Daniel's True Desire

by Grace Burrowes

  Bishop Reimer was in cheery humor, shaking hands, smiling, and generally looking friendly and genial. In addition to Kirsten’s brothers and sisters, the wives were present as well—Beckman’s Sara, Ethan’s Alexandra, and George’s Elsie.

  Nita had not yet returned from her travels with Mr. St. Michael, but she’d sent warm wishes and a lovely wool counterpane from Germany as a wedding gift.

  The kitchens prepared a feast worthy of the old earl’s funeral, and the house was scrubbed within an inch of its cellars. The neighbors, who’d arrive when the gathering in the formal parlor had concluded, would be shown such generous hospitality that nobody would go home hungry and few would go home sober.

  The stage being lavishly set, the family grew quiet, and when the parlor door was closed, Reimer cleared his throat and signaled the earl that one more round of libation was in order before matters got under way.

  * * *

  “He did it,” Bertrand said, tossing his hat and gloves onto the sideboard. “Damned fool vicar married his lady, and half the shire is blathering about the bride being radiant and the groom besotted. I hope you’re happy.”

  Bertrand was happy, because anything that moved Olivia closer to her goal moved her closer to the day when she’d have to get on with her life.

  A life that included him.

  “They’re married?” Olivia asked as the butler closed the door. “You’re sure?”

  Not “how was your journey,” “you must be tired,” or “thank you, dear Bertrand, for going to so much effort.” Not from his Olivia.

  “No, my dearest,” Bertrand said, moving down the corridor to his office, because some discussions ought not to take place before the help. “I am not sure. I was not in attendance at the nuptials. The couple used the special license to have the ceremony in the earl’s formal parlor, and I was, alas, not invited. Maybe bishops go jaunting out to Kent for their health, and earls beggar their exchequers feeding the peasantry for the hell of it.”

  The gouty old man at the Queen’s Harebell had sung the praises of the bridal punch in terms usually reserved for saintly visions.

  “They’re married,” Olivia said, no longer a question. “I knew it.”

  As Bertrand closed the office door behind her, she warmed to her topic.

  “Daniel is too handsome, too sweet, too saintly not to need a woman tending to him. He thinks the world is full of people just as virtuous as he is. Marriage to him was the biggest mistake I could possibly have made, but now all will come right.”

  Or all go to hell.

  Bertrand poured himself a tot of brandy to wash the dust of the road from his throat, because the woman whom he’d fed, clothed, sheltered, and swived couldn’t be bothered to offer him that consideration.

  “Are you admitting that you should have married me, Olivia?”

  She appropriated his drink and took the first sip. “You were another village boy with more ambition than sense and hands that wandered at every opportunity. Of course I should not have married you.” She passed the drink back. “Not then.”

  Not then. Hope, useless and stupid, washed through Bertrand along with the warmth of the spirits.

  “Have you considered how you’ll confront Banks now that he’s a bigamist, Livvie?” Poor, saintly sod.

  Olivia threw herself onto the sofa where Bertrand liked to stretch out of an evening.

  “The courts might not see it that way,” she said. “The courts might think you tricked him, and thus he’s not to blame. I can still cause a glorious scandal, and that’s all that really matters.”

  No, that was not all that really mattered.

  You tricked him. Bertrand topped up his drink and took a place leaning on the mantel, the better to watch Olivia when she realized she should have married him after all.

  “You think to implicate me because I sent Banks word of your supposed death?” Bertrand asked.

  “Don’t turn up difficult, Bertrand,” she said, arranging expensive silk skirts. “You’ve been a dear, and Daniel probably hasn’t even kept your little note.”

  The note Bertrand had sealed and signed while Olivia looked on.

  “Doubtless, the vicar threw my epistle straight into the fire as grief overcame him,” Bertrand said, “but I know something you have signed, many somethings, in fact.” More and more every week.

  “I haven’t corresponded with anybody,” Olivia shot back. “I’m supposedly dead. Shopgirls who do fittings won’t identify me as Daniel Banks’s late spouse, so stop annoying me.”

