The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter

by Lawana Blackwell

“Yes?” Mr. Clay raised an eyebrow. The scar upon his forehead was still noticeable, but it added a rugged quality to his aristocratic face that was not unattractive. “And will you be needing someone to escort you to Doctor Rhodes’ afterward?”

  “That won’t be necessary, thank you,” Andrew replied with a chuckle, then got to his feet again. “But I must run along now. Supper at the vicarage tomorrow night?”

  “It sounds lovely,” Mr. Clay replied after exchanging a meaningful glance with his wife. They were already becoming proficient in the silent language of married couples.

  “Excellent!” To Julia, Andrew said, “Please bring the children along, too.”

  “Are you sure Mrs. Paget won’t mind? She’s not used to cooking for so many.”

  “My dear, I’ve already spoken to her about it and she’s delighted. Besides, she’ll need the practice for later.”

  After Andrew bade them farewell, Julia watched him walk up the garden path and through the gate. He wore the broad shoulders of a man who should be taller than his five-foot-eight frame, and his bearded face was plain, according to his own description. But Julia had come to realize months ago, even before she had begun to love him, that Vicar Phelps had the most beautiful soul of any man she had ever met. And that meant far more to her than any aesthetic features.

  Andrew took his horse and trap only when his calls were not within walking distance of the vicarage. On those occasions he left Rusty, his blue roan, hitched outside the Larkspur’s front gate during his morning visits with Julia. Propriety, the same taskmaster that dictated the tea tray should rest between them, was why he did not pull into the carriage drive around back and sit with her in the courtyard, out of the sight of most villagers. Avoid even the appearance of evil, the Scriptures said. It wasn’t exactly fair that most people held ministers up to a higher code of conduct than they did themselves, but it was an unchangeable fact of life.

  It wasn’t that the inhabitants of Gresham were malicious. On the contrary, most were warmhearted and had embraced his family in the year they’d lived here. But because of the remoteness of their village and the long hours spent hard at work, they had little else but gossip to keep themselves entertained. Even something as mundane as Mrs. Shelton’s purchase of a new lamp or the Moores’ overnight visit to cousins in Lilleshall was chewed over, discussed, and often embellished on its way to the next set of eager ears.

  Climbing up into the seat of the trap, Andrew unwound his reins from the whip socket and turned for a last look at Julia. She never wore hats during their morning visits, and he wondered if it was because she was aware that he loved the way the morning sunlight turned her auburn hair to burnished copper and lit sparks to the emeralds that were her eyes. I’m truly a blessed man, he thought, as he did most mornings.

  When Andrew’s trap was finally out of sight up Market Lane, Julia realized the Clays were both staring at her with the sentimental expressions usually reserved for small children who have done something particularly winsome.

  She gave them an embarrassed smile. “I feel I should recite something for you now.”

  “Oh, do forgive us, Julia,” Fiona said. “It was just so … sweet, the way you were watching the vicar just now.”

  Mr. Clay nodded, his smile positively simpering. “I could tell you were meant for each other the first time I saw you in the same room.”

  “Yes? Well then, you should have told me and saved us some trouble.”

  “Do you suppose you would have listened to me?”

  “Actually …” Julia assumed a thoughtful pose. “I’m sure it would have frightened me away. I suppose things have to happen in their own good time.”

  “Sometimes they do,” the actor said with a wink at his wife.

  Julia smiled again. She had momentarily forgotten that Mr. Clay and Fiona had married on the same day he proposed.

  “When will Mr. Jensen be moving here?” Fiona asked. Mr. Jensen was Julia’s former butler, whose loan and advice had rescued her and the children, along with Fiona, from impending poverty.

  Julia sent a sideways glance at the new sign above the door to her lodging house. Larkspur Inn was carved into oak above a spray of flowers. While she looked forward to living in the vicarage and forming one family from the two, it was a comfort to know that the Larkspur would always be nearby. “Not until the first of December, so I’ll have only one week before the wedding to show him how to manage the place. But it shouldn’t take him long to learn. And of course he’ll only have to send word to the vicarage should he need assistance later.”

