Page 24 of Courting the Vicar’s Daughter

“It isn’t all that dreadful,” she said. “I’m certain it must be quite respectable. It sounds distinguished.” Although she certainly thought it a very somber sort of name to give to a little boy. “And your family calls you Harry.”

“Thankfully.” He grinned at her. “And I refuse to outgrow it. No one calls me Horace, except for my sister Rebecca. She does that when she wishes to annoy me.”

“Does it work?” Daisy asked, raising her eyebrows at him. “Because I might try the trick if it does.”

He considered her with narrowed eyes. “Why does the idea of annoying me amuse you so? I thought vicars’ daughters were supposed to be sweet, unassuming, and meek?”

Daisy spoke without thought, his challenge lightening her mood. “The first two daughters are required to fulfill those qualifications. Subsequent daughters may do as they like.” She tossed her chin, affecting a flippant expression.

“Then if they like, they can be called by childhood names. Like Daisy.” He grinned most impertinently and tipped his hat to her. “Good day, Miss Daisy.”

She gasped and lowered her hands to her side. “Mr. Devon, you must call me Miss Ames.” That is what she got for being familiar with him. What was it about the man that brought out the childishness in her? Why must she return each of his remarks with something clever of her own?

He mounted his horse, his broad smile still in place. “Such a shame. Miss Daisy really does suit you better.” Then the man had the audacity to wink at her before putting his heels to his horse and setting off once more.

Watching him go, Daisy wasn’t certain if she wanted to be amused. She knew she ought to be insulted. At least in part. But there had been something refreshing in hearing another say the name written in her heart.

The truth was, she would much rather be Daisy than Augusta. Daisy was a happy, cheerful girl who laughed whenever she wished. Augusta was more proper and worked to fulfill the role others had set for her. She looked down at the purple petals of the asters.

“You need water before you wilt. I suppose we flowers must look after each other.” She hid her smile when entering the vicarage, her basket tucked close to her side.

Chapter Nine

Daisy walked with purpose, her chin thrust forward and her shoulders straight. Down the road she went, kicking up yellow and orange leaves in her path. Her mind tumbled with conflict. Three days previous she’d brought up her idea of a school to everyone who paid her a visit, only to be laughed at and dismissed by three matrons and their daughters.

The day before, she’d paid some of her own calls to other women of esteem. Their responses to her idea of a school for farmers’ and merchants’ daughters had been varied, and none of them what she hoped.

“Those girls in school? What use would knowing the kings of England do a woman whose only job is to cook and clean for her family?”

“They would take on airs and never amount to anything.”

“You ruin people like that with education. They start expecting more than they can have.”

“I doubt many of them have the brains for schooling. Poor breeding, you know.”

Daisy’s fists clenched as she walked. Her father had put up with her brooding, but after a time her morose thoughts gave way to her temper.

“You will either damage yourself or my belongings if these keeps up,” he’d said when she’d forcefully shelved some of his books. “Take your frustration out of doors, Augusta. Return when you have hold of yourself.”

He’d glared down his nose at her, but she’d caught the gleam of concern in his eyes. Then he’d added, most unhelpfully, “Not everyone is as receptive to new ideas as you are, my dear.”

It wasn’t really a new idea, to educate children who otherwise might not receive schooling. She’d heard of a countess in Suffolk who held a Sunday seminary for girls, teaching them the Bible, and morals, and etiquette befitting a servant. There were schools in London, too, for the poor children. Ragged schools, they were called.

Some of Daisy’s frustration escaped her in a puff of air. Perhaps her plans were rather ambitious, but they were well meant and she could carry them out with success. If only people would listen and give her a chance.

Daisy left the main road, entering the property of the Gilbert family. She’d decided to make her walk useful by returning Harry Devon’s handkerchief. Hopefully, he would be at Whitewood working matters out with his solicitor, or steward, or whoever else he intended to speak to in regard to his estate. If she could speak to Mrs. Gilbert, she felt certain the woman would not make much fuss over the return of her brother’s personal belonging. Christine Gilbert wasn’t known for being overly conservative, after all.

Daisy knocked on the front door nearly the same instant it was opened. She lowered her eyes to see the eldest Gilbert child standing there, looking up at her with wide brown eyes.

“Miss Ames,” he said, his face lighting up. “Did you bring any sweets?”

“Charles,” his mother said from behind him, obviously exasperated as she bustled through the entryway toward him. “If you are going to open the door to a guest, please greet them politely.” Her eyes twinkled merrily and she raised her eyebrows at her son, prompting him to sigh in a put-upon manner.

“Good morning, Miss Ames. Please come inside.” He stepped aside, pulling the door all the way open.

Daisy’s humor improved a margin as she stepped inside. “Thank you, Charles. I am afraid I haven’t any sweets this time, but I remember you favorite is molasses candy. If you will come say hello to me after services on Sunday, I will be sure to have one for you.”

His grin reappeared. “Thank you, Miss Ames.”