The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter

by Lawana Blackwell

  It seemed almost as if a curtain was drawn across Mr. Langford’s expression. “It’s very kind of you to offer, but that won’t be necessary.” He sent a glance toward the roof of the milking barn, a signal that was not lost on Andrew.

  “I’ll leave you to your work,” Andrew said, stretching out his hand again.

  Mr. Langford seemed almost apologetic as they shook hands. “I do appreciate you seeing about us. …”

  He did not finish his sentence, but Andrew supplied the rest silently as he sent a farewell wave to the boy. … but please don’t come around again.

  He could not blame Mr. Langford for not displaying the warmest of hospitality. He could recall the days immediately following Kathleen’s death, when he would have gladly consigned himself to the confines of his house. However, duties to his parishioners, and particularly to his daughters, had forbidden such self-indulgence.

  As his trap began to move back up Nettle Lane, Andrew thought it good that at least young Thomas would have the companionship of other children when school began. Which would leave Mr. Langford with even more hours of isolation. It was none of Andrew’s business, and if solitude was what he wanted, then there was no one to say he shouldn’t have it. But Andrew knew that God wasn’t only referring to Adam when He said, “It is not good for man to be alone.”

  From his perch on the windowsill, Seth ventured a look at the cloud of dust raised by the retreating trap. No doubt the vicar had thought him ill-disposed, as likely did the whole of Gresham by now. He sincerely regretted that, but better to be considered unsociable than to have Thomas suffer once the truth were to be known.

  “Sir?” the boy called from below. He had finished pulling the nail from the board and had now taken it upon himself to collect the loose shingles that lay on the ground.

  Seth looked down at him. “Be careful not to get in the way,” he warned.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, what did you want?”

  “What’s a vicar?”

  “A minister, Thomas.” Seth stretched out the hoe to rake another shingle. “From that big church we saw Wednesday.”

  “Will he come visit again? Or the lady?”

  “What lady?”

  “The cake lady.”

  A smile came to Seth’s lips at the boy’s wording. How could he have forgotten? The apple cake had saved them from a breakfast of tinned meat—which he was already beginning to think of with faint revulsion—and enough cake still remained to last a few more days. “I don’t think so, Thomas,” he replied. “But we’ll need to return the plate when the cake is gone, so perhaps you’ll see her again.”

  Chapter 17

  “That new schoolmistress is here,” Iris Worthy said to Julia as the sisters spun their laces on Saturday morning. “Miss Clark is her name, but of course we knew her as ‘Lydia’ when she was a girl. She must be going on thirty-two by now.”

  “Real daydreamer she were back then,” Jewel said, her face crinkling pleasurably with the memory. “Always a book in her hand. Why, just like your Aleda.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting her,” Julia told the two.

  “Well, you can do that this very morning,” Iris said. “She passed by here not more than an hour ago on her way to the schoolhouse.”

  Pointing with her chin over her left shoulder as her fingers continued to spin, Jewel said, “Lives back on Walnut Lane with her folks again. Her brother Noah married in the spring of ’61.”

  “Spring of ’62,” Iris gently corrected, but Jewel would have none of it.

  “It were ’61, because that were the year Abram Summers’ roof burned.”

  Iris, usually the milder of the two, set her jaw adamantly. “His roof burned in ’62, Jewel. I remember Mr. Derby saying he felt wretched, because his broken arm prevented him from joining the bucket brigade.” She looked up at Julia. “I’m sure you know that they’ve been friends since boyhood, Mr. Derby and Mr. Summers, so naturally Mr. Derby would have wished to help.”

  “But he did take the Summerses into his home until the roof could be rebuilt,” Jewel said, then, in a tone as adamant as the thrust of her sister’s jaw, added, “in ’61.”

  “No, Jewel. You’re remembering ’61 because that was when Mrs. Perkins’ cat fell in her well. Mr. Derby helped get her out, and how could he do that with a broken arm?” To Julia she said, “Whiteface was her name—the cat, not Mrs. Perkins. She was so named because she was completely gray except for her face.”

