That brought a frown to her face and her skips slowed back to a walk.
“Farmers will not see any point in educating daughters who could be home assisting in family work,” her father had told her, almost gently. “And once you marry, no husband will appreciate your time spent with the children of others. You will have your own home to care for.”
Daisy had spent a week trying to form an argument against such farmers. Without telling her father, she had also reaffirmed her decision to put marriage off for a time.
A man stepped out from between two hedgerows, not ten feet in front of her, and she drew up sharply.
It was her father’s curate, Mr. Percy Haskett. He wasn’t overly tall, or all that imposing a figure, really, but she nevertheless hesitated before greeting him. Several of the young misses in the neighborhood found him a good catch, despite a somewhat large nose and darker coloring. Yet when she spoke to him no sense of real connection formed. As good a man as he may be, Daisy never found herself wishing for more of his attention.
“Miss Ames,” he said, tipping his black hat in her direction. “Good morning. I didn’t expect to see you out of doors this early. What a surprise.” His green eyes, a shade which reminded her of spring grass, testified that he counted it a pleasant surprise when they crinkled at the corners.
“Mr. Haskett,” she said, curtsying. The curate was the very sort of man who would praise her idea of the boarding school as both morally righteous and terribly impractical. “I am on an important errand. It’s Miss Annie’s birthday.”
His brows drew together and he shook his head. “Miss Annie?”
The curate had taken many of her father’s duties well in hand the last six months, leaving Mr. Ames to slip into a semi-retirement from his responsibilities as a clergyman, but there were still some things Mr. Haskett hadn’t managed. Remembering the names of his youngest parishioners was one such item he’d yet to accomplish.
“She is the middle Thatcher daughter. She’s turned six today.” Daisy tried to keep her tone helpful, even kind, but it grew increasingly difficult to maintain such attitudes when near Mr. Haskett. Honestly, he reminded her a bit too much of her father, though not yet as ponderous in his way of speaking.
“Dear me. An auspicious day for her, indeed.” His smile, she supposed, could be counted attractive, but he turned it too often in her direction of late. Though Daisy insisted to herself his attentions were nothing but those of a clergyman coming to know his parish, the time might come for her to put a greater distance between the them.
“Might I accompany you?” Mr. Haskett asked.
“Oh. Certainly. If you have nothing more pressing to be about,” she said, inwardly wishing he’d had some prior engagement. “I know your time is valuable, Mr. Haskett.”
His grin faded to a gentle smile and he came to stand at her side. “I can think of no better way to spend it than accompanying you on this errand.” He offered his arm.
Thinking quickly, Daisy held the basket out to him. “Oh, thank you. It isn’t heavy, but walking a mile or more with even a light basket can begin to tax one’s strength.”
His expression changed to one of perplexity, but he took the basket, and she tucked her hands behind her the moment he had hold of it. “Come, Mr. Haskett. Why don’t you tell me about your sermon while we walk? I enjoyed the text you shared last week.”
Walking beside her, Mr. Haskett’s brow remained furrowed. “You did?”
Her mind stumbled and she tried to recall exactly what he had spoken about. She’d sat in her family’s pew, quite alone, as her father had been ill. In truth, she’d been worrying over her father’s health more than she paid attention to the sermon.
“Yes. Of course. Who wouldn’t enjoy your sermons? You are such an eloquent speaker.” That much she could safely say. Mr. Haskett never used a word of a single syllable when one of similar meaning existed with three or four times as many.
His face relaxed. “The figurative language of Isaiah is often difficult to address in a way that allows all to comprehend it, but I felt it was adequate.”
Nodding with what she hoped was a somber and thoughtful expression, Daisy turned her eyes to the road. “What will you present next Sunday?”
Without hesitation, Mr. Haskett discussed his coming sermon with enthusiasm, using his free hand to gesture before him as if he addressed a crowded room rather than a single person at his side. Although Daisy was tempted to tune him out completely, that would make it difficult to make an intelligent response where one was required, so she listened with half an ear while drinking in the morning sights.
A quarter of an hour later, though they’d arrived at her destination, Mr. Haskett had seemingly only scratched the surface of his topic. Daisy waited, politely, for him to pause in his explanation of metaphors in the Old Testament.
“Now, Mr. Haskett, you must tell me no more,” she said when he at last paused for breath. “I have heard enough to make me look forward to your sermon. It will be most enlightening for all of us, I am certain. May I have my basket?”
Mr. Haskett’s cheeks pinked. “Of course, Miss Ames.” He handed it to her and then glanced around. “I didn’t realize we were here. When I am in your company the time is too much of a pleasure for me to mark its passing.” Had he more of the rogue in him, it would have been a clever thing to say, but as he spoke every word with the same tone he used to sermonize, Daisy hoped she was safe from his affections.
“Thank you, Mr. Haskett. I hope you have a pleasant morning.” She dropped a curtsy and hurried through the gate, which he tried to open for her, but she was already on the other side when his fingers touched the wood. She walked rapidly down the path to the front door of the tenant cottage, not looking back.
