Page 50 of Courting the Vicar’s Daughter

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.