Page 3 of Courting the Vicar’s Daughter

The thought of the party left behind came to him, and he wished there had been no cause to leave the circle of his family. What did it say about him, that he would rather be there again than at his father’s bedside? He’d left behind a house full of joy and laughter for the bitterness of his only living parent.

His father would not make for a pleasant patient, even if the fever subsided in the night. Harry knew his sisters, for all the good they possessed, should not be exposed to their father on normal terms. With Mr. Devon ill, it would be best to keep everyone as far from the house as possible. Which left it all to Harry to care for Mr. Devon. The last several years of his life, Harry had acted as a buffer in the family, which meant he was quite used to the position.

Whatever the outcome of the illness, it was up to Harry to see his father through it.

Chapter Two

Four Years Later, September 23rd, 1824

Carrying a basket of gingerbread biscuits to a neighbor, surrounded by the scent of damp earth and the golden leaves of fall, was quite possibly the most perfect way to begin a morning. Augusta Ames, who privately preferred the childhood nickname of Daisy, was called Miss Ames since both of her sisters married. If she couldn’t be called Daisy, she much preferred Miss Ames to Miss Augusta.

She swung her basket as she walked and took in the sky with a smile, not wishing to be anywhere else in the world. The bright shade of blue above promised a clear, beautiful morning. Those were the very best sort of mornings.

A cart turned onto the road from a lane and she waved to its driver, Mr. Rollins. He was a tenant farmer on the Whitewood property. He tipped his cap and pulled up his horse when they drew even. “Mornin’, Miss Ames. Where are you off to with that cheery smile?”

“To the Thatchers’. Little Annie Thatcher has just turned six, and gingerbread is her favorite.” Daisy reached into the basket, finding a biscuit beneath the napkin she’d used to cover her baked goods. “Would you like to sample the birthday treat?”

Though she was twenty-one, she appreciated the gingerbread as much as the six-year-old would. And what sort of person would ever pass up the opportunity for gingerbread?

“Oh, that’s kind of you—”

She forestalled his polite declination by holding the biscuit up to him. “Please, Mr. Rollins? It will make your ride to the village more agreeable.” She knew his destination quite well, as it was his habit to go for supplies and sundries every second Tuesday. The Rollins family were a people of routine, as were many locals, and no one knew their schedules quite so well as Daisy. It often fell to her, as the last of the vicar’s children at home, to perform charitable acts in her family’s name. Knowing the people in her community with some intimacy aided in that duty.

“What a treat, Miss Ames. You’re an angel.” He accepted the biscuit and immediately took a bite. The gingerbread, shaped like stars, boasted a little icing on each point. Her father would not approve of the extravagance of icing biscuits; he believed they were treat enough without depleting the kitchen’s sugar supply. A vicar’s family ought to be the very model of economy, after all.

“I’m not at all certain about that, Mr. Rollins, but I do hope you enjoy the biscuit.” She curtsied and went on her way, hearing his cart continue down the road a moment later.

A breeze danced through the trees and across the lane, making the leaves above her shiver and twirl on their stems. Autumn had arrived, and all the world put off summer gowns in exchange for the golden splendor.

Daisy couldn’t resist grinning to herself. Chancing a look behind her, she lifted her skirts a little higher than proper in order to skip. There was nothing so freeing as a good skip down a road. The basket bounced against her hip, the handle tucked tightly in the crook of her arm, but she didn’t mind it.

Her bonnet fell back, but the ribbons kept it secure around her neck, and she tossed her blonde curls out of her eyes with a laugh.

On days such as this, her dreams took flight on the breeze. All of her plans to open a school for the local girls were beginning to take a more realistic shape. For years she’d saved every spare coin she could to make a start. She had enough to purchase the most essential books, and she was nearly ready to reveal her plans to the community.

She didn’t want to open a boarding school for the children of the middle-class, for nobility. She wanted to give the little girls she saw every day a way to better themselves, to better their families present and future. Her father thought it a worthy endeavor, if not a very practical one.

That brought a frown to her face and her skips slowed back to a walk.

“Farmers will not see any point in educating daughters who could be home assisting in family work,” her father had told her, almost gently. “And once you marry, no husband will appreciate your time spent with the children of others. You will have your own home to care for.”

Daisy had spent a week trying to form an argument against such farmers. Without telling her father, she had also reaffirmed her decision to put marriage off for a time.

A man stepped out from between two hedgerows, not ten feet in front of her, and she drew up sharply.

It was her father’s curate, Mr. Percy Haskett. He wasn’t overly tall, or all that imposing a figure, really, but she nevertheless hesitated before greeting him. Several of the young misses in the neighborhood found him a good catch, despite a somewhat large nose and darker coloring. Yet when she spoke to him no sense of real connection formed. As good a man as he may be, Daisy never found herself wishing for more of his attention.

“Miss Ames,” he said, tipping his black hat in her direction. “Good morning. I didn’t expect to see you out of doors this early. What a surprise.” His green eyes, a shade which reminded her of spring grass, testified that he counted it a pleasant surprise when they crinkled at the corners.

“Mr. Haskett,” she said, curtsying. The curate was the very sort of man who would praise her idea of the boarding school as both morally righteous and terribly impractical. “I am on an important errand. It’s Miss Annie’s birthday.”

His brows drew together and he shook his head. “Miss Annie?”

The curate had taken many of her father’s duties well in hand the last six months, leaving Mr. Ames to slip into a semi-retirement from his responsibilities as a clergyman, but there were still some things Mr. Haskett hadn’t managed. Remembering the names of his youngest parishioners was one such item he’d yet to accomplish.

“She is the middle Thatcher daughter. She’s turned six today.” Daisy tried to keep her tone helpful, even kind, but it grew increasingly difficult to maintain such attitudes when near Mr. Haskett. Honestly, he reminded her a bit too much of her father, though not yet as ponderous in his way of speaking.

“Dear me. An auspicious day for her, indeed.” His smile, she supposed, could be counted attractive, but he turned it too often in her direction of late. Though Daisy insisted to herself his attentions were nothing but those of a clergyman coming to know his parish, the time might come for her to put a greater distance between the them.