by Mary Balogh
He was coming on a long-overdue visit to Algie. He was coming to assure himself that his brother was happy and well-settled. And who was she to upset everyone's pleasure?
It must be done eventually, of course. Algie would have to be told that she could never marry him. He might draw the conclusion that David had something to do with her decision, especially when David asked to be relieved of the post he had so recently accepted and so wholeheartedly applied himself to. Soon there was going to be a great deal of upheaval and heartache. Soon. But not yet. She loved Algie too dearly to burden him with her second thoughts at this particular moment. And she loved David far too much to let him hear now of the change in Algie's betrothal plans and know himself responsible. She must wait.
And so she tripped along gaily at Algernon's side, twirling her parasol, chattering brightly to him, and agreeing with his suggestion that another ball, at Singleton this time, would not be at all amiss and would surely delight all the local gentry, who were quite unused to two such lavish entertainments within one month.
***
David spent a somewhat quieter day than Rachel. He refused luncheon, much to Mrs. Saunders' tongue-clucking disapproval, and shut himself inside his study to write some letters. He forced himself later to go out again, and punished himself by choosing to call upon the Misses Farraday, the parishioners whom he least liked to visit. He spent an hour with them, gently but firmly steering the conversation away from malicious gossip every few minutes, it seemed. He commended them upon the floral decorations in the church, a task that had been theirs for twenty years and more. And he succeeded somehow in leading their interest into a discussion of the flowers suitable for floral displays, and the appropriate seasons for each.
He spent the whole of the night inside the church, his knees on the cold stone floor, his elbows resting on the back of the front pew, his eyes on the altar and the crucifix above.
It had seemed simple, the dedication of his life to walking in the footsteps of his Lord. He had made that commitment more than two years before and had never for one moment regretted it. His life had been given purpose and direction. And he had been incredibly happy. When one gave over his life to service and the love of others, he had found, very little else was needed. All the ingredients for happiness and personal fulfillment were in such a life. He had never regretted the fashionable clothes, the money with which to gamble, seek out entertainments, buy baubles, purchase women. He had never regretted the protracted social life.
It had seemed an easy life he had chosen. Too easy, in fact. He had often thought that no one deserved to be quite so happy quite so easily. He had accepted the Gospel message in its entirety, not picking and choosing what could comfortably fit into his life as he had always done before and as he saw so many people do. He had accepted it, decided to live by it, and instantly found what all through his youth he had been restlessly searching for.
Now for the first time that life was not so easy. For the first time he was tempted. Tempted to put his love for a woman before his love of God. Tempted to give in to selfishness and take her away from her own natural world in order to set her up in his, where she would not be happy. Tempted to give up his own world and return to that in which position and possessions and ambition were the guiding principles.
He loved Rachel Palmer.
He wanted her. He was prepared to have her under almost any conditions.
Love could not be wrong. God is love. He loved Rachel. His love could not be a sin.
He could not live without her. He would be no good to his people anywhere if he labored on with a heart that had died within him. If he killed his love for Rachel, he would kill all love. He could not serve his God if he had no love in him.
And even if he could recover his own soul, even if he could continue to bring the love of God to his people, he had shattered the happiness of one human being. He had rejected and destroyed the gift of love that she had offered.
He loved the woman who was pledged to his cousin, even if only unofficially. That same cousin who had had enough faith in him to offer him this living. The cousin who trusted him and treated him with abundant generosity. He had held his cousin's intended and kissed her that very day. He had told her that he loved her. That he would always love her.
David agonized through the long night, fighting his own temptations, fighting despair, praying for guidance on an issue in which he found it impossible to distinguish right from wrong. The Gospels do not answer all questions, he had discovered for the first time in more than two years, and neither does one's conscience. He would have to take the further step of faith, reaching out for help even as he stepped out into the dark. He felt a sudden understanding of how Peter must have felt when he began to sink into the water on which he had been walking and the only power to save him was the hand of his Lord, just a little beyond his reach.
Morning brought with it a measure of peace, but no answers.
Chapter 10
rachel drove over to singleton hall with the earl and countess the day after the arrival of Viscount Cardwell and his family. They took Celia with them in the barouche, though the rest of the houseguests decided that it would simply be too much if they all descended on the new arrivals to pay their respects on the same afternoon. Besides, all but the most energetic of them were glad to relax after a morning's vigorous ride through the hills.
Rachel was glad of Celia's company. Indeed, for the past week she had stayed close to her friend almost the whole time. She had even persuaded Celia to join her on her visits to her friends in the cottages. She could not give up those visits, she had found. Too many people had come to look forward to her frequent calls. Her reading to the elderly and storytelling to the children had been an unexpectedly great success.
Rachel admitted to herself that perhaps these friends of hers did not rely totally on her visits. Their very happiness would probably not be shattered if she ceased to appear. But the truth was that she had come to rely heavily on these daily chances to get away from the bustle and social activity of the house. Not that she was not enjoying the company of her guests and the gay round of entertainments that their presence made possible. But the house party seemed like a mere frill on her life. Nothing more. It was not real life itself. One's happiness, the substance of one's life, could not rest on such frivolity.
Real life was doing and giving and loving. And planning how one could give more and improve the quality of life for those less privileged than oneself. And learning that poverty was a relative state. It was not entirely a case of her being rich and having everything to give. In many ways her friends were richer than she and could give her gifts beyond price. The bunch of evil-smelling dandelions presented to her one morning by a scruffy, barefoot urchin, for example, was every bit as precious to her as the perfect rosebud that Mr. Hart had plucked from the formal gardens before the house and placed in her hand.
Only one thing marred her happiness. She was afraid everywhere she went that she would have to face David Gower again. And she did not believe that she had the strength to do so. She was not afraid of hating him. How could one hate David, a man so full of gentle love that it glowed from his whole person? It was one of the ironies of life that she had been hurt so deeply by a man whose whole life was devoted to the spreading of the Gospel of love.
No, her fear of meeting David had nothing to do with dislike or hatred. It was the strength of her own pride of which she was afraid. Or weakness rather. She was afraid that, given the chance, she would be begging him again, pleading with him to marry her. And she could not so humiliate herself again, even though she knew now beyond any real doubt that it would not be impossible for her to live as David's wife. She had been wrong when she had thought that such a life could not be for her. She had been wrong for several years, focusing all her energies on the hope of a come-out and a glamorous marriage, believing that in such a life she would find the missing part of herself, fill up the emptiness.
The empt
iness had nothing to do with the absence of social activities. It had everything to do with the absence of commitment in her life. She had had no real dream, no goal in her life. Nothing really to live for. Nothing and no one on whom to focus her love. No real God.
And David did not know that she had found herself and that her life now had meaning and direction. He did not know that he had it in his power to make her life perfect. He thought he could only destroy her. And she could not tell him that he was wrong. At least, she corrected herself, she had told him, but he had not believed even enough to ask her what she meant. And she could do no more. She could not throw herself at his feet any more than she had done already.
And so she took Celia with her wherever she went. At least if she did meet him when Celia was with her, she would not be able to give in to the temptation to talk to him about personal matters. And indeed they did meet him one morning, or almost so. They had been on their way out of one cottage when they saw David approaching on foot. Rachel had scurried back inside again, claiming that she had left something behind. And she had held a puzzled Mrs. Powell in bright conversation for all of ten minutes until she could see through the window that David had raised his hat and taken his leave of Celia.
***
Rachel was relieved to find when they arrived at Singleton Hall that David was not there. She had been tense on the journey over, convinced that he would have come to be with his brother. Meeting Lord Cardwell gave her something of a pang. He resembled his brother to a certain degree. His face was thinner, his features sharper, and he was surely not as tall or as splendidly built as David. But he had the same dark hair and blue eyes. The viscountess was placid and rather pretty. Rachel set herself to talk with Lady Cardwell while her parents and Algie conversed with the viscount.
But even through the chatter Rachel noticed Celia's quietness. And she felt some guilt, as she seemed always to be doing these days. Was Celia disappointed to find that David was not present? Had Celia been delighted to spend ten minutes talking to him alone a few mornings before? Would David have seriously considered a match with Celia if it were not for her? His behavior in London had suggested such a possibility. Rachel did not know what Celia's thoughts and hopes on the matter might be. She had not had the courage to ask her.
Certainly there seemed no likelihood of any romance blossoming between her friend and any member of the house party. And Celia would be returning home in little more than a week's time to a life of dull loneliness.
"I would love to see your children," Rachel said suddenly, jumping to her feet and smiling brightly at Lady Cardwell. "May I?"
"Of course," Lady Cardwell said. "I would come with you, Rachel, but Algernon has promised to show me the rose garden and the hothouses. And after playing with the boys for most of the morning, I rather suspect that the flowers will be more peaceful companions."
"Are they in the nursery, Algie?" Rachel asked. "May I go up?"
"Yes, by all means, Rache," Algernon said, his expression rather blank for the moment. He had been deep in a conversation with Lord Edgeley when she spoke. "David is already up there," he added as the door was closing behind Rachel.
***
Lady Cardwell rose to her feet. "Do you have time to show me the flowers now, Algernon?" she asked. "Rufus has told me that your hothouses are quite famous. I have always wished to visit, but I am afraid I have been rather busy since our marriage, producing sons."
"Certainly, Madeline," Algernon said. "Perhaps the other ladies would care to join us. Lady Edgeley? Miss Barnes?"
Lady Edgeley declined the invitation on the grounds that the wind was chill and she feared she had caught cold during a walk the day before. Celia rose to her feet.
Lady Cardwell chose to walk without support when they left the house. Celia accepted Algernon's arm and listened quietly to his explanations as they walked through the hothouses examining all the exotic plants that grew there. Lord Rivers was very knowledgeable about them, she found, although it was his parents who had had the glass structure erected and who had collected the plants.
"The rose garden was my mother's real life work, though," Algernon explained as he shut the door of the last hothouse behind them. "It has several different varieties. If you wish to spend another half-hour outdoors, Madeline, I shall name each individual rose to you."