Children burst out of the little cottage as she approached, and Daisy pushed the worrisome thoughts of Mr. Haskett away. At her age, she had plenty of time ahead of her for suitors, should she choose. But really, as no man in the neighborhood had caught her attention in that sort of way, her mind rarely turned to the possibility.
After sharing the gingerbread with the children, Daisy stayed to play with them, laughing as sweet Annie Thatcher lisped through a rhyming game due to a missing front tooth.
Rhyming gave way to a game of chase, and Daisy took Annie’s hand as they ran about the clearing near the little girl’s house. Daisy was never so happy as she was when she spent time with children. If I could open my school, I could do so much to help them.
There remained further plans to make on that score, so Daisy put that thought away. For now.
Chapter Three
Sitting in his middle-sister’s parlor, Harry watched two of his nephews attempt to play spilikins. Charles, at eight, was constantly reminding five-year-old Hugh of the rules with rather humorous results.
“Harry,” Christine Gilbert said, bringing his attention back to her. “What on earth does this mean? You wish to let the house?” She was the second oldest of his sisters and the only one who still lived in the neighborhood where they had grown up.
Harry sat back more comfortably in his chair, noting his sister’s confusion. “It is a big house, Christine. Too big for a man on his own. I would much rather take smaller apartments, for the time being. I do not need all that room, and it is a waste for Whitewood to sit empty.”
“What about the tenants already on the land, Harry?” Christine asked, not looking away from him. “And where will you live? In London?” The skepticism in her voice was quite clear. She knew how he felt about London. He hated being in the city, with its filthy air and polluted streets. Though he had the means to lease rooms and set up bachelor quarters there, he didn’t wish to step foot in the city unless there was a need.
Their father had spent more time in London than anywhere else, which also detracted from any charm the great city might have.
“I thought I would stay nearby, or perhaps take a house near Rebecca and Christian, or Julia and Nathaniel.” He named his other
sisters, thinking of how far away they lived. Rebecca’s husband had several estates, but they spent most of their time in
the house nearest London. Julia and her husband lived in Bath, where he practiced medicine. “If I didn’t stay nearby, the steward would do well enough looking after the tenants, as he has for years.”
Christine frowned. Of his three sisters, she was the most outspoken, and she would not mince words with him. “It doesn’t sound as though you have any sort of plan at all, other than leasing the house to a complete stranger. I understand it is done, and there is nothing shameful in it, but is it truly necessary?”
Harry tensed. “Not financially necessary, if that is what you mean.” Indeed. Harry could likely afford to buy up several estates with his inheritance. When his father died four years past, succumbing to infection and fever from a riding injury, Harry had been shocked to learn of the wealth the hardened gentleman had accumulated. For someone not of the nobility, the amount was obscene. Which left Harry in a confusing predicament.
He had no need to work for a living, or even to be careful in a life of leisure. But what, then, ought he to do? He’d never admired his father’s business methods, or his morals. Now that Harry had finished his studies at Oxford, and spent a little time on the Continent, he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself.
“If you’re going to let the house, then why stay? Why not visit faraway lands and exotic destinations?” Christine asked, half-smiling at him.
Travel. He’d considered it briefly. “I would miss my sisters too much,” he admitted.
“And us,” Hugh said from his place on the floor, then grinned unrepentant when Harry raised his eyebrows at him.
“Children are always listening,” Christine informed him with a grin that was nearly the same as her son’s. “Yes, Hugh. I imagine your uncle would miss you, too.”
Charles and Hugh both looked up at Harry, their eyes widening in a way that reminded him of puppies begging for attention. He didn’t bother hiding his affection for them. “It is true. I would miss you both too much. I cannot possibly go far, for that very reason.”
The boys shared a smile and went back to their game.
“Don’t do it, Harry. If you are staying in England,” Christine said, holding the paper out to him, “then you should keep the house. Look after the tenants. Be a good landowner.”
Harry sighed and took the lease he had drafted with the help of a lawyer. Tucking it back in his leather satchel on the floor, his mind searched for another argument to make. “I haven’t the first idea how to be a good landowner. That’s why I have a steward.”
“You are talking about Mr. Simmons,” Christine said, adjusting baby Jason in her arms. “He’s a good man, in terms of business sense. That’s why he worked for father. But he’s nearly sixty years old and ought to retire. And do you think he has the tenant’s best interests at heart or your bank account? You need to be more responsible for the people under your care.”
Little Jason started to whimper, and the sound swiftly grew to a wail of discontent.
Christine stood, holding the baby against her chest. “If you will excuse me, Harry. I must tend to the baby. We can discuss this later, with Thomas if you like.” She swept through the room, calling for the other two to come with her to the nursery.
The boys jumped to their feet and followed, their game forgotten on the floor.
Harry sighed, alone in the room, then crouched down on the floor to scoop up the jackstraws and put them back in their little pouch. He gathered his satchel and put it in the Gilbert office. Christine and Thomas used to share the house with Thomas’s father and mother, but the senior Gilbert couple had recently moved in with their daughter five miles away.
No one had seemed to mind them leaving one house behind in favor of another.
After stashing his belongings, and finding his hat and gloves, Harry made his way outside.
