The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter

by Lawana Blackwell

  Please grant my daughters good marriages, Lord, Andrew prayed as Rusty automatically turned north up Vicarage Lane. During his twenty-plus years in the ministry, he had witnessed the misery a bad one could cause. He believed strongly that a loving family was the core of a person’s well-being. If there was strife and contention in the home, very little else in life could compensate for it.

  The carriage from the Larkspur had not yet arrived at the vicarage, but he could see Mr. Treves’ gray Welsh cob tethered to a low limb of the chestnut tree outside the garden.

  “There you are, Papa!” He scarcely had climbed down from the trap and Laurel was at his side. “What took you so long? We were beginning to worry.”

  Andrew didn’t answer but touched a spot on his cheek above his blond beard. Feigning a martyred sigh, his daughter dutifully planted a kiss on the spot before repeating her question.

  “I was unavoidably detained during a call,” he told her.

  The girl’s eyes lit up. “What happened? Something exciting?”

  “You know I can’t tell you. Are the children still here?”

  The fourteen-year-old nodded. Like her father and sister, she had straight, wheat-colored hair and dimples in both cheeks. But that was where the resemblance to Andrew stopped, for both daughters had been blessed with their late mother’s brown eyes, slender build, and fair complexion.

  “Luke was wondering whether he should borrow Mr. Sykes’s wagon.”

  “Well, he can use the trap now. I doubt their mother is home yet.”

  The Burrell situation was a sad one. Mr. Burrell, the village drunk and slacker, had left his long-suffering wife and seven children back in October of last year. It was then that Elizabeth had offered to tend the two youngest, Molly and David, while their mother worked at the cheese factory so the older children could attend school. She grew so attached to the children that the offer was extended to the summer months as well. The five older children were hardy, as were many from tragic circumstances—the girls kept house and tended a small garden while the boys kept odd jobs such as stripping bark from downed trees for the local tanner. They could manage their chores much easier without tending to the two youngest, and the arrangement gave Elizabeth something worthwhile to do with her days.

  Just as Andrew and Laurel stepped up on the porch, Elizabeth came out of the door with David in her arms. Mr. Treves followed, holding Molly’s hand. Andrew’s daughter frowned and opened her mouth, but Andrew silenced her with a look.

  “Your sister has already taken it upon herself to reprimand me, Beth.” He shook Mr. Treves’ free hand and patted Molly on the head, then held out both hands to David, who lunged his little body forward into his arms. “So, you’re going to leave us again, are you?” he said to the child, who wove his little fingers through Andrew’s beard and with the other hand pointed to the waiting trap.

  “Tor?” he said.

  Andrew took the boy to mean horse and replied, “Yes. And he’s waiting to take you home.”

  “Luke is on his way around the back,” Elizabeth told him. A little ridge appeared between her eyebrows, and she leaned forward to study the sleeve of his black coat. “You’re shedding, Papa.”

  “Shedding, Papa,” Molly echoed, her light brown curls a halo about her round face. “Papa read book now?”

  “Tomorrow, Molly,” he smiled. As touched as he was to be addressed so endearingly by both tots, it always caused a slight lurch in his heart. What kind of man would walk away and leave such beguiling children to the mercies of happenstance? “I’ll read to you when I come home for lunch.”

  “Two books?”

  “Very well.” Andrew lifted a helpless smile to his daughter’s beau. “I’m surprised she hasn’t conscripted you into service, Mr. Treves.”

  The young man smiled back. He was three years older than Elizabeth and much taller than Andrew. His sandy hair was so light that even his eyelashes were blond, making his blue eyes seem all the more blue. “Actually, sir, I’ve just finished reading one.”

  “Papa, I can hear a carriage,” Laurel said. She made a face and brushed at his sleeve. “And you are shedding dreadfully.”

  Andrew handed the boy back to Elizabeth. Julia’s family and the Clays would be here within minutes. No time to change clothes, but surely the vigorous application of a clothes brush would remedy the situation. “It’s not me. It was a dog.”

  “It was a dog,” he could hear Molly echo as he went through the front door.

