The Courtship of
the Vicar’s Daughter
Books by
Lawana Blackwell
* * *
The Jewel of Gresham Green
THE GRESHAM CHRONICLES
The Widow of Larkspur Inn
The Courtship of the Vicar’s Daughter
The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark
www.lawanablackwell.com
The Courtship of the Vicar’s Daughter
Copyright © 1998
Lawana Blackwell
Cover design by Jennifer Parker
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Ebook edition created 2011
ISBN 978-1-5855-8407-9
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
This book is lovingly dedicated
to my father,
Earl Chandler,
who taught me the value of integrity.
LAWANA BLACKWELL has eleven published novels to her credit including the bestselling GRESHAM CHRONICLES series. She and her husband have three grown sons and live in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 1
July, 1870
“And now with your kind indulgence, my lovely and talented daughter, Ernestine, will sing for us,” Vicar Nippert announced after tea had been poured in the parlor of the vicarage behind Saint Stephen’s. “She will be accompanied on the pianoforte by my equally lovely and talented wife, Aurea.”
Andrew Phelps, balancing a plate of little watercress sandwiches on one knee and a cup and saucer on the other, winced inwardly. Not because Ernestine’s talent had been exaggerated—on the contrary, as the girl began the first notes of “Ye Servants of God,” it became quite obvious that she possessed a pleasant singing voice. But since his arrival in Prescott this morning for the quarterly regional meeting, he and a dozen other country vicars had been subjected to their host’s incessant boasting.
Oh, he could understand the man’s pride. The most beautiful stained-glass windows in Shropshire graced Prescott’s three-hundredyear-old Gothic cathedral. The parishioners were such enthusiastic givers, according to Vicar Nippert, that they practically pounded upon the church doors at the first of each month, demanding to be allowed to tithe immediately. And, of course, as he had mentioned more than once, his wife and daughter were musical virtuosos, worthy of leading angel choirs.
It was just that Andrew had assumed that, as was the case with past diocese meetings hosted by other vicars, most of the time would be devoted to discussing church issues.
“Well, what do you think?” came a low voice from Andrew’s right. He turned to find Vicar Nippert leaning over his chair, his proud grin exposing a row of teeth as white and prominent as the piano keys upon which Mrs. Nippert’s nimble fingers glided effortlessly. “Sings like an angel, eh?”
“Very talented,” Andrew agreed reluctantly, not because he had aught against the girl, but because he suspected the door was being opened for more boasting. His suspicion was confirmed right away, for Vicar Nippert immediately launched into a litany of his daughter’s other talents. Andrew assumed an attentive expression and consoled himself with the thought that at least when this meeting was over, he wouldn’t have to endure Vicar Nippert’s company for another three months.
And then a certain name snapped him out of his reverie.
“Did you say Saint Julien’s Academy at Shrewsbury?” Andrew asked as Ernestine began the fourth stanza.
“This will be her second year,” Vicar Nippert replied after sending a nod of approval across to his daughter. “Outstanding institution, and of course she was at the head of her class last term.” His expression suddenly brightened. “Say, you’ve a daughter about Ernestine’s age, eh? Are you considering enrolling her? Because I feel compelled to warn you that a waiting list begins to accumulate this time every year.”
Andrew swallowed. “I already have enrolled her.”
“Well, capital!” The vicar clapped him on the back, the toothy smile even wider. “You’ll be fetching her on weekends, yes? No doubt we’ll be seeing a lot of each other come September, eh?”
“Y-yes,” Andrew nodded.
“Capital!” Vicar Nippert clapped him on the back again and moved on to converse with other clergy across the room.
While Ernestine sang the first few words to a second hymn, “Come, Thou Long Expected Jesus,” Andrew added under his breath, “And could you possibly come before September, Lord?” But then he thought about his upcoming marriage to Julia Hollis and amended his prayer. “With all due respect, Lord, could you please wait until after December?”
The four high-backed willow benches Julia had commissioned the Keegans, the Irish basket weavers, to make for the Larkspur Inn’s garden looked quite rustic among the flower beds and shrubbery. She was pleased with the effect. A two-hundred-year-old building of weathered red sandstone would look a little silly looming behind lawn furniture made of the dainty-looking wrought-iron lace that was so popular in London.
