“A woman’s reputation is all she has, Harry. I’m not about to risk myself in that way, not when I know nothing of your plans, and that horrid man you had measuring the cottages said—”
He interrupted her, coming close once more. “You do not trust me at all, do you? I have never been anything but honest with you, I have tried to be a better man. It was easier for you to believe the worst of me than to hope the reasons behind my actions were motivated by a desire to do what was right.”
Everything constricted, all her thoughts and doubts accusing her of exactly what he said. I am not at fault. I cannot be. Everyone has been shocked by his behavior. How could tearing down the cottages be right? And her father, the vicar, had said what everyone had been thinking. His words rose to her lips with ease.
“Your father would not have hesitated to do a thing which gave him a profit,” she said. Her pride wounded, she meant the words to shield her from further harm. To protect her from his accusations.
When Harry drew back, his face pale and his mouth parting, she knew her shield had instead been a spear. And the words hit a fatal mark.
“I am nothing like my father.” His voice was a whisper, his eyes empty. “Though it seems everyone in Annesbury is ready to condemn me for having the misfortune of being born his son.” He took a step back. “Thank you for showing me exactly why I never wanted to return to Whitewood. Good day, Miss Ames.”
“Harry,” she called, her arm suspended in the air as though she could snatch him back, along with her unkind words. But why, if he was the monster throwing families into the cold, did she feel as though she had done something wrong?
He did not turn around, and in a moment was gone from her sight.
Though she longed to chase after him, to force him to change his mind about the tenants, Daisy remained where she stood.
Perhaps they did not suit one another after all.
Chapter Nineteen
Remaining at Whitewood, after knowing how the people of the village regarded him, was out of the question.
Harry used the desk in the library and wrote an explanation of what was to be done about the cottages and tenants. If Ellsworth had returned, Harry would have dispatched the man at once to clear up the matter. He had no wish to go himself to the tenant cottages, to see accusation in their eyes, the distrust and anger. Never mind it was all misdirected.
He called the butler and gave the servant the letter. “Have a footman deliver this to the tenants and read it to them.” He said nothing else. He’d done all the explaining he intended to do in his letter.
Even if the people living upon his land lacked trust in him, he could not let them live in fear of losing their homes.
Once the butler left, Harry flung himself onto the couch in the library and slung an arm over his eyes.
Fleeing the village, the entire county, would be the easiest thing. Harry might go to London and take up bachelor quarters. No one there would think it odd. In a little time, spending money in the right places, popularity would follow and he might establish a name for himself. In London, he could buy his way into being well liked.
Except he did not care the sort of friends who could be bought.
Harry removed his arm from his eyes, stretched out and stared at the ceiling, attempting to find something to distract himself.
The chandelier was far too gaudy for a room supposedly dedicated to reading. Perhaps he would tear it out and replace it with more practical lighting. The heavy curtains were ridiculous, too. The room needed more light, not less. Rebecca, the youngest of his sisters, was a devoted reader. She had redone the library at her husband’s primary estate so that, with all its lamps lit, it was as bright as day.
Maybe Rebecca would consent to redo the library for him. Possibly he could induce Christine to see to the stables and his sister Julia to put his stillroom in order. They could all come to visit and help him make the house into more of a home.
Except I do not want to stay where I am not wanted. He folded his arms across his chest and glared at the ceiling. He’d taken to imagining Daisy in the house, after all. Wondered, in fact, what she would do with the overly large place should she become its mistress.
I need not wonder about that anymore.
Harry pushed himself up and shoved his fingers through his hair before giving it a good yank.
Thinking of Daisy only deepened the ache in his heart. Had she ever believed him to be a good man? Why had she become his friend, kissed him, agreed she might one day be more, if she did not trust him?
He stood and left the room, walking the long, dark halls of his house. Around every corner, he almost expected to see a sister walking down the corridor. Or else to hear the tread of his father’s step.
He stopped before the music room, considering the closed door. He pushed his way through and went to the piano. Julia had spent a lot of time in that room, practicing and playing everything she could. And it was here where one of Harry’s few memories of his own mother lingered.
He had been very young when she’d died. He hardly remembered her. His sisters filled whatever place in his heart his mother had occupied, except for one small hole that ached when he wondered what he had lost.
Did Daisy play the pianoforte? What would she think of this instrument? When he sat down at the bench and pressed upon a few keys, he knew what he thought of it. Needs to be tuned.
Except he would not see it done. Not when he was considering leaving the house altogether. If no one occupied the home, there was no one to hear the keys played.
He stared down at ivory and black keys, not truly seeing them. Instead, he perfectly pictured the look on Daisy’s face when he’d kissed her. Or she’d kissed him. Though uncertain as to who had initiated the moment, the memory had made him smile. He’d carried the taste of her kiss with him to London, grinning like a fool at the oddest moments.
He’d spent time learning of things that might interest her, too. As he went about his business, signing paperwork, he tried to learn more about the educational system of the Anglican church.
