Daisies and Devotion Read online

  He smiled, wishing she would take some of his energy and put it in her pocket. “I hope to find a woman of means to whom I can also give my heart, and so, while I would never have said so much without your invitation, I implore you to take me at my word and know that I am paying you particular attention in hopes that my heart and your heart might somehow connect and find that they cannot live without one another. If that ends up not to be the case, I hope we will continue as friends as we seek our separate happiness.”

  Timothy knew he was regarded as a well-known flirt after so many years in London honing his skills in the business of finding a wife. He loved to make a woman smile, but he was mindful of who he asked to dance, how often he danced with any one individual, and, especially, how he sought out a woman’s attention—such as calling on her at her home. His rules kept him from leading women on or becoming too invested in a woman he could not marry. It was wise and fair, but exhausting. He was a man of heart, and yet he could not lead with his in this.

  Miss Morrington had watched him closely as he spoke but kept her expression cool. When he finished, silence threatened to flatten the room. Timothy was not very good with silences. He curled his toes toward the floor inside his shoes to give him something to focus on. The big toe on his right foot was rather sore, on account of the too-small boots he’d bought from a distinguished bootmaker. The boots had been commissioned and then returned by a man far wealthier than Timothy because the man felt the buckle too large. Timothy had been able to buy the offendingly-buckled-boots at a deep discount, though it still emptied his clothing budget for the quarter. Timothy had worn them to the ball last night and been suffering ever since.

  Do not speak, he told himself while also trying not to tap his foot. Count to ten forward then backward. Give her some time. She’ll fill the silence herself eventually—won’t she?

  Finally, she cleared her throat.

  Praise the heavens!

  “I must say I am completely shocked by your honesty, Mr. Mayfield. I did not expect it.”

  He grinned, liking that he’d surprised her. “One wonders why you asked, then.”

  “Because a man is easiest to read when he is lying.”

  Her quick and confident answer brought him up short.

  “When a man is lying to me, I can see it in the way he banks his eyes and in the particular tightness about his ears.”

  Tight ears? Timothy raised a hand to the side of his head, ever so glad he had not lied.

  She continued. “To ask a man hard questions allows me to read straight through him. To have him tell me the truth, however . . .” She leaned back in her chair and cocked her head. Only her soft smile kept him at ease. “Well, I am completely perplexed.”

  Timothy leaned forward and smiled again. “You are not the first person to tell me I am rather perplexing.”

  Miss Morrington laughed another brash, unfeminine laugh, then she sobered, though the corners of her mouth stayed uplifted, which he took as another victory. “With a little luck, and my cook’s excellent garlic soup, I hope I shall be feeling better in a few days’ time. I hope you will call on me again, Mr. Mayfield. A walk in Hyde Park sounds lovely.”

  Inside, Timothy jumped for joy. Truth will out! He was officially tired of the hunt for a wife and was, instead, eager to marry and settle. He was looking forward to trading in the stress of the London seasons in favor of hosting parties and making connections. He hoped that more time with Miss Morrington would confirm their compatibility so he could be through with the marriage mart and on to a family of his own.

  “I shall call on you for that walk as soon as I return to London,” he said.

  “Return?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

  “Oh, did I not mention that? I am leaving for my uncle’s estate in Norfolk tomorrow, you see, and shall be gone through the weekend.” The invitation had arrived a few days ago with a note saying that Uncle Elliott had something to present to Timothy. Timothy hoped it was a horse. Never mind that he did not have the means to keep a horse; perhaps Uncle Elliott would include a stipend for such consideration. Uncle Elliott had financially supported Timothy all his life, if not in luxury, in comfort and generosity that Timothy did not take lightly. It was not Uncle Elliott’s obligation, yet he had taken on the responsibility when Timothy’s parents had not planned accordingly.

  Timothy smiled at Miss Morrington. “If you are still under heavy skies when I return, I shall act out another scene for you.” He turned his head slightly and narrowed his eyes at her in mock reprimand. “Though I will expect applause for a second performance.”