Or at least it was popular sixteen months ago, when her late husband’s gambling debts caused Julia to lose her home and almost everything else she had in the world, save the Larkspur, an old abandoned coaching inn that the London bankers had deemed too worthless to claim. With a courage born out of desperation and a loan from her former butler, Julia had moved to Gresham with her three children and loyal chambermaid, Fiona O’Shea. By God’s grace and plenty of hard work, they had transformed the Larkspur into a lodging house, successful beyond even their most optimistic dreams.
It was upon one of these willow benches that Julia and Andrew met every weekday morning before Andrew paid calls to his parishioners. Over cups of tea the two shared news from the Shrewsbury Chronicle, tidbits of the goings-on in their separate households, and plans for the life they would begin together in December. For propriety’s sake, the tea tray occupied the space between them upon the bench—an arrangement the vicar un
derstood and conceded was necessary, but disliked immensely.
“But you know what happened the last time you tried to speak to the Sanderses,” Julia said on Monday morning as she handed her fiancé the cup of tea she had just poured. She was a little miffed that Andrew had charmed her into a jovial mood by relating the events of Saturday’s diocese meeting in Prescott before mentioning in passing that he would be making a certain call today.
“Yes, but this time there will be four of us.” He took an appreciative sip from his cup. “Please compliment Mrs. Herrick on her most excellent tea, as usual.”
“Please don’t change the subject, Andrew. You’ll only be providing him with more targets. And who’s to say the next cracked forehead won’t be yours?”
This warning had the opposite effect from the one Julia had intended, for the corners of his hazel eyes crinkled. “So you’re worried about me, are you, Julia Hollis?”
Julia refused to return his smile. “I’m in no mood to be teased.” During the three weeks since she had accepted his proposal of marriage, she found that he was growing more and more dear to her. And the thought of Mr. Sanders crowning him with a rock, as he had poor Mr. Clay, frightened her immensely.
He reached across the tray, picked up her hand, and brought it to his bearded cheek. “It’s rather nice, you know, having you fuss over me.”
“Do you plan to indulge in rash behavior all during our marriage so you can be fussed over?”
“Now, there’s a thought.”
She could no longer resist the coaxing in his warm eyes and squeezed the hand that held hers. “Just be careful, Andrew.”
“Of course,” he promised, giving the back of her hand a quick kiss before releasing it. “I’ll turn and start sprinting if Sanders so much as looks at a rock. And I’ll warn the others to do the same.”
“Why do they want you along anyway? The man has already proven he has no respect for the clergy.”
“I suppose they’re hoping Mr. Sanders will feel contrite enough about his last show of temper toward Mr. Clay and me to grant us audience. I couldn’t refuse them.”
The “they” and “them” of whom Andrew and Julia spoke consisted of Messrs. Sykes, Sway, and Casper, Gresham’s newly elected school board. Because of Parliament’s passage of the Elementary Education Act this year, local school boards were now responsible for seeing that English and Welsh schools met certain universal standards of education. Pressure was also brought upon these boards to increase school enrollment.
There was no easy way to accomplish this latter goal, however, because without a compulsory education law, the choice still lay in the hands of the parents. But the three men of Gresham’s school board had made it their mission to enroll every child of school age in the village for the coming academic year.
Their enthusiasm was contagious, and the whole town had become infected with it. The ladies of the Women’s Charity Society applied themselves to knitting caps, stockings, and gloves for the children of the less fortunate in anticipation of the winter months when they would be walking to and from school. Worshipers at Saint Jude’s, as well as the Baptist and Wesleyan chapels, dropped pennies in vestibule boxes for the purchase of boots for these same children. Even Squire Bartley had made a surprise donation of three dozen slates and a carton of chalk to the school.
But the most exciting development was the offer made by Mr. Durwin, one of the Larkspur’s lodgers. His oldest son, an engineer building a bridge in India, had sent him the design for a merry-goround he had constructed for some of the colonists’ children. Mr. Durwin pledged to have one built in the school yard if one hundred percent enrollment was reached by the beginning of the school year. It was the talk of the town, especially among the children.
So far, seven of the nine unschooled children had been registered. Even the Keegan family from Ireland had been persuaded that their three school-aged children should receive an education. That only left the two youngest Sanders boys, and it was no accident that the school board had saved that particular family for last.
“Even if Mr. Sanders agrees to send them, how do we know they’ll behave?” Julia asked Andrew. “What if the new teacher isn’t as good a disciplinarian as Captain Powell?” Captain Powell had given his resignation in June and was now to assume a position as one of Her Majesty’s Inspectors. His new responsibility would be to travel throughout the county of Shropshire, seeing that schools met at least the minimum standards of education.
