But what about Daniel? She admired and respected him. Perhaps even loved him, his daughter as well. True, they had as yet no formal understanding, but he had made his desires clear enough.
At least before today. Why had he not spoken? She could guess why. He knew how deeply she longed to be with Edmund.
Could she forego a future with Daniel in order to be stepmother to her own son?
But the alternative seemed even more difficult to conceive.
For to refuse Mr. Harris would mean giving up Edmund all over again.
Oh, poor little butterfly, bound by so many fetters,
which prevent you from flying whithersoever you will!
Have pity on her, my God...so that she may be able
to fulfill her desires to Thy honour and glory.
—ST. TERESA OFAVILA
CHAPTER36
Time passed quickly, as time is wont to do.
Daniel Taylor worked alone in his garden in Doddington, thinking back yet again to that day fifteen years ago when Charles Harris had come to his London home and changed his life forever.
Daniel had been aware, of course, of Charlotte’s long affection for Harris, and knowing how she longed to be with her son, Daniel had despondently guessed which man she would choose. Loving her as he did, and wanting her much-deserved happiness, he had excused himself from the situation. He did not come home from the Manor all that day. He slept, albeit poorly, in his rooms there, knowing his absence would make things easier for Charlotte. And hopefully, less painful for him. He placed an ad in the newspaper for a new governess, confident Marie would suffice until one could be found. And he wrote to Dr. Webb, agreeing to take over his practice. He knew he might come into contact with the Harrises in Doddington, but since he surmised Charles would still be splitting his time between London and Fawnwell, he did not think it would be too often to be borne. He was ready to leave London and its memories behind. He would leave the Manor in the care of Thomas and his fine, understanding father.
Voices disturbed Daniel’s memories, and he looked up to see a group of Doddington school children running onto the lawn nearby, kicking a ball. He hoped they would not trample his prized specimens nor his entire garden with it. He recognized most of the children and knew several by name. With the numbers of children scampering about the village these days, his practice stayed busy indeed.
He was on his knees beside a swamp milkweed plant, searching each leaf, when the ball flew over the low garden wall and landed with a puff of dust beside his patch of sciatic cress. A girl—his favorite among the village children—leapt the wall neatly and went in search of the ball. Watching her, he could not help but be reminded of Charlotte Lamb as a girl.
“Near the sciatic cress, Lucy,” he said, returning to his examination of the chrysalis he had just found.
“The what?” she asked, bent low.
“The candytuft. There.” He pointed toward the small bushy plants with clusters of flat white flowers.
“Voila!” The girl held up the ball triumphantly and tossed it back over the wall to her friends. But instead of clambering back over the wall herself, she came and squatted on her haunches near him.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Examining this chrysalis.” After a moment he glanced at her.
“Do you not wish to rejoin your chums?”
She shrugged. “Not especially.” She knelt there beside him amid the milkweeds.
Now, close up, he thought Lucy reminded him a bit of Anne at that age, but Anne was all grown up now.
“You do know about milkweed, do you not?” he asked.
“I know Mr. Jarvis wishes you’d pull it from your garden.”
“That’s only because he doesn’t understand how important milkweeds are. Besides a whole host of medicinal uses, monarch butterflies lay their eggs on milkweeds, which is the only plant the larva eat.”
Lucy looked at him blankly, clearly not impressed.
“Monarchs are not native to England. But once in a while—every decade or so—they are sighted. Blown here by powerful winds.”
