“Oh, that is wonderful. It will be a perfect opportunity to reacquaint yourself with the neighborhood.” She stepped out into the aisle, nearly in front of Miss Ames, her frowning mother nudging her along. “I do hope I see you again soon, Mr. Devon.”
“Miss Robin.” He barely remembered to bid her goodbye with a deep nod before giving greeting to the woman who’d somehow held his attention even while he spoke to another.
Harry moved to block her progress, though Miss Ames had stopped of her own volition to speak to a woman who held the hand of a little girl. Harry couldn’t help but overhear the conversation.
“Mrs. Sutterfield, Miss Rachel, how good to see you both. But where are your other charming children today, Mrs. Sutterfield? I hope everyone is well,” Miss Ames said, her voice a mixture of concern and cheer.
“Well enough, Miss Ames,” the woman answered, real warmth in her words. “Thank you for asking. Frederick and Robert have colds and stayed behind to rest. It’s the turn in the weather, of course.”
The Sutterfields, he vaguely recalled, owned land on the other side of Annesbury Village.
“I do hope they feel better soon.” Miss Ames bid the woman good day, then turned to Harry with an air of expectancy to her posture.
“Mr. Devon, it is good to see you again. I hope you have sufficiently recovered from our last meeting.” Though her smile remained polite, Harry saw the hesitancy in her gray eyes.
“I have, thank you. Has Bell found herself up any more trees?” he asked, sharing what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “If need be, you may call on me to rescue her again.”
Her cheeks turned a little pink. “I hope that will not be necessary, Mr. Devon, though I thank you for the offer of your services. At present, I have a different request to make. I told my father you returned to the neighborhood. He wished me to extend an invitation to you to dine with us, this evening if convenient.”
“This evening?” Harry stood taller. His memories of her father were nothing spectacular. He had sat through the man’s sermons when he attended church with his sisters but had no distinct memories good or bad. His father, on the other hand, had never had anything good to say about the vicar. That alone made Harry disposed to like the man.
“Or perhaps another time,” she said when he hesitated too long. “When your family can spare you.”
Harry hurried to reassure her. “This evening would be perfect, actually. I look forward to seeing you both.”
Miss Ames offered him another polite, slightly bland smile, then gave him the time for dinner and took her leave. He watched her retreating form with curiosity, but only for a moment. Another old neighbor greeted him, and by the time he looked up again she was gone. Harry finally made his way out of the church to find Christine and Thomas, conversing with their neighbors in the churchyard.
“We are delighted to have my brother with us,” Christine was saying to three different women gathered near her, their bonnets bobbing up and down as she spoke. “Though I cannot say how long he will remain. Young gentlemen tend to be restless, I suppose.”
That’s one word for it. Harry didn’t feel so much restless as aimless. He steeled himself to enter the conversation, prepared for curious mothers and tittering ladies to attempt filling his social schedule. As much as he disliked London, one of its benefits would be relative anonymity. At home, everyone knew his name, even if they didn’t truly know him.
Harry stepped forward, fixing his most amiable smile in place.
§
“The Devon boy. I must confess feeling a measure of curiosity over the sort of man he’s grown into.” Daisy’s father spoke in his usual ponderous manner, the words coming from him slowly, as though coated in molasses. His voice, deep and soothing, had grown a little rougher with his age. Knowing his habits as she did, Daisy hummed in agreement as she tidied his study. They employed a manservant, housekeeper, cook, maid of all work, and a kitchen maid, but Daisy knew her father liked his study organized a certain way and made it part of her own work. There had been other servants in the past, before her sisters married and her father decided to use part of his income to hire a curate.
“His father, God rest him, wasn’t a pleasant person for all that he was an important one,” Mr. Ames continued, stuffing his pipe with tobacco. He settled more deeply into his chair. “Do stop fussing, Augusta. It is the Sabbath.”
She straightened the letters on his desk. “I like to have busy hands, Father.”
