Daniel's True Desire

by Grace Burrowes

  “My boys have become demons?” Kirsten said. “The dearest little scholars ever to spill their milk on each other and botch their French, demons? Surely you are mistaken.”

  Elsie was smiling an odd smile, as was Letty. Kirsten passed Letty the reins and climbed down unassisted, for it seemed her rotten boys had turned up perfect just when their decorum counted most.

  * * *

  “You can’t imagine the shrieking,” Squire Blumenthal said, while his gelding snatched at the grass. “The entire complement of Egyptian toads has taken up residence at the Grange, Banks, and it will not serve. Did you teach those boys the fine art of toad catching?”

  Well, yes, Daniel had. “Boys have a natural aptitude for such things, sir, normal boys. I’m sure the twins are simply glad to be done with their studies.”

  Blumenthal blotted his forehead with a white handkerchief while his horse’s bad manners went uncorrected.

  “Banks, these are not simple high spirits. I know my boys, despite what you might think, and they have their mother’s determined nature. They were doing well with you, mastering everything from sums to how to converse in something other than an angry shout. Since Tuesday, I’ve feared to cross my own threshold of an evening.”

  Denton Webber ambled over on a smart, lean gray. “Banks, a word with you. Blumenthal, you might want to join us. What is this nonsense about you leaving the church, Banks? My wife is threatening to leave me if I can’t find somewhere to send the boys, and the only place the boys are willing to go is back with you.”

  Blumenthal stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket. “You asked your own children what they wanted, Webber?”

  “They tell you what they need, what they want,” Daniel said, “if you pay attention, the same way you know how your horses or your flocks are going on.”

  “Matthias isn’t as subtle as all that,” Webber said. “He’s bold once he sees an objective. Mrs. Webber and I are worried he’ll turn into his cousin, a thoroughgoing rascal who can get ’round any tutor ever born. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the cousin, but first, Banks, I am charged to ask: Leave the church if you wish to, but what must we pay you to keep your school open?”

  Twenty yards away, Kirsten had climbed out of the barouche and been taken captive by the three Blumenthal sisters of a marriageable age.

  “Keep my school open?” Daniel asked. Any minute, the boys should come thundering around the edge of the trees, and now was not the time—

  “Keep my school open?” Daniel repeated more softly as the sense of Mr. Webber’s words sank in.

  “Mrs. Blumenthal would want me to ask you the same question on the same terms,” the squire said. “Since the boys came home a few days ago, my kingdom has been at war, Banks. My wife won’t speak to me unless it’s to ask if I’ll send the boys off to public school on Monday. My daughters were heard discussing how to implicate their brothers in offenses serious enough to merit incarceration.”

  Webber took up the chorus.

  “My housekeeper is threatening to give notice. The boys trapped the pantry mouser in with the clean linens. The lot was no sooner laundered and refolded than it happened again, with the stable tom added for good measure. Perhaps we can’t pay what Lord Fairly has promised you, but I’ve spoken to my brother about his boys—he has two, and they’re the despair of his every dream. Nobody likes to speak of a boy who can’t be managed, but you could fill that dower house with them.”

  At some point, Nicholas and Fairly had joined the circle forming around Daniel.

  “You could take on several dozen at least,” Nicholas said. “The dower property sits empty otherwise, and I’ve rather enjoyed having rambunctious scholars on the premises. Gives Belle Maison a proper cachet, to have an academy right across my garden.”

  “You have room for plenty more juvenile miscre—scholars,” Fairly said. “Might have to add on to the stable, though.”

  Daniel’s heart started pounding amid all the reasonable tones and casual suggestions—pounding or breaking.

  “I’m very flattered by your opinions of my teaching ability, but I can no longer… That is to say, my vocation, my religious calling—”

  “Who says you must wear a collar to teach a pack of unruly boys?” George asked—and where had he come from? “If you expand your enrollment, you won’t have time for vicaring in any case. One must learn to be flexible, Banks. The boys need you; their families need you. That business with the cat in the linen closet is intolerable.”

