"Frightened?" He turned back to her with a frown.

"Yes," she said. "I have always been frightened by life. It is so vast, so without form or logic, so..." She let out her breath in a rush. "So meaningless. I have always tried to drown out the silence with the sound of my own voice and laughter and fill in the vast empty spaces with movement and gaiety. Life terrifies me."

David was on his knees in front of her suddenly, both her hands in his. "Rachel," he said earnestly, "it must not. Oh, you have so much to give: your gaiety and sunny nature, your gentleness and compassion, your energy. There is meaning in life, dear, even in the bleak and painful moments. There is a pattern that we will see clearly as we get older. Already I can see purpose in some of the experiences in my past. I can see purpose, for example, in the existence of those two little boys in the next room, though when they were born they distanced me further from hopes of a title and a fortune. There is a meaning to your life too. You will see it one day and be glad of it. Just have faith, Rachel."

He lifted her hands one at a time and pressed his lips to her palms. "Even this," he said. "There is even meaning in this. We will understand one day why we had to love and why our love had to shatter both of our plans for the future. I believe we will even admit that it was best it happened exactly the way it has. Pain and all. Perhaps then we will each be able to love the memory of the other without any of the pain and guilt and confusion that make our feelings almost unbearable at the moment."

"Perhaps you are right, David." Rachel lifted her hands to smooth back the hair at the sides of his head. "I know already that I will never be sorry that I met and loved you. I believe I am the richer for knowing you. You have helped me to face myself and my own fears."

She was smiling into his eyes, her hands still in his hair, his resting on her knees, when the children's nurse bustled back into the nursery. David rose and turned to her with a smile.

"Task accomplished, Mrs. Jones," he said. "Both children are sleeping soundly. Have you met Lady Rachel Palmer?"

Five minutes later they were walking together down the staircase toward the salon, both feeling strangely comforted after almost a week of studiously avoiding all meetings with each other. Their pain over the fact that their love could know no satisfactory outcome had almost blinded them to the fact that they had also grown to be close and dear friends.

Chapter 11

The arrival of Viscount Cardwell breathed new life into the final week of the house party at Oakland. Every day the members of the two households met for various activities. There were walks, rides, picnics, dinners, card parties, musical evenings. All the entertainments were to culminate in the dinner and ball at Singleton Hall two days before all the guests, including Lord and Lady Cardwell, were scheduled to leave. Even Celia had expressed her intention of returning home on that day, though Rachel had urged her to stay longer.

David attended rather more of the week's activities than he would normally have done. His brother was to stay with Algernon for only little more than a week altogether, and he seldom saw his brother or the children, who would grow up so quickly. He wanted to spend as much time as he was able with them while they were close by.

And so he saw Rachel almost daily. They did not often seek out each other's company, but the awkwardness that had kept them apart after their morning encounter in the gig had largely disappeared. They could be in the same room with each other without dreading a chance meeting of their eyes. Indeed, several times they spent some time in conversation together. It was on one such occasion that she told him with a giggle about her loss of an admirer.

"Mr. Hart confided to me yesterday that he has won Patricia Lacey's consent to speak with her papa when they both remove to Brighton," she said. "Does he not seem to have got matters the wrong way around, David? And he thanked me profusely for inviting him to this house party, as it gave him the opportunity to win her affection. How mortifying. Ail the time he appeared to be languishing after me, he was fixing his interest with the very demure Patricia." She laughed gaily again.

On another occasion she told him of the progress of her plans to teach some of the children of the estate to read. "I would never have time to go from house to house teaching a handful of children at a time," she said."There would need to be ten of me. I need someplace where I can gather them all together. A school, no less. But where, David? I thought I might use a room at Oakland, but the children might be shy and uncomfortable in such surroundings. Besides, Mama and Papa think I must have windmills in my head to even consider the idea. I am sure they would not agree to their home becoming a school."

David had not been able to offer any solution to that particular problem. But he did welcome the ease with which they could speak to each other again. There was a painful ache about being close to her, of course. When the guests left he would have to speak to Algie and leave as soon as possible himself. And then he would never see her again. But there would be some consolation in the knowledge that they would be able to part as friends. And they were that, he sensed.

On the day before the ball, however, David was forced to miss a picnic that was to be held on Oakland grounds. When his brother arrived with Algernon's curricle to take him up, he was already occupied with matters that could not be delayed.

"You must go without me, Rufus," he said when Mrs. Saunders showed his brother into his study. "I doubt if I shall be there at all this afternoon. Make my apologies, please? This is Mr. Macleod, Lady Wexford's solicitor. My brother, Viscount Cardwell, sir."

The two men exchanged bows.

"I hope you left Lady Wexford well," Lord Cardwell said.

The solicitor bowed his head again. "I am afraid her ladyship passed away suddenly five days ago, my lord," he said. "She had a heart seizure."

"David, I am so sorry," Lord Cardwell said, turning to observe his brother's drawn face. "We were all fond of her, of course, but I know she had a special place in your affection because she was your godmother."

"It is hard to believe," David admitted. "She had me to a garden party just a few weeks ago, you know, while I was in town with Algie. I would have wagered she had another ten years in her at least, despite her rheumatism."

"Is there anything I can do?" Lord Cardwell asked sympathetically.

"I think not," David said. "Mr. Macleod has only just arrived. He has business to discuss with me, he says."

"I shall go on to Oakland then," his brother said. "Madeline and the children will already be there. They went in the carriage with Algie. I said I would come for you, as you would be the one the boys would crawl all over if we brought the carriage this way."

The solicitor too left just an hour later, having declined David's offer of hospitality. He wanted to be well on his way back to London by nightfall, he said.

It was not too late to go to the picnic, but David decided not to. His mind was in too much turmoil. He needed time to think. And he suspected that he was going to need even more time to reflect and to pray. Some decisions were just not easy to make. Sometimes it was quite impossible to know which course of action was right and which wrong, which would help one progress toward one's destiny and which would set one forever on the wrong path.

Obviously, he had not made himself at all clear to his godmother during their final meeting. She must have still been convinced that only his pride held him back from accepting her offer of help. Had she realized when she changed her will a mere week before her death just what a dilemma she would be placing him in?

She had been an extremely wealthy woman, even more so than he had suspected. According to the solicitor, she owned a large and prosperous estate in Gloucestershire in addition to the Richmond home. Her jewels would have done justice to an Eastern potentate. Those on their own would have made her quite securely wealthy.

She had no family, no one to whom to leave her riches. So she had left them all to David, apart from some bequests to old and faithful servants. He had become instantly a wealthy man, far more so than his brother. But matters were not as simple as that. The will stated a condition. David must reside in the Richmond home or on the Gloucestershire estate for at least the following five years, and he must either give up the church altogether or accept a post deemed suitable by her friend Bishop Haines. If he failed to keep those conditions, then the whole of her estate would be given to various specified charities.

He was to be given sixty days in which to make his decision.

He could marry Rachel. That had been his first thought. He would be able to keep her in the manner to which she was accustomed. He would be able to afford for her the clothes and luxuries that she was used to. If they lived in Richmond, she would be able to continue to socialize with people of her own class. Yet at the same time, he could continue with his chosen way of life. He could accept the post the bishop would offer him. He had decided that he must leave this particular parish anyway, and he had no idea of where he would go. Why not to London and certain employment? He could serve God as well in London as he could in a country parish. And the money did not have to become a lure to him. Apart from the fact that he would be forced to live in the Richmond house for five years, there was no clause in the will that said he must use any of the money on himself. He could continue to live in the poverty he had chosen for himself. His riches he could use for the benefit of the poor, apart from what he would spend on Rachel, that is.