Page 14 of Courting the Vicar’s Daughter

Janie gasped and clapped her hands, her basket swinging from her arm. “You will come with us, Miss Ames?”

That idea gave both girls enough confidence that they turned and started down the lane at once, chattering between themselves about the pie they would make.

Daisy followed, barely listening to their debate of what sort of crust would be best. She admired their easy friendship.

Outside of the local aristocracy and gentry, the girls before her were the best educated in the neighborhood. Janie’s grandmother taught Janie to read and do sums while she herself worked on clothing commissioned by wealthier members of their neighborhood. Lucy’s father had done the same for his daughter, as her mother had been lost several years previous to illness and he intended for his children to assist in the family business.

There was a school in the neighborhood for little boys, started by her father and now run by Mr. Haskett. Four days a week, for a few hours at a time, Mr. Haskett met with any boy who sought more knowledge for apprenticeships or positions their parents couldn’t prepare them for. Some parents could teach their children to read and do simple sums, but more knowledge was rarely bestowed, and even that little amount rarely given.

Janie and Lucy’s steps slowed as they came within sight of the Devon property, marked well along the road by white pillars where carriages would turn in. Daisy skipped forward, snatching up Janie’s hand as she went.

“Just ahead here,” she sang out as the girls hurried to keep up with her. “Keep your eyes open, watch for the birds. They very well might lead us to the best patch.”

Lucy giggled and started searching the tops of the hedgerow.

Daisy couldn’t help but smile at the girls. They were intelligent and sweet. It was a shame more children didn’t have access to what they and Daisy had been given. If she could but generate enough interest in the school she planned, she could amend that for all the little girls in the village.

Not many saw the value in a servant who could read or a farmer’s wife who could do complicated sums. But knowledge begat wisdom, and didn’t every man wish for a wife who could raise his children to be wise?

Janie spotted the first bird and pointed, pulling Daisy from her thoughts. “There, I see one!”

Amid the girls’ excited giggles, the three of them hurried off the path and to the hedges, peering into the leaves. Several little brown birds took off from the bushes as they approached, and Lucy ran ahead to peer between the branches.

“I’ve found some, I’ve found some,” she shouted. Her hands shot into the branches.

“Save some for me to pick.” Janie released Daisy’s hand and hurried down the little incline.

Daisy slowed her steps, watching the girls gather berry after berry, their fingers quick. Several berries found their way into the girls’ stomachs instead of their baskets, but that was usually the way of berry-picking. Daisy wandered in the opposite direction from the two of them, trailing her hand along the tips of the leaves, mindful of the bush’s thorns.

Daisy paused when she found a particularly fat berry dangling within easy reach. She plucked it and put it in her mouth. Savoring its delicious taste, Daisy remained still for a moment, before she kept idly walking, wondering if there would be more berries on the other side of the hedge, inside the Devon property.

Not that she would ever step inside there without permission, of course.

She absently plucked another berry and ate it, wincing at the tartness of an unripe prize. She gave greater attention to the bush, looking for more of the large, sweet blackberries to get the unwanted taste from her mouth.

A very ripe berry dangled a few inches inside the bush. It looked nearly ready to fall. It had grown to such perfection due to its placement, obviously. She could see several wicked-looking thorns surrounding it.

Daisy reached inside the bush, grateful she wasn’t wearing gloves to snag against any branches. She had every confidence she could retrieve the berry, and her fingertip brushed it—

“Good day, Miss Ames.” She jumped, her hand scraping against several thorns at once. She hissed out a breath and tried to withdraw, but her wrist-length sleeve had caught on a bramble thorn.

Looking over her shoulder, Daisy saw none other than Harry Devon standing on the road. He watched her, a crooked grin on his lips, though his eyebrows were furrowed.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, coming closer.

Daisy turned to study her predicament, the hook of the thorn holding onto her dress. She reached in with her other hand to try and undo the fabric without causing it injury, but was immediately pierced by another thorn, causing her to emit a somewhat unladylike yip of pain.

Mr. Devon came hurrying up beside her and suddenly his hands, encased in leather gloves, were reaching around her and into the bushes. Her breath stilled as her shoulder made contact with his chest. He wrapped one hand around the one she’d gotten stuck in the branches, protecting it from being brushed by thorns. The fingers of his other hand worked to free her sleeve. Before she could protest his nearness, he had guided her hands out of the brambles.

“Thank you, Mr. Devon,” she said, her voice thick and her mouth dry. Feathers tickled her from the inside, and heat climbed up her neck and into her cheeks. He stepped away, but only enough to better inspect her hands, still held in his. He turned them over, but rather than see what damage the thorns had caused, Daisy kept her eyes on his face.

It was a very nice face. She’d thought him handsome before. At present, there was more to it than that. He stood close, close enough for her to see flecks of green in his blue eyes. His lips were turned down in a frown as he studied her hands, and his forehead was creased. He had the tiniest scar through one dark eyebrow.

“These scratches,” he said, startling her out of her study, “aren’t very deep. Though this one is still bleeding.” Daisy looked at last at the damage. The hand she’d used to attempt to rescue the other was bleeding, the bright red a stark contrast to her fair skin.

Henry kept hold of that hand in his left, then reached into his jacket with his right and drew out a handkerchief. “Here, this is clean. We will bind it up.”

She tried to protest. “Oh. Please. I don’t wish to spoil the cloth—”