“One of your virtues, I’ll grant you, but you would be better occupied to pass the time in quiet reflection.”
Reflecting on any point of her life seemed a rather useless way to spend her time. For two years, she’d been her father’s only child at home. Six years previous, she lost her mother to influenza. Lily married shortly after and left for India. Gabriella went away with her Naval officer. It fell to Daisy to care for Father, home, and the parish charitable duties. And still, she tended to her personal dreams of the school.
She came to sit in the chair beside her father’s. “What did you think of the sermon today, Father?”
He puffed on his pipe, its rich scent wafting through the room. Mother had always disliked when he smoked indoors and limited the recreation to the study. Despite all the years since her loss he never took the pipe out of the room. Though her parents had never been overly demonstrative in their affection for one another, it was comforting to know he honored her memory in such a simple way.
“Mr. Haskett did well,” her father said, sounding thoughtful. “I am not entirely in favor of the way he creates his own sermons so often. There are more than enough good texts in the world to read from. Greater minds than his, and mine, have already written the finest of speeches regarding the state of mortal man.”
Her father’s views didn’t surprise her at all. He’d read many of the most famous sermons over the years, relying on texts his bishop recommended to him, and their library was evidence in his favor that more than enough had been published on every moral topic imaginable.
“I think it shows a desire to meet the people’s present needs,” Daisy ventured to say.
“Perhaps. You did always like creative sorts, being one yourself.” The tone he used to say those words was speculative, not pleased. Her father was the sort of man who believed if one method worked, you needn’t waste energy trying anything new or different.
I’m not certain I would call Mr. Haskett creative, she thought to herself, affecting an expression one might wear during quiet reflection. His sermons are nearly as dry as those read from books.
A knock on the door brought her attention away from her thoughts and the maid appeared, a cheerful smile on her face. “Mr. Devon has arrived for dinner, Mr. Ames.”
“Ah. A punctual young man. That is a mark in his favor.” Father pushed himself up from his chair. “Let us go meet him, my dear.” He held his arm out for Daisy, and once she took it, he led them out of the room.
Mr. Devon stood in their small entryway, his hat already removed, studying a pastoral painting which hung near the door. When they approached, he turned to fully face them, and bowed most respectfully.
“Mr. Ames, it is a pleasure to see you again. Miss Ames, thank you for having me to dinner.” His voice was warm, genuine.
“You are most welcome, sir.” Father answered for the both of them. “Won’t you come into the dining room?” Her father gestured, with Daisy still on his arm. “With only the two of us at home, we are not often formal, though we do appreciate your company.”
They made their way through the dining room door, to a table large enough to sit eight people comfortably. Places were laid only at the head of the table, where her father sat, with a setting on his left for her and on the right for their guest. Father helped her into her chair while Mr. Devon, his eyes taking in the room with interest, found his way into his own.
The housekeeper brought dishes from the sideboard, putting everything necessary on the table before disappearing
back into the kitchens. The meal was a simple one, but Daisy knew everything would taste wonderfully.
“I must say, Mr. Devon, that the neighborhood is most curious about your return here. You cannot be unaware of that fact,” her father said, while Daisy gave attention to her potatoes.
Harry’s voice, more a tenor than a baritone, was laced with amusement when he spoke. “I am exceptionally well aware of it, Mr. Ames. While our neighborhood isn’t small, it is a very close community.”
“It is, indeed. Tell me, sir, how have you spent these last years? I was given to understand you finished your university studies two or three years ago.” Mr. Ames sliced his roast chicken into smaller pieces as he spoke, his slower speech giving Mr. Devon ample time to sample his own food before being required to make his answer.
Daisy lifted her eyes from her plate, interested in this herself. She’d been away, at school, when the late Mr. Devon passed away. The present Mr. Devon hadn’t returned to the neighborhood much since that time, and certainly never long enough for her to catch a glimpse of him. She wasn’t particularly friendly with his sister, as their friends were in different circles, but she’d caught snatches of rumors about how he spent his time.
