“Yes?” she said, her faded brown eyes wide. “Who was the man in bright clothing, Vicar?”
“He was an angel, Mrs. Cobbe. Remember how he told Cornelius to send men to Joppa?” he fairly shouted so the poor woman could hear.
“Yes, for Simon Peter.” The woman gave him a grateful smile. “I remember now. Go ahead, Vicar.”
Andrew called at the cottage on Thatcher Lane weekly to deliver a condensed version of the sermon that Mrs. Cobbe and her daughter, Mrs. Ramsey, missed at church each Sunday—and to pass along news of the parish. It was a strain to have to speak so loudly, but he enjoyed his visits with the two. They were so appreciative and drank up news like sponges.
If he had not insisted that Elizabeth stay home and nurse her cold, she would have entertained the two with descriptions of what the ladies had worn to the service. Gresham was by no means a fashion Mecca, but to Mrs. Cobbe, who never left the confines of her bedroom, it was an opportunity to participate vicariously in village life. Mrs. Ramsey was almost as reclusive—she left her mother only when it was necessary to go to Trumbles or the bakery, or to tend to her vegetable garden. A combination of the wages the widow earned as a seamstress and parish assistance kept the two alive.
Andrew had to be careful how he offered this assistance, for both women were proud. He had learned that it was easier to purchase staples with their portion of the poor box proceeds and casually set them inside the door on his Monday visits than to attempt to press money into Mrs. Ramsey’s hands.
“Will you have a bite of lunch with us?” Mrs. Ramsey asked when Andrew rose from the bedside chair. She was a plain woman with a pock-marked complexion, but the flowers set about in every conceivable container proved she had a love of beauty.
“Thank you,” Andrew replied, “but I should see about Elizabeth.”
“What did you say, Ruth?” asked Mrs. Cobbe.
“I asked the vicar for lunch, but he has to leave,” she said loudly.
“Well, perhaps next week,” her mother said sweetly, nodding her understanding.
Sometimes Andrew accepted their offer of a meal in spite of their limited means, because he had learned over the years that poor people did not feel so poor when allowed to give occasionally. He was startled to discover his pocket watch read almost one o’clock when he stepped out into the sunlight again. Today’s calls were within walking distance, so he had left Rusty and the trap at the vicarage. Those poor women, he thought, chiding himself for running behind on his calls and staying so late. They would starve before interrupting the sermon.
He knew he was in hot water with Mrs. Paget, whom he had advised he would be home for lunch. So when he approached the back of the Larkspur from Church Lane and spotted Mr. Herrick helping Julia and her girls from the landau, he exchanged quick greetings with the Worthy sisters and turned into the carriage drive. He would stop for just a minute to see how she was coping with Philip’s departure.
“Tell me again he’s going to be all right,” Julia said after Aleda and Grace had greeted him and gone inside. Andrew sat with her on a bench in the courtyard, the west wing shielding them from the ever vigilant eyes of the Worthy sisters.
“He’s going to be just fine,” Andrew replied, raising her fingertips to his lips. It was obvious from the look of her green eyes that she had shed some tears earlier. He understood. He certainly wasn’t looking forward to Laurel’s departure next Monday, and she wasn’t even going very far and would be home every weekend. “He’s an intelligent boy, and this will be a good experience for him.”
“Of course it will.” She mustered up a smile for him, though it was clear to see that it took some effort.
“And it’s a blessing that he can come home once a month, you know?” Andrew reminded her. “Most lads in boarding schools see their families only on holidays.”
Grasping at that, she added, “And we stay so busy around here that a month will pass before we know it.”
“There, you see? He’s practically on his way home already.”
Now her smile became more genuine. “Thank you, Andrew.” She glanced back at the door. “Mrs. Herrick will be holding some lunch for us. I should go in now. Would you care to join us?”
“No, thank you. I told Mrs. Paget I’d be home at noon. She’ll have some cold shoulder waiting for me.”
“I see. Then you should hurry—” She stopped, suspicion narrowing her eyes. “Some cold shoulder? I’ve had to say good-bye to my son today, and you’re making a joke?”