“We have to give them a chance,” Andrew reminded her. “And as to their, or any other child’s, failure to behave, the board has decided that expulsion would be swift. It’s been difficult enough trying to find a new teacher. We can’t have him or her resigning out of frustration.”
“Him or her? I take it that the board hasn’t heard from Miss Clark yet?”
“Not yet. Perhaps tomorrow.” He smiled and replaced his empty cup on the tray. “It will work out, Julia. Things usually do.”
“When you say that, I believe it,” Julia replied, returning his smile. “Would you care for more tea?”
“I could stay here with you all day, drinking Mrs. Herrick’s fine tea and staring at the most beautiful woman in England. But duty calls.” After setting his bowler hat atop his blond head, he sent a glance in all directions, then put an arm around her shoulders and leaned over the tray for a covert kiss. It lasted longer than it should have, and when their lips finally came apart, Julia darted a glance at the Larkspur’s windows to make sure their little indiscretion hadn’t been witnessed.
“ ‘They do not love that do not show their love,’ ” said a voice with a faint Cornish accent and a liberal dose of humor.
Julia and Andrew turned their heads to gape at Ambrose and Fiona Clay, smiling as they walked hand in hand from the side of the house facing the carriage drive. Their fortnight’s stay in the apartment above the stables was halfway over now, for in another week Mr. Clay would be returning to London’s Prince of Wales Theatre to take the lead role in a comedy titled The Barrister.
While warmth stole through Julia’s cheeks, Andrew got to his feet, obviously not the least bit embarrassed at being caught. “Shakespeare?” he ventured as he and the actor shook hands.
“But of course. The Two Gentlemen of Verona.”
Rising to embrace Fiona, Julia said, “You’re up early. Have you plans for today?” The Clays were late risers out of necessity, for life revolving around the London theatre required long evenings.
“We thought we would enjoy watching the excavation before the sun gets too overbearing,” Fiona explained. Mr. Ellis and Mr. Pitney, new Larkspur residents, were conducting an excavation on the Roman ruins atop the Anwyl. It had become a pleasant outing for villagers to hike up the steep hill to the west of Gresham and watch from distances that did not interfere with the archeologists’ work.
Mr. Clay smiled. “Marriage agrees with me. I never had the energy to take on the Anwyl when I lived here before. Even Mrs. Kingston couldn’t bully me into it.”
“It sounds like a grand adventure,” Andrew told them, then motioned to the nearest bench. “Have you a minute or two for a visit?”
“That’s why we came out here first,” the actor replied, guiding his wife to the bench. “Mrs. Herrick is packing some fruit and biscuits for us to share with Mr. Ellis and Mr. Pitney. Why don’t you two join us?”
As Julia resumed her seat, with Andrew again settling on the other side of the tea tray, she made the silent observation that marriage certainly did agree with the couple. Mr. Clay seemed not to be in one of his despondent moods, for his gray eyes were bright and his posture erect. Fiona’s face still wore the glow of a wife who is adored by her husband and, judging by her wardrobe, pampered as well. This morning she wore a striped silk gown of rich strawberry and gunmetal gray that flattered her fair complexion with a straw hat trimmed in matching ribbons.
“I still find myself reaching back to untie imaginary apron strings when I change clothes,”
she’d confessed yesterday when Julia complimented her wardrobe. Which was all the more reason Julia was happy to see her with nice things. Having spent most of her twenty-seven years in servitude, Fiona deserved no less.
Andrew’s voice broke into her reverie. “Speaking for myself, I’ve a full plate today,” he was saying, then turned to her. “But why don’t you go, Julia?”
“Yes, Julia, do come with us,” Fiona urged. After an awkward first day or two, she finally seemed to be at ease addressing Julia by her given name. The men still used formal titles out of habit, even though they had great affection for each other.
“Thank you, but I’m afraid I’ve several things to do as well,” Julia replied with a regretful smile, though truly, she could have put some off until tomorrow. No matter how sincere the invitation, she couldn’t help but feel that the newlyweds would enjoy ambling up the Anwyl’s footpaths without a third person along. Changing the subject before a second invitation could be issued, she said, “I was just trying to talk Andrew out of accompanying the school board to call on the Sanderses.”
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