Mr. Devon’s lips quirked upward, as though the whole world existed for his amusement. “I spent some of the time in London, on occasion, and in Bath with my sister. Most of the time, I was in Italy. My brother-in-law, the Earl of Ivyford, has family there and they were kind enough to host me.”
“Interesting,” her father said, in a tone Daisy recognized at once as one of disapproval.
Hoping Mr. Devon hadn’t picked up on the tone, Daisy spoke quickly. “How wonderful, to spend time in Italy. What did you do while you were there?” she asked.
“What do people do anywhere?” he asked, lightness in his voice and a sparkle in his eye. “I kept company with the family, attended balls and recitals, museums when I visited the cities.”
Daisy darted a look at her father, seeing his frown deepen. She could almost hear his thoughts, as he’d expressed them many times over the years when discussing members of the gentry. A life of idleness, pursing only pleasure, is ill-spent.
“Much as one would do here,” Daisy said before her father could speak. “And why did that come to an end, Mr. Devon?”
“My very question,” he father said, already scowling. “What are your future plans, sir?”
With an almost careless shrug, Harry met Daisy’s eyes. “I am not certain, though I have already had an adventure or two since returning.”
“Not certain?” Father asked, sitting straighter. “A young man such as yourself, with all the world at his feet, a fine home in the country and family all about him, and you are not certain what you will do next? I should think it obvious, even to a man of your years, that there are duties to be seen to.”
Daisy closed her eyes and took a deep breath, willing away her blush on her father’s behalf. Sometimes, he thought because he was a vicar he had a right to call even strangers to account. From his lectern in the church it may have been acceptable, but in the privacy of a dining room it made her—and everyone else—most uncomfortable.
“Duties, Mr. Ames?” the younger man asked, sounding genuinely curious rather than affronted. “Of what sort, sir? The family steward keeps the estate running in my absence, and I receive regular reports from him on the state of things. My solicitor sees to all legal concerns regarding my father’s various investments and properties, and I have an accountant to handle matters of finance. All is watched over.”
Oh dear. Daisy didn’t sense any malice or pride in Mr. Devon’s words, but her father would likely conclude the gentleman possessed both, as his father had before him. She stumbled in her thoughts for a moment, knowing she needed to speak if the evening was going to end without Mr. Devon being given offense.
“Mr. Devon,” she blurted with such haste that both men startled and turned to face her. She ignored the heat that remained in her cheeks and tried to call to mind something that would appease her father and explain to the gentleman before her what was meant. “My father would perhaps wish you to remember the parable of the hirelings.”
“The hirelings?” the young man asked, his brow furrowing.
As a vicar’s daughter, Daisy had more than the usual amount of scriptural knowledge a lady might boast of. “Indeed, sir. It is a parable about shepherds and sheep-herders. Two different sorts of things, you see.”
He sat back and regarded her with raised eyebrows, perhaps thinking her overly pious. Yet she had begun the conversation and must see it through, whatever he thought of her.
“Shepherds, you see, are the actual owners of their flock. Owners who tend to their sheep personally. By doing so, they are always at hand when a lamb is sick, or lost, or threatened by a predator. Whereas sheep-herders are hirelings. They are paid by the owner to look after things, and so they are not personally invested. They do not care as much when a lamb is sick, because it is their master’s lamb. They do not care if one is lost if it does not hinder their ability to be paid. And if a predator attacks, the hirelings think first of their own safety and not that of the animal.”
“Well said,” her father proclaimed, eyeing her with real approval this time. “Perhaps you ought to have married the missionary, Augusta.”
Mr. Devon considered her with a frown, and she prepared herself for his dismissal, or a change of subject. When he spoke, it was with a contemplative sort of tone. “You are suggesting then, Miss Ames, that I have employed sheep-herders to look after my property and they cannot do the job so well as I can.”