What Harry needed was to organize his thoughts. As the day promised to be fine, with blue skies above and no mud in evidence, a walk would be the very thing he needed. His eldest sister, Julia, was fond of comparing a muddled mind to one filled with cobwebs. A brisk walk and the September breeze ought to do a fair job of clearing those away.
Harry went to the lane and, by habit alone, chose to walk in the direction of Whitewood Place, his family’s estate, which abutted the Gilbert property.
With no destination in mind, Harry had little need to focus on more than putting one foot in front of the other.
Christine’s idea is only one opinion. It really isn’t a terrible idea, to lease Whitewood.
Though as he’d spoken to her, he realized his plans for Whitewood were rather short-sighted. And not entirely thought out. Even though he’d had four years to consider what he wished to do with the property, he’d spent most of that time trying not to think about it. He really couldn’t put off a decision any longer. Deciding what to do with the estate, and the rest of his life, must take precedence until both issues were resolved.
The future hung before him like a question mark at the end of a page. He needed to move forward with his life, but how did one do that when one couldn’t decide in which direction to go?
“Stop right there, you horrid beast!”
Harry scuffled to a stop and lifted his head, looking around in shock. Had someone been addressing him?
“You know you’re too old and fat to climb any higher, and I am too old and refined to come climbing up after you,” the voice continued, feminine frustration coloring every word. “Come down this instant.”
The voice came from the other side of a hedge, where a birch grew with branches stretching over the bushes to reach toward the trees lining the road. He went that direction, without much thought, and peered through a narrow break in the leafy shrubbery.
At the base of the tree, half out of sight, he saw a woman in a blue-gray gown. Her head was tilted as she stared up into the tree, and her hands were on her waist.
“I mean it, Jezebel. You come down this instant, or I will leave and you will absolutely starve.”
Glancing up, Harry saw a fat feline perched on a thin branch, perhaps fifteen feet above the ground. The cat was staring balefully down at the woman, tale twitching, as though calling the woman’s bluff.
The woman circled around the tree, out of sight, muttering to herself. He could barely make out the words. “Feline…stubborn…useless….”
The cat remained unimpressed.
The woman came back into view, her back to Harry, her bonnet now dangling down her back from ribbons. He could make out a head full of golden braids and twisting curls escaping above her ears and at the nape of her neck.
Appreciating her lovely hair and shapely figure from behind a bush wasn’t the act of a gentleman, however, especially when the woman he ogled obviously needed assistance. Harry stepped forward, pushing through the bush. The rustling sound brought the woman’s attention to his presence and she whirled around as he approached.
Her blue eyes were wide in surprise, and pretty, too. As was her finely sculpted face. With round cheeks and a narrower chin, her features were almost elfin. Her eyes swept over him as he struggled to emerge from the clinging branches of the hedge.
“Good afternoon, miss,” he said, giving one last lunge in order to stumble out of the bushes. “I couldn’t help but overhear—are you in need of any help?” He looked up into the trees where the fat feline still sat, its attention fixed on him. The furry beast licked its lips and narrowed its eyes.
The woman sighed, a touch dramatically. “Perhaps. But you’ve already fetched this wretched creature down from the trees for me once. It doesn’t seem fair to ask such a thing of you again.” Her eyes sparkled playfully, and then she smiled.
The whole world lit up with that smile. Harry’s heart sped up and warmth crept up the back of his neck.
“I have?” he asked, not daring to look away from her. His mind had turned into a sluggish machine, trying and
failing to catch up with his need to understand what the woman meant.
Surely, he’d remember meeting her, let alone rescuing her cat. Where had he seen her before? Studying her more carefully, noting the impish upturn at the end of her nose as well as the blonde lashes framing her eyes, his memory finally heeded his desperate need to know her identity.
“An Ames daughter,” he said at last, rocking back slightly on his heels as he continued to stare at her. The vicar’s children, as young girls, hadn’t exactly been in the same social circles as he, even when he came home on holiday.
Her smile widened. “But which one? My father has three, you must remember.” She turned her eyes up to the cat, finally breaking the spell he’d fallen under the moment their gazes connected. He released a breath, his lungs protesting that he’d held onto it for too long.
“The eldest is in India,” Harry said, thinking aloud. Christine had written him about that exciting happening. “She married a missionary.”
“Mm-hm,” the young woman agreed, stepping away from him to get another view of the cat.
His mind immediately protested the distance between them and he followed her, taking in the speculative tilt to her head and her lowered brows.
“Miss Gabriella—”
“Is now Mrs. Robin.”
He blinked. Was he addressing a married woman, then? If she was married that made him a cad, admiring another man’s wife in such a manner. Harry quickly looked down. Seeing the state of his coat, covered in leaves and twigs. He started brushing off his sleeves to avoid looking like a walking shrubbery.
The young woman glanced sideways at him, narrowing her eyes. “She married a naval captain, actually.”
“She did?” Harry asked, jerking his head up hopefully. “And you are not married to a naval captain?”
Courting the Vicar's Daughter: A Regency Romance (Branches of Love Book 6) Page 2