  The supper Mrs. Paget had prepared, with Dora’s assistance, was delicious from the broiled trout to the apple cobbler. Or at least the others had raved about the cobbler. Upon noticing what appeared to be a hair in the dish Andrew had passed her, Julia had used her fork to scatter it around a bit so no one would notice she had not actually taken a bite.

  Afterward the adults assembled themselves upon wicker chairs in the garden for aftersupper tea. The children declined the gathering, choosing instead to play tag on the darkening green within sight of the vicarage. Several stars in the clear sky had begun to show themselves, and a breeze redolent with lilac and sage made for a pleasant evening.

  Most of the dining room discussion had centered around Mrs. Kingston. Not only had she appeared in the Larkspur’s carriage drive this morning perched upon a wagon seat next to one of the Sanders boys, but she had also persuaded the child to come into the kitchen for lemonade and shortbread. It was only after he was gone, his pockets stuffed with peppermints, that Mrs. Kingston casually mentioned to Mrs. Beemish that Mr. Sanders had had a change of heart concerning the schooling of his two youngest. Of course word spread about the house like fire in broom sedge, and Aleda and Grace were overjoyed to the point of giddiness.

  “As happy as I am for my soon-to-be daughters,” Andrew said from his wicker chair beside Julia’s, continuing the discussion about the school, “the biggest benefit will be the way the villagers regard education. Hopefully in the years to come it’ll be unthinkable for children of school age not to attend.”

  Mr. Treves nodded, both elbows propped onto the arms of his chair, his long hands cradling a saucer and teacup. “You would think it would have become unthinkable years and years ago. But I’ve noticed the same situation in Alveley.” He shook his head with disgust. “Why would any parent not desire to educate his children? I’m appalled at the legacies of ignorance handed down in so many British families.”

  There was a fractional silence, then Andrew replied tactfully, “It’s often a sacrifice for the poorer families to send their children. Sometimes all hands are required just to keep the wolf from the door.” He gave the young curate an understanding smile. “Even small hands.”

  To Mr. Treves’ credit, he did not attempt to defend his position. “He’s still green,” Andrew had once commented to Julia. “Life has gone along according to plan for him, so he hasn’t been humbled yet. He’ll be a much better minister when his heart has been broken.”

  Two years ago Julia would have thought such an observation unfeeling and callous. How could anyone wish sorrow upon another person? But it was through the pain of discovering her late husband had gambled away their fortune that she had experienced the most growth spiritually.

  She glanced at Elizabeth, who kept her gaze on the tea table in the center of the group. Whether she was embarrassed that her beau had been gently rebuked by her father or was in deep thought was hard to tell, for Elizabeth had her father’s habit of retreating within himself.

  “ … found a replacement for Captain Powell?” Julia realized then that Fiona had been speaking.

  “Why yes,” Andrew replied.

  “Miss Clark sent a reply?” Julia asked.

  “Mr. Sykes received the wire just today.”

  Julia breathed a sigh of relief. Six of the nine previously unschooled students would be in the class formerly taught by Captain Powell. Added to that were three, like Grace, who would be promoted from Miss Hillock’s classroom. A class totaling thirty-one students
would require the firm hand of someone with Lydia Clark’s fourteen years’ experience.

  Julia had never actually met the woman, who still lived in Glasgow where she was schoolmistress in a girls’ boarding school, but shared a friendly acquaintance with her parents. Mr. Clark owned the iron foundry on Walnut Tree Lane, and Mrs. Clark was a dear little woman who grew sunflowers along her garden hedges. They had asked the school board to consider their daughter for the position. How nice, Julia thought, that two needs had been met. Gresham would have a capable schoolmistress, and two lovely people would enjoy having their daughter with them during their golden years.

  “How many days until you return to London?” Elizabeth asked Fiona and Mr. Clay, finally steering the subject away from school.

  “Only six,” Mr. Clay replied. “We leave August first.”

  “The first week passed so quickly,” Fiona said.