  She laughed again. He suppressed another wince and reminded himself that a man in need of a fortune could not be too particular.

  Timothy arrived at Howardhouse in East Ashlam, Norfolkshire, Thursday afternoon. He and Uncle Elliott dined on a dish that Uncle Elliott had come to love during his years in India. Timothy did not share his uncle’s delight in the red sauce over rice—his face felt on fire from the spices. He ate a great deal of the flatbread, instead, and drank too much wine in an effort to keep the flames at bay. Dessert, however, was a pineapple ice that was absolutely delicious and cooled the burning.

  On Friday, he rode for miles across the open countryside on one of Uncle Elliott’s fine stallions. It had been a long time since he had felt such freedom, and he made the most of it. He stopped at a pub on his way back through Norwich and struck up a friendship with a haberdasher who invited him and Uncle Elliott to dinner. Uncle Elliott was not one for socializing and declined the invitation, but Timothy had a fine time at the hatmaker’s dinner party, enjoying the simple meal of beef and potatoes. He and Uncle Elliott went riding together on Saturday, though when they reached the crossroad bridge, Uncle Elliott waved for a stop.

  “I haven’t your fortitude, Timothy,” he said, wiping his brow. “I think I shall turn back, though I encourage you to take all the time you like.”

  “I can return with you, Uncle, if you wish.”

  “I wouldn’t think of depriving you of this view,” Uncle said, waving his hand to take in the hills and surrounding woods. “Your delight of it is what has brought me this far.” His horse, a lovely gray animal with sleek legs and a slightly speckled rump, danced as Uncle Elliott turned toward home. “Do find me in my study when you are returned, however, so that we might discuss the purpose of my invitation.”

  Timothy had been so entertained during his time in Norfolk that he’d forgotten about the reason behind his visit. Oh, please, let Uncle be giving me a horse.

  They parted ways, and Timothy enjoyed another hour of the wind in his face and the ground moving at a blur beneath his feet, before cooling temperatures from a gathering storm turned him back to Howardhouse. By the time he reached the estate, his curiosity over his uncle’s surprise was getting the better of him and the storm winds were wrestling for his hat.

  In the guest room where he always stayed when he visited—the yellow one he found particularly cheery—Timothy straightened his charcoal coat, looked at his profile from both sides, and pronounced himself presentable.

  He found the door of his uncle’s study partially open, though he still knocked twice before pushing it open the rest of the way. He poked his head inside. “Shall I wait? I don’t mean to interrupt.”

  “No, no,” Uncle Elliott said from behind his desk, waving Timothy into the room. “You are the purpose, not the interruption.”

  Timothy appreciated such a kind comment and entered, taking one of the red leather chairs across from his uncle. He adjusted his coat and looked about the room. Timothy’s father, Theodore Mayfield, had grown up at Howardhouse, the second son and Uncle Elliott’s younger brother. He had been the spare, as it were, just as Timothy was the second son of his own parents. Theodore must have sat in this room a time or two, perhaps even in this very chair. Perhaps even when he confessed his affair with the maid that h
ad resulted in Peter’s conception, an ill-suited marriage, and—

  Timothy pushed aside such unhappy thoughts and looked up at his uncle. It was all so long ago. “I thank you again for this invitation, Uncle. I have had a most enjoyable time here at Howardhouse these last few days. The springtime countryside is so very lush and green.”

  Uncle leaned back in his chair with a slightly indulgent smile. Timothy was not unfamiliar with such reactions to his optimistic nature.

  “I am glad you have enjoyed your time here, Timothy. Your company is always a breath of fresh air. Something I find I am very much in need of this week.”

  “Is everything all right?” Timothy asked.

  Uncle Elliott nodded, though Timothy noted he seemed more subdued than usual. Was Uncle Elliott ill? Dying? Was that the purpose of this visit? A lump formed in Timothy’s throat at the thought of losing this man who had been like a father to him.