  The business with the cat in the linen closet was a sure sign of collusion, of cooperation among a shrewd and determined pack of scheming little—

  “I’d be happy to help,” Ralph said. He was unmounted, and his presumptuousness had turned his ears red. “Annie likes working at the dower house too.”

  “Baskets every week,” Blumenthal added. “Missus suggested it. The girls will sew you all the curtains you need.”

  Mrs. Webber had joined the Blumenthal ladies in an earnest discussion with Kirsten, and over the kettledrum thumping in his chest, Daniel wanted to shout for his wife to rescue him from these mad fools—

  “Here they come!” somebody yelled, and a cheer went up along the line of conveyances and picnic blankets.

  The thunder of little hooves pounding for home in a flat-out gallop joined the pounding of Daniel’s heart as Kirsten broke away from the women to stride in Daniel’s direction.

  She was upset. Those dratted women had upset Daniel’s beloved and these men had upset Daniel. Kirsten needed him; Daniel needed her. Nothing else mattered, and nothing would serve but that he go to her.

  Fairly was blathering about scholarships when Daniel nudged Beelzebub forward. The circle of fellows fell to cheering the contestants on, but Daniel had eyes only for his wife.

  “They made you cry,” he said, climbing off his horse. “Those infernal women made you cry.”

  “I don’t want to leave the boys,” Kirsten blurted out, falling against Daniel and lashing her arms around his waist. “Daniel, I never thought I’d have any children to love, and that has made me overly susceptible—I cannot leave our rotten boys, and they don’t want to leave us either. I’m a bad wife and a terrible helpmeet and a rotten Christian, but I want to keep our boys. Tell me you can solve this, Daniel, because it’s b-breaking my h-heart.”

  The cheering grew louder, the pounding hooves closer. Six horse and rider pairs streaked safely over the finish line to mad applause.

  “I cannot solve this,” Daniel said, hugging his wife indecently close. “I could never have solved this. Thank all the merciful powers and six little scamps, somebody else already has.”

  Epilogue

  “I asked at the Queen’s Harebell, because the vicarage stands empty,” Patrick Warwick informed the woman who’d opened the door. “I was told I’d find Reverend Banks at the Belle Maison dower house, though why the minister—was that a toad?”

  “That was the William of the Week,” the woman said, opening the door wider and stepping back into a gleaming front hallway. “You’ll have to pardon our Charles. He’s not as fast as the other boys at catching toads—not yet, but he’s wily and tenacious, and we have high hopes for him. Won’t you come in, sir?”

  Wily, tenacious boys were seldom viewed with such great good cheer—Patrick had been one—and this woman was not a housekeeper. A man of the cloth learned to read people, though no parson’s instincts were needed to reach that conclusion. She was not attired as a housekeeper, and she was too pretty.

  Also far too pregnant. Patrick followed her inside, out of a late summer afternoon.

  “I am Patrick—”

  A small, dark-haired boy came pelting around the corner.

  “That way, Charles,” the lady cried, pointing down the corridor. “William is tiring. Don’t give up, and you’ll soon have him.”

 
The child snapped off a bow and dashed away.

  “You encourage toad catching, ma’am?”

  “I can’t have toads loose in the house, now can I? The boys decided no toad could endure a week without taking any air, so our William goes for a hop about the house at least once a day. A boy learns stamina and strategy when he’s assigned to toad duty. The responsibility is much-coveted among the new arrivals. Do I take it you’re Patrick Warwick, late of Dewey Close?”

  “I have that honor,” Patrick said, offering a bow more polished than young Charles had attempted.

  “I’m Lady Kirsten Banks,” the woman said with a bit of a dip that might have been a curtsy. “Daniel is trying to explain to the youngest boys why the Regent, as head of the Church of England, gets away with ceaseless gluttony and intemperance. The older boys are trying very hard not to laugh. Theology is a frequent trial to their composure.”

  Patrick was hot, dusty, tired, and too honest for his own good. “Theology is a frequent trial to my own composure.”