  Mr. Clay smiled apologetically. “And you’ve had very little time to spend with Mrs. Hollis. I’m still so enchanted with being married that I’m afraid I’ve dominated my wife’s company.”

  “Why, that’s not true, Ambrose,” Fiona insisted.

  “But you were so looking forward to this visit.” He looked over at Andrew. “As was I. I’ve no male friends in London as close as our dear vicar. It could be a year or two before we can return—depending on how successful the play turns out to be.”

  “Just forget your lines every now and then,” Andrew suggested good-naturedly but was obviously moved by Mr. Clay’s declaration of friendship.

  “Or deliver them in a falsetto voice,” Elizabeth offered.

  Julia caught the uncertain glance the girl immediately sent to Mr. Treves, as if she needed his reassurance that he found her little joke amusing. Whether he did or not was impossible to tell, for he simply stared down at his teacup.

  Mr. Clay shuddered. “I’ll keep those suggestions in mind, thank you. But while we’re still here, why don’t you ladies do something special together?”

  “Something special?” Fiona asked.

  “Why not a shopping trip to Shrewsbury? You could spend the day, have lunch at a restaurant, even tour the castle.”

  Julia exchanged smiles with Fiona. For over a year now, the twelfth-century castle had occupied a space on Julia’s mental list of things to do “one day.” And she was certain that Fiona had never toured it. “It sounds lovely.”

  “Lovely,” Elizabeth agreed, then bit her lip. “I mean, for the two of you.”

  “Oh, but we insist that you come with us,” Fiona assured her with typical graciousness.

  “Thank you, but I’ve the children to watch.”

  “We wouldn’t dream of going without you,” Julia insisted. “Surely Dora wouldn’t mind tending Molly and David, do you think?”

  Elizabeth looked at her father.

  “She has offered to before, you know,” he answered. “The outing would be good for you.”

  “Are you aware that the castle is only open for tours on Saturdays?” Mr. Treves asked, speaking for the first time since his gentle admonishment from Andrew.

  Fiona shook her head. “How good of you to warn us, Mr. Treves. It looks as though we should wait until Saturday, doesn’t it?”

  “That will give us more time to prepare,” Julia said. Smiling at her fiancé, she asked, “What will you men do while we’re gone? I don’t believe either of you would care for a shopping trip.”

  “Heaven forbid!” he said, feigning horror, then turned to Mr. Clay. “Have you ever fished?”

  “Not since I was a whelp. My grandfather would occasionally take us out in his boat in Cornwall. I daresay that I’ve forgotten everything he taught me.”

  “You may have retained more than you realize. And riverbank fishing is easier.”

  “Then let’s have a try at it Saturday.”

  “We’ll invite Philip along,” Andrew nodded. “I doubt that he’ll care to shop, and he knows all the best fishing spots anyway. How about you, Mr. Treves?”

  The young man straightened, clearly surprised to be included. “Thank you, sir, but the Ladies’ Floral Society is holding their annual tea, and Vicar McDonald and I are expected to attend.”

  Julia wondered if she only imagined the relief that crossed Andrew’s expression.

  “Will you be able to see the road?” Elizabeth asked as she accompanied Paul to where his horse was tethered after the other guests had left. “I’m sure you could stay over the stables with Luke.”

  Her beau glanced up at the star-crusted sky and shook his head. “It’s not too dark. Caesar has made the trip so many times, I believe he could make it blindfolded.”

  “Just be careful.”

  “I will,” he said, smiling.

  He had a nice smile, Elizabeth thought, that caused little lines at the corners of his mouth. Last month when she accompanied Paul to a choir cantata in Alveley, Mrs. McDonald, his vicar’s wife, had jokingly informed her that female attendance at St. Matthew’s had increased dramatically when Paul was assigned to the parish. Elizabeth had no trouble believing that. And how fortunate you are that he’s only interested in you, she told herself. There were likely half a dozen women in Alveley, and not a few in Gresham, who would give their best bonnets to be in his company.

