The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter

by Lawana Blackwell

  A half mile up the lane they came to the next cottage. Seth regretted not bringing the plate along, for there were two boys with straw-colored hair playing “catch” with a ball out in the yard. As the horse drew closer, Seth could see they were much older than Thomas. The two ran to their garden gate to stare, and Seth reined the horses to a halt and bade them good-morning. He thought it unconscionable that he should pass without at least sending thanks to the lady of the house for the cake and an assurance that he would bring the plate by soon. The boys mumbled what appeared to be greetings, directing their most curious stares at Thomas.

  “Is your mother at home?” Seth asked. Being late for chapel was beginning to look rather attractive to him, for if he and Thomas could slip in the back after the services had begun and slip out early, perhaps they could avoid being subject to sociable inquiry about their private lives.

  The two gave each other quick glances, then one of the boys shook his head while the other said, “No.”

  “Oh. Well, please thank her for the cake,” he said. “I’m Seth Langford.”

  “Oh,” one boy replied flatly, then turned away from the gate.

  Sociable creatures, Seth thought to himself and lifted the reins to continue on his way. Just then a flock of gray speckled birds caught his attention, pecking and scratching the ground near a vegetable garden. Even with his limited experience, Seth could tell they weren’t chickens. But they seemed to be domesticated.

  “Excuse me,” he said to the boy remaining at the gate. “What kind of birds are they?”

  He glanced over his shoulder and then back at Seth. “Guineas.”

  “Yes?” The horses paced and snorted, ready to be on their way, but Seth was intrigued. “Do they lay eggs?”

  Now the boy looked at him askew, as if he thought him ignorant. “They do.”

  “The kind you can eat?”

  The boy’s brother returned to the gate, and both exchanged deep-lidded glances. “We eats them every day, mister,” the taller one said. “Want to buy some?”

  “Some eggs?”

  “No, some guineas. We’ve too many.”

  “Why, yes,” Seth replied. Mindful of the minutes ticking by, he said, “I’ll stop by and speak with your father after chapel.”

  Again there was an exchange of glances. “Our papa’s gonter be busy all day. They’re mine and my brother’s guineas, so we’re allowed to sell ’em.”

  “We sells ’em all the time,” said the shorter. “We sold a half dozen just yesterday.”

  “We’ll even bring them to your place while you’re gone,” offered the taller boy. “That way they don’t get scared and run away. How many do you want?”

  “Would two be enough, you think?” asked Seth. After all, that would mean one egg each for him and Thomas. “They do lay every day, don’t they?”

  “Well, most days. So you’d best get another.”

  “All right.” Seth dug into his pocket. “Three, then. How much are they?”

  At the sight of Seth’s purse, both boys spilled out of the gate and came up close to the horse. “Half a crown each oughter do it,” said the shorter boy.

  “Half a crown?” That sounded expensive, and he hadn’t asked around to see if any could be had more cheaply. He drew his purse back toward his pocket, a motion that wasn’t lost on the two in the lane.

  “Excuse Oram, mister,” said the taller boy. “He was kicked by a horse when he were small, and he don’t know about money.”

  His brother looked puzzled for just a second, then bobbed his head up and down. “I don’t know about money.”

  “Four-bob for three birds,” the taller boy went on. “How about it?”

  Seth supposed it was reasonable, and the idea of having them delivered was appealing. “Very well, then,” he said, counting out four shillings. “By the way, what should I feed them?”

  The boy closed his hand around the shillings and looked back up at him. “They’ll scratch for bugs and such. But you should throw them a little corn every morning too. Sell you some for another couple o’bob.”

  … by grace the Comforter comes nigh;

  and for thy grace our love shall be

  Forever, only, Lord, for thee.

  It was while she was standing at front singing the final stanza of “We Bless the Name of Christ the Lord” to the piano accompaniment of Mrs. Jones, the postman’s wife, that Mercy watched a man clad in a Fustian shirt and corded trousers lead a boy through the tiny vestibule and to a back pew. The boy she recognized at once as Thomas Langford and so gathered that the man was his father.

