The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter

by Lawana Blackwell

  So far only two perch were on the string dangling into the water from the trunk of a willow. Some days were like that, but Philip had higher hopes for today after the two men had praised him, tagging him a fishing expert. Vicar Phelps had even boasted to Mr. Clay before they set out this morning, “Philip can smell the fish in the water.”

  He didn’t feel as badly for the vicar as he did for Mr. Clay. He had fished with the vicar and Laurel a couple of times already, and both times had resulted in good catches. But Mr. Clay hadn’t fished since he was a boy. It would be nice to watch the actor pull in at least one big one.

  Still, neither man seemed disappointed. They lingered over their lunch as if there were no fish in the water waiting to surrender themselves to just the right cast of the line. That wouldn’t be so if the morning had been successful, for a good spell of fishing left one craving for more.

  “Have another sandwich, Philip?” the vicar asked from behind him.

  Philip looked back over his shoulder. “No, thank you.”

  The vicar scratched his beard. “Then I suppose I should return to the task at hand.”

  “I believe we’ll catch some here,” Philip told him.

  “Of course we will.”

  “I’ll join you in a moment,” Mr. Clay said. He was sitting up now, with a slice of chocolate cake on a saucer in one hand, a fork in the other. “I can’t recall when I’ve had such a good appetite.”

  Philip exchanged smiles with Vicar Phelps, who was now on the bank baiting his hook with a grub worm. The vicar had had to bully Mr. Clay into coming along, for yesterday afternoon the actor had plunged into one of his dark moods. This morning he had insisted that Fiona go ahead with her plans for Shrewsbury, but apparently he planned then to spend his day in bed. Perhaps it wasn’t a total loss, Philip thought, that Mr. Clay had yet to catch a fish. If the outing had merely lightened his despondency, it was worth it.

  “You may have my other sandwich if you like,” Philip told him.

  “Thank you, but the cake was the perfect coup de grace.” The actor closed the lid to the hamper and picked up his fishing rod from the ground. He lowered himself to the bank on Philip’s left. The three fished in silence, seasoned with occasional small talk for the better part of an hour. During that time Philip hooked a grayling and attached him to the string.

  “Not again!” Mr. Clay exclaimed mildly, pulling his line up to discover his hook empty. “Greedy little creatures, aren’t they?”

  Vicar Phelps passed him the jar of dirt and grubs. “You don’t begrudge them a good lunch, do you?”

  “Actually, I feel a little sorry for them. Here we feasted just a few feet away on sandwiches and cake, and they have to make do with grubs.” He paused then, his fingers poised above the jar. “I wonder …”

  “Yes, sir?” Philip asked.

  The actor looked back at the picnic basket. “Are you sure you don’t want that sandwich, Philip?”

  “Surely you’re not thinking of feeding it to the fish, Mr. Clay.” The vicar frowned uncertainly, as if wondering if his friend should have spent the day in bed after all.

  “Just the ham.” Mr. Clay was already on his feet at the picnic basket. He came back with the extra sandwich and unwrapped the brown paper covering.

  Philip could only watch, bemused, as he tore off a sliver of ham and threaded it upon his hook. Some five minutes passed, with not even a bite for any of them. Philip smiled to himself at the mental picture of a school of perch under the water’s surface, scratching their heads with their fins at this oddity. But then a curious thing happened.

  “Say … my cork has disappeared,” Mr. Clay said.

  “Pull it up, man!” the vicar exclaimed.

  The fish put up a fight, and Philip finally had to net it when the actor was able to get his line close enough to the bank. It was a trout, probably close to three pounds. Not to be outdone, Philip and Vicar Phelps both baited their hooks with pieces of the ham, but with no success. Another mental picture occurred to Philip, this time of the fish warning each other not to go near the mysterious pink food. This image seemed to be confirmed when he went back to grubs and snared a good-sized perch. The two men switched back to grubs as well, and by about three o’clock they actually had a full string—a good thing, since Mildred was expecting to fry their catch for supper.

