The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter

by Lawana Blackwell

  He blew out his candle, allowing the darkness that had pressed against the window glass for the past half hour to flood the room. Why was it so difficult to say what was in his heart to his daughter? On the heels of that question came an unsettling answer. Because I’m afraid if she follows my advice, another disaster will happen. For he could no longer put off admitting it … he was the one who had encouraged Elizabeth’s friendship with Jonathan Raleigh. He had been too blinded by the young man’s courtly manners, his academic triumphs, and his well-connected family to see him for the scoundrel he was. What if he hadn’t received the anonymous letter that caused him to discover Mr. Raleigh’s secret life? What if they would have married? He would have had to blame himself for the rest of his life for the misery he had inflicted upon his daughter and even future grandchildren.

  The sad episode with Jonathan Raleigh had caused him to question his own ability to advise Elizabeth in the matter of her future. If he encouraged her to marry Paul Treves, who was a decent man and probably loved her very much, and the marriage proved to be an unhappy one, how could he live with himself?

  But on the other hand, if he continued to express doubts about Elizabeth’s feelings toward the young man and caused her to reconsider the marriage—what if it turned out that he would have been the perfect husband for her?

  I should be more like my own father was, he thought wryly. All his father had asked, when told of his betrothal to Kathleen, was, “Has she money or title?” But Andrew wouldn’t even consider taking as little interest as that.

  I know you want what’s best for her, too, Lord, he prayed. Please give her a wisdom beyond her years. And as an afterthought he added … and help me not to influence her in a direction not of your choosing.

  Chapter 7

  Wednesday morning, as Mercy closed Mrs. Brent’s wooden gate behind her, the sound of weeping drifted from the upstairs window, mingling with pelts of rain against her umbrella. Inside Mrs. Brent’s cottage, Mercy propped her umbrella and climbed the stairs with what felt like a stone centered in her chest. She paused at the first doorway—Janet was on her knees at the side of the bed, her back to the door and shoulders heaving. Elliott stood at the foot, reddened eyes set in a somber face. He nodded at Mercy as she stepped into the room.

  Mrs. Brent lay with hands folded together upon her frail chest, her eyes closed. For the peacefulness on her face, she could have been merely having a pleasant dream. Surely she would open those eyes and smile at them if they just waited long enough!

  It’s Jesus she’s smiling at now, Mercy thought, reaching out to touch her friend’s cold hand. Or perhaps her husband and all those babies she lost. She was surprised at her own composure, but then Mrs. Brent had warned her that this time would come. And now there were things that had to be done.

  She touched Janet’s shoulder. The maid looked up at her with sodden cheeks. “We should bathe and dress her,” Mercy said. “She asked for the blue nightgown.”

  “The blue one’s nice,” Janet sniffed, seemingly relieved to have something useful with which to occupy herself. “It’s folded in the chest of drawers. I’ll press it now.”

  To Elliott Mercy said, “Would you fetch Mr. Croft?” Generations of Crofts, the village joiners, had crafted coffins for Gresham’s departed for as far back as anyone could remember. “And please stop at Reverend Seaton’s on your way back.”

  “Laurel is beside herself with excitement over the Shrewsbury plans,” Andrew told Julia over their morning cups of tea in the Larkspur’s garden. “It was kind of you and Mrs. Clay to include the girls.”

  “Oh, but kindness had nothing to do with it,” Julia assured him. “Outings are so much more fun when we can savor them through the children’s eyes.” As soon as her own girls heard about the trip they had begged to come along, so now the number had increased to six. “I invited Philip, too, so he wouldn’t feel left out, but of course he said he would rather go fishing with you and Mr. Clay.”

  “Of course.”

  Julia took another sip of tea and sighed. “You know, boys turn into entirely different creatures when they reach fourteen. He seems to have a mood for every day of the week. I’m glad girls aren’t that way. I don’t believe I could live through this two more times.”

  “Mmhm,” Andrew mumbled before taking a prolonged sip of tea.

  Julia could see the corner of a smile lurking over the rim of his cup. “What are you smiling at?” she asked suspiciously.