  “Marvelous,” she said, hanging Patrick’s hat on a hook and taking him by a dusty sleeve. “Daniel says you’ve vexed the bishops with your outspoken sermons and liberal politics. The only fellows I like better than those who think for themselves are hungry, thirsty fellows who think for themselves.”

  Another boy went by at a thundering gallop.

  “Try my parlor, Harold,” Lady Kirsten called after him, “and consider that one doesn’t catch a rabbit by making noise.”

  Just like that, the small fellow slid to a halt and tiptoed in the opposite direction of the toad catcher.

  “Rabbits teach quiet?” Patrick hazarded.

  “And speed,” Lady Kirsten said, drawing Patrick into a sunny dining parlor. “We’ve been expecting you for a week. Sally Blumenthal in particular has been practicing her soprano solos, so to speak. You’re probably used to that sort of thing by now.”

  “Speed, stamina, and strategy are skills every vicar must call upon occasionally,” Patrick said, because to this smiling woman, a man might admit such truths.

  “Daniel will like you very well,” she replied. “I’ll have some ale sent up and tell Daniel he must leave off instructing the scholars long enough to greet his successor. If you see a rabbit or a toad, summon one of the boys in French, Latin, or Greek.”

  “Because that teaches…?”

  “It gives the quarry time to get away. Charles is the fidgety sort and afternoons in the schoolroom are hard on him. A good steeplechase through the premises helps him stay out of trouble.

  “I’d just made up a snack for my husband,” her ladyship went on, “but he’d want you to have it.” She lifted a cover from a plate and revealed two sandwiches, ham and cheddar peeking from between slices of pale bread. A plate of sugar-dusted biscuits sat near a glass of lemonade, and sliced peaches filled a glazed bowl.

  “I’ve only had peaches once before,” Patrick said, which wasn’t exactly polished repartee. His mouth watered at the very sight of the glistening fruit though. Peaches were ambrosial, the nectar of the gods, and more than a delicacy in the wilds of the North Riding. For a cold sliced peach, Patrick might well have joined Adam and Eve in their fall from grace.

  “My brother grows them over in Surrey,” Lady Kirsten said. “We have plenty. Enjoy your snack, and I’ll free Daniel from the lions.”

  This was a snack? But then Reimer had said Banks was leaving the church to be headmaster at some establishment the titles were keen to send their heirs to. This establishment, apparently, and boys—especially boys who spent afternoons racing about—were prodigiously accomplished at eating.

  Lady Kirsten swished away, moving at a rapid clip for a woman approaching her confinement.

  Patrick was halfway through his first sandwich and his lemonade when a tall, dark-haired man accompanied her ladyship into the dining parlor.

  “Mr. Banks,” Patrick said, rising to offer a bow. He’d not turned loose of his sandwich and had to switch hands with it to shake Banks’s hand.

  Banks smiled at that faux pas, an expression of humor, commiseration, kindness, and mischief. His smile belonged on the face of a confident, merry young boy, but also looked exactly right on him.

  “So glad you’ve arrived, Mr. Warwick. Your safe travels have been in my prayers for weeks.”

  Clergy were always throwing around references to prayers, playing piety games with each other, half in jest, half in earnest. Patrick had the sense that Banks was simply being honest.

  “Shall we sit?” Lady Kirsten suggested. “I’ve left the door open out of respect for the fugitives, but I can close it if the noise will bother you.”

  The noise being the occasional scampering boy or gratuitous shout.

  “I have three younger brothers,” Patrick said. “This is not noise.”

  Husband and wife sat, one on either side of the table, while Patrick was positioned at the head.

  “You must have your brothers come visit,” Lady Kirsten said. “We like boys.”

  “Girls too. Girls have a better grasp of strategy,” the vicar observed with a fond smile for his wife. “We’ll add a program for girls in a few years. How did you leave Reimer?”

  Abruptly, Patrick wished he’d not listened to the directions of the good fellows at the Queen’s Harebell, wished he’d kept riding right down to the coast, then taken ship.

