"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 monopolized the conversation with her bright chatter and gay laughter. She had entered the dining room on the arm of the marquess, knowing that several people around her were murmuring at the apparent renewal of a London courtship. Through dinner her relief at not having to face David had been enough to sustain her mood. All attention at her end of the table had been focused on her. Everyone around her had appeared happy and full of laughter.

But she could not sustain the mood. It became clear when the music had started that David was not coming at all. And so Rachel was desperately unhappy, feeling that only his presence could have given her the strength to continue her playacting. Suddenly, without David there, there seemed no point in keeping up the deception.

Algie had been so kind to her all week. He had been kind to her tonight, smiling the length of the table at her whenever there was a burst of laughter from her group, leading her into the opening set, complimenting her on her appearance.

She felt cheap, shoddy. Wretched. Her life was one big lie. Her smile became actively painful to maintain.

At the end of the second set, Rachel grabbed Algernon by the arm, smiling brightly up at him. "Take me outside, Algie," she said. "I want to talk with you."

"Are you very warm, Rache?" he asked. "It is a wicked night for a ball, is it not? I wish that wretched storm would break. You will feel better when it does."

"I need to talk with you," she said, her smile slipping a degree.

"I have asked Madeline for the next set," he said. "Can you wait half an hour, Rache?"

"Please, Algie."

He looked closely at her and frowned slightly. "Wait here," he said. "I shall go and make my excuses to Madeline."

Rachel's smile had slipped all the way by the time he rejoined her a few minutes later. Algernon looked at her in some concern as he tucked her arm through his and led her through the French doors onto the lawn outside.

Chapter 13

ALgernon kept his hand over hers.

"What is it, Rache?" he asked when they were out of earshot of the couples strolling on the terrace in an attempt to escape the heavy heat of the ballroom. "It is unlike you to miss any of the dancing and to request that I do so. too."

"Will this storm never break?" she asked rather petulantly, glancing up to the dark sky. As if in answer, a distant rumble of thunder seemed to shake the air around them.

Algernon squeezed her hand. "You aren't afraid of storms, Rache," he said. "Tell me what is the matter."

"I can't marry you, Algie!" she cried, pulling her arm from his and turning to face him. "Just a few weeks ago I had the effrontery to ask you to offer for me and to persuade you almost to promise that we would be betrothed in the autumn. And you were so kind and understanding and have been ever since. But I have changed my mind, and I feel so dreadful about it. You are easily the nicest man I know, and I do love you dearly, believe me I do. But I can't marry you."

Algernon clasped his hands behind his back and looked down at her. "Don't upset yourself, Rache," he said calmly. "If you feel you cannot marry me, I am not going to force you. And neither is anyone else. It is nothing to get dreadfully upset about, you know. There was nothing official after all, was there? Do you want to tell me what has happened? Has Stanford offered again? And do you wish to accept him? You must not feel guilty about me if that is so. It will be a splendid match for you. And I believe he will make you a good husband. Come, talk to me. We have always been friends, have we not? We have always been comfortable together."

"Yes, we have," she said. "And loved each other. And that is the trouble. I cannot marry you because I would not be able to make you happy, and it would break my heart to know that I was causing you misery. Lord Stanford has nothing to do with this, Algie. I will not be marrying him either, though I believe he means to offer again later this evening. I am not going to marry anyone."

"Your Season in town has made you restless," he said, smiling kindly down at her. "I guessed when I saw you in London that the country would no longer suit you. You have learned that society has a great deal to offer someone with your beauty and your gaiety. And there is nothing wrong with that, Rache. You must not feel guilty that you now find me somewhat dull. I am dull, and make no apology for the fact. And if Stanford does not suit, you must not become upset over that either. You will find the perfect husband eventually, I promise, and be happy for the rest of your life. Come on, cheer up, you little goose."

"Oh, no," Rachel said, looking earnestly into his eyes. "You misunderstand quite, Algie. I do not want more of social life. All of that has grown remarkably tedious. It has meant nothing to me since I have discovered that what I really want is a useful purpose in life. I am not rejecting you because I consider you dull. Oh, please don't think that. I don't want London. I don't want balls."

"A useful purpose," he said, flicking one finger beneath her chin. "Like all this tripping off to your father's tenants and hauling along books to read to the elderly, Rache? Is that what you mean by being useful?" He frowned. "But you cannot make a way of life of that. You will need a home and family besides."

Rachel shook her head. "I am going to start a school," she said. "I want to teach the children to read."

Algernon grinned. "You, Rache?" he said, amusement in his voice. "And you are quite serious, are you not? I can see it in the set of your chin. What will your papa say to that?"

"I am not sure," she said. "But his opinion will make no difference, anyway."

Algernon placed his hands on her shoulders and continued to grin down at her. "You know, Rache," he said, "it is David you should be marrying."

Rachel stared at him numbly.

"Good God!" His hands tightened and his expression instantly sobered. "Have I been that blind, Rache? Is that it? Is it David?"

"I think I would have discovered what I have even without him," Rachel said carefully, "but probably not quite so soon. Perhaps I never would have found the meaning of my life and I would always have wondered why I was restless and not quite happy."

Algernon nodded slowly, his eyes searching hers. "And you love David too."

Rachel did not answer. She did not need to. Algernon's words had not been a question.

"I would not have expected it," he said. "He is devilish handsome, of course, but I wouldn't have thought that he would attract you in the least, Rache. You seem such opposites. And does he love you too?"