by Mary Balogh
"I do not have to accept," he said. "I have sixty days in which to decide. Fifty-nine, to be exact. If I refuse to accept the conditions, the whole estate will go to certain charities. If I accept, I must live in Richmond and I must accept a post found for me by a bishop friend of my godmother's."
"Don't accept," Rachel said.
He stared blankly at her.
"If it were not for me," she said, looking directly into his eyes, "if I did not exist, what would you do, David?"
"I would refuse my inheritance," he said slowly.
"Then I refuse your offer, David," Rachel said quietly. "I thank you for the honor you have done me and for the sacrifice you are prepared to make for me. But I cannot marry you. My answer is final."
She stooped to pick up her bonnet from the grass, turned, and walked back the way they had come. David did not move from where he stood until long after he heard the horse and gig pass behind the hedge at his back.
Chapter 12
She was to have no time to brood over her raw feelings, Rachel discovered as soon as she returned home. The Marquess of Stanford had arrived in her absence, having discovered after all, he had explained to Lord and Lady Edgeley, that he was able to join the final couple of days of their house party. He was still in the salon where the butler had shown him on his arrival and where the earl and countess had gone to greet him. Rachel joined them there.
She was glad he had come, she thought as soon as she had made her curtsy and while he crossed the room to her, raised her hand to his lips, and smiled in that charming way of his. She had felt dismay when the butler had told her a couple of minutes before. Her life could not stand yet another complication. And indeed, she had all but forgotten about the marquess in the previous few weeks. Yet as soon as she set eyes on his figure, fashionable and elegant despite the dust of travel, she knew that perhaps he was just what she needed today.
She could not afford anyway to withdraw to her own room, as she wished to do, to lick her wounds and cry her heart out. Apart from the fact that she had friends to entertain for the afternoon, she had to be ready for Algie's ball during the evening. It would not do at all to appear there looking wan and puffy-eyed. She owed it to Algie if to no one else to be her usual self.
The presence of the marquess would help her overcome her black mood. She must appear at her very best for this gentleman who had come presumably to renew his offer for her. And everyone would know or guess his purpose. There had been enough gossip in London. It was to be expected that she would be in high spirits. Then in high spirits she would be! She smiled her brightest smile and inquired after the health of Lord Stanford's sister and the comfort of his journey.
Indeed, Rachel thought a couple of hours later, when she ran lightly downstairs after luncheon, her straw bonnet swinging from its ribbons in one hand, perhaps the marquess was the answer to all her problems. If she were to marry him, she would be taken far away to a new life. Algie would understand-he had said himself, in fact, that she must not rush into a betrothal with him lest she decide to accept Stanford's proposal in the autumn. He would not have to know or suspect the truth about David if she married Lord Stanford.
"Here I am," Rachel called gaily to the group waiting in the hallway. "Have I kept everyone waiting?"
The younger people had decided to walk across the hills to the Red Fox Inn. It would be the best direction to enable Lord Stanford to see the beauty of the surrounding countryside, all had agreed. Lord Rivers had no plans to call that afternoon, Rachel explained with some inner relief. He was busy with the preparations for his dinner and ball that evening.
It was a gay and noisy group that set out in pairs. Miss Lacey walked with Mr. Hart, who had been teased mercilessly in the previous few days as a dark horse. Celia walked with Lord Morrison. Rachel, of course, was with the Marquess of Stanford. Two other couples led the way. But they soon found the afternoon oppressively hot. It was sure to storm before the night was out, they all agreed.
The marquess drew Rachel to the back of the group, his footsteps lagging.
"You have boundless energy, ma'am," he said. "In town I thought perhaps it manifested itself only in dancing, but I see that you can outstride anyone over hill and dale even in the heat of summer."
"I am afraid it has always been a failing of mine to rush headlong into life's next episode," Rachel said. "I am only just learning how to enjoy the moment."
"Indeed," he said, "I have found myself with the same tendency in the past few weeks. I have never known Tunbridge so dull. I promised to stay away from you until the end of summer, Lady Rachel. I am afraid I have arrived rather early. I hope I have not offended you?"
"On the contrary, my lord," she said, "I am delighted that you have come in time for the ball this evening. It promised to be somewhat dull with almost no new faces since the last ball."
"And have you enjoyed your few weeks in the country, ma'am?" he asked. "Have your guests helped alleviate the boredom of country living?"
"Oh," she said, and laughed, "country living is not boring, my lord. There is a great deal to do here. It is town living that is dull."
"What?" he said. "Is this Lady Rachel Palmer speaking? The young lady who was famous during the Season for never being idle? And you can call that life dull? You tease me."
"Here I have the countryside," she said. "All the vast and quiet spaces of creation. It is true that I have not had much chance to enjoy them lately because there are so many people with whom to spend my time. But I love nothing more than to wander alone. Do you like solitude, ray lord? Do you like quietness? Do you like to wonder about the created world and where it all came from and what is behind it all?"