He grimaced. “Forgive me, dear. It just slipped out.”
Julia stared at him for several long seconds, while Andrew, feeling miserable, chided himself for his lack of sensitivity. No doubt she was wondering why she ever agreed to marry him. Just as he was considering throwing himself upon his knees and begging for one more chance, she smiled.
“I never realized it before, but you’re just alike, you and Philip.”
“You’re not angry?”
She shook her head. “I should be, you know. But I suppose one woman giving you cold shoulder is enough for today.” Allowing him to assist her to her feet, she said, “Why isn’t Elizabeth making calls with you today?”
Relieved that she held no grudge, he replied, “She has a head cold.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is it a very bad one?”
“Not too bad, but I didn’t think people like Mrs. Cobbe should be exposed.”
He said good-bye with just a squeeze of her hand. Only a boorish fellow would expect a kiss from a woman who had so recently shed tears over her son’s departure.
But she surprised him by standing on her toes and leaning forward. “Thank you for being such a comfort, Andrew,” she said, just before planting a soft kiss upon his lips.
It put him in such a pleasant mood that he hummed all the way up Church Lane. Even the prospect of facing Mrs. Paget couldn’t take the bounce out of his steps. When the vicarage came into view, he noticed Laurel seated on the top step of the stoop with an open book in her lap. She looked up when the garden gate let out its usual squeak.
“Hello, Pet!” he called.
“Hello, Papa!” Apparently she had been waiting for him, for she put the book aside and jumped to her feet. “I thought you’d never get home!”
“Why, what’s happened?” he asked, sending a worried glance up to Elizabeth’s window. “Is your sister—”
“She’s upstairs, most likely crying her eyes out again.”
When the next knock came, Jonathan knew in his heart it was the vicar. He had expected it to be louder, more forceful, perhaps hard enough to rattle the windowpanes. With legs that seemed to have turned to wood, he rose from the chair by the window and opened the door.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Raleigh,” Vicar Phelps said.
He was the same as Jonathan remembered, from the broad shoulders to the neatly trimmed beard. “Won’t you come in, sir?” It was then that Jonathan realized he was still in his stocking feet, as his shoes were still at the side of the bed. He felt embarrassed about that, but it was too late to do anything about it now.
“Yes, thank you,” the vicar replied and walked into the room. From the tone of his voice it appeared he was taking great pains to keep himself under control.
Realizing he was wringing his hands like an underclassman before his orals, Jonathan wiped his palms upon the front of his pants and motioned to the only chair. “Would you care to have a seat?”
The vicar closed the door behind him. “I prefer to stand, thank you.”
It was ludicrous, the two of them exercising such courtesy as if they were just about to discuss favorite novels over tea and shortbread, when Jonathan was sure that his visitor would have much preferred pouncing upon him and ripping out his lungs. He stood there awkwardly while the pair of hazel eyes studied him. It was a relief when the vicar brought up the subject on both their minds.
“I will not ask you why you came here, Mr. Raleigh,” he said in a well-modulated voice.
&
nbsp; Jonathan could imagine him using the same tone to explain the parable of the wheat and the tares to his congregation.
“I can only assume you still fancy yourself to harbor some feelings for my daughter.”
Jonathan straightened. “I love her, sir.”
“No doubt it seems that way to you.” Taking a step closer, Vicar Phelps clasped both hands behind his back and said, “You are still quite young, Mr. Raleigh. Oftentimes it takes years for a man to discover his true nature. Shall I save you some time and tell you something about yours?”
“Sir, if you would just allow me to—”
“You are shallow, Mr. Raleigh.” He took another step closer until they stood only two feet apart. “And just as an infant sits in the midst of his toys and frets for the one forbidden to him, you desire Elizabeth because she has no use for you.”
“That’s not true.” Swallowing hard, Jonathan said, “Perhaps it was true at one time, but I’ve changed, Vicar Phelps. I’ve become—”
“You’ve changed? I could preach a sermon on the likes of you.” He drew his lips sarcastically. “One about a leopard changing its spots comes to mind right away.”