  The boy’s eyes widened in his delicate face as if he were surprised to see her. By then her song was over, and Mercy returned to her pew, having had only enough time to assess that Mr. Langford felt ill at ease. When the last stanza of the final hymn ended at the close of the service, the two were already gone.

  Seth knocked upon the Sanderses’ door two mornings later, the cake plate tucked under his arm. He and Thomas were on their way to town to have their measurements taken for Sunday clothing and to inquire about who would be willing to sell a cow, but it would be unthinkable not to thank the woman of the house for her kindness.

  The door was opened by the shorter of the two boys he had spoken with on Sunday. When no greeting was forthcoming, simply a stare with slackened jaw, Seth asked, “Is your mother at home?”

  “No,” the boy replied.

  “Oh.” Seth gave a questioning glance to Thomas, who of course was too young and inexperienced to advise him of proper etiquette in this case. There were so many things required of him at his farm that he simply could not continue showing up at the neighbor’s cottage in the hopes that the woman who brought over the cake would be present. Letting go of Thomas’s hand, he took the plate from under his arm.

  “Would you mind thanking her for the cake?” he said, handing it over. Again the boy did not reply as he took the plate from him, but all Seth could do was trust that the message would be conveyed. I should have written a note, he told himself. “Thank you and good day,” he added to the boy who had resumed his slack-jawed stare.

  The boy mumbled something in reply.

  There was nothing more that could be accomplished here, so Seth took Thomas’s hand and was turning both of them to leave when Thomas whispered, “The birds, sir.”

  The door was almost closed. Seth reached a hand to stop it. “By the way, those guineas haven’t laid any eggs yet.”

  Now an almost fearful expression came over the boy’s face. “Wait here.” He actually shut the door. Seth shifted his weight on his other foot and looked at Thomas.

  “A strange family, I think,” he whispered.

  “Yes, sir,” the boy whispered back with eyes wide just as the door was opened again. Now present were both boys who had sold Seth the guineas. The taller at least had the social grace to stretch his lips into something resembling a smile.

  “The guineas ain’t used to their new home yet,” the boy said matter-of-factly.

  “Well, how long will it take?”

  He chewed on his lip. “Maybe a week. Do you need some more corn?”

  “No, thank you.” Seth figured he would get some at a better price in Gresham, and that his trading days with these two were best brought to an end.

  “Did I hear a horse out front?” Mercy asked, returning downstairs from making beds.

  “Yes,” Fernie replied. He was tossing a folded pocket knife up and down in the air. “Have you seen Oram’s knife? We want to play mumblety-peg.”

  Mercy fished in her apron pocket among the candle stubs, then tossed it over to him. “It was under his pillow. Tell your brother if it ever gets in the wash, he’ll wish he’d been more careful.”

  “Uh-huh.” Fernie went to the back door and called, “Oram! I’ve got it!” That was when Mercy noticed a plate sitting on the table top.

  “Was that Mr. Langford who was here?”

  “Who?”

  She sighe
d. “Our neighbor.”

  Oram came inside, slamming the door behind him. “It was him,” said Fernie.

  “Well, what did he say?”

  “Say?” He tossed the folded knife to his brother. “Nothing as I can recall.”

  “Who?” Oram asked.

  “That man from down the lane.”

  Oram scratched his head. “But he said—”

  “That’s right,” Fernie interrupted quickly. “He did say something. I forgot.”

  Mercy folded her arms and looked at the two suspiciously. Fernie had ordered Oram around ever since they were little, and it seemed he was doing so now. But for what purpose? “Well, what did he say?”

  “He said ‘here’s your plate.’ ”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes.” Fernie looked at Oram. “Ain’t that right, Oram?”

  “That’s right,” Oram agreed. “ ‘Here’s your plate’ was all he said.”

  “He’s a grumpy sort,” Fernie went on. “Didn’t even smile. If I was you, I wouldn’t go over there bringin’ him any more cakes.”

