Page 55 of Courting the Vicar’s Daughter

“I must say, Mr. Devon,” Ellsworth said, his tone more earnest. “It is an honor to be your steward. I could not wish to work for a better gentleman”

Finally, for the first time in days, Harry smiled without trying. “Thank you. I will accept the compliment. And the work. I had better start going through these letters.” Ellsworth gathered the rest for him and soon Harry was at the desk in his own study, determining which letters he must answer personally and which he might consult Ellsworth about. He also started considering hiring a secretary.

After he sorted the last letter from London, Harry began going through the letters from the local tradesmen. Each were thanking him for his patronage, and some were even kind enough to offer him special services. But a few stated what he read between the lines in the rest. His neighbors were apologizing for not trusting him. By the time he folded the last and put it away, from the seamstress who offered to assist should he ever wish to order new maids’ uniforms, Harry was exhausted. What was he to say when he met these people again?

He sat back in his chair, lifting his eyes to look out the window across from his desk.

Snow drifted from the gray skies, falling past his window in swirls. Standing, Harry went to the window and stood gazing out over the front of his property. The house sat upon a slight hill, allowing him to look down the lane, toward the road. He could just make out the blackberry hedges bordering his land.

A figure moved up the lane, coming to the house.

Harry’s heart jumped into his throat and he leaned against the glass, as though it would help him see more clearly. A dark blue cape fluttered around the woman’s figure as she walked at a quick pace.

It cannot be her.

It had to be a servant, perhaps returning from a village errand. He watched a moment more, then escaped the study. He started for the stairs, practically leaping across the landing in order to run down the flight to the ground floor.

Harry did not stop for his greatcoat, but went straight to the door, ready to fling it open—

He skidded to a stop, his heart galloping wildly, and hesitated to touch the handle.

“Are—are you going out, sir?” a voice asked, startling him. A footman stood in the entryway, staring at him with wide eyes.

Harry looked back at the door. “No.” He took a step back. He should not be in a hurry to see her. If it even was her.

Of course it is Daisy. He released a shaky breath. “And I am not at home to visitors,” he said firmly. Starting for the stairs, and ignoring the baffled footman, Harry stretched his mind back to the business of answering his letters. He went up the steps slowly, his ears straining to hear any sounds beyond the portal to his home.

After he gained the landing, Harry looked down. The footman had disappeared, going about his business again.

Who would answer the door when she knocked?

It hardly mattered. He’d already decided that Daisy would not see him. Not today. He wasn’t ready for that. Of course, he wasn’t sure he ever would be ready.

His hand was on the latch to his study when he heard the three light raps upon the door, echoing through the halls of Whitewood. Frozen, he listened for the steps in the hall. There they were, rapid, business-like. The front door did not creak when it opened—it was too well oiled. But he heard the lift of the latch. He released his study’s handle and walked back to the landing, staying just out of sight.

“Good afternoon, Miss Ames.”

Harry closed his eyes, imagining the way Daisy would look, framed by his front door, snow flurries and the gray sky her background.

“Hello, Jamison. How are you today?” Her voice, clear and comforting, flew through the house to him.

“I am well, thank you. What may I do for you, miss?”

“Is Mr. Devon home?” Did she sound hopeful? Of course she did. She had some wish to see him. But calling upon him in such a way invited scandal.

His eyes snapped open. What is she doing here?

“I am afraid he is not at home, miss. Would you like me to relate any message to him?”

“Oh. No. That is—could you let him know I called?” That sounded like real disappointment in her voice.

“Of course, Miss Ames. Good day.”

She took her leave, and the door’s latch clicked shut again. Harry’s stomach tightened and his heart sank low against it.

I am the very worst sort of coward. He leaned against the wall, glaring up at the chandelier hanging over the entry hall. How could he turn her away? What more could she say to hurt him, after all? Hiding from Daisy Ames was impractical, foolish.

Harry groaned aloud, then raced down the stairs once more. The footman was there again, staring. The man might as well be useful.