  Jewel was working her mouth into a rebuttal when Julia stepped in. “Both years sound perfectly dreadful, if you ask me,” she quipped, smiling to show she meant no offense. “You say Miss Clark is at the schoolhouse?”

  Both heads nodded, and she took her leave. She had not gone more than ten feet when she heard Jewel say grudgingly to her sister, “Well, maybe it were ’62. But everybody knows that little Horace threw his mother’s cat down that well.”

  As expected, the schoolmistress was in the main classroom, bent over some papers on her desk, when Julia paused in the doorway. “Miss Clark?” she said softly.

  Miss Clark looked up, a pen poised in her fingers. “Yes?”

  “I’m Julia Hollis. You’ll be teaching my two daughters this year.”

  “Indeed?” With a welcoming smile she rose from her chair. “Please, do come in.”

  Julia could see that she favored her father physically, for she had to be almost six feet tall. Light brown hair was drawn back severely into a knot, revealing ears that stuck out just a bit. Her face wore a welcoming, pleasant expression. “I won’t stay long and keep you from your work,” Julia said on her way to the front of the classroom.

  “I would enjoy the company, Mrs. Hollis.” They shook hands over the desk. “Let’s see … your daughters are Aleda and Grace?”

  “I’m impressed. You’ve learned your students’ names already?”

  “Don’t forget, I was raised here, so most of the last names are already familiar to me. It’s only a matter of learning the given names and a few new ones.” She then nodded toward the door. “Would you mind if we sat out on the steps? Saint Margaret’s was like a mausoleum—damp and cold, even in the summer. Between my teaching and housemother duties, I had very little time to enjoy the outdoors. I’m charmed with the idea of having a school yard.”

  “Is that why you left Saint Margaret’s?” Julia asked when they had settled on the steps and arranged their skirts to cover their ankles.

  “Not exactly. I was content there, in spite of the overwhelmingly Gothic atmosphere. But my parents are growing old, and it struck me once during my morning prayers that I couldn’t take for granted they would always be here. Then later that same day I received two things—a letter from my mother expressing the desire that I would come back home, and a wire from Mr. Sykes concerning the position here. That night I asked God for direction as I was opening my Bible for my nightly reading. I looked down to see the passage where Jesus looked down from the cross and asked Saint John to care for his mother. I just can’t believe that was all coincidence.”

  Julia rubbed her arms over her sleeves. “That gives me chill bumps just to think of it.”

  “Me too.” The teacher smiled, green eyes soft. “Anyway, I’m happy to be back home and am looking forward to next month.”

  “I believe the children are too. No doubt you’ve heard about the merry-go-round?”

  “My parents told me. I’ve never seen one. Have you?”

  “In London,” Julia nodded. “We lived there until just last year.”

  That led to the schoolmistress asking how Julia had turned the Larkspur from an abandoned coaching inn to a lodging house. Julia told as much as she could of the story without going into detail about her late husband. When she rose to leave almost an hour later, she apologized for staying so long.

  “I’ll forgive you if you promise to do it again sometime,” was Miss Clark’s gracious reply.

  Julia smiled back. Any doubts about the tea
cher who would be replacing Captain Powell were gone. She left the schoolhouse and was on her way back to the Larkspur when a familiar voice called to her above the rattle of carriage wheels.

  “My dear Mrs. Hollis!” Ophelia Rhodes called from her runabout, flagging an enthusiastic hand beside George Sykes, the churchwarden’s nephew. The gray cob was soon pulled to a halt, and Mrs. Rhodes spilled out of the carriage. “Drive on back, will you?” she said to her assistant. “I’ll be along shortly.”

  “It’s so good to see you!” Julia said as the two linked arms and walked up Church Lane.

  Bonnetless as usual, Mrs. Rhodes smoothed some graying strands of hair away from her ruddy face and tucked them behind her ear. “And you as well, Mrs. Hollis. I’ve been so terribly busy these days that it seems I rarely see my own husband. I’ll be happy when Grace is able to share my practice.”