  Papa only allowed ten minutes for them to say good-bye, and at least three had already passed. She wondered if Paul would kiss her tonight. He had never attempted it before, which she attributed to his being a gentleman. Perhaps if he were to kiss her, she would have deeper feelings for him. She had to have deeper feelings, for he was determined to ask Papa for her hand as soon as his promotion to vicar became a reality. She was as determined to accept his proposal, for Paul Treves would be a fine husband and father to the children they would have one day. And she knew the demands of being a minister’s wife from helping her father and felt she could live up to them.

  Another face flashed into her mind’s eye, and she shook it away immediately.

  “Elizabeth?”

  She realized that Paul was staring at her curiously. “Yes?”

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “All right?”

  “You jerked your head just now.”

  “I did?”

  “Perhaps I just imagined it.” Paul looked past her at the glowing windows of the vicarage. He was obviously making sure no paternal eyes were set in their direction. Elizabeth knew that her papa wouldn’t spy—as long as she was inside within the time allowed. He took a step closer.

  “I’d like to ask you something.”

  Should I close my eyes? Elizabeth decided against it. A lady shouldn’t look as if she were expecting to be kissed until the faces were a little closer. “Yes, Paul?”

  “Your father wasn’t really angry at me earlier, was he?”

  “What?”

  “When I said that about the poor people educating their children.” He threw a glance at the vicarage again and sighed. “I don’t think he likes me at all. He can make me feel quite the child sometimes.”

  Elizabeth lowered her chin a little, not sure if it was relief or disappointment she was feeling. “He’s very fond of you, Paul,” she assured him, though earlier tonight some doubt had nudged at her mind. “He just has a softness for the less fortunate.”

  “Well, so have I.” He frowned. “I just wasn’t thinking when I spoke. In fact, my brain almost ceases to function whenever I’m in his company. I assume that he’s expecting me to say something idiotic, and so I end up obliging him.”

  “He understands what it’s like to be a young curate, you know.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I should know my own father, Paul.” She sighed and caught sight of the lamp now burning from the front window nearest to the door. “But our ten minutes are up. Be careful on your way home.”

  When they had said their good-night and she stepped back inside, her father gave her a wary look. “I suppose I’m about to be scolded.”

  �
�For what, Papa?” She knew what he meant but wanted to hear him say it.

  “For correcting Mr. Treves.” His hazel eyes narrowed a little. “You already knew what I was talking about, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, Papa. He’s convinced you think he’s an idiot.”

  Her father sighed. “Laurel should be ready to be tucked in now. Then let’s sit for a while, shall we?”

  Later, when he had settled himself into his favorite parlor armchair and Elizabeth occupied a place at the near end of the sofa, he explained, “It wasn’t my intention to embarrass the young man, Elizabeth. But certain things had to be said in light of that comment he made. I thought I was as tactful as possible. Mr. Clay and I disagree at times, and he never takes offense.”

  “But don’t you see, Papa? When you correct Paul, it’s not the same as your verbal sparring with Mr. Clay. You’re not on equal footing. He not only looks up to you as an older man, but as his senior in the church hierarchy.”

  “ … who will very likely become his father-in-law,” her father added, studying her face.

  “Yes. Does that distress you?”

  “Not if he makes you happy, Elizabeth. I don’t fault Mr. Treves for his youth. He’ll make a fine minister one day and a good husband and father.”

  She knew her father wouldn’t say that if he didn’t mean it, so she should have been pleased. Instead, she felt an odd sense of disappointment. You’re just in a blue mood, she told herself.

  “Beth?” he said softly.

  Forcing lightness into her voice, she answered, “Yes, Papa?”

  “How do you feel about him?”

  About whom? was her immediate thought. “Paul is a wonderful person. Kind and considerate.”

  “But you didn’t answer my question, did you?”

  “I love him, Papa,” she replied with a little more conviction than necessary.

  Thank God she confides in Julia, Andrew thought later from his bed as he marked his place between the pages of Trollope’s Phineas Finn. Reading any more of the novel tonight was futile, he realized upon discovering that his eyes had traveled through the same paragraph three times. The subject could have been the latest horticultural methods for growing tea in the Orient for all he could remember of it.