  His scarred brow furrowing, Mr. Clay said, “Surely you aren’t planning to forgo a honeymoon.”

  Even though Mr. Clay was a dear friend, and Julia not the seventeen-year-old bride she had been at her first marriage, she felt another blush steal across her cheeks. Still, she managed to answer with a casual, “We plan to spend a week or so in Wales. We don’t wish to leave the children for too long during the Christmas season.”

  Mercifully Fiona changed the subject, or rather veered it off in another direction. “Speaking of the children, Julia, have you met Elizabeth’s beau?” Elizabeth was Andrew’s nineteen-year-old daughter.

  Julia sent her a grateful smile. “Why yes, two or three times. Paul Treves—he’s a curate in Alveley.”

  “Do you think he’ll propose?”

  “Elizabeth says he plans to do so formally as soon as he’s promoted to vicar in eight months or so.” Her smile faded. “I’m a little concerned about that situation … and so is Andrew.”

  “You don’t care for the young man?” Mr. Clay asked.

  “Oh, it’s not that,” she hastened to reassure him. “He seems very decent. It’s just that we wonder if she’s completely over someone from her past.”

  Recognition came into Fiona’s expression. “The young man from Cambridge.”

  “He broke her heart in the worst possible way, but I believe she still longs to see him again.”

  “Then it’s fortunate that Andrew moved his family here,” said Mr. Clay. “At least the possibility of that happening is remote.”

  “Yes,” Julia nodded, but for some reason she couldn’t feel completely reassured.

  Gertie, the scullery maid, came outside then with a basket of treats from Mrs. Herrick’s kitchen, putting an end to the discussion. “Are you quite sure you won’t come with us?” Fiona asked as Julia walked the two to the gate. “You could bring the children along.”

  She smiled and waved them away. “Thank you, but Andrew has brought them up there at least a dozen times. And I’ve duties around here, so you’ll just have to try to enjoy yourselves without me.”

  Chapter 2

  Julia lingered at the gate as Fiona and Mr. Clay walked the length of the garden wall, exchanging waves on the way with the driver of one of the red-and-white wagons from Anwyl Mountain Savory Cheeses. The wagon turned west at the crossroads, and it seemed from the ring of hooves and the rattle of wheels against the cobbled stones that it was turning into the carriage drive behind the inn.

  Mrs. Beemish must have ordered cheeses, Julia thought. Which was odd, because although Squire Bartley’s factory, north of the River Bryce, sent its famous Cheshire cheeses all over Great Britain, the wagons did not make local deliveries. They were kept busy enough, it seemed, carting their wares down to the railway station at Shrewsbury. Gresham residents made their purchases directly from the factory.

  Deciding that policy must have recently changed, she shrugged the matter off and went into the house. The choppy notes of “London Bridge” greeted her in the hall—Mrs. Dearing had asked Julia’s twelve-year-old daughter, Aleda, to give her piano lessons, and the two sat at the bench.

  “Very good!” Julia exclaimed, walking over to stand at the piano’s side. Up until now, all she had heard Mrs. Dearing attempt were simple scales. The elderly lodger smiled up at her, looking like an Indian princess with her turquoise necklace and long gray braid draped over one shoulder.
r />   “Aleda is so patient with me,” she said. “I’m afraid I’m rather slow.”

  “No, ma’am, you’re doing very well,” Aleda assured her. Like Julia and fourteen-year-old Philip, she had thick auburn hair and a scattering of freckles across her cheeks. Patiently she repositioned her pupil’s slightly gnarled fingers on the keys so that the wrists did not droop, then smiled up at Julia. “Did you recognize ‘London Bridge,’ Mother?”

  “As soon as I heard it.” To Mrs. Dearing, Julia said, “Will you play it again?”

  That pleased both tutor and pupil, and Julia stood and listened appreciatively. When the song was finished, she complimented them again, then walked up the corridor toward the kitchen to remind Mrs. Herrick that tomorrow her family and the Clays would be having supper at the vicarage. She heard voices in the short corridor leading to the courtyard door and looked to her left. There stood the cook along with housekeeper Mrs. Beemish, kitchen maid Mildred, and lodger Mrs. Kingston. The latter was dressed for her morning walk, straw bonnet over her gray head and stout walking stick in hand. From the tone of her voice it was obvious that she was not pleased.