  “Annoying you is amusing.” Annoying Olivia was also satisfying on a level so petty, the village boy in Bertrand was ashamed. “You sign the bills at the shops, Olivia. Silk, satin, lovely wool blends, all manner of embroidery and finish work. Shoes, hats, gloves, stockings, nightgowns… You have impressive taste, but your bills are impressive too, and you kept right on signing them as Olivia Banks after your supposed death.”

  Bertrand didn’t begrudge Olivia those excesses. When he’d first come into money, he’d overspent too, on the biggest coach, the most impressive teams, the best tailoring. After about a year of such foolishness, he’d settled down.

  Olivia would never settle down. She needed a keeper, for her own good and the good of the king’s peace.

  “The bills are sent to you, Cousin,” Olivia said, sticking out her right foot, which was adorned with a gold slipper. “The shops are very pleased to have my custom.”

  She wiggled her toes and lay back against the sofa cushions, a woman very much in charity with herself.

  Bertrand swirled his brandy, enjoying the bouquet and the moment. “Olivia, how will you pay those bills?”

  The golden slipper disappeared from view. “You’ll pay them. That’s how it’s done, Bertrand. You impose yourself on a lady, and then pay her bills.”

  “You’re not a lady. You’re a scheming, common, married woman. You commit adultery with me, Olivia, for which you can be divorced.”

  She rose and patted his cheek. “Divorce would see Daniel hounded from the church, and while that might be delightful to watch, I wouldn’t get my money that way, would I? Daniel will never divorce me.”

  She was magnificent in her selfishness and determination, but Bertrand was determined too.

  “If I don’t pay your bills, then you could well go to jail. They keep you there until the debt is paid, you know. Perhaps your impoverished spouse can pay your extravagances, because you’re still legally his responsibility—unless he claims his wife is deceased. There was a funeral after all.”

  But nothing from a medical man documenting Olivia’s “death” in London. All rather complicated, but the constables would toss Olivia in jail first and sort out the details later.

  “Bertrand Carmichael, are you threatening me?” Olivia’s voice held a novel and gratifying hint of uncertainty.

  “I’m offering you a friendly warning, Olivia. You may insult Banks freely when no one is on hand to contradict you, but your scheme hasn’t borne fruit yet, and it might never. I can toss you out this minute and you’ve no claim on any man save Banks, whom you plan to defraud of his wealth and his happiness. Your wifely devotion gives a prudent man pause. Do you want to know the sum you owe to the various shops?”

  Olivia wanted to slap him. Bertrand could see fury in her gaze, feel rage vibrating through her along with all the old resentments and frustrations. The thought of debtor’s prison had curbed many a foolish impulse, though, and Olivia’s hands stayed at her sides.

  Bertrand gave in to a foolish impulse of his own and kissed Olivia’s cheek.

  “We’re friends, Olivia, and you must not take your friends for granted. If you want me to arrange this confrontation with Banks, if you want my assistance in your daft plans, then you will show me the appreciation and respect I am due.”

  He held his glass up to Olivia’
s lips, and with murder in her eyes, she obediently drank the last of his brandy.

  * * *

  “So now what?” Fairly asked, and Daniel was relieved at the question. Kirsten shot him an encouraging look across the breakfast table, which was as close as they’d been to each other since yesterday’s nuptial gathering.

  “Now,” Daniel said, accepting the rack of toast from Lady Della, “we wait.” They dined without benefit of a footman at the sideboard, most of the staff having been given a half day in light of yesterday’s overindulgences.

  “How long do we wait?” Bellefonte asked from the head of the table.

  An Old Testament question with immediate relevance.

  Nobody was happy with Daniel’s scheme, nor was he overjoyed with it himself. Even if they managed to thwart Olivia, many questions remained unanswered, such as how Daniel would support his family when the church had tossed him aside.