  “I don’t think you want to know.”

  His hazel eyes were sparkling, and it suddenly dawned upon her that she knew exactly what he was thinking, which came as a rather pleasant shock. When her parents were still living, there had been occasions when they seemed to possess an uncanny ability to read each other’s minds. It had never happened during her own marriage to Dr. Hollis, but she knew now that her late husband had had to shield his thoughts, lest she have suspicions about his secret life in the gaming houses. It pleased her to know she and Andrew already had such a bond between them.

  “You’re amused by my naïveté, aren’t you?

  “Why, no …”

  Julia frowned. “It’s a sin to lie, Vicar Phelps. You were just thinking that girls change into different creatures, too, weren’t you?”

  He let out a guilty sigh, but a hint of that maddening smile still remained. “I’m afraid they do, dearest. Don’t you remember how it was when you were that age?”

  “Actually, I was already at boarding school with three hundred other girls. If there was any moodiness, it must have seemed the natural order of things to me.”

  “Hundreds of moody young ladies under the same roof.” He exaggerated a shudder. “But now tell me. Do you regret ever having any children?”

  “Of course not.” No longer able to resist the warmth in his hazel eyes, she smiled back at him. “Not for one minute, Andrew.”

  They sipped from their cups, wrapped in a comfortable silence, until Julia voiced the thought that had been nagging at the back of her mind for some days now. “Andrew, are we doing right by them—Philip and Laurel?”

  He set his cup on the tray between them. “You mean by sending them to school? I believe so, Julia. They both want desperately to further their education, so what choice have we?”

  “I wonder now if we should have looked for a tutor. It’s not too late.” She expected that he would gently chide her for her overprotectiveness, but his expression became serious.

  “It’s a thought that has crossed my mind more than once. I’ve even considered tutoring them myself, but my duties require so much time.” He gave her a sad smile. “I don’t know if I’m relieved or a little hurt that Laurel is so eager to leave. She thinks of it as a great adventure. It would crush her if I forbade her to go.”

  “It’s the same with Philip. He can hardly wait. But at least you’ll have Laurel at home every weekend.”

  Doctor Rhodes had recommended the academy to Philip, with its heavy emphasis on science and Latin. The lodging house account ledger showed a healthy balance every month, so Julia could afford to send him without too much of a financial strain. It just didn’t seem natural to send a child so young away, even though her own boarding school experience had begun at age twelve.

  “He’ll be fine, Julia.” Andrew gave her shoulder a reassuring pat. “We have to allow them to grow up sometime.”

  “I suppose so.” Reaching up to cover his hand with her own, she said, “I wouldn’t be able to go through this without you, Andrew. You’re such a comfort.”

  “As you are to me, my dear. I cannot tell you how relieved I am to know Elizabeth seeks your counsel.”

  “She hasn’t lately, Andrew.”

  He kissed her hand and then rose to make his calls. “But she will soon, I have no doubt. She’s much confused, no matter how she tries to pretend otherwise.”

  Next year I should plant some sunflowers, Octavia Kingston thought. In order to keep her morning walks from becoming monotonous, she
had six different routes through Gresham and the surrounding countryside. Wednesdays brought her past the iron foundry and the Clark cottage on Walnut Tree Lane, where an abundance of sunflowers raised their heads above a white picket fence to follow the path of the sun. They were such friendly looking flowers—if plants could be assigned personalities. I know just the spot to put them too.

  She thought about how bitter she had been upon her arrival in Gresham last year. The person she was then seemed almost alien to her now. Norwood, her son, had made the arrangements for her to live at the Larkspur. She was a threat to his marriage, he had declared, and must leave his home while he still had one. Being forced from the place where she had lived for over forty years seemed like a death sentence. A horrid picture had loomed in her mind back then, of herself vegetating away in a hired room, with no one to care if she lived or died except for the rent that could be collected. Like old clothes assigned to a trunk in an attic, she felt she had outlived her usefulness.