  “I care not one whit about your orders!” she was declaring to a man in the open doorway. Julia could see from the space between Mrs. Kingston and Mildred that he held two huge round cheese boxes in his arms, his face red from the effort.

  “What’s wrong?” Julia whispered to Mrs. Beemish.

  The housekeeper turned wide brown eyes at her and said, “The squire—he sent cheeses this time and Mrs. Kingston will have none of it.”

  “Oh dear,” Julia whispered. Faintly she could hear the halting notes of “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep” drifting from the hall, while in front of her Mrs. Kingston assumed her most imperious voice.

  “You will remove yourself and these cheeses from the premises immediately, young man! And please inform Squire Bartley that any further offerings will be delivered to the parish poor box!”

  The driver was obliged to yield at this point and backed away from the door. Mrs. Kingston turned to the group of onlookers. Julia wasn’t certain if the flush across her wrinkled cheeks was from anger or embarrassment, or a combination of both.

  “The stubborn old goat,” she muttered.

  “But he did stop sendin’ the flowers, ma’am,” Mildred reminded her in a humble tone. For her efforts at consoling, the kitchen maid was rewarded with an icy stare from Mrs. Kingston’s blue eyes.

  “And so what will it be next?” Mrs. Kingston demanded. “A side of beef?”

  “Oooh! If he does, ma’am, please don’t send it back!” Mrs. Her-rick exclaimed.

  Julia had to look away for a second to keep her composure. For Audrey Herrick’s small stature—she was a dwarf, as was her husband, Karl—the cook possessed more dry wit than most people of normal size.

  Deciding it was time to restore some order, Julia gently nudged her way through to the door. “Why don’t we chat outside for a little while?” she asked, linking arms with Mrs. Kingston. Behind her she heard the trio of servants return to their duties.

  The elderly woman raised her chin. “I’m late for my walk, and that man has me so vexed that I doubt very much if I shall be able to go the whole three miles.”

  “Of course you will.” Julia opened the door again and peered out, then pulled her head back in to smile at Mrs. Kingston. “The wagon is gone.”

  “The Worthy sisters …”

  “Can’t see the courtyard bench. I shan’t keep you too long. Please?”

  Mrs. Kingston’s shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. “Oh, very well, Mrs. Hollis.”

  When they had settled themselves under the wide-spreading oak, Julia put a hand upon the woman’s shoulder. The first lodger to arrive at the Larkspur, Mrs. Kingston occupied a special place in her heart. It hadn’t been so at first, for the woman had arrived last year seemingly intent upon running the establishment to her own liking.

  “Mrs. Kingston,” Julia began gently. “The squire has been a bachelor for some seventy years now. Shouldn’t you be a little flattered that he’s trying to court you?”

  Mrs. Kingston propped her walking stick against one of her knees so that she could tighten the strings to her bonnet. “If it were for the right reasons, Mrs. Hollis, I would be very flattered.”

  Julia blinked at such frankness. “You would?”

  “Of course. He’s not the ogre everyone makes him out to be, and we certainly share the same passion for gardening.” She gave Julia a quick sideways look. “And it doesn’t hurt that he’s wealthy as Croesus, I might add.”

  “Then why… ?”

  “Why don’t I encourage him?”

  “Yes,” Julia said, though she would have rephrased the question to Why do I do everything in my power to discourage him? At least twice lately the squire had attempted to pay calls on Mrs. Kingston while she was out working in the garden, and on both occasions she gave an excuse to go inside immediately after returning his greeting.

  Folding her arms across her ample chest, Mrs. Kingston replied, “I may not be as educated as Miss Rawlins and Mrs. Dearing, but I am not a fool, Mrs. Hollis.”

  “Of course not,” Julia readily agreed.

  “I know exactly why the squire fancies himself fond of me.”

  “Yes?”

