Page 4 of Courting the Vicar’s Daughter

“Might I accompany you?” Mr. Haskett asked.

“Oh. Certainly. If you have nothing more pressing to be about,” she said, inwardly wishing he’d had some prior engagement. “I know your time is valuable, Mr. Haskett.”

His grin faded to a gentle smile and he came to stand at her side. “I can think of no better way to spend it than accompanying you on this errand.” He offered his arm.

Thinking quickly, Daisy held the basket out to him. “Oh, thank you. It isn’t heavy, but walking a mile or more with even a light basket can begin to tax one’s strength.”

His expression changed to one of perplexity, but he took the basket, and she tucked her hands behind her the moment he had hold of it. “Come, Mr. Haskett. Why don’t you tell me about your sermon while we walk? I enjoyed the text you shared last week.”

Walking beside her, Mr. Haskett’s brow remained furrowed. “You did?”

Her mind stumbled and she tried to recall exactly what he had spoken about. She’d sat in her family’s pew, quite alone, as her father had been ill. In truth, she’d been worrying over her father’s health more than she paid attention to the sermon.

“Yes. Of course. Who wouldn’t enjoy your sermons? You are such an eloquent speaker.” That much she could safely say. Mr. Haskett never used a word of a single syllable when one of similar meaning existed with three or four times as many.

His face relaxed. “The figurative language of Isaiah is often difficult to address in a way that allows all to comprehend it, but I felt it was adequate.”

Nodding with what she hoped was a somber and thoughtful expression, Daisy turned her eyes to the road. “What will you present next Sunday?”

Without hesitation, Mr. Haskett discussed his coming sermon with enthusiasm, using his free hand to gesture before him as if he addressed a crowded room rather than a single person at his side. Although Daisy was tempted to tune him out completely, that would make it difficult to make an intelligent response where one was required, so she listened with half an ear while drinking in the morning sights.

A quarter of an hour later, though they’d arrived at her destination, Mr. Haskett had seemingly only scratched the surface of his topic. Daisy waited, politely, for him to pause in his explanation of metaphors in the Old Testament.

“Now, Mr. Haskett, you must tell me no more,” she said when he at last paused for breath. “I have heard enough to make me look forward to your sermon. It will be most enlightening for all of us, I am certain. May I have my basket?”

Mr. Haskett’s cheeks pinked. “Of course, Miss Ames.” He handed it to her and then glanced around. “I didn’t realize we were here. When I am in your company the time is too much of a pleasure for me to mark its passing.” Had he more of the rogue in him, it would have been a clever thing to say, but as he spoke every word with the same tone he used to sermonize, Daisy hoped she was safe from his affections.

“Thank you, Mr. Haskett. I hope you have a pleasant morning.” She dropped a curtsy and hurried through the gate, which he tried to open for her, but she was already on the other side when his fingers touched the wood. She walked rapidly down the path to the front door of the tenant cottage, not looking back.

Children burst out of the little cottage as she approached, and Daisy pushed the worrisome thoughts of Mr. Haskett away. At her age, she had plenty of time ahead of her for suitors, should she choose. But really, as no man in the neighborhood had caught her attention in that sort of way, her mind rarely turned to the possibility.

After sharing the gingerbread with the children, Daisy stayed to play with them, laughing as sweet Annie Thatcher lisped through a rhyming game due to a missing front tooth.

Rhyming gave way to a game of chase, and Daisy took Annie’s hand as they ran about the clearing near the little girl’s house. Daisy was never so happy as she was when she spent time with children. If I could open my school, I could do so much to help them.

There remained further plans to make on that score, so Daisy put that thought away. For now.

Chapter Three

Sitting in his middle-sister’s parlor, Harry watched two of his nephews attempt to play spilikins. Charles, at eight, was constantly reminding five-year-old Hugh of the rules with rather humorous results.

“Harry,” Christine Gilbert said, bringing his attention back to her. “What on earth does this mean? You wish to let the house?” She was the second oldest of his sisters and the only one who still lived in the neighborhood where they had grown up.

Harry sat back more comfortably in his chair, noting his sister’s confusion. “It is a big house, Christine. Too big for a man on his own. I would much rather take smaller apartments, for the time being. I do not need all that room, and it is a waste for Whitewood to sit empty.”

“What about the tenants already on the land, Harry?” Christine asked, not looking away from him. “And where will you live? In London?” The skepticism in her voice was quite clear. She knew how he felt about London. He hated being in the city, with its filthy air and polluted streets. Though he had the means to lease rooms and set up bachelor quarters there, he didn’t wish to step foot in the city unless there was a need.

Their father had spent more time in London than anywhere else, which also detracted from any charm the great city might have.

“I thought I would stay nearby, or perhaps take a house near Rebecca and Christian, or Julia and Nathaniel.” He named his other sisters, thinking of how far away they lived. Rebecca’s husband had several estates, but they spent most of their time in

the house nearest London. Julia and her husband lived in Bath, where he practiced medicine. “If I didn’t stay nearby, the steward would do well enough looking after the tenants, as he has for years.”

Christine frowned. Of his three sisters, she was the most outspoken, and she would not mince words with him. “It doesn’t sound as though you have any sort of plan at all, other than leasing the house to a complete stranger. I understand it is done, and there is nothing shameful in it, but is it truly necessary?”

Harry tensed. “Not financially necessary, if that is what you mean.” Indeed. Harry could likely afford to buy up several estates with his inheritance. When his father died four years past, succumbing to infection and fever from a riding injury, Harry had been shocked to learn of the wealth the hardened gentleman had accumulated. For someone not of the nobility, the amount was obscene. Which left Harry in a confusing predicament.

He had no need to work for a living, or even to be careful in a life of leisure. But what, then, ought he to do? He’d never admired his father’s business methods, or his morals. Now that Harry had finished his studies at Oxford, and spent a little time on the Continent, he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself.