arrived safely.'
Algernon strode across the room through the sudden hubbub of voices. But being close to the two men from Oakland did not make the message any more palatable: Rachel was missing and had been missing since before the storm the night before. Algernon felt fear and near-panic churn his insides.
'I shall have all the servants gathered,' he said, 'to search the grounds and all the likely routes she might have taken last night. She had my gig. Her choice of route would have been limited. We can use as many of the gentlemen as consider themselves suitably dressed for such a search.' He turned to the company, which had hushed again and was paying him close attention.
'All our servants are searching already,' Lord Edgeley said. 'I must go back there, Rivers. Lady Edgeley is frantic.'
'Perhaps Lord Mountford could return to assure her that everything possible is being done here,' Algernon said. 'You and I should maybe call at the village to see if there is any sign of her there. Perhaps David will know something.'
Lord Edgeley frowned. 'Why would he know anything of her whereabouts?' he asked. 'He was not even here last night.'
Algernon did not answer. He had stridden from the room to have the butler summon all the menservants.
***
David and Rachel had started out from the cottage somewhat before dawn. Old Mrs. Perkins had lent Rachel a shawl to protect her bare arms from the chill that had succeeded the storm. Her delicate ball gown was looking sadly bedraggled.
David guided the horse slowly and carefully over the wet and muddy road. Even so, it soon became obvious that they had been precipitate in their decision to take to the road so soon after the rain stopped. They should have waited at least a couple of hours longer. It did not help that the sky was still cloudy and they could see no more than a few feet in front of them. Eventually they reached a fork in the road, one branch of which led to the village, a mile away, while the other led to Oakland, two miles distant. The road to Oakland was slightly uphill. David brought the gig carefully to a halt.
'I do not see how the horse is to get up that hill,' he said. 'He will have no traction for his feet. I believe we have a choice. Either we abandon horse and gig and walk across the fields to Oakland, or you come with me to the vicarage.'
Rachel glanced down ruefully at her feet and wriggled her toes. 'Across the fields in these slippers, David?' she said. 'Ugh!'
'Then the vicarage it must be,' he said. 'It may not be a very proper solution, Rachel, but under the circumstances it will be excusable, I believe. Mrs. Saunders will be there to lend some propriety to your presence. And I shall walk to Oakland as soon as it is light to set everyone's mind at rest. I very much doubt that anyone will return home from Algie's until dawn at the earliest.'
Rachel did not put up any protest. Indeed, sitting silently beside a tense David as he eased the horse into a slow progress again, she felt almost happy. It had been a magical night, a wonderful night, a night in which she had felt close to David in a way she could not possibly have imagined. And it had not yet ended. There was this adventure of a slow and dangerous journey over muddy roads and a few hours spent at the vicarage with David at the end of it. It did not even occur to her to worry about propriety. How could it be improper to be alone with a man with whom one had just shared the unimaginably intimate task of bringing a child into this world?
She stole a look at David's profile, only barely visible in the darkness. It was a strong, handsome profile. He looked thoroughly in charge of the situation, though she knew that he was tense with anxiety. She would, she realized, trust David with her life under the most difficult of circumstances. With anyone else at present she would probably be fighting hysterics. With David she was totally relaxed. She marveled at her own lack of fear.
'We are almost there,' he said with quiet reassurance. 'You are a good companion, Rachel. Most females would be in a fit of the vapors by now. You are hiding your fear very well.'
'I am not afraid,' she said calmly. 'I am with you.'
He grinned unexpectedly. 'If you realized how very undependable I feel at the moment,' he said, 'perhaps you would not be so trusting.'
'I would always trust you, David,' she said. ' 'Whither thou goest…' ' But she broke off the quotation. She had meant it as a light joke, but it came out of her mouth sounding quite serious.
Neither said anything more until he lifted her down from her seat after taking the gig around to the back of the vicarage. He quickly untethered the horse and stabled it in the small building that had housed the horse of the former vicar. Then he led Rachel inside.
'You must be very tired,' he said, lighting two candles in the kitchen. 'You were wonderful tonight, Rachel. There are not many young ladies who would have done half of what you did. And all without any fuss or hysterics. Thank you for your help. I no longer felt afraid once you arrived.'
'I don't believe there are many clergymen who would do what you did either, David,' Rachel said with a smile. 'I don't think the midwife could have given more tender care to the baby or the mother. You are a beautiful person. I am glad that I have known you.'
He stood and smiled at her, at a small young lady in a soiled and crumpled ball dress with wildly disheveled dark hair and tired, shadowed eyes. She had never looked more beautiful. He wanted to say something to her, something tender and meaningful, something to heal the pain he had caused her. He wanted to open his arms to her and hold her as he had at the cottage a few hours before. He wanted to tell her how totally he loved her.
'Come,' he said, picking up one of the candles, 'I shall take you up to the room Mrs. Saunders always keeps ready for guests. You must sleep, Rachel. I shall stay down here until it is light and then walk to Oakland. Mrs. Saunders will see to your needs when you wake.'
He led the way upstairs and into a square, neat room, and set the candle down on a dresser.
'Thank you,' Rachel said rather bleakly as he turned to leave.
'Sleep well,' he said, turning back to smile that gentle half-smile that could always make her weak with love for him. 'Good night, Rachel. My friend.'
Perhaps he thought it strange that she did not reply. She merely gave him a tiny smile as he let himself out of the room and shut the door quietly behind him. She could not have said anything. Why had those last two words broken her control as no other endearment could have done at that moment? Why did it seem infinitely more precious to be David's friend than even to be his lover? Rachel brushed impatiently at the tears that had spilled onto her cheeks, and glanced with longing at the bed. She began the difficult task of undoing the long row of tiny buttons that extended down her back.
Downstairs in his study, meanwhile, David sank into the worn chair beside the empty fireplace, hooked one leg over the arm, and proceeded to keep vigil until the coming of dawn.
'Whither thou goest...'
The words had been running through his head for days. He had always loved the Book of Ruth, but he had never been obsessed with it as he had been lately. He had never been so aware of the courage of a woman who could give up everything with which she was familiar, even her country and her religion, for the sake of love. Love for a mother-in-law, in Ruth's case. He still felt that the story should not have ended as it did. She should not have adjusted to her new life, met the rich and kindly Boaz, married him, and become the great-grandmother of a king. She should have been wrong. The story should have proved that one cannot totally change one's way of life and be happy.
Was he wrong about Rachel? He loved her so very dearly. He wanted her to be happy. He knew she was not happy now. Incredible as it seemed, she apparently did love him as much as he loved her. But he had thought he had the wisdom to look into the future. She would be far more unhappy than she was now, he had concluded, if he married her. She would discover that his life was not hers, and yet she would be forced into making it so as his wife. He had forced himself to watch her unhappiness now, knowing that he was protecting her from greater and lasting misery in the future.
But was he right? Who was he to say what was right for Rachel? A completely new way of life had worked for Ruth. And it had worked for him too, had it not? Who would have said just a few years before that he could live the type of life he was living now and be happy? He certainly would not have believed it possible. Was he God that he could decide Rachel's future for her?