  Back at the Larkspur Vicar Phelps insisted that Mr. Clay go on upstairs to his apartment and get some rest. The actor had begun looking peaked again on their way back from the river. Philip filled a pail with water from the pump next to the stables, and Gertie brought out knives and spoons, a dishpan and towels. Last fall Mr. Herrick had crafted a narrow oak table behind the potting shed, and it was there that Philip and the vicar rolled up their shirtsleeves and began cleaning their catch.

  The vicar held up Mr. Clay’s trout. “I believe this made his day.”

  “It made mine too.” Philip smiled back and picked up his knife. He enjoyed Vicar Phelps’s company, the easygoing, pleasant way about him. He especially appreciated the fact that even though the vicar would become his stepfather in less than five months, he respected Philip’s present position as man of the Hollis family. It would be terrible if Mother had chosen a man who made him feel like a little child, or worse, flattered him and his sisters unduly to win affection.

  The thought occurred to him that his mother and sisters would likely not be back for supper, which meant Elizabeth and Laurel would be away as well. He looked up from the grayling he was scaling. “I’m sure Mildred won’t mind setting another place at the supper table. Especially since you caught some of these. And most especially since you’re helping clean them.”

  Busy scraping the scales from a bream with the edge of a spoon, the vicar thanked him but had to decline. “There’s not time enough to give Mrs. Paget notice. I learned a long time ago it behooves me to stay on her good side.” He looked up at Philip, and the hazel eyes had become serious. “I wonder if we might discuss something.”

  “About Mrs. Paget?”

  He smiled at that but then shook his head. “I’ve debated with myself over whether to approach you about this. You’re a bright lad, and I don’t want you to think I haven’t the confidence that you can cope with the world.”

  Now Philip was beginning to worry. “What is it, sir?”

  The vicar sighed, as if whatever was on his mind had caused him great turmoil. “It’s about school. You’re still eager to go away, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. But not because I don’t like it here.”

  “I know that, Philip. And I understand your wanting to experience something new.”

  “Was it that way with you?”

  “Well, not exactly. But you see, by the time I reached your age, I’d been in boarding schools for six years.”

  There was just a bit of sadness in those last words. Philip realized then that he knew very little about his future father’s childhood. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “All in the past, son,” the vicar said with a wave of a scale-crusted hand. The “son” had seemed to come out automatically, as if he were unaware that he had said it. But Philip did not mind—in fact, he found that he rather liked it. It had been a long time since anyone besides Mother had called him that.

  Vicar Phelps went on. “I just thought I should warn you about a nasty little element of boarding school of which your mother would likely be unaware.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’ve never heard of a boarding school for males that wasn’t infested with bullies, Philip. And of the worst kind.”

  Philip let out a relieved breath. He had learned from last year’s episodes with the Sanders brothers how to deal with bullies. But so as not to appear that he didn’t appreciate the warning, he said, “Thank you, sir. I’ll be careful.”

  “I hope you will, Philip. Because incoming younger students are the most likely targets. I’d like to think that things have changed since I was a young man, but unfortunately, I’ve seen lit
tle proof of that.”

  “You won’t tell Mother, will you?” Philip asked. She already had misgivings about his living away from her. A thing like this, however inconsequential he thought it to be, would surely cause her to reconsider. Or add to her worries.

  The vicar gave him a little smile that said I understand how mothers are too. “No, of course not. I’m sure you’ll come through it all just fine, just as thousands of other young men have done. I just wanted you to be aware.”

  They worked on in silence and were just finishing the chore when Philip cocked his head at a familiar sound. Horses’ hooves and carriage wheels were turning onto Church Lane and into the carriage drive. He had assumed his mother and sisters would return much later, but then he hadn’t exactly inquired about what time to expect them. Vicar Phelps raised his head, too, indicating that he’d heard. Feminine voices began drifting around the walls of the potting shed.

  “Mr. Herrick likely will be taking Elizabeth and Laurel back next,” Philip said. “Would you like me to run around and stop him so you can ride too?”