  “Do not worry yourself, Timothy. I’m just an old man battling some old ghosts that have absolutely nothing to do with what I wish to speak to you about.” He cleared his throat and folded his hands on his desk. “I’m sure you have wondered at my purpose in luring you away from the city just as the season is filling your calendar. I hope you have not missed anything too sensational.”

  “Not at all, Uncle,” Timothy said. “I am grateful to be able to spend time with you.” Were he being completely honest, he would expound on the fact that it wasn’t that difficult to leave London. Timothy lived year-round in rented rooms in the city, but he wasn’t enjoying the season the way he once had. The only thing he was truly looking forward to upon his return to London was his promised walk with Maryann Morrington. She was the best candidate for a wife he’d found thus far. She was steady and smart, well-mannered and bold. She would make a fine wife, and, if the rumors could be trusted, she had enough fortune to establish a very secure future. It had been a relief to have put all their cards on the table before he left London, and he was eager to pursue the connection and see where it might lead. He could love her one day, he was sure.

  “I am glad to hear it was not too much of a difficulty for you to come,” Uncle Elliott said, drawing Timothy’s wandering attention. “And I hope your opinion will not change after our interview.”

  Timothy’s smile froze, and his eyes were drawn to a leather binder squared in the middle of his uncle’s desk. He had not noticed it before now, though it suddenly seemed quite prominent. He let his gaze linger, then met his uncle’s eyes again. “I hope the same, Uncle.”

  His uncle took a breath as though preparing himself for something distasteful. Timothy tensed. When one lived on the generosity of others, there was the risk that all could be lost at any time. Without Uncle Elliott’s financial support, Timothy would truly have nothing.

  “I shall get to the heart of it, then,” Uncle Elliott said. He turned the folder around so that it faced Timothy, but he did not push it across the smooth desktop. “I want you to know how much I enjoy spending time with you and what a blessing I consider you to be. You possess the gift of cheerfulness that has been a rarity in my life, and I admire your ability to put people at ease. I find you exceptional.”

  “Thank you, Uncle. I am humbled by such compliments.” And terrified of where they might be leading. The words were most definitely a prelude to something of a heavier nature.

  Uncle smiled, holding Timothy’s gaze. “As you know, I have made it a priority to care for my nieces and nephews. I do not enjoy speaking of our difficult past, but the truth is that my siblings squandered their potential, and as I look upon their children, each of them dear to me, I find myself worried that they may fall into the same fate, either through poor choices or limited opportunity.”

  Peter, Timothy’s older brother, was of exceptional character, but Donna, his older sister, surely fit Uncle Elliott’s description and concerns. She had been more like a mother than a sister to Timothy, and yet he hadn’t seen Donna for nearly two years, just after her illegitimate daughter was born. He didn’t know how to help her except to write every few months.

  The only one of his cousins Timothy knew beyond name was Harry, a rake of some reputation, who surely also fell under Uncle Elliott’s concern.

  “We need not get into the particulars,” Uncle Elliott continued, “but I would like to discuss how your situation is affected by the difficulties of past and present generations.”

  “I do not feel I am overly affected by either, Uncle,” Timothy said, hoping to alleviate his uncle’s concerns, in regard to himself at least. “Memories are rather short in London, and should the poor choices of others in our family ever rise up, I am quick to prove myself a different man. Some people have connected me with Harry—we share similar features with our blonde hair and blue eyes—but we move in very different circles. Thus far, I do not feel I have been terribly misjudged.” Timothy did not feel it was his family’s reputation that impeded him socially but rather his lack of wealth.

  “Peter does not share your optimism. He feels quite burdened by our family history—your parents’ especially.”