  But the compassion of Julia Hollis had changed all of that. And after being on the receiving end of such compassion, Mrs. Kingston had learned to give it. With the knowledge that her life did indeed matter came a commitment to fill her days with useful activity—which she fulfilled by turning the Larkspur’s practically nonexistent flower garden into a showplace.

  Yes, I shall definitely plant sunflowers, she thought, turning her head for one last look over her shoulder. When she did, she caught a glimpse of motion.

  Mrs. Kingston frowned. The same thing had happened Monday while she was walking back up Market Lane at the end of her southwestern route. But why would someone be following you? she asked herself. Ridiculous! Still, the uncanny feeling of being watched would not leave her, and she turned around to stare at the lane she had just walked. A wide elm spread its branches in front of the Clarks’ cottage, more than wide enough to provide a hiding place. Mrs. Kingston looked in all directions to make sure there were no witnesses to the absurd display she was about to make.

  “You there!” she called forcefully, pretending an assurance she didn’t quite possess, for she wasn’t totally sure that her imagination wasn’t playing tricks upon her. There was no answer, nor did she see anything amiss.

  “I say, you there!” she bluffed again. She shook the head of her walking stick. “I saw you duck behind that tree! You may as well show yourself!”

  There was nothing except a curious raise of the head from a nutmeg-colored cat napping upon the Clarks’ porch.

  “Surely you’re not afraid of an old woman!” she called, though not so loudly this time, for the foolishness of her actions was becoming clearer every second. When no lurker gave himself up and came forward for a scolding, Mrs. Kingston slowly turned back around and resumed her walk. She was almost positive she’d seen someone. But she couldn’t very well go searching behind trees without appearing even more foolish, if only to the Clarks’ cat. She reached the end of Walnut Tree Lane and turned east onto Church Lane to make her way back to the Larkspur. The Worthy sisters were, as usual, sitting under a patch of sunlight in their garden.

  “Mrs. Kingston!” Iris called in a voice as soothing as a warm cup of tea. Her gnarled fingers never stopped winding threads around the pins sticking from the lace-making pillow in her lap. “I was just telling Jewel that you should be by soon.”

  Jewel nodded her white head as Mrs. Kingston advanced. Her fingers also seemed to move independently of their owner’s thoughts. It occurred to Mrs. Kingston that the sisters could probably spin laces in their sleep if they could find a way to sleep sitting up in their chairs.

  “And I told Iris that a body could set his clock by Mrs. Kingston’s walks,” Jewel said in a tone as raspy as Iris’s was soothing. She turned to her sister-in-law for confirmation. “Didn’t I, Iris?”

  “You certainly did,” Iris agreed.

  Mrs. Kingston smiled. “What are you making now?”

  “A tablecloth,” Jewel replied and tilted her pillow so that Mrs. Kingston could admire the pattern. “We’ll block the strips together when all the lace is finished. Someone in Whitchurch ordered it for a wedding gift.”

  “Lovely,” Mrs. Kingston declared, eliciting smiles from both wrinkled faces.

  “We thought we heard ye callin’ out to someone just a little while ago,” Jewel said in a questioning tone.

  Mrs. Kingston sighed. So there had been witnesses to her lunacy after all. She should have known better, for there was little that escaped the notice of the Worthy sisters, situated as they were at the crossroads of the village. With great reluctance, she admitted, “I thought someone was following me.”

  The sisters exchanged understanding looks. “Have you considered spectacles?” asked Iris. “ ’Tis no shame to wear them, you know.”

  “I don’t need spectacles,” Mrs. Kingston declared crisply and was immediately sorry, for she could see the injury across both faces. “Forgive me. It’s just unsettling to feel like you’re being watched every time you set foot outside.”

  “We understand, dear,” Iris told her.

  “We felt that same way when Jake Pitt used to watch us from the Larkspur’s window,” Jewel added.

  Mrs. Kingston was opening her mouth to say that surely the sisters didn’t still believe in that ghost story when a new idea shoved all thought of the old knife sharpener from her mind. Without glancing back down the lane, she leaned closer to the cushion on Iris’s lap and pretended to examine the lace. “I wonder if you ladies might do me a favor,” she whispered while trying to keep her lips immobile.