I know that verse, Jonathan realized. If only he could recall from where, surely the vicar would understand. Isaiah? Ezekiel?
“So as you can see, Mr. Raleigh, your journey here has been—”
“Jeremiah!”
The vicar blinked, his sentence left hanging in the air. “I beg your pardon?”
“ ‘Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots? Then may ye also do good, that are accustomed to do evil.’ ”
It was almost comical, how Vicar Phelps gaped at him. Jonathan gave a self-conscious shrug. “My grandfather, sir. He encouraged me to memorize scripture since I was a boy. But I confess it never meant anything to me until last January.”
Vicar Phelps’s eyes widened. “You’ve come to personal faith in Christ?”
“Yes, sir—in my grandfather’s parlor. I was practically suicidal with self-loathing. Please believe me, sir. I wouldn’t lie about something so serious.”
The face across from him actually paled. Jonathan couldn’t help but feel disappointed. He had not expected the vicar to shout with joy and embrace him, but surely a man of the cloth would take the news of a conversion without appearing as if suddenly stricken with a stomach ailment.
“Vicar Phelps?”
Without asking, Vicar Phelps moved to the chair and sat down. “January?” he mumbled, scratching his blond beard.
“I should think you would be pleased, sir.”
“But of course …” He gave another sigh and then studied Jonathan in thoughtful silence.
Jonathan waited, resisting the compulsion to plead his case further. Presently the vicar straightened his shoulders.
“Of course I’m pleased at your news, Mr. Raleigh. But I can’t help but wonder if your conversion, if you will, was for the purpose of finding your way back into my daughter’s good graces. People don’t always follow Christ for the right reasons. Look at Judas Iscariot.”
So now you’re comparing me with Judas? Jonathan thought but managed to hold his indignation in check. He had only to recall a certain evening last year in Cambridge to remind himself that he could expect no less than the rough side of the vicar’s tongue. Still, he had the right to defend himself.
“I would rather look at Saul of Tarsus, sir,” he said respectfully. “As you know, he had a wretched past as well, but the other disciples managed to forgive him.”
Vicar Phelps looked as if he would choke, and sure enough, he lowered his head and started coughing. Water, Jonathan thought, padding across the carpet to the door and pulling it open. He jumped back as the innkeeper’s wife stumbled into the room.
The vicar raised his head to stare at her. “Mrs. Pool?” he said between coughs.
She smoothed her apron and raised her chin. “I were just wonderin’ if the young man wanted an extra blanket. The nights are turnin’ chilly.” This was said with a straight, albeit crimson face, in spite of the fact that daylight still poured through the window—and that there was no blanket in her arms.
“No, thank you,” Jonathan told her. “But may we have some water?”
“That’s not necessary. I’m fine now,” the vicar said from behind him. “Good day, Mrs. Pool.”
“Good day, Vicar.” Gathering her bruised dignity around her like a cloak, she gave Jonathan a crisp nod on her way to the door. “Mr. Raleigh.”
Jonathan turned back around as soon as the door snapped shut. Both sets of eyes met, and both men burst into laughter. Vicar Phelps laughed hardest, until he had to take out a handkerchief and wipe his eyes. “I suppose you’ve heard that ‘a merry heart doeth good like a medicine,’ ” he said.
“Proverbs, sir,” Jonathan said, smiling himself. The shared merriment put him at ease enough to sit upon the foot of the bed.
“This doesn’t change a thing, you know.”
The smile froze upon Jonathan’s face. “It doesn’t?”
“Oh, I confess my opinion of you has gone up several notches. But as far as stability goes, Mr. Raleigh, frankly your faith has not been tested. I can’t risk my daughter’s future in the hopes that you won’t grow bored one day with living a decent life and decide debauchery was more appealing.”
“But that’s the very reason I didn’t come here as soon as I committed my life to Christ,” Jonathan argued. “I wanted to make sure I wasn’t just a flash-in-the-pan.”