He’d gathered pamphlets, books, and spoken to experts on the subject. He’d arranged for funds to go to schools he found in the worst parts of London, where kind-hearted men and women struggled to teach children enough to lift them from the gutters.
Coming back home, full of all he’d seen, Harry’s desire to speak to Daisy about everything had mounted with each passing mile.
He’d even prepared what to say to her father. It was high time he received permission to court Daisy properly, after all. Arriving home, he’d struck out on a walk to the vicarage to do that very thing.
Harry ran his fingers across the piano keys, not enough to play a single sour note.
Coming upon Daisy at once, on the lane in front of his home, had been like receiving a gift. His Daisy. Except she no longer considered herself attached to him. No longer wanted him. Her accusations, her distrust, pierced him deeply. How could there be love without trust?
Harry left the music room, trying to outrun his thoughts. But everywhere he went inside the house, he thought of Daisy. When had he started filling the corners of his heart and mind, the shadows of his house, with her image?
Dinner distracted him for a time, but only so long as he kept his eyes on his plate. Every time he glanced up to the empty chair at the other end of the table, he pictured it with Daisy sitting there, smiling back at him.
At last he laid in bed, hoping that sleep would bring him a respite from thinking of her. Though it was unlikely, given that he’d dreamt of her while he’d been away.
He couldn’t live like this. He wouldn’t stay at Whitewood. The house was obviously cursed for him, bringing him nothing but unpleasant memories and the thoughts of what would never be.
If only Daisy had trusted him.
Chapter Twenty
The gray of the morning sky’s gloom seeped into Daisy’s bedroom. She had hardly slept the night before and was awake before Sunday’s
dawn. The residents of their village would soon make their way to church. The previous Sunday, the first after everyone learned of Harry’s plans for the tenants, Mr. Haskett had delivered an impressive sermon about the rich young ruler who would not give up his earthly possessions to take up the cross.
Daisy rolled away from the window, staring instead at her dressing table. Harry’s handkerchief, still in her possession, sat folded on top of it. Why she still had the bit of cloth she could not say. Perhaps she kept it as a reminder of how mistaken one could be in another person’s character.
Eventually, she had to rise from bed. Her father would not hear of her skipping church, not unless she was ill. Would Harry be there to glare at all the congregants for their harsh judgment of him? Or would he stay away, his true character revealed?
Personally, she hoped he would not come. She had no wish to see him.
Her heart cracked, and her eyes ached. She would most certainly not cry about the situation. She’d kept dry eyes all night. Morning would see her just as resolved to put Harry—Mr. Devon—from her mind completely. He was nothing to her. Not anymore.
She washed her face and prepared for the Sabbath. The house was quiet, as it often was on Sundays. Her father was in a contemplative mood and did not notice her own silence.
They had the dogcart brought around for the short walk to the church. The vicarage was on the Earl of Annesbury’s property, the church nearer the village, and her father’s health made the walk difficult for him.
When they arrived, one of the deacons helped her father step down, and then assisted her. She entered the church on her father’s arm, too caught up in her thoughts to give heed to her neighbors. Except to notice one thing.
Harry hadn’t come.
She and her father settled on the front pew, as they always did. Daisy adjusted her cloak and tucked both hands in her muff. Though the church was warmed by a stove, it was still too cold for her comfort. All rose and sang a hymn she knew by heart, then sat and waited for Mr. Haskett to read from a text.
“‘Judge not, lest ye be judged.’” The words, spoken in Mr. Haskett’s deep voice, reverberated through the church and forced Daisy to look up, in some surprise.
Mr. Haskett wore a solemn look, his shoulders were hunched, and he appeared rather pale. Sorrowful, almost.
“The people of this parish, myself included, have made a sore mistake. We leapt to conclusions about one of our own. We judged harshly, and with little evidence before us. Dear people, I speak of what I have learned only this morning. The tenant cottages on the Devon land are to be demolished.”
Daisy ducked her head, her stomach tightening uncomfortably.
“But only after new cottages are built and the tenants moved into the safer, more appropriate housing.”
There was an audible gasp from several in the room, including Daisy herself. She covered her mouth with her hand after the sound escaped and her attention focused more fully on Mr. Haskett than it ever had on his sermons in the past.
“The tenants received word of this last evening, and have given me the evidence of a letter written by Mr. Devon. As I was one of the first to spread word of what I thought was a cruel deed, I wished to admit my fault to all of you. I attempted to seek out Mr. Devon this very morning, but he has gone again from home.” Mr. Haskett lowered his head a moment.
Despite the upset from that piece of news, Daisy could not help but respect Mr. Haskett’s humility in admitting his wrong. Before an entire church full of his parishioners. The bravery it took spoke well of his character and condemned her further for her previous silence.
Her father leaned closer to her and murmured quietly in her ear, “The curate would be a good match for you, Augusta.”
That was what her father took from Mr. Haskett’s announcement? Even now, with Harry’s innocence and good intentions made clear, her father’s first words were spoken in favor of the curate’s suit?