  Julia smiled. While it was true that Grace loved animals and had taken to wandering over to the Rhodeses’ cottage to watch Mrs. Rhodes in the surgery, she was only seven years old. If indeed Grace did decide to study veterinary medicine, she would not be ready to practice for a good many years. But Julia had a feeling that her friend would still be involved with her practice, for she was one of those ageless individuals who thrive upon keeping busy.

  “Where have you been this morning?” asked Julia.

  “We treated a colicky horse on the Towly farm east of Gipsy Woods and then on to Clive to remove an impacted tooth from a pig.”

  “That sounds dangerous.”

  “But for chloroform, my dear, it would be.” Her face grew sober. “Which reminds me—I treated a pig for hoof rot near Alveley a fortnight ago.”

  Unsure of how she was expected to respond to this, Julia simply said, “Yes?”

  The Larkspur was in sight now. Julia could see Mrs. Kingston puttering about in the garden. Mrs. Rhodes had noticed, too, and lowered her voice. “The owners of the pig were parishioners of Saint Matthew’s.”

  “Where Mr. Treves is curate?”

  “Yes.” She studied Julia’s face. “I’m not sure if I should tell you this. I don’t wish to cause trouble.”

  “Is it concerning Mr. Treves?”

  Mrs. Rhodes nodded. “It’s far from scandalous, so don’t get that aghast look on your face, and perhaps my fondness for animals has caused me prejudice.”

  “I think you should tell me,” Julia said, slowing her steps.

  “Very well, then.” She glanced again at the Larkspur’s garden. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, not having been brought up rural, but the small farmers around here are quite dependent upon their pigs for winter meat.”

  “Yes, I know that.” Julia could not help but be aware, for even the meanest cottage usually had a pigsty out back.

  “Well, regarding the pig in Alveley, it seems the owner—a Mr. Sims and his wife—had asked Mr. Treves to pray that their pig would recover. Whereupon Mr. Treves lectured them that God’s time was not to be wasted with prayers over animals.”

  “Truly?”

  “I see no reason that the Simses would make up the story. They weren’t even aware of my indirect acquaintance with the young man.”

  Julia frowned. “That seems so insensitive. While Mr. Treves isn’t overly warm, I can’t imagine him saying such a thing.” But even as she spoke, she recalled his remark about poor people last week at Andrew’s house.

  “He wouldn’t be the first young man to put aside his true nature for the benefit of his fiancée’s family,” Mrs. Rhodes was saying. “Of course we’re only hearing one side of the story. And you know Mr. Treves far better than I do—”

  “I feel I hardly know him at all.”

  “Mmm. Should you tell Miss Phelps?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’ll certainly tell Andrew.”

  Andrew, walking with Julia in the Larkspur’s garden after he and his daughters had enjoyed supper with Julia’s family and the lodgers, was quite pensive. “I shall have to tell her, of course. But I don’t care for the idea of interfering in their courtship over a remark that can probably be attributed to the ignorance of youth.”

  “Do you think that was all it was?”

  He shrugged. “How can we know? Young curates are notorious for being full of themselves, you know. It’s likely that ten years from now Mr. Treves will shudder at the memory of his callousness.”

  They were both quiet for a spell as they strolled around the gray forms of flower beds, trellis, and shrubbery, illuminated by light spilling out from the inn’s windows and the evening’s earliest stars.

  “Elizabeth received a letter today from one of her former classmates,” Andrew told her presently, breaking the silence. “She wed last year and is now expecting a child. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you it put Elizabeth in a somber mood.”

  “The poor dear. She wants to be a wife and mother so badly.”

  “Of course marriage was created by God, so there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. …”

  “As long as she doesn’t marry just for the sake of marrying,” Julia finished for him.

  “Exactly.” He smiled and patted the hand she had resting upon his arm. “I’m glad I didn’t allow my mother to talk me into doing the same thing, or I would have missed out on having you in my life.”

  “You mean you almost married someone in Cambridge?”

  “Not quite.” Feigning a little shudder, he replied, “A Mrs. Keswick had set her cap for me. I can’t see why, unless her eyesight—”

  “Oh, stop that,” Julia told him.

  “Stop what?” He appeared genuinely puzzled.

