Page 34 of Daisy and the Duke
For several days, Tristan nursed his anger at himself for letting Daisy witness his weakness. He stayed exclusively at Lyondale and sought out only Kemble for company. He buried himself in estate business and tried to forget embarrassing himself in front of Daisy. It was difficult, because he thought of one reason after another for why he wanted to see her. Partly, he knew, it was that he just enjoyed being with her. Daisy was such a calming presence, and a delight to talk to—for it turned out that he really did like learning about agricultural practices when it was Daisy doing the lecturing. He had been planning to invite her to a supper soon, hoping it would be a suitable excuse to see her again. But it was all ruined when thatnoisepieced his skull.
After the worst of it, he did write to Daisy, asking to call on her so he could explain. She gave no reply, which made him cross and reclusive. However, he couldn’t hide forever. Though Tristan had literally no interest in hearing Hornthwaite’s homily that Sunday, he decided that he ought to go to the village church at least once. It seemed to be expected, and hewasthe new Duke of Lyon, after all. He’d put in one appearance, and then he would consider his duty done.
He took Jack with him, because he believed misery loved company.
When the two men arrived outside the church building, however, they both stopped to stare upward in dismay.
Kemble spoke first. “I studied the law, Tris, not Christian doctrine. But I have to tell you that from what I understand of tradition…this church looks broken.”
He was absolutely correct. The steeple of the building was completely gone, and ugly wooden boards covered the hole where it had once met the peaked roof. The effect was like a bandage on a wound.
“Let’s see how bad the inside is,” Tristan said, moving into the flow of parishioners who were all heading toward the doors, dressed in Sunday best.
Inside fared better. They were ushered to the special pew reserved for the duke and his guests. Several congregants greeted him in a respectful manner, but within minutes, the crowd settled. Hornthwaite took his place in the pulpit and the service began.
The vicar was born for the task of speaking ad nauseam to a crowd that could not politely escape. Tristan was soon bored by Hornthwaite’s dull talk, which was full of platitudes about Christian charity, but little actual comfort for a soul in torment. Tristan’s mind drifted back to his army days. While he’d been laid up in the hospital tent after being injured, the chaplain came to visit him every day. Tristan wasn’t a devout man even before having half his body shelled, and he had a lot of questions about a god that would permit such suffering. The chaplain, who was named Langdon, had sat and listened to Tristan’s bitter words, his rage, his self-sorrow. He’d prayed for Tris, but he’d also talked with him. And he was open about the gaps in cosmic knowledge. No, humanity did not know why suffering was permitted, why evil existed, why a loving god did not simply create a world without pain and sorrow.
“I believe,” said Mr. Langdon, who was a gaunt, greying man even in his early forties, “that the truest expression of God’s love for us is that He trusts us to experience pain and suffering and yet to still choose to value that which is good in the world. That he made us strong enough to endure pain and death and still feel love and hope ourselves. I think Jesus himself must have had a few moments of doubt during his supreme suffering. Would this mad attempt for salvation really work? Could a sacrifice by one truly save all? But in his human incarnation, he went ahead with it—he used his own faith to live through death itself. That is the message, Tristan. That suffering is not fated to triumph over us, but that we can triumph over it, simply byenduringit.”
“You’re not lying in a bed with half your face gone,” Tristan had growled back.
“No, and I won’t pretend to understand what you’re going through. But you are alive, and that is a gift. Think on that. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
In contrast to the army chaplain’s words, Hornthwaite’s speech was insipid. Tristan couldn’t imagine this man visiting the sick and dying. He knew better than to peer around at the congregation, but he wondered if Daisy was in attendance that day. Sadly, he didn’t get a glimpse of her. Perhaps she had to stay home.
At the end of the service, Hornthwaite was there at the door, bidding all the parishioners goodbye. When Tris came up to him, the vicar offered a slightly smug smile. “So gratifying to see you today, your grace. I was certain you would show the same respect for the church as your predecessor, despite the concerns of some parishioners.” Parishioners he declined to name, Tristan noted.
“I prefer private devotions. Isn’t that right, Mr. Kemble?”
“Very private indeed,” Jack agreed with a wry smile.
“Is that so?” Hornthwaite said, with a pinched expression.
“You requested that I look at the church building itself,” Tris went on. “Am I correct in thinking you hope for some financial assistance from me in order to repair some of it? Does the parish not provide for such needs?”
“The spire was struck by lightning this spring, your grace. Most unexpected. And expensive to replace.”
“No doubt.”
“And I heard you are making improvements at your own estate. You’ve shown such zeal in making changes to Lyondale, not at all like the old ways. Rutherford Grange has always maintained tradition in both the house and the fields. And speaking of Rutherford Grange, I heard that you’ve been seen with Miss Merriot.”
“I’ve been seen with half the shire,” Tristan retorted. “But yes, the Misses Merriot both joined us for an afternoon not long ago.”
Hornthwaite said, “I trust you found Miss Bella to be as presentable and charming as we all do.”
“No one could complain of her,” Tristan admitted. “She has been coming to the house to read to Mr. Kemble here, no doubt speeding his convalescence.”
“She is the apple of Lady Rutherford’s eye,” the vicar said, warming to his subject. “The baroness has reared perhaps the most perfect young lady in all of England. She will be a prize on the marriage mart. The smart man would offer for her quickly, or risk losing her.”
“And what would she bring to a marriage?” Kemble asked in his mild tone.
Hornthwaite turned to him. “Aside from the expected title and her own personal charm, there is a substantial dowry. I believe it is some thousands.”
“And that is from the inheritance from the late baron? Or does she have previous expectations?” Jack pressed.
“All from the baron,” Hornthwaite said. “Her mother is very clever with money. It will all be managed well, right up to the moment of the wedding.”
“She will no doubt make some man very happy,” Jack replied.