Daisy stood. People shifted and turned to look at her. She could feel the eyes of every person in the room turned onto her back. Mr. Haskett stopped speaking—she had not even realized he’d continued to discourse on the subject of withholding judgment—and stared at her too. Though she knew her actions would cause speculation, and gossip, Daisy stepped out of the pew and walked down the aisle to the back of the church. She met no one’s eyes. She simply left. Sitting still and quiet in the church, the curate’s words added to the voice in her head to reprimand her, made the guilt roil until she felt certain it would burst from her.
She walked faster and faster toward home, the skirts of her gown flying up behind her. Her eyes stung, but Daisy did not realize she was crying until the icy wind hit the wet tracks upon her cheeks. While her dreams of opening a school were finally coming true, another dream had died before she had even given it a chance. Before she had given Harry a real chance.
She’d been so caught up in being better than he, showing him all the ways in which he lacked, how he had ignored his responsibilities. She’d lost herself in her own piousness, in her position as the vicar’s daughter, that she had only thought to protect herself when the village turned against him.
Daisy had once told Harry, with some pride and some amusement, that as a vicar’s daughter she had long since memorized many passages of scripture. That unfortunate truth haunted her now with words far wiser than hers echoing in her mind.
Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.
How wilt thou say to thy brother, let me pull out the mote out of thine eye; and, behold, a beam is in thine own eye? Ye hypocrite.
She knew them all. Had been forced to write them out as a consequence to poor behavior when she was a girl. Her father and mother never wished her to forget those lessons, and it seemed making her write them out had done the job. But she remembered them too late.
Daisy made it home, went up to her room, and then shut the world out.
She had held her heart back from him since the beginning, even treating his friendship with skepticism.
Harry’s expression, the pain evident in his eyes and voice, arose from her memory and further condemned her. A sob tore from her throat. I’ve lost him. And I never deserved him.
Chapter Twenty-one
One of the best ways to console oneself after a terrible disappointment, Harry had learned, was to play with his nephews and nieces. Luckily for Harry, his sister Rebecca had provided him with four such people to ease his troubles. Rebecca and her husband Christian had an eight-year-old daughter, twin sons of five years, and a three-year-old girl. Harry was spread out on the floor in the parlor of their home, constructing a block city with the twins.
Christian, Earl of Ivyford, was seated on the couch with Rebecca leaning against him, his arm curled around her waist and a hand spread over her expanding middle. The earl was reading a book, but Harry had caught his sister staring at him with a peculiar expression on her face.
The nursemaid appeared at the door, calling for the children to come wash before their dinner. There was a chorus of groans from the twins and the eldest daughter.
“Go on now,” Rebecca told them, amusement in her eyes. “I will be up to read you stories before bed.” After the children were herded out, Harry sat up and surveyed the impressive towers constructed from the blocks. “I think you may have some architects on your hands, Christian.”
Christian closed his book and dropped it in his lap. “Last week when you visited, you claimed the twins would take up espionage.”
“Given that they kept switching places, confusing me and everyone else about the place, I did think it would be a wise career for them. For king and country.” Harry forced a grin,
though he’d found ample humor in the twins’ antics on his last visit.
Rebecca started to sit up, groaning a little as she did, and her husband adjusted to support her as she stood. “I do not know why it is so difficult for all of you to see the differences in those two boys.” She put a hand to her bac
k. “Though I do thank you for keeping them entertained the last three days. It has given me a respite.”
“But,” Christian added, “as grateful as we are for that, I must admit to some curiosity as to why you returned so swiftly.”
“Christian.” Rebecca turned around to swat her husband’s shoulder. “We agreed we wouldn’t ask.”
“I did not ask anything, carina. I merely expressed curiosity.”
Their easy exchanges had been difficult to watch the last several days, reminding Harry of all he wished for in his own life. Yet it was good for him, he knew, to see a match where there was so much faith and happiness. It gave him hope he still might find such a thing for himself. And they had been patient with Harry, allowing him into their home without asking questions, though he had barely been away for two days since his previous visit.
Rebecca had taken one look at her brother’s eyes the night he arrived and welcomed him back, saying only, “We will talk about it when you wish.”
Nothing even tempted him to talk about Daisy, about the whole horrid village thinking him a callous beast. He could go indefinitely without ever speaking of it again. But the concerned frown of his sister ought to be dealt with. She would worry about him, and in her condition, she ought not feel even the slightest of worries.
“Sit down, Rebecca,” he said, pushing himself off the floor. “And I will abate your husband’s curiosity.” He shot Christian a grin, but it faded quickly. It was easier to keep up pretenses with the children nearby.
“Harry, you really do not have to—”
“Rebecca, let him get it off his chest,” Christian interrupted her, his deep voice gentle. He took her hand and tugged her back onto the couch. “He will feel better, and you will stop fretting.” It was easy to read the concern in Christian’s expression, as he obviously thought the same as Harry regarding Rebecca’s health.
“You will remember I spoke of Miss Ames when I was last here,” Harry said, looking away from the couple now holding hands upon the sofa.
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