  “We wait as long as it takes,” Kirsten said. “I am an earl’s daughter, and if I say the vicarage needs new wallpaper before I’ll bide there, nobody will say anything about it. Not every couple goes to housekeeping immediately after the wedding. Della, the butter usually follows the toast.”

  Della obliged without comment, suggesting the tension in Daniel’s gut was shared by the entire family. The scholars would have a week’s holiday, but then the schoolroom routine was to resume, to the extent Daniel could support that farce.

  “It’s as if there’s a war raging nearby,” Lady Della said. “We have no idea when the enemy will march in this direction, but the best spoils are here, so a battle is inevitable.”

  Fairly appropriated the teapot. “Well put. Letty, some tea?”

  Daniel’s sister had been quiet yesterday, and she looked none too cheery this morning.

  “I wish we could confront Olivia,” Letty said as her husband poured out for her. “She thinks she has the element of surprise on her side, but why wait until the time and place of her convenience? She took months to embark on her mischief and she might wait years to spring her trap. Daniel could be a bishop before Olivia pounces, and where does that leave Lady Kirsten?”

  Letty knew well how tenacious and relentless Olivia could be—and how mean.

  “I agree with Letty,” Kirsten said. “If we confront Olivia, we choose the time and place, we choose who accompanies Daniel and what strategy to bring to the engagement.”

  Daniel set down the fork he’d been using to chase his eggs around his plate.

  “I hadn’t thought to bring anybody with me. Olivia might be devious but she won’t—”

  The entire table regarded him as if he’d gone daft.

  “I was the one who spoke vows with the woman,” Daniel said. “Her grievances are with me, and mine with her. I don’t see any need to further involve—”

  Kirsten sat back and folded her arms, one eyebrow lifted ever so slightly. Their children would come to dread such an expression from her.

  That thought reminded Daniel that time was of the essence, after all.

  “Daniel, we have family to consider,” Kirsten said. “What do you tell the scholars about riding out, even over familiar ground?”

  A telling shot. “Travel in pairs,” Daniel said, another of his biblically based admonitions, for the apostles had gone forth in pairs. “Take a groom or a friend, but don’t ride out by yourself if you can help it.”

  The earl spoke up, though to appearances, he addressed the teapot. “You set a bad example in that regard, Banks, when you charge about on your demon steed. Time to mend your ways, methinks.”

  Fairly’s expression was both sympathetic and determined. “Lady Kirsten is right. We are your family, and that gives us certain privileges.”

  A vicar celebrated the service facing the congregation. As a result, he saw the glances that passed up and down the pews and across the aisles. Entire arguments, gossip, complaints, and sympathies were often traded right under his nose as some martyr was scripturally thrown to the lions.

  Martyr. To the lions.

  A look passed between Letty and Kirsten, who were nominally sisters by marriage.

  “Well, Banks?” the earl asked. “What shall it be?”

  Last week in the stable, sitting in the straw with Buttercup, Daniel had come to a startling insight: be angry and sin not.

  He took that to mean he had a right to address the wrongs done to him and his loved ones, that piety did not condone wrongdoing. A warrior’s version of virtue that appealed more strongly than the meek, humble, accommodating version Daniel’s father had tried to pound into him.

  Papa had been a lonely man. As Daniel had trudged through his late father’s old journals and fading correspondence, a paradox had emerged. Papa had known Scripture and theology, and every verse to every hymn ever penned by the pious hand of man, but he hadn’t known love. Warmth of the heart had bewildered the old man and left him bereft of words.

  And yet Papa would approve of what Daniel had planned for Olivia, and Papa’s scathing assessment of her—rendered in writing, many times—would be Olivia’s downfall.

  “I will appreciate any and all help our family sees fit to give me,” Daniel said. “If I might have the butter?”

  Kirsten smiled. Fairly patted Letty’s hand, and the earl took up the newspaper that had been folded by his elbow.

  God was in His heaven, and all was right with Daniel’s world—almost.

