Her brow furrowed at the thought of this last. It was obvious that he was not accustomed to the work. She wished she might do something to relieve his burden—something beyond the bandaging of his poor blistered hands. But when she cast about in her mind for some new form of relief, the only ideas that presented themselves were sufficient to bring the blood rushing to her face. It would not do, this undue concern for Mr. Tisdale’s well-being. He seemed to think that his financial difficulties were temporary; she must hope, against her own inclinations, that he was correct, for it would be a very poor friend who would rejoice in the hardships of another merely so that she might continue to enjoy his company. And yet, there was no denying the fact that with his departure, her days would be all the bleaker for having been given that brief glimpse of sunshine.
Heaving a sigh, she tossed the denuded stem into the water. The days were growing shorter with the retreat of summer, and the light was now fading. Her mother would be wondering what had become of her. It would not do for Mama to suspect that her daughter was given to daydreaming about a mill worker, no matter how genteel his manners.
“Miss Drinkard?”
Upon hearing herself hailed by a masculine voice, her heart gave a great leap, only to settle, upon discovering that the speaker was in fact not Mr. Tisdale, but Sir Valerian Wadsworth, somewhere in the region usually occupied by her stomach.
“Sir Valerian!” she exclaimed, trying to sound pleased. “How you startled me!”
“Did I? In that case, I must beg your pardon.”
“I’m sure there is no need for you to apologize,” Daphne protested. “If I was startled, I have no one but myself to blame, for I fear I was woolgathering. It is not often that I find time alone to think. Not, of course, that it isn’t always a pleasure to see you,” she added lamely, realizing that this last observation was hardly flattering to her present company. To be sure, Mama expected her to do all she could to attach Sir Valerian’s interest, but she could not be easy in his presence or, if the truth be known, even like him very much. This was, perhaps, a little unfair, as he had given her no reason to hold him in dislike. No reason, at least, beyond the fact that he was not Mr. Tisdale.
But Sir Valerian proved impervious to insult. In fact, far from being offended, he seemed to find her preoccupation amusing. “Were you woolgathering indeed? Now, what might a young lady find to occupy her thoughts to such a degree, but a young man? Dare I hope to be the one? Aha! The flags flying in her cheeks give me hope!”
Daphne was indeed blushing crimson, but Sir Valerian was quite mistaken as to the source of her embarrassment. It was not that she had been dreaming of Sir Valerian, but the fact that she should have been, and yet was not, that caused her such distress. She could hardly point out his error, however, so she made as if to return to the house.
“If you will excuse me, sir, I must go. Mama will be expecting me to help her and Cook with the dinner preparations.”
Far from stepping aside to let her pass, he took a step closer and caught one of her hands in his. “Very well, Miss Drinkard, I shan’t tease you. Only allow me to say that I consider it a great pity that these small hands should bear so heavy a burden.”
“By all means you may say so, Sir Valerian,” she said crisply, snatching her hand away, “if you will allow me to say that I consider it a great pity that a man of your exalted stature should choose to express himself in terms better suited to an actor in a Christmas pantomime.”
With this home thrust, she brushed past him and hurried up the path to the house.
“There you are!” exclaimed Mrs. Drinkard as Daphne entered the house through the back door that opened onto the kitchen. “Here’s Cook needing someone to shell peas, and you nowhere in sight!”
“I beg your pardon, Mama. I had not meant to neglect my chores. It is only that I was down by the river, talking to Sir Valerian.”
At this revelation, Mrs. Drinkard’s ill humor evaporated, as Daphne had known it would. “Oh, my dear! If only you might attach his interest, all our difficulties would be at an end! What a good thing you had not yet put on your old gown! But you must do so now, for Cook has need of you.”
“Yes, Mama, I shall do so at once. Only—tell me, what brought Sir Valerian here?”
“He said he wanted to speak to me regarding my permission—well, you may guess what I thought of that!”
“Your—your permission?”
Mrs. Drinkard gave a huff of annoyance. “My permission to hold another of his abominable meetings! Only fancy—here I was, thinking he was about to request my permission to pay his addresses to you, my love, and all he wanted was to fill my dining room with those odious mill workers again!”
“Oh,” Daphne said, secretly relieved. “I suppose the first meeting must have gone very well, then.”
“Apparently,” her mother agreed without enthusiasm.