  Panic flooded the man’s face. “Your mother can’t see me like this!” he whispered. Indeed he looked a sight, with blood smeared upon his shirt and fish scales clinging even to his beard. He stank of grubs and fish innards, as did Philip and everything surrounding them. “I’ll dash around the other side of the house and catch Mr. Herrick after she goes inside.”

  Philip couldn’t resist a bit of a wicked smile. “She won’t mind, sir. She’s seen me like this a hundred times.”

  “Yes? Well, it’s a bit different in my case, now isn’t it?” the vicar whispered hotly but then winked. They both listened while the landau pulled back out of the carriage drive. He could faintly make out his mother’s voice, and then Mrs. Herrick’s. Grace said something too. There was the click of the courtyard door, followed by silence.

  “You can go now, Vicar,” Philip whispered.

  “Yes, thank you.” With that, the vicar walked to the corner of the shed and peered around to the other side. He turned to give Philip a sheepish smile, lifted a hand in farewell, and was gone.

  Chapter 11

  “Mr. Drummond has no need for a groomsman,” a butler informed Seth at the back door of a High Street mansion. It was the sixth residence he’d called upon since lunch, totaling fourteen so far that day. He could have covered more ground had Thomas not been along, but it didn’t seem right to leave him alone in their room at the inn. The boy didn’t seem as robust as the children Seth noticed playing in the parks and alleys, yet his appetite was hearty enough. No doubt food had been stretched to the limit at The Whitechapel Home for Foundling Children.

  He was beginning to despair of ever finding a position. Fortunately he was by no means desperate for cash. But he couldn’t just idle away his time. He may as well go back to the treadmill in that case. If only he had a character reference! He’d been too stunned by his sudden release to ask Lady Hamilton for one. It was likely that he wouldn’t have had the boldness to do so anyway; not after taking her money. How could he explain the last ten years of his life to any potential employer?

  “Are you tired?” he asked the boy when they came upon a small park.

  After a hesitation, he replied apologetically, “Yes, sir.”

  “Then let’s have a rest.” They settled on a bench, and Seth wove both hands behind his head, leaned back, and closed his eyes. “Everything green and peaceful,” the woman in the dining room had said. He felt a touch upon his arm and looked down at the boy beside him. “Yes?”

  “There’s a big house over there, sir,” Thomas said, lifting a skinny arm to point at a rooftop rising above the others to the south of them.

  “Yes, I see it. We’ll have to see if they’re in need of a groomsman, won’t we?”

  The child nodded back shyly, and Seth’s thoughts returned to the conversation he had overheard at lunch. He’d never heard of a village called Gresham. But it can’t be far away if those women lived there. Having been raised in the tenements of London, he knew almost nil about small villages. Were there stores where one could buy food? What did people do for a living? He looked at Thomas’s thin wrists. What if a doctor was needed in the middle of the night?

  “What can it hurt to find out?”

  “Sir?”

  Seth realized that he’d spoken his last thought. “Nothing,” he replied to the boy. I should really give him a day to rest. He had dragged him from door to door for the past two days—not to mention uprooting him from the only life he’d ever known.

  We should go to chapel in the morning, he thought but discarded the idea immediately. It was not that he had little affection for God. Without God’s sustaining hand upon his shoulder, he would have gone mad in prison. It was the idea of having to congregate with others that terrified him. Chapel at Newgate had been the highlight of his weeks, but then he’d shared the pews with fellow convicts in the same situation. Outside prison walls people tended to want to know about each other. He would have to keep up his guard constantly for fear that any small talk or pleasantries—no matter how friendly—would stray into uncomfortable territory.

  Not that he was ashamed of his past. He had done nothing wrong and was finally vindicated. But people tended to believe that where there was smoke, there was fire. What was he to do? Hang his acquittal paper about his neck on a string? And what if they asked questions about the boy? Even Mrs. Briggs had assumed he was the father, which would have made Thomas illegitimate. His young shoulders weren’t strong enough to bear that burden.

  “Sir?”

  He looked again at the boy beside him. “Yes?”