  * * *

  “I don’t like this holiday business,” Fred said, flopping down into a pile of straw. “We’ve nothing to do but read the Bible, and all our sisters talk about is the assembly. Vicar makes the Bible ever so much more fun.”

  “Or they blather on about their infernal dresses,” Frank lamented.

  Digby could sympathize with that sentiment. His mama had taken to prattling on about her dresses since she’d remarried. She’d complained of having to let her seams out for some reason.

  From below the haymow came the sounds of the livery’s horses contentedly munching hay, but other than that, all around the shady village green was quiet. Haddondale was still recovering from Saturday’s merriment at Belle Maison. Even the lending library hadn’t opened yet, which every boy had agreed was an affront to their scholarly ambitions.

  “Was Lady Kirsten very pretty?” Thomas asked. He sat cross-legged nearest the ladder, because Thomas was the best lookout.

  “She’s always pretty,” Digby said. “Vicar was handsome too, but he’s always handsome. The men had to wear knee breeches, and satin, and rings and stuff.”

  “Formal attire,” Danny said, the way Digby’s mama might have described a muddy dog asleep on her best sofa. “The dower house isn’t the same without you fellows. Maybe Alfrydd would take us out for a hack.”

  Matthias had his nose in a book, though any mention of riding usually provoked a recounting of his great steeplechase on Buttercup.

  “Mattie, what are you reading?” Digby asked. Matthias hated to read usually.

  “The Latin grammar,” he said, not bothering to look up. “Puer and puella, amo, amas, amat.”

  “Boy and girl, I love, you love, he loves? We covered that weeks ago,” Frank said. “Infernally boring too.”

  Everything had gone infernal with Frank. Last week’s word had been diabolical.

  “I can see it now,” Matthias said, putting the book aside. “I have an idea for how we might liven up our holiday.”

  “Does this idea involve toads?” Digby asked, because Mattie Two Eyes—his new nickname—was quickly regaining his former nimbleness of mind.

  “Not toads, you Hun. Flowers. We’re to pay a call on the newlyweds. Ladies like flowers, and there will be lots of tea cakes left over from Saturday.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Danny said. “I don’t think Papa has much to do without scholars to teach, and he can’t have Lady Kirsten al
l to himself. Sharing is a virtue.”

  Howling greeted that pronouncement, for bending the virtues to one’s own use had become a game among them.

  “Fine then,” Frank said, getting up and beating vigorously at his straw-covered trousers. “We go on a biology walk through the churchyard’s flower beds, then pay our call. Everybody clean out your pockets first, in case Lady Kirsten tells us to take an extra cake or two for later. Then we’ll ask Alfrydd to take us on a hack, but this week will be the most diabolically boring, infernally long week of my scholarly life.”

  * * *

  The most diabolically long, infernally boring, nerve-racking week of Daniel’s life ensued while the scholars went on their holiday. During that week, Lady Kirsten was overheard remarking to all and sundry that work yet needed to be done at the vicarage before she’d set up housekeeping there.

  Her ladyship was not quite telling a falsehood, for the vicarage had no nursery.

  “You’re brooding,” Kirsten said.

  Daniel rose from his desk in the dower house, sweetness, anxiety, and grief colliding in his heart at the sight of her.

  “How long have you been spying on me, my dear?” he asked.

  Kirsten slipped her arms around his waist. They embraced frequently, but the kissing… By tacit agreement, the kissing would have to wait.

  “I stood in that doorway for several minutes, Daniel, and you were elsewhere entirely. Are you having second thoughts?”

  Daniel was having regrets.

  “I wish I’d told my father that I respected him,” Daniel said, looping his arms around Kirsten shoulders. “He wanted my respect, and he had it, but I didn’t know enough to give him the words.” At twenty, Daniel had known only that Olivia would marry him, a vicar needed a wife, and Papa was a curmudgeon.

  “So what did he write about?” Kirsten asked, brushing Daniel’s hair back from his brow. “The poor man filled journal after journal, and it can’t all be sermons and theology.”