The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter

by Lawana Blackwell

  It turned out he was right, for the boy shrugged. “Father says I’m too sheltered, and that it will be better for me to get away. Are you going to the Josiah Smith Academy?”

  “Yes. And you?”

  The boy smiled. “My first time away from home.”

  “Mine too.” Philip extended a hand and they shook. “Philip Hollis.”

  “Gabriel Patterson.”

  They exchanged particulars about their homes and families, and Philip discovered that Gabriel’s father was also a surgeon, as his had been.

  “Only I’m not so keen on becoming a doctor,” the boy confessed in a lower voice, as if he feared the two women, who had resumed chatting about a cousin they were on their way to visit, would overhear and shame him.

  Philip’s wish to become a doctor was so strong that it was hard to imagine anyone with the opportunity to do so not having that same desire. But he sympathized with the boy again. “What do you want to do?”

  Gabriel Patterson hesitated before replying. “I like to write stories.”

  “Yes? Are they any good?”

  “I hope so. I once had one published.”

  Now Philip was impressed … and a little skeptical. “You did, truly?”

  His new traveling companion smiled and stood, then brought down his satchel from the overhead compartment. “I keep it with me constantly,” he confessed, handing over a copy of the March issue of Beeton’s Boy’s Own Magazine. “It begins on page thirty-one.”

  Reverently Philip opened up the magazine and found a five-page story titled “The Dagger” by Gabriel Kendrick Patterson.

  “They don’t usually print stories by children,” Gabriel explained. “But there is a yearly competition for boys.”

  “And you won?”

  “Yes,” the boy replied with a modest flush.

  “You say you write other stories?” This came from the younger of the two women, who had ceased their conversation when Gabriel brought down his satchel.

  He nodded. “But none that have been published. I usually just show them to my mother and my tutor.”

  Both women agreed aloud that he was a bright boy and went back to their chat. “Would you like to read it?” Gabriel asked Philip.

  “Yes, of course.” Philip began to read, aware from the corner of his eye that his new friend was watching expectantly. He soon forgot about Gabriel as he became immersed in the story of two children who find a small rusty, blunt dagger which they almost discard, until accidentally discovering it has the power to cause people to tell the truth when pointed in their direction. When he was finished, Philip remarked, “Why, this is very good.”

  “Thank you.”

  A discussion ensued over favorite novels. Philip found that in spite of Gabriel’s not wanting to be a doctor, being the youngest child in his family, and having never gone fishing, they had much in common. In fact, by the time the train steamed into Worcester Station, Philip felt as if they had known each other for years.

  A man holding up a placard with the hand-lettered words Josiah Smith Preparatory Academy directed Philip and Gabriel to a waiting wagon and team of four horses. At least a dozen boys ranging in ages from thirteen to seventeen came from other parts of the train, tossed gripsacks and portmanteaus in the middle, and took places on benches built into both sides. The older boys were obviously familiar with the routine and fell to chatter and laughter as they bounded up into the wagon bed. The younger ones, like Philip and Gabriel, were intimidated into silence.

  They were carried down some six miles of gently undulating road—past shops, a cathedral, and many half-timbered houses. Knuckles became white from gripping the edges of the bench, and the older boys, who had managed to seat themselves along one side, laughed every time the wagon hit a bump. They also laughed for other reasons unclear to Philip until he realized it was he and his fellow younger students who were providing the source of levity. Why? he wondered, but a glance at his bench mates told him they were too absorbed with simply holding on to the side of the wagon to engage in any clowning.

  Finally the wagon turned into a gravel drive lined with copper beeches and lime trees. Philip caught glimpses of a river off to the north and assumed it to be the Severn because it appeared to be much wider than the Bryce. Presently they passed iron gates and a cricket field, then came to a four-story building of brown brick, its roof hidden by a parapet. Wide portico and steps led up to a wooden door carved with what Philip assumed to be the Smith family’s coat of arms. Flanking this main door and some feet away on either side were two plain doors at the tops of steps with iron balustrades. It was in front of one of these that the driver reined the team to a halt.

  There was a mad scramble for satchels and cases—at least among the older boys. The younger sat and stared. “If this were the first day, we’d have to carry their things upstairs,” the boy on Philip’s right, obviously a returning student, said in a low voice.

  “You’re serious?” Philip whispered back.

  “Upperclassmen have the right to order the younger students about. They can make us carry their food trays and make their beds too.”

  Vicar Phelps’s warning about bullies came back to Philip. “And if we refuse?”

  The boy shrugged. “They actually like it when you refuse, if you understand