  “I figured it out after that first time he asked me to the manor to tour his gardens. When I arrived back here my heart was fairly swooning over the pleasantness of the whole afternoon.” She gave Julia another sideways look, this time wistful. “My late husband, Norwood, was the only man who had ever courted me. It felt nice to be treated as a lady again.”

  That made Julia think of Andrew, which caused her to smile. She reined in the corners of her lips before Mrs. Kingston could notice. “He sent flowers from his garden the very next day, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Kingston nodded. “Mrs. Herrick received them at the back door, then proceeded to warn me about him.”

  “About the squire?”

  “She worked in his kitchen for some years, remember. Mrs. Her-rick said she felt compelled to inform me that according to some of the older servants in the manor, the squire courted several different women in his younger days.”

  Julia could hardly believe her ears. It was difficult enough imagining Squire Bartley ever being young, but the notion of his having any interest in romance was almost impossible to conceive—regardless of the attention he now showered upon Mrs. Kingston. “Then why did he never marry?”

  Mrs. Kingston blew out her cheeks. “Because once a young woman showed signs of returning his professed affection, he lost interest. Time and time again.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense. Wouldn’t he want his affection to be returned?”

  “According to the information Mrs. Herrick received, the squire’s parents doted upon him and his sister, never refusing them anything. The sister married and moved away, but Squire Bartley was so used to being catered to by his parents and servants alike that getting his way became boring to him. As long as a young woman seemed unattainable, that represented a challenge for him, you see?”

  “But that’s so shallow. Surely the years have matured him.”

  Giving her an indulgent smile, Mrs. Kingston said, “Age is no guarantee of maturity, Mrs. Hollis.”

  Julia supposed she was right and upon further reflection recalled that Squire Bartley had never shown himself to possess any great maturity. He obviously still held a grudge over the Herricks leaving the manor to work at the Larkspur—she could see it lurking behind the forced smile he would direct at her whenever their carriages passed in the lane. “So when you carried away that blue ribbon at the flower show last month …”

  “It was one of the few times anyone has dared to refuse him anything. I believe his interest in me grew out of that incident. After all, I had lived here in Gresham over a year and passed his church pew many a time. Why did he never speak to me then?”

  “Perhaps he—” Julia began
but found herself lacking the words to finish. Now it was she who let out a sigh. Even though the squire was a vinegary old blister, she had entertained great hopes that he would bring some romance to Mrs. Kingston’s life. She had learned many things from her mostly elderly lodgers, and one of these was that the yearning to love and be loved didn’t diminish with age.

  “So you’re afraid if you accept his gifts and attentions, he’ll lose interest?”

  “Oh, I’m most sure of it.” Mrs. Kingston’s lips tightened for the fraction of a second. “And I’ll not be made a fool of again, Mrs. Hollis.”

  Julia knew she was referring to the time when she had displayed affection for Mr. Durwin, who ultimately chose Mrs. Hyatt. She patted Mrs. Kingston’s spotted hand. “No one thought you a fool, Mrs. Kingston. It’s not a crime to have feelings for someone.”

  “Hmph!” she snorted but shot Julia a grateful look before pushing herself to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me now, Mrs. Hollis, the miles are getting no shorter.”

  Julia watched her disappear around the short L wing of the house, then heard her exchange greetings with their nearest neighbors, the Worthy sisters—two lace spinners who sat in their garden with their lap pillows. She’s a good soul, Lord, Julia prayed. And in spite of the companionship she has here, I believe she’s lonely. Please help her to find someone.

  Intent upon collecting his fishing gear from the gardening hut, Philip hurried through the courtyard door and almost collided with his mother. He automatically reached for her arms to steady her.

  “Philip!” she exclaimed, a hand flying to her chest.

  “Sorry, Mother! Are you all right?”

  “Yes, fine. I’m afraid I was woolgathering.”

  She seemed to do that a lot lately, but Philip reckoned she had more to think about than usual, what with the wedding and all. He was glad she was marrying Vicar Phelps, now that he’d had time to get used to the idea. With his leaving for school in early September, he would seldom be home to look after her and his sisters. All four sisters, he thought, for with that marriage would come two more—Elizabeth and Laurel Phelps.