“Very wise of you,” the vicar said and gave him a sad smile. “But six … seven months? Give yourself another year or two to grow spiritually before thinking about such things as courting.”
“Another year—”
“Or two.”
“But Elizabeth could be married by then.” Something passed across the man’s expression that told Jonathan that was more than a possibility. Rising from the foot of the bed, he said, “She’s seeing someone, isn’t she?”
“Well, yes.”
“Does she plan to marry him?”
“She does, Mr. Raleigh. I’m sorry, but—”
“When is the wedding, Vicar Phelps?” While he didn’t believe the vicar would lie to him, there had been some hesitancy in his tone, enough to give Jonathan some hope.
The vicar sighed. “That hasn’t been decided yet.”
“Have the banns been published?”
“No, but it’s only a matter of …” A little of his former attitude showed itself. “This has nothing to do with you, Mr. Raleigh. The man has dedicated his life to the ministry and will make a decent husband. If you care about Elizabeth as much as you say, you’ll want her to be happy.”
“And this man makes her happy?”
“Yes, Mr. Raleigh.” The vicar rose from the chair, walked toward Jonathan, and offered his hand. “It does my heart good to see the change in you.” Again the sad smile appeared. “Forgive me if I’ve been unduly harsh, but I pray you’ll take to heart what I’ve told you. Elizabeth has been through much heartache and deserves this opportunity for a good life. Sometimes we show our love best by letting go.”
Jonathan could only nod stupidly as he and the vicar shook hands. Here was an older, wiser man, whom he respected almost as much as he respected his own grandfather, finally displaying some warmth toward him. I’m confident you’ll do the honorable thing, the eyes that stared into his said. It was enough to raise doubts within himself. He had spent most of his life acting selfishly. Had his coming to Gresham merely been more of the same?
When the vicar was gone, Jonathan went back to his chair and slumped into it. He propped his elbows upon his knees and cradled his head, wishing his grandfather were here to counsel him. Then the thought dawned upon him. If she had no feelings left for me, her father wouldn’t be so adamant that I leave. It wouldn’t matter. And shouldn’t Elizabeth have some say in whether he should disappear from her life forever?
If there were only some way he could pr
ove to her—and her father, for he was sure that she would not marry someone of whom he strongly disapproved—that he could stay on the course. As it was, he wasn’t sure if he could prove it to himself. The vicar was correct in stating that his faith had not been tested. Aside from aching to see Elizabeth again, his few months as a new believer had been easy. But what was he to do?
Show me how to prove myself, Father, he prayed. And then please help me not to fail you.
Chapter 20
The man who had quoted Alexander Pope to Philip left the train at Birmingham Station, leaving Philip feeling guiltily relieved. In his place boarded a boy wearing the same brown tweed Norfolk jacket and trousers that were the uniform of the Josiah Smith Preparatory Academy. At least the boy attempted to board, for his weeping mother clung to him at the open door of the compartment and cried, “Don’t make him go!” over and over. At her side stood a stern-faced man in a gray top hat and coat.
“Let him go, Helen,” he said, looking much embarrassed.
This scene continued for about a full minute, until a ticket taker came to collect tickets and close the door. On the platform Philip could see through the window that the man had put an arm around the woman’s shoulder—whether to comfort her or to keep her from flinging open the door to the compartment, he couldn’t tell.
Finally the train began rolling. After the boy had waved to his parents until they were out of sight, he turned to look at Philip. He was rather stout, with full cheeks and light brown hair. It was clear that he was embarrassed. “My mother,” he said, his face crumpling a bit as if he would weep himself. “My older brother died in a typhus epidemic at boarding school in Gloucester.”
Philip gave a sympathetic nod, and the women across from them made sympathetic little sounds. “She’s afraid it will happen to you?”
“Or something just as bad.”
Philip felt pity for the mother now. As worried as his own mother had been about him, at least she had not experienced the loss of another son. “Aren’t there preparatory schools in Birmingham?” At least he assumed the boy was from Birmingham.
The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter Page 22