  Timothy was surprised to hear that; Peter was as steady as a fence post, always had been. “Anyone would be a fool to allow our parents’ choices to overshadow Peter’s excellent character.” Timothy had admired his brother all of his life and strived to be the same sort of man—with perhaps a bit more ability to laugh and seek enjoyable entertainment. Peter seemed to have received Timothy’s portion of seriousness, while Timothy had received his brother’s allotment of cheer.

  “I agree with you, but I’m afraid your situation has been affected. Your father’s irresponsible behavior has left you without means.”

  Timothy shifted in his chair as he felt the conversation deepening even more. In the space of a single tick of the clock that sat on his uncle’s desk, he was reminded of his dependence on others to live the life he lived. Why was his uncle bringing this up now? “Yes, but your allowance has been generous and sufficient, Uncle. I appreciate it very much.” Without his uncle’s support, Timothy would have only Peter to rely on, and for all Peter had done to improve the family estate, there was little financial margin for Timothy to draw upon.

  “And should the allowance be withdrawn?”

  Timothy felt the blood drain from his face. “Wi-withdrawn?” Whatever did he mean by that?

  “I am not taking the allowance, Timothy.”

  Relief flooded Timothy’s body, and he let out a rushing breath as he leaned back in his chair.

  Uncle Elliott continued. “It is, however, insufficient to support a wife and family. For a time, I had hoped you might go into the church and thus secure your living, but I sense you are not swayed that direction.”

  Timothy was even more on edge. “I fear I lack the steadiness to perform the work of a clergyman.” Wear black all the time and live on the edge of polite society? No, that would never do for Timothy. He liked dancing and card parties and racing carriages through the parks of London early in the morning when no one but his friends were up and about—Harry had an excellent curricle he sometimes let Timothy borrow. Timothy had won fifteen pounds two weeks ago in an early morning race.

  “And the military?”

  Timothy barely repressed a physical shudder. He could never find satisfaction in brutality and deprivation. “I fear I am even less suited for life as a soldier than I am for a life as a vicar.”

  To Timothy’s relief, Uncle Elliott did not look as though he were going to attempt to convince Timothy in one direction or the other. “So, then, what are your expectations for your future?”

  “If you mean to ask if I expect you to support a family, please do not worry. I understand the conditions of my allowance and that there will be no increase upon marriage. I would never think to assume otherwise or push some advantage. I am well aware of your generosity toward me, Uncle, and do not treat it lightly.”


  “As I have seen,” Uncle Elliott said sincerely. “But then what are your future plans?”

  Timothy took a breath and swallowed his embarrassment. He could not sit still anymore, and, at the risk of appearing rude, he stood and crossed to the window to look out across the estate rolling into the horizon. “I have long known that I will need to marry a woman of fortune.” He looked back at his uncle. “I have been about the business of finding such a wife for some three years now.”

  Uncle’s bushy gray eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You only seek out women of means?”

  Timothy nodded, refusing to feel shame regarding what was the only course left to him.

  “For three years?”

  “Well, three seasons,” Timothy said. He thought back to the conversation he’d had with Miss Morrington about this very topic and how well his honesty had been received. He hoped his uncle would appreciate it as well. “I do not plan to marry only for financial prospects, of course—if that were my goal I could have made a match early on. I have instead kept my serious attentions on those women who I feel could offer me both happiness and security. I do not trifle with anyone’s feelings. I have a great many friends of both sexes, but I am sincere and honest in my attentions toward a marriage contract and cautious in giving the wrong impression.”

  Harry operated very differently in London, and Timothy wanted to make sure that his uncle understood the differences between the two men without specifically disparaging his cousin.

  “And you are content with this pursuit?”

  Timothy laughed, but without much mirth. “I do not see that I have much choice but to be content, Uncle.” He shrugged and held up his hands, lace cuffs draping from his wrists.

  Donna had made that lace. Selling lace to a vendor in Bath was how she helped support herself. She’d given Timothy a full twenty inches of it at Christmastime last year, and he’d added it to his favorite shirt. To him it was a reminder that everyone had to do their best with their particular circumstances.