He smiled his charming smile and touched her fingers lightly where they rested on his arm. "You would enjoy travel, I can see," he said. "And there is so much more to see than the English countryside, Lady Rachel. I would like to show you all the countries of Europe. There would be so much to see, I promise you, that you would not have time to think or wonder about it all. You would be able to feast your senses in beauty."
Rachel smiled briefly. "And there are all my friends here," she said. "My father's tenants and laborers. I have always enjoyed visiting them and talking to them. Recently I have learned that I have much to gain from them in the way of love and knowledge of a life beyond my own experience. And I have learned that I can share my own life with them, particularly my knowledge of reading and books."
"How very charming!" the marquess said, and he squeezed her hand. "Your father has a reputation for fair and charitable dealings with those on his estates. He is a deeply religious man, I have heard. You have learned from him, and I find that very touching. A devotion to charitable works is a great asset to a lady's reputation."
"Charitable works," Rachel said, wrinkling her nose and looking ahead of her down the slope they were about to descend.
"I would always encourage you to retain your interest in the poor," he said. "I would enjoy seeing you patronize certain select charities."
"I have been planning to start a school," Rachel said, "to teach the children to read."
He laughed softly. "You are very charming," he said, "and very young. Even supposing that they could learn, Lady Rachel, have you considered what these children would do with their knowledge? They would merely acquire ideas above their station, you know. However, there are certain charity schools in London that may be well worth patronizing. Perhaps you would like me to look into the matter?"
"No," Rachel said hesitantly. "No, I would not wish you to trouble yourself, my lord."
"What a very delightful prospect there is from this hill," the marquess said. "I do not wonder that you love the countryside, Lady Rachel. There is nowhere quite like England, you know. Though I must confess the weather reminds me more of Italy at the moment. It is to be hoped that the storm does not break until tomorrow. I look forward to this evening's ball. You have reserved a set for me? I will hope that you can bear not to dance during th
at set. I believe I will wish to use the time and the romantic atmosphere for a talk that will be too important for a ballroom floor."
He smiled warmly down at her and squeezed her hand again.
Rachel was pleased to note that they were catching up to Celia and Lord Morrison, whose footsteps had also lagged in the heat. Soon the four of them were strolling together, and the conversation became general.
No, it would really not do, she was deciding rather sadly. She had grown up a little perhaps in the last few weeks. Just a few weeks before, she had walked this same route with Algie and had ended up begging him to marry her because she had seen marriage as a way to drown out her infatuation for David. She had ended up behaving badly to Algie. It was only very recently that she had started to wonder if he really wanted to marry her after all. He had shown no great eagerness for that betrothal when she had suggested it.
In her terrible conceitedness at the time she had assumed that his reluctance was all for her sake. But perhaps not. Perhaps Algie was far wiser than she and had realized that they would not suit as husband and wife. She supposed now that it would be better if this really were the truth. If it were not, if Algie really did love her and wish to marry her, then she had raised false hopes in him and within the next few days she would have to hurt him. All because she had not realized that marriage to one man can do nothing whatsoever to dull the pain of love for another.
And yet just that morning she had thought briefly yet again that perhaps it would be possible. She had thought about marrying the Marquess of Stanford. But she knew that she could not. For one thing, she could not be the sort of person he thought her to be or lead the sort of life he would intend her to lead.
He could offer her a great deal: a life of travel and privilege and social involvement as well as an attractive and charming person. And he was not a heartless man. He would allow her to involve herself in charitable works. But it was not a life she could lead. It would have no possible meaning to her. She would feel removed from life, a spectator merely. Life would be permanently as it had been for those few months in London, so very full and busy that there was no room for silence and thought and feeling. No room for love. No room for God.
She could not do it. The marquess was going to ask her again that evening to be his wife, and she was going to give him a final answer. Mama and Papa would call her mad. No marriage to Algie. No marriage to the Marquess of Stanford. And after all the opportunities they had given her by taking her to London! And that visit had been a great sacrifice to Papa, who hated town. But she could not enter either marriage merely to please them. She could not.
"I was never so glad to see a red fox even at the end of a long and fruitless day of following the hounds," Lord Morrison said as the inn came into view over the final rise of land.
Rachel joined gaily in the laughter of the other two.
***
David had dressed reluctantly for dinner. There could not be a great deal of excitement, of course, in donning the same clothes that one had worn to every evening social function for the past two years. But it was not that that caused him to lag, even though he knew that he was in danger of being late. Neither was it his usual feeling that social pleasures were largely a waste of time. After all, Rufus and Madeline were to be at the dinner and ball. In two more days they would be gone, and he had no idea when he would see them again.
His reason for not wanting to go despite his brother's presence was of course, as always, Rachel. He had thought-no, he had expected-that by tonight they would be betrothed. Not officially, of course. She would want some time first to speak to Algie. And he would have to speak to Lord Edgeley. But he had expected that the matter would be settled between the two of them. He had expected that his future would be assured, that he would no longer have to plague his mind with doubts and questions and decisions. If she had said yes, he would have felt himself committed, even before the betrothal could be official.
But he had been rejected. Accepted and then rejected in no uncertain terms.