  Whether this was the truth or not was impossible to tell, but the fact that Mr. Langford had slipped in and out of church before anyone could meet him lent some credibility to their account. Shooing her brothers out of the house, she said, “Off with you, then. You’ve put enough marks in the door posts with those knives.”

  “But we wanted to play—”

  “Play somewhere else. And while you’re in the yard, see if you can find out what happened to those three guineas.”

  “Miss Clark will be very good for the children,” Mrs. Dearing remarked at the Larkspur’s table that evening. “I had a long discussion with her in the lending library this morning. She’s impressively well schooled in classic literature.”

  “Indeed?” Mr. Durwin buttered a slice of bread. “I’m all for the study of literature, but not at the expense of arithmetic and history.”

  “From what I hear, she is more than competent to teach all subjects,” Julia said from the head of the table.

  Mrs. Kingston looked up from helping Grace cut up her roast beef and nodded. “She has a calm way about her that the children will respond to. That’s so important for maintaining discipline, don’t you think?”

  “Discipline is essential,” Mr. Durwin agreed. “One cannot learn in an environment of chaos.” Looking over at Julia, he said, “I don’t think I ever had a proper potato until I moved here, Mrs. Hollis. Mrs. Herrick is indeed an artist, and the kitchen is her canvas.”

  Julia smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Durwin. She’ll be pleased.”

  “He compliments her all the time,” the usually quiet and reticent Mrs. Hyatt said. “Why, if she weren’t married, I believe Mr. Durwin would ask her hand.” This caused some laughter around the table and Aleda to put a hand over her mouth to cover the shock. With their wedding date only five weeks away, both Mr. Durwin and Mrs. Hyatt had become positively lighthearted.

  Love does wonderful things to people, Julia thought and smiled at the wink Mrs. Kingston sent her.

  “That’s not so, Mrs. Hyatt,” Mr. Durwin was protesting. “But I do appreciate a cook who can do justice to a potato. And the Irish, of course, for contributing them to civilization.”

  Mr. Pitney, who seemed to be turning as introverted as Mrs. Hyatt was outgoing lately, lifted a finger. “I beg your pardon?”

  All eyes shifted to his end of the table, which of course caused a blush to stain his cheeks. “Yes, Mr. Pitney?” said Mrs. Dearing.

  “The potato.” He dropped his fork on the floor, bent to pick it up, and emerged more red-faced than before. “Oh … thank you,” he said to Sarah, who appeared at his side to supply a clean fork. Everyone else at the table busied themselves with their food, pretending not to notice while still maintaining a posture of alertness.

  “What about potatoes?” Mrs. Kingston asked kindly. “Are you fond of them too, Mr. Pitney?”

  “Why, yes.” He looked at Mr. Durwin. “But, begging your pardon … they’re actually indigenous to South America, or more specifically, Chile and the Andes.”

  “Do tell, Mr. Pitney?” This came with raised eyebrows from Miss Rawlins, who seldom spoke to the young archeologist.

  “Why, yes, Miss Rawlins,” he replied, straightening in his chair. “They were brought back to Spain by explorers in the late 1500s.”

  “Mr. Pitney is indeed correct,” Mr. Ellis said while chewing.

  Philip leaned closer to Julia and whispered, “Mother, may I ask a question?” When she nodded, he turned back to Mr. Pitney and said, “But how did they get to England?”

  Mr. Pitney smiled at the boy. He was clearly more at ease speaking with Philip than with Miss Rawlins, in spite of Mr. Pitney’s obvious infatuation with her … or perhaps because of it, Julia thought.

  “Sir Francis Drake brought them over from Colombia. What’s interesting is that the Spaniards most likely had introduced them there from their explorations in Chile. So the potato has a history of crossing the ocean more than once.”

  “Fascinating,” Miss Rawlins declared, and others murmured agreement. The bliss on Mr. Pitney’s face caused Julia to fiddle with her napkin in order to hide a smile.