  “I’m not so tired anymore, if you want to move on.”

  “Then let’s try the house you pointed out,” Seth told him. And if there’s no position to be had there, we’ll push on for Gresham early Monday. He recalled again what the woman at the inn had said: “No crowds pushing this way and that.”

  On Monday morning, the first of August, every resident of the Larkspur from lodger to servant, along with Andrew and his daughters, assembled in the courtyard to bid the Clays farewell. Julia and Andrew hung back and allowed the others to say their good-byes, for the two would be accompanying them in the landau to see them off at the railway station in Shrewsbury.

  “Some lunch for you,” a watery-eyed Mrs. Herrick said, handing over a basket to be put into the boot of the landau. “Those station meals would make a body ill.”

  Miss Rawlins pressed a copy of her latest novella, Lord Elton’s Niece, into Fiona’s hands. “I miss our discussions about my books. Insight such as yours is so rare.”

  “Sugared dried figs from Florence,” Mrs. Kingston declared after clutching both husband and then wife to her ample bosom. “I was saving them for such an occasion.”

  Julia’s children even presented gifts—Philip, three Roman marbles from the collection he’d gathered atop the Anwyl last year; Aleda, a fairly accurate watercoloring she’d painted yesterday of the Larkspur; and Grace, one of her paper dolls. The Worthy sisters even crossed the lane to give Fiona a card of fine ecru lace.

  While Mr. Herrick sat at the reins behind Donny and Pete, the two Welsh cobs, Julia and Fiona occupied the front seat and Andrew and Mr. Clay the rear. Julia was painfully aware that every mile that drew them closer to Shrewsbury represented less time she’d have with her friends. It was likely that The Barrister could run at the Prince of Wales Theatre for years. Of course she hoped the production would be successful for Mr. Clay’s sake, but a selfish side of her was reluctant to agree.

  The landau was halfway to Shrewsbury when red-and-white Anwyl Mountain Savory Cheeses’ wagons began passing on their way back from delivering their barrels to the railway station. Mr. Herrick returned the waves of one driver after another, many whose faces were known to Julia. The last wagon was passing when she turned her face to the right and met a familiar set of eyes.

  “Fiona,” she said, gently elbowing her friend. “Did you see tha
t man?”

  “What man?”

  “In the bed of that wagon.”

  Fiona craned her neck to see, for the wagon was lumbering on past them. Julia now noticed that there were three riders in the bed of the wagon—two men and a young boy. “What’s wrong, Julia?” Andrew asked from behind.

  “It’s nothing, really—just that I believe I saw that man when we were in Shrewsbury last Saturday.” Andrew and Mr. Clay turned around to peer over their shoulders while Julia said to Fiona, “You remember. He sat near us at lunch.”

  “I don’t recall seeing anyone there I would recognize now,” Fiona responded doubtfully.

  “That’s right. Your back was to him.”

  “Was that Mr. Burrell?” Andrew asked. Julia looked back at her fiancé. He was twisted around in his seat, peering at the road behind them, but the wagon was too far away now to discern the faces.

  “Mr. Burrell?” She had never met the man who had left his wife and seven children. Was he the one who had sat behind them at the Lion Hotel? But why would he have a boy with him? Must have been the other man, she thought, remembering there had been two in the wagon.

  “Who is Mr. Burrell?” Mr. Clay asked.

  “Molly and David’s father,” Andrew replied as they both returned to their original sitting positions. “A slacker with a soul as black as his fingernails.”

  Julia couldn’t recall ever having heard such anger in her fiancé’s voice, but she knew he had a soft spot for the Burrell children. “Why would he come back to Gresham?” she asked.

  “To cause trouble, I’m afraid. And that poor family has suffered enough.”

  “ … and of course he owns most o’ the land,” the man sharing the wagon bed with Seth and Thomas was saying.

  “I beg your pardon?” Seth said. He had allowed his attention to stray to a passing carriage just a minute ago. The two women inside had looked vaguely familiar.

  “Squire Bartley,” the man went on. “Most dairymen lease from him.”