  “What is it, dear?”

  “MY GOODNESS! YOU SHOULD BE SPINNING LACE FOR THE QUEEN!” Mrs. Kingston exclaimed, then whispered, “Don’t look to your left, but I’m convinced someone has been following me.”

  The sisters exchanged glances, and for once both sets of fingers slowed their spinning. “What does he look like?” Jewel whispered.

  “I don’t even know who he is. Or if it’s even a ‘he,’ ” she said in a low voice. “I FEEL SO FOOLISH NOW, THINKING THAT SOMEONE WAS FOLLOWING ME. ONE WOULD THINK I WAS LOSING MY MIND. WELL, IT’S BEEN GOOD CHATTING WITH YOU, BUT I MUST RESUME MY WALK.”

  “But aren’t you finished walking, dear?” asked Iris.

  “He’ll stop following me if he thinks I’m finished,” Mrs. Kingston hissed through a gap in her lips. “Would you mind paying notice if anyone of a suspicious nature comes down the lane shortly?”

  Jewel’s eyes grew alive with excitement. “Spy on him, you mean?”

  “Yes. Only act natural, so he doesn’t suspect anything. I’ll come back later.” With a farewell wave she turned right at the crossroads instead of her usual left and made her way down Market Lane. She resumed her usual brisk pace, pausing occasionally to exchange greetings with customers leaving the greengrocer’s and to admire the geraniums in the window boxes of the Bow and Fiddle.

  Finally she decided she should go back home, lest her follower find it suspicious that today’s walk was longer than usual. When she came upon Mr. Trumble sweeping the stoop of his general shop, post office, and bank, she stopped and announced in a voice clear and loud, “I suppose I should buy some peppermints, Mr. Trumble, since I’m finished with my walk and am now on my way back to the Larkspur.”

  She waited an hour before slipping out to visit the Worthy sisters. Both faces lit up as she drew closer.

  “Remy Starks,” Iris said in a conspiratorial whisper, as if Mrs. Kingston’s follower still lurked nearby.

  “He come strollin’ past soon after ye left, pretty as ye please with his hands in his pockets,” Jewel added.

  “Remy Starks?” Mrs. Kingston shook her head. “But who is he?”

  “The squire’s boot boy,” Iris replied. “Odd little man, I hate to say.”

  Chapter 8

  Though the use of torture had long been outlawed in Great Britain, to the convicts of London’s Newgate Prison the treadmill was almost as debilitating as the rack had been to their prede
cessors. It only took longer for the treadmill to wear a man down, both physically and mentally. The nasty device consisted of a wide iron cylinder made to revolve by marching around the steps fixed to it. Wooden panels separated each man from sight of his neighbor, and to his front was only another panel to stare at for six hours at a time. Fill the convict’s day with the most useless activity imaginable, and he will be too weary and disheartened to cause trouble was the philosophy behind the treadmill’s invention.

  For ten years now, thirty-one-year-old Seth Langford had marched those steps daily. To keep himself sane, he mentally recited the Scriptures the Wesleyans taught in Sunday chapel. And toward the end of every six-hour session, he would tally anew the “miles.” One step of the treadmill represented one linear foot, and taken at one step per second meant sixty feet per minute, thirty-six hundred feet per hour. Which added up to over four miles daily. During his ten-year confinement, Seth figured he had walked to China and back. And uphill all the way, he thought, lifting his foot again.

  He became aware that the steps were becoming more and more difficult to take, which meant that one of the guards was tightening the screws to bring the device to a halt. Yet it seemed much too early for the lunch break. Turning to look over his shoulder was against the rules and could result in a jab in the small of the back with a club, so when the treadmill came to a dead stop, Seth stayed in place and stared at the panel in front of him.

  “You! Langford!” came a voice behind him. Seth recognized it as belonging to Mr. Baker, one of the more decent guards. He turned his head to give him a sidelong look and waited for further instructions.