the vicar, but enough to entertain you. Would you like me to?"

The old lady clapped her hands and laughed. "Now, that would be something," she said. "Lady Rachel coming to read to me. You run along and enjoy yourself, my lady, and don't worry your pretty head over the likes of me. I have had my life. Seven children, you know, and every one of them grew up healthy. Didn't lose a single one."

Rachel leaned forward eagerly from the stool on which she had seated herself. "But if I said I would enjoy it?" she said. "Would you let me read to you? I would enjoy it so much."

Mrs. Perkins patted Rachel's hand where it rested on the edge of her bed. "There," she said. "Life is not over yet. Fancy me going to have a real lady read to me from a real book. Well."

"Then it is settled," Rachel said, jumping to her feet. "Tomorrow morning I shall come. I have promised to bring the other little girls a length of ribbon each anyway. And I shall bring the Bible. Is there any story you particularly like?"

"Me?" Mrs. Perkins chuckled again. "No, my lady, you choose. But there was one. I always remember it because it was read the Sunday after my man and I were wed, and it seemed to suit so well. About that Ruth, it was, and her man's mother. N-Nell? Norma?"

"Naomi," Rachel said. "I shall find that story for you, Mrs. Perkins."

A few minutes later Rachel was bouncing her way back home over the rutted lane. She was humming to herself. Perhaps there really was something in what David had said. Jesus had always been happier with the poor than with the rich, he had said. And David too was happier with his humbler parishioners.

In fact, if she looked back on the days that had passed since they had left Oakland for London, she could not recall a morning she had spent more contentedly than this morning. Or an afternoon or evening for that matter. Though that was absurd, of course. It was just the sunshine and the birds' songs that had given her heart a lift and made her forget for the moment all the wonderful times she had had over the last few months.

Rachel began to sing.