And did he feel disappointment or relief? David was still not quite sure which. There was, of course, disappointment. He had decided finally that he would put Rachel first. He was meant to love her, he had concluded, meant to make her his wife. And he had felt strong enough in his own faith and convictions to be confident that he could continue to live a life of service even in the midst of affluence and personal contentment.
And it had seemed so right that morning when he had first asked her to marry him. All the sunshine of her bright character had shone behind her eyes when she had looked at him. He could not doubt at that moment that he had made the right decision. And that kiss they had shared! There had been passion in it, physical desire, yes. But far more than that. They had poured out their love for each other during those precious few minutes.
And then she had rejected him. Knowing what he was giving up for her, she had denied her own love for him and turned away. She would not marry him under the circumstances, she had said. And her answer was final.
Oh, yes, he was disappointed. Dead inside. No, not dead. He would not ache with emptiness and longing if he were dead. He had been so close to making her his own. He had glimpsed heaven. And now he was living at almost the opposite extreme.
Almost. But was there not also some feeling of relief? Almost as if he had been released from the threat of a great bondage? It was strange not to want that vast fortune that could so easily be his. He could be wealthy, comfortable, respected for the rest of his life. He could live the life he had been brought up to. Just a few years ago he would cheerfully have given his right arm for even half the wealth that was now his.
Yet he did not want it. He truly did not. Rachel was the only possible reason that could lead him to accepting it. He did not want to return to the old way of life. He could now see its emptiness and its lack of fairness. He was happy in the life he was leading. If he could just block all thoughts of and feelings for Rachel from his mind, he would be totally happy. He was living the life he wished to lead. He did not want to spoil it by having to live in a mansion and manage servants and keep up appearances with a reasonably active social life and a fashionable wardrobe.
Rachel's rejection had saved him from that life. He had written to his godmother's solicitor as soon as he arrived home in the morning and sent the letter on its way. He felt not a twinge of regret. Only in the loss of Rachel.
But he did not want to have to face her again that evening. Especially not in the presence of other people and at an occasion where one was forced to be determinedly gay. She would be bubbling over with high spirits, he was sure, no matter what her inner feelings might be. He could not bear the thought of seeing her so: gay, flirtatious, apparently quite carefree. He knew that there were far more lovely depths to her character than what she would allow to show at a ball.
As it happened, David was presented with a perfectly good excuse for missing the dinner at Singleton Hall. He thought he would probably still have to attend the ball, but there was not quite the same necessity to converse at length during a ball as there was at table. He was glad of even a limited reprieve. He was on his way to the Hall on foot when he met Mr. Perkins coming toward him along the village street in an aged cart pulled by a horse that appeared in little better condition. David smiled, touched his hat, and would have walked on, but his acquaintance was looking worried.
"Is anything the matter?" David asked. "Mrs. Perkins?"
"Her time has come," Mr. Parkins said. "The pains are upon her. But the midwife isn't at home, Reverend. She is tending Mrs. Purdy, who is having her first. My missus will have to wait."
David stroked his chin. He did not have any experience with pregnant women, especially when they were delivering. But he had a strong suspicion that they might find it difficult to wait upon the convenience of a midwife. "Does anyone know if she is likely to be long?" he asked.
"She has been gone since midday," said the worried Perkins. "She should be back
soon, Reverend."
David hesitated. "I shall come to the cottage with you," he said briskly, walking around to the other side of the cart and climbing up to take a rough seat beside the other man. "Perhaps I shall be able to offer your wife some comfort."
David waited outside the cottage while Mr. Perkins went in to tell his wife the news about the midwife. But the man bolted outside again almost immediately, his face as' white as parchment.
"I can't do it, Reverend," he said, his voice shaking. "The ninth time, and I can't do it. I can't stand to see her suffer like that and be helpless to do anything about it. I'll be no earthly good until the midwife comes. As long as she doesn't scream! She does sometimes. I'll have to stay out here."
"Does she have any help?" David asked. "Has anyone else come? Can your daughters help at all?"
"Tess has helped the midwife the last two times and Lil did a few things last time," Mr. Perkins said, "and Mother is always calling from her room, of course, getting everyone mixed up. But they don't know much. The midwife will never allow children to stay close to the end. She will be here soon perhaps." He flashed David a pale smile. "I should go in there maybe and hold her hand."
"Perhaps I can offer some comfort," David said. "Sometimes it is easier if one is not involved directly in some crisis. The midwife will not be long, I am sure."
He opened the door and entered the cottage somewhat hesitantly. He was feeling almost as pale as Mr. Perkins looked. The younger boys and the girls, he found, were hovering around their mother as she lay on a mattress that had been dragged into the main room. The two smallest boys were crying. Old Mrs. Perkins was calling from the inner room, her words a mixture of demands for information and advice on how to proceed. Mrs. Perkins, lying limp on the mattress, her face flushed, her hair soaked with perspiration, was reaching out weakly with one hand toward one bawling infant, who appeared too frightened to come close enough for comfort.