  “You make harsh comments about your looks, so I’ll contradict you and tell you how handsome you are. Why, I believe you’re vain, Vicar Phelps.”

  “Vain?” Andrew touched the cloth of his coat over his chest. “You cut me to the quick, Julia Hollis. I’m well aware that you say such things out of pity.”

  “I say nothing out of pity.” Reaching up to touch his bearded cheek, Julia said, “Handsome is as handsome does, Andrew. And that makes you the most handsome man in Shropshire.”

  Sunday morning Seth woke even earlier than usual and went to the north window, as was becoming his habit. The view from his barred cell window in Newgate had been simply of another building. How welcome to his eyes were the sedate greens and blues of pastures and hedgerows and sky. How blessed he was!

  With that awareness came again a stab of guilt. His mind was weary from wrestling over the matter of the Wesleyan Chapel. Reverend Seaton, who had called yesterday, seemed a decent fellow. But again came the uncomfortable thought of having to leave the blessed seclusion of his farm. And I’ve no Sunday clothes.

  But there was Thomas to consider now, and none of his arguments justified raising the boy as a heathen. “Forsake not the assembling of yourselves together,” Reverend Mercer had often reminded his small congregation of prisoners. Now Seth understood the reason. He was probably not the first convict faced with the temptation to seclude himself on the outside.

  He sighed, realizing that he would spend the whole week carrying a weight of guilt upon his shoulders if he didn’t go to chapel. Ten minutes later he was in the kitchen, brewing up some tea and dividing the remains of the apple cake onto two dishes. He put the plate carefully into the metal dishpan. Hot water he would add later, when breakfast was finished and his teapot was free again.

  He went back upstairs to fetch Thomas. The boy lay on his side, his ash-colored hair in disarray, a hand cupped under one cheek and his mouth parted slightly. It was a shame to disturb such peace, Seth thought, touching a narrow shoulder.

  “Thomas?”

  Both blue eyes opened and blinked. “Yes, sir?”

  “Breakfast is ready.” Such as it is, Seth thought, though three-dayold apple cake was more appetizing than tinned meat. He supposed he needed to buy a milking cow as soon as possible. And perhaps some chickens. Surely fresh eggs and milk every day would put some flesh on the boy’s bones.r />
  They breakfasted in silence, then cleared away the dishes together. As Thomas went to his room to wash and dress himself, Seth shaved at the washbowl in his bedroom. Working out in the sun for the past three days had put some color to his face, he was glad to see. Not that he was vain, but one didn’t care to go about looking like a ghost. “Put some water on your hair before you comb it,” he called out to Thomas, then yelped as the razor took a bite of his chin.

  “Are you hurt?” the boy asked a second later from the doorway.

  “Just nipped myself, thank you.” Seth pressed a towel to his chin with one hand and continued to shave around it with the straight razor, aware that he was risking another nip. He knew life would be easier if he grew a beard, but he had never had one, not even in Newgate where they had been forbidden, and didn’t care for the thought of hair upon his face. “Mind you wash the sleep from your eyes.”

  When he had donned a clean set of work clothes, he found Thomas waiting at the bottom of the staircase. At least one of us is dressed properly, Seth thought, though the sleeve of the boy’s coat ended well above his narrow wrists. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? He remembered then Mr. Trumble mentioning something about there being a tailor in Gresham. He would have to take care of that tomorrow, and as long as Thomas needed to go to the tailor, he reckoned it wouldn’t hurt to order himself a decent suit of clothes for church at the same time.

  There was so much to do, and he hadn’t even started purchasing horses yet! A far cry from how his life had been less than two weeks ago with every hour of his day planned for him by others.

  “Should we bring the plate to the lady on the way?” asked Thomas while Seth straightened the boy’s collar.

  “Why, I don’t know. Her family could be at chapel, too, you know, and not be home when we stopped.” Seth took his watch from his pocket and snapped it open. They needed to hurry if they were to be on time. He quickly hitched Bonny and Soot to the wagon. The air smelled of dampness, and back behind him, over the Anwyl, he could see dark clouds. Hopefully the rain would wait until they arrived back at home.