“Isn’t that what she said?” her father asked, bestowing Mr. Devon with continued disapproval. “No one will care about your household so much as you, sir.” He shook his head, and Daisy knew he was mentally bemoaning the state of the world they lived in, as he often did aloud.
“I understand the truth in that.” Mr. Devon sat taller again, his eyes meeting hers. “It is something I will think on. Thank you, Miss Ames, for sharing that perspective.” At least he did not say those words dismissively, but he gave real weight to each one, as though he meant it.
Daisy nodded and pointedly gave her attention to her plate, willing the men to change the subject so she needn’t smooth anymore ruffled feathers. As handsome as Harry Devon had grown since her childhood, he really didn’t seem all that different from other gentlemen she’d met. He flirted, he charmed, and he didn’t pay much attention to the more important matters of life.
He is kind, she amended her thoughts, feeling a prick of guilt for judging him with such haste. He rescued Bell from the tree, he accepted our very humble invitation. The only reasonable thing for her to do was withhold her opinion until she knew him better or he went away again. Considering what she’d learned thus far, she thought the latter the more likely outcome.
Chapter Five
After his morning ride, Harry went in search of Thomas. His brother-in-law would be going over the accounts and letters in regard to his horse farm, which was thriving from all that Harry could tell. Thomas Gilbert had grown his stables from a few mares into a veritable herd of fine-blooded animals. A horse from his stables had sold for five hundred pounds at Tattersall’s, or so Harry had heard from a friend. If anyone could give Harry the advice he sought, it was Thomas. Apart from being successful in his chosen path, Thomas was also a level-headed gentleman. Sometimes, Harry wondered how his somewhat exuberant sister had fallen in love with a man so much her opposite.
“Tom?” he said, poking his head around the doorframe.
His brother-in-law looked up from a desk covered in neat stacks of books and carefully arranged papers. “Harry, good morning. Did you enjoy your ride? Which beast did you take out today?”
Though he had a horse of his own, gifted to him upon completion of his studies by Thomas and Christine, Harry enjoyed trying as many of the mounts as possible when visiting. “I’m not sure I can say the name aloud and consider it respec
table,” Harry said, not even trying to hide his grin. “Who in your family thought naming a hunter of that size Little Rosie?”
Thomas chuckled and stood, stretching. He’d obviously been at work for some time, given the way he relished getting out of his chair. “A daughter of one of the grooms. Her father brought her in for the birth four years ago and, in his elation, asked her what she would name the animal. I was there, and you’ve never
seen such big blue eyes. I couldn’t tell her the filly would be called anything else.”
“You have a great weakness for young ladies who enjoy horses,” Harry said, dropping into a chair near the fire. “Am I disturbing you, Tom?”
“Not at all. I welcome the distraction. What brings you to my study this morning?” Thomas came to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel.
After leaving the vicar’s home the evening before, Harry had turned over Miss Ames’s words to him several times. They had built upon what Christine had spoken to him of the day he arrived for his visit. People seemed to think he needed to give more attention to his holdings. He supposed he understood, but would it really change anything if he received his steward’s reports living at Whitewood instead of in a letter?
“I have been thinking about the estate,” he said at last. “But for all my thoughts, I am no closer to a decision.”
“You are still considering leasing it.” Thomas said, his eyebrows raised.
“Not just yet.” Harry sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I think Christine is right, that I ought to look into matters further before allowing strangers to move into the home. It may not be the best course of action, or there may be things I must see to before taking such a step.”
“Then what sort of decision are you speaking of, if it is not the matter of the lease?” Thomas asked, his brow wrinkling with perplexity.
“I suppose I am talking of the largest decision. The one that encompasses everything else; the house, my position in society, the investments my father made.” Harry tilted his head back against the chair and raised his eyes to the ceiling, a cream-colored expanse that revealed no answer to him. “I must decide what to do with my life, and determine what sort of shepherd I am.”
Courting the Vicar's Daughter: A Regency Romance (Branches of Love Book 6) Page 4