happy in the life he was leading. If he could just block all thoughts of and feelings for Rachel from his mind, he would be totally happy. He was living the life he wished to lead. He did not want to spoil it by having to live in a mansion and manage servants and keep up appearances with a reasonably active social life and a fashionable wardrobe.
Rachel's rejection had saved him from that life. He had written to his godmother's solicitor as soon as he arrived home in the morning and sent the letter on its way. He felt not a twinge of regret. Only in the loss of Rachel.
But he did not want to have to face her again that evening. Especially not in the presence of other people and at an occasion where one was forced to be determinedly gay. She would be bubbling over with high spirits, he was sure, no matter what her inner feelings might be. He could not bear the thought of seeing her so: gay, flirtatious, apparently quite carefree. He knew that there were far more lovely depths to her character than what she would allow to show at a ball.
As it happened, David was presented with a perfectly good excuse for missing the dinner at Singleton Hall. He thought he would probably still have to attend the ball, but there was not quite the same necessity to converse at length during a ball as there was at table. He was glad of even a limited reprieve. He was on his way to the Hall on foot when he met Mr. Perkins coming toward him along the village street in an aged cart pulled by a horse that appeared in little better condition. David smiled, touched his hat, and would have walked on, but his acquaintance was looking worried.
'Is anything the matter?' David asked. 'Mrs. Perkins?'
'Her time has come,' Mr. Parkins said. 'The pains are upon her. But the midwife isn't at home, Reverend. She is tending Mrs. Purdy, who is having her first. My missus will have to wait.'
David stroked his chin. He did not have any experience with pregnant women, especially when they were delivering. But he had a strong suspicion that they might find it difficult to wait upon the convenience of a midwife. 'Does anyone know if she is likely to be long?' he asked.
'She has been gone since midday,' said the worried Perkins. 'She should be back soon, Reverend.'
David hesitated. 'I shall come to the cottage with you,' he said briskly, walking around to the other side of the cart and climbing up to take a rough seat beside the other man. 'Perhaps I shall be able to offer your wife some comfort.'
David waited outside the cottage while Mr. Perkins went in to tell his wife the news about the midwife. But the man bolted outside again almost immediately, his face as' white as parchment.
'I can't do it, Reverend,' he said, his voice shaking. 'The ninth time, and I can't do it. I can't stand to see her suffer like that and be helpless to do anything about it. I'll be no earthly good until the midwife comes. As long as she doesn't scream! She does sometimes. I'll have to stay out here.'
'Does she have any help?' David asked. 'Has anyone else come? Can your daughters help at all?'
'Tess has helped the midwife the last two times and Lil did a few things last time,' Mr. Perkins said, 'and Mother is always calling from her room, of course, getting everyone mixed up. But they don't know much. The midwife will never allow children to stay close to the end. She will be here soon perhaps.' He flashed David a pale smile. 'I should go in there maybe and hold her hand.'
'Perhaps I can offer some comfort,' David said. 'Sometimes it is easier if one is not involved directly in some crisis. The midwife will not be long, I am sure.'
He opened the door and entered the cottage somewhat hesitantly. He was feeling almost as pale as Mr. Perkins looked. The younger boys and the girls, he found, were hovering around their mother as she lay on a mattress that had been dragged into the main room. The two smallest boys were crying. Old Mrs. Perkins was calling from the inner room, her words a mixture of demands for information and advice on how to proceed. Mrs. Perkins, lying limp on the mattress, her face flushed, her hair soaked with perspiration, was reaching out weakly with one hand toward one bawling infant, who appeared too frightened to come close enough for comfort.
The air inside the cottage was oppressively stuffy. The day had not cooled off at all with the coming of evening. The storm that threatened more ominously than ever still had not broken.
Then Mrs. Perkins' hands were gripping convulsively at the sides of the mattress, her back arched against pain, and she stifled moans that had the two infants wailing in terror. David shrugged out of his coat, removed his neckcloth, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. There was clearly a need for more than comforting words and prayer here.
'All right, Tess,' he said, turning toward the ten-year-old as Mrs. Perkins began to relax again, 'I am going to rely on you to help me. What do you usually do to help the midwife? Perhaps we can get all prepared for her before she comes.'
Soon he had one of the older boys scurrying for clean water. He poured part of the pailful into a basin and set Tess to boiling the remainder and keeping it hot. He directed Lil to take her mother's apron from a chair and fan Mrs. Perkins' face with it. He sent the two frightened infants into the inner room to climb into the bed beside their grandmother and the remaining children outside to join their father. He did think at times that he probably would have worked far more efficiently if he had not had the two older girls, old Mrs. Perkins, and Mrs. Perkins between her pains all telling him what needed to be done.
He took the basin of cold water and a cloth and set about the task of washing off the hot face of the woman on the mattress. He folded the cloth and laid it on her forehead. He took one of her hands and held it tightly when the pains took her, murmuring soothing words until she began to relax again. And on the advice of the quavering voice coming from the inner room, he set Lil to finding all the rags she could ready for the birth.
'Oh, God bless you, Reverend,' Mrs. Perkins said weakly when he first began to apply the cool cloth. 'I am sorry I'm not much help. The pains are bad, and I can't think straight. Will the midwife be here soon?'
'Soon,' David assured her soothingly. 'And don't even try to think. Tess and Lil are doing a splendid job of getting ready for the midwife, and your mother-in-law is making sure that we do not forget anything. And I am here to hold your hand.' He smiled, wondering how his voice could sound so cool and confident. 'Relax.'
But she arched against the pain again, breathing loudly and raggedly, moaning aloud when it was at its worst, so that David had to fight terror and panic, had to force himself to hold her hand firmly and reassuringly.
And his whole world became focused on the suffering woman on the mattress before him, a woman who was racked with pain every few minutes, tensed, arched against it. A woman who faced her ordeal with a dogged courage, biting her lips against the agony until they were raw and bleeding, allowing groans to escape her only at the very worst moments. His whole purpose in life became to assist her, to somehow help her endure the pain, to offer all the comfort and relief that he, a mere male, was capable of.
He found that she turned her head to look at him between her pains, staring into his eyes as he dabbed at her face and neck with the cool cloth, almost as if only by doing so could she find the strength to endure the next onslaught. He found himself looking back, his eyes smiling down at her, his lips forming words that he could not remember afterward. And when she did speak, he answered her questions soothingly, assuring her that the little ones were with their grandmother, probably asleep, that clean water had been boiled, that plenty of rags were ready.
And that the midwife would surely be there soon.
Hours passed.
By the time she had danced the first two sets, Rachel knew that she would not be able to keep up her facade of gaiety for the whole of the long evening ahead. She could have done so if David had been there. She could have been the brightest flame at the ball if David had been present. She would have felt compelled to be so. But he was not there, and she could feel her composure crumbling.
She had prepared herself to endure the evening. She had worn her favorite sea-green lace gown with its underdress of midnight blue. She had had her maid dress her curls high in an elaborate coiffure. And she had sparkled as she left her room and joined the other members of the house party in the drawing room at Oakland. More than one person there had commented that she looked as if she were about to attend a London ball, as if she were about to make her come-out again.
She had shared a carriage with Sir Herbert Fanshawe, Miss Ames, and the Marquess of Stanford, and she had