Lady Cardwell laughed. "Perhaps tomorrow, Algernon," she said. "I did not bring a shawl with me, and I must confess to having goose bumps on my arms after being inside the hothouses all this time. Besides, I do not believe my mind can cope with any more new information at present. Let us go inside."
"I'll wager Miss Barnes is made of sterner stuff," Algernon said. "Would you care to take a turn in the rose garden with me, ma'am, if I promise not to bore you with the names of a few dozen rose plants?"
"I should be delighted, my lord," Celia said, matching his light tone, "even if I must be subjected to a horticultural lecture."
They turned to walk beneath the trellised arch that formed the entryway into the rose garden while Lady Cardwell laughed and continued on her way to the house.
"I always feel almost apologetic about having such a very feminine part to my garden when this is really just a bachelor establishment," Algernon said. "But I like it anyway. It reminds me of my mother."
"Only a weak man has to shy away from any interest that might suggest femininity," Celia said. "You are not a weak man, my lord. What was your mother like?"
"A little like you in a way," Algernon said. "Oh, not in looks. My mother was small and quite dark. But she was quiet and self-possessed, like you. One always felt that one could rely on her entirely to soothe away troubles and help one cope with problems."
"And do you see me irt that way?" Celia asked.
"Yes," he said with a smile. "Am I right? I cannot imagine you in a panic. And I cannot imagine you with hartshorn and vinaigrette and laudanum drops and all the other paraphernalia without which many ladies would not be able to live through a single day. Have you ever had a fit of the vapors, Miss Barnes?"
"No, I am afraid I have not," she admitted somewhat ruefully. "I am afraid I am a rather dull person, my lord."
"Dull?" he said, coming to a stop on the path and looking full at her. "You, Miss Barnes? Absolutely not, I assure you. You are quiet, yes, and dignified. I suppose those qualities do not make a young lady shine in a London ballroom, but they are invaluable assets to a man's family in their country home. Any man would be fortunate indeed to have such a wife as you."
"Oh!" Celia's lips formed the word, though no sound came from her as she stared back at Algernon.
He seemed to realize what he had said only when the words were out of his mouth. He flushed slightly. "You see?" he said with an awkward smile. "I am your sincere admirer, ma'am. Come and see this peach-colored rose. You see how I am using layman's words so that you will not be weighed down with Latin names?"
"And this layman will be forever grateful," Celia said. "I shall remember, you see, that I have seen a magnificent peach-colored rose in your garden, whereas I should be racking my brains in vain to recall the five-syllable Latin name for it. What a very beautiful color it is."
"Here," Algernon said impulsively. He leaned forward and wrestled briefly with the stem of a bud before breaking it off and turning back to Celia. "It will complement your cream-colored dress. In your hair, I think. May I?"
Celia stood very still as he threaded the stem through the hair above her left ear. She had not worn her bonnet into the garden. She could feel his breath on her cheek.
"There, very becoming," he said, looking down into her face and grinning. Then his expression became more gentle. "Do you really think of yourself as dull?" he. asked "Why?"
Celia resisted the urge to take a step back, away from the powerful magnetism of his closeness. "I do not suffer from self-pity," she said. "I have quite calmly accepted the fact that I have none of the qualities that attract most people. I am not beautiful or particularly
accomplished and I have no wealth or important connections. And I find it difficult to communicate with more than one person at a time. Even then, I have no bright and interesting conversation. But this is an embarrassing confession, my lord. I am not looking for your pity. Or for your reassurances either. I have accepted what I am and I am happy with my life."
"Are you?" he asked. He still had not moved away from her. "Do you not want what most other ladies want, Celia? Do you not want a husband and a family? A home of your own?"
Celia swallowed. "Of course I do," she said. "But I have only just had my twenty-first birthday, my lord. I do not consider myself too firmly established on the shelf yet."
He nodded. "Pardon me," he said. "I gather that young ladies do not like to talk about such matters. I would like to see you happy. It says a great deal for the male mentality, does it not, that the featherbrained chits that litter fashionable drawing rooms are snatched up during their first Season? Probably to the lifelong regret of those who do the snatching."
Celia's smile was somewhat stiff. "I would imagine a man would regret snatching up an antidote too," she said. "At least the featherbrains are pleasant to look at for a time."
Algernon laughed and then sobered. "Now, you have never been seeing yourself as an antidote, have you?" he asked, frowning down at her. "That is utter nonsense, as I told you once before. I cannot allow that, you know, Celia. Why, an antidote would look quite grotesque with a peach rose in her hair, while you look lovely."
Celia laughed and looked down. But his hand beneath her chin forced her face up again. "If I were not a gentleman," Algernon said, "I would show you how much of an antidote you are, indeed. In fact..." He lowered his head and kissed her firmly and lingeringly on the lips. "There. You see? You are very kissable. Didn't feel like an antidote at all. Not that I would know what an antidote would feel like. I've never kissed one. But she wouldn't feel like that. Good Lord, have I offended you?"