  “Reimer despairs of me,” Patrick said. “I’ve offended the men who’ve held the livings at my last two posts. I criticized their politics. This is my last chance.”

  A glance went across the table, volumes of unspoken conversation between man and wife, between two conspirators who colluded with rabbits and toads in the name of scholarship for rambunctious boys.

  “Well, that’s a pity,” Banks said, all gentle consternation, “because you are absolutely, utterly, indispensably needed here. I’m run ragged trying to maintain my church duties and look after the boys. Lady Kirsten will soon have new duties that must have her complete attention—though we haven’t chosen a name yet—and prior to my arrival, this parish hadn’t had a dedicated pastor with any real vocation for years.”

  “You cannot abandon us,” Lady Kirsten said, smoothing a hand over the bulge of her belly. “Daniel and I have taken on more than we ought, with the boys and their education. They’re special boys, you know, every one of them. If you will not make a go of this position, Daniel will be asked to wait for yet more months while Reimer dithers over a replacement.”

  Men left the church. Younger sons inherited titles, other men inherited means and even businesses or land. Still others were quietly encouraged to find another calling before their vices caused the church embarrassment, but none of those factors seemed to apply here.

  And Reimer did dither. He was a first-rate ditherer, and he flirted with his help.

  Patrick studied his lemonade, rather than peer at his host. “May I ask why you’re stepping down?”

  “I was married before attaining my majority, and without my father’s consent,” Banks said in the same tone of voice a man might refer to having once ridden a piebald despite a preference for bays. “The union was annulled earlier this year after a period of separation from my first wife. My flock knows my circumstances, and has invited me to stay on, but the situation gave me an opportunity to evaluate my choices. Kirsten and I will be happier and can make a better contribution if I’m a headmaster rather than a vicar.”

  So simple. Patrick liked simple, honest answers far better than the convoluted High Church nonsense.

  “The lemonade is very good,” he said. The company was too. Kirsten and I, Banks had said, as if their happiness were a conjoined entity.

  “Daniel loves the boys, and they love him, and I love them all,” Lady Kirsten said, setting a pitcher of lemonade by Patrick’s elbow. “You’ll have far too much room for one person at the vicar
age, no matter how much you might enjoy solitude. You must visit us often, lest you get lonely.”

  Patrick was lonely, had been ever since his uncle had told him to choose the church, the military, or the New World.

  A rabbit loped softly into the room, a pretty gray bunny with a wiggly little nose. A large brown toad hopped in after her.

  Neither Mr. Banks nor his wife spared the creatures more than a glance, and the corridor was silent. Something eased in Patrick’s chest. Hunger and thirst addressed, toad and rabbit accounted for, and at least one offer of friendship already extended.

  “I shall love it here,” Patrick said, offering the plate of biscuits around. The three adults—and one rabbit and one toad—sat for nearly an hour discussing the parish, the boys, the genial earl who held the living.

  And not the weather. By the time the conversation wound around to the choir, Patrick felt as if he were talking to his two, or possibly four, oldest friends.

  Little boys came through to scoop up the animals; a dinner bell sounded from somewhere distant in the house.

  “You will join us for dinner,” Lady Kirsten said, scooting her chair back. “The boys will want to look you over and offer suggestions for how to go on in Daniel’s place. Our boys are very helpful, and often have excellent ideas.”

  Mr. Banks was around the table to hold her ladyship’s chair as quickly as any of the boys might have been, and when she rose, Lady Kirsten kissed Banks’s cheek and leaned into his chest.

  Right there in the parlor, with Patrick unable to look away, husband and wife cadged a happy little snuggle.

  “Don’t be scandalized,” Lady Kirsten said. “The boys ignore us, and the help laughs at us. I’m besotted with my husband, Mr. Warwick. Maybe Sally Blumenthal will one day behave the same way with you.”

  A queer feeling came over Patrick, the urge to laugh accompanied by a little chill. He had yet to meet the lovely Miss Blumenthal, but he adored a confident soprano and was abruptly hopeful he might adore his position as the Vicar at St. Jude’s.