  Later in the hall, though, when Mr. Ellis and Mrs. Kingston had persuaded Mr. Pitney to expound on the methods used by the Romans and Celts for baking bread, she noticed Miss Rawlins cover a yawn—and then another. Mr. Pitney must have noticed, too, for he excused himself to go upstairs as soon as possible. And then again, love can be a real burden sometimes, Julia thought.

  Chapter 18

  Three weeks later on Monday, August twenty-ninth, Jonathan Raleigh sat in the back of a hired coach and chewed on a fingernail—a nervous habit he had acquired of late. I should have written first, he thought. But of course he had no doubt that the letter he had sent last year had ended up in Reverend Phelps’s fireplace. And how can I blame him? I would have done the same had I a daughter so mistreated.

  “Elizabeth, please don’t hate me,” he said under his breath, staring vacantly out the window at the passing countryside. Hate the man who chose the cesspools of life over your love, yes, but understand that man no longer exists.

  He picked up a Bible from the seat beside him. His Grandfather Hastings had presented it to him only seven months ago, and the leather cover was already showing signs of wear around the edges.

  “He will have compassion upon us; He will subdue our iniquities; and thou wilt cast all their sins into the depths of the sea,” Jonathan read silently from the seventh chapter of Micah. It was of great comfort to him that God had consigned all memory of his earlier wicked ways to ocean’s depths on the day he committed his life to following the Lord. But of course the consequences of his past actions still remained to haunt him.

  Perhaps she’s married now, he thought, and not for the first time. She would deserve an honest, God-fearing man with no vile past to come between them. But he was selfish enough to hope that wasn’t so and that she still harbored some love for him.

  Cottages and gardens began to take the place of pastures, and the surface of the road changed abruptly. All too soon the coach came to a halt. “The Bow and Fiddle, sir,” the driver said, opening the door. “Gresham’s onliest coaching inn.”

  Jonathan was led to an upstairs room by an innkeeper who identified himself as Mr. Pool. “We don’t get many overnight patrons,” the man said, pausing at a door and opening it. “From this room you can look out at th’ Anwyl.”

  “The Anwyl?” Jonathan asked.

  “Yes, sir.” Mr. Pool pointed toward a window at the far wall. Even from the doorway Jonathan could see the greens and brownish-reds of a steep hill. “Didn’t you notice it on your way up?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t,” Jonathan replied, but then circus elephants could have passed by his coach’s window without his notice. “This room will be fine.”

  “Care for some tea whiles you unpack? Ale, perhaps?”

 
Nervousness and the strain of his travels had brought on a great thirst. For just a split second the thought of downing a mug of ale was tempting. But he had only to recall the night that Vicar Phelps had caught him inebriated and in the company of a sergeant’s wife in Cambridge, and the tea suddenly sounded better. “I’m in a bit of a hurry, so I’ll have some tea in your dining room instead. Could you tell me how to locate Reverend Andrew Phelps?”

  “The vicar? Just look for the steeple of Saint Jude’s when you’re outside. The vicarage is but a stone’s throw behind it.”

  The tea was served to him by the innkeeper’s wife, a thin, sharp-featured woman. “Paying a call on the vicar, are you?” she asked while pouring milk into his cup.

  “Yes,” Jonathan replied. He sipped his tea, then assumed the reason she was still hovering at his table was to see if it was satisfactory. “It’s fine, thank you.”

  “You must not be a relation, or you’d be stayin’ at the vicarage.”

  Her tone of voice made it more of a question than a statement. Jonathan didn’t rise to the bait but gave her a slight nod before taking another sip of tea.

  “I s’pose you know he’s got two daughters—one about your age.”

  Pushing out his chair, he said, “I’m sorry I haven’t time to finish the rest, but it was good.” He noticed from the inn’s courtyard that indeed the steeple of a church rose above the treetops. Heading toward it down a road that went east, he happened upon a school building where two workmen were constructing something of metal piping and wood in the yard. A dozen or so children and adults had gathered to watch. Jonathan returned the nods of greeting some gave and searched the faces. He was relieved when none proved familiar. Though he had dreamt of this day for a year now, he still had to fight a strong impulse to turn and sprint for the safety of the Bow and Fiddle.