Page 11 of Courting the Vicar’s Daughter

“Ah. A punctual young man. That is a mark in his favor.” Father pushed himself up from his chair. “Let us go meet him, my dear.” He held his arm out for Daisy, and once she took it, he led them out of the room.

Mr. Devon stood in their small entryway, his hat already removed, studying a pastoral painting which hung near the door. When they approached, he turned to fully face them, and bowed most respectfully.

“Mr. Ames, it is a pleasure to see you again. Miss Ames, thank you for having me to dinner.” His voice was warm, genuine.

“You are most welcome, sir.” Father answered for the both of them. “Won’t you come into the dining room?” Her father gestured, with Daisy still on his arm. “With only the two of us at home, we are not often formal, though we do appreciate your company.”

They made their way through the dining room door, to a table large enough to sit eight people comfortably. Places were laid only at the head of the table, where her father sat, with a setting on his left for her and on the right for their guest. Father helped her into her chair while Mr. Devon, his eyes taking in the room with interest, found his way into his own.

The housekeeper brought dishes from the sideboard, putting everything necessary on the table before disappearing back into the kitchens. The meal was a simple one, but Daisy knew everything would taste wonderfully.

“I must say, Mr. Devon, that the neighborhood is most curious about your return here. You cannot be unaware of that fact,” her father said, while Daisy gave attention to her potatoes.

Harry’s voice, more a tenor than a baritone, was laced with amusement when he spoke. “I am exceptionally well aware of it, Mr. Ames. While our neighborhood isn’t small, it is a very close community.”

“It is, indeed. Tell me, sir, how have you spent these last years? I was given to understand you finished your university studies two or three years ago.” Mr. Ames sliced his roast chicken into smaller pieces as he spoke, his slower speech giving Mr. Devon ample time to sample his own food before being required to make his answer.

Daisy lifted her eyes from her plate, interested in this herself. She’d been away, at school, when the late Mr. Devon passed away. The present Mr. Devon hadn’t returned to the neighborhood much since that time, and certainly never long enough for her to catch a glimpse of him. She wasn’t particularly friendly with his sister, as their friends were in different circles, but she’d caught snatches of rumors about how he spent his time.

Mr. Devon’s lips quirked upward, as though the whole world existed for his amusement. “I spent some of the time in London, on occasion, and in Bath with my sister. Most of the time, I was in Italy. My brother-in-law, the Earl of Ivyford, has family there and they were kind enough to host me.”

“Interesting,” her father said, in a tone Daisy recognized at once as one of disapproval.

Hoping Mr. Devon hadn’t picked up on the tone, Daisy spoke quickly. “How wonderful, to spend time in Italy. What did you do while you were there?” she asked.

“What do people do anywhere?” he asked, lightness in his voice and a sparkle in his eye. “I kept company with the family, attended balls and recitals, museums when I visited the cities.”

Daisy darted a look at her father, seeing his frown deepen. She could almost hear his thoughts, as he’d expressed them many times over the years when discussing members of the gentry. A life of idleness, pursing only pleasure, is ill-spent.

“Much as one would do here,” Daisy said before her father could speak. “And why did that come to an end, Mr. Devon?”

“My very question,” he father said, already scowling. “What are your future plans, sir?”

With an almost careless shrug, Harry met Daisy’s eyes. “I am not certain, though I have already had an adventure or two since returning.”

“Not certain?” Father asked, sitting straighter. “A young man such as yourself, with all the world at his feet, a fine home in the country and family all about him, and you are not certain what you will do next? I should think it obvious, even to a man of your years, that there are duties to be seen to.”

Daisy closed her eyes and took a deep breath, willing away her blush on her father’s behalf. Sometimes, he thought because he was a vicar he had a right to call even strangers to account. From his lectern in the church it may have been acceptable, but in the privacy of a dining room it made her—and everyone else—most uncomfortable.

“Duties, Mr. Ames?” the younger man asked, sounding genuinely curious rather than affronted. “Of what sort, sir? The family steward keeps the estate running in my absence, and I receive regular reports from him on the state of things. My solicitor sees to all legal concerns regarding my father’s various investments and properties, and I have an accountant to handle matters of finance. All is watched over.”

Oh dear. Daisy didn’t sense any malice or pride in Mr. Devon’s words, but her father would likely conclude the gentleman possessed both, as his father had before him. She stumbled in her thoughts for a moment, knowing she needed to speak if the evening was going to end without Mr. Devon being given offense.

“Mr. Devon,” she blurted with such haste that both men startled and turned to face her. She ignored the heat that remained in her cheeks and tried to call to mind something that would appease her father and explain to the gentleman before her what was meant. “My father would perhaps wish you to remember the parable of the hirelings.”

“The hirelings?” the young man asked, his brow furrowing.

As a vicar’s daughter, Daisy had more than the usual amount of scriptural knowledge a lady might boast of. “Indeed, sir. It is a parable about shepherds and sheep-herders. Two different sorts of things, you see.”

He sat back and regarded her with raised eyebrows, perhaps thinking her overly pious. Yet she had begun the conversation and must see it through, whatever he thought of her.

“Shepherds, you see, are the actual owners of their flock. Owners who tend to their sheep personally. By doing so, they are always at hand when a lamb is sick, or lost, or threatened by a predator. Whereas sheep-herders are hirelings. They are paid by the owner to look after things, and so they are not personally invested. They do not care as much when a lamb is sick, because it is their master’s lamb. They do not care if one is lost if it does not hinder their ability to be paid. And if a predator attacks, the hirelings think first of their own safety and not that of the animal.”

“Well said,” her father proclaimed, eyeing her with real approval this time. “Perhaps you ought to have married the missionary, Augusta.”

Mr. Devon considered her with a frown, and she prepared herself for his dismissal, or a change of subject. When he spoke, it was with a contemplative sort of tone. “You are suggesting then, Miss Ames, that I have employed sheep-herders to look after my property and they cannot do the job so well as I can.”

“Isn’t that what she said?” her father asked, bestowing Mr. Devon with continued disapproval. “No one will care about your household so much as you, sir.” He shook his head, and Daisy knew he was mentally bemoaning the state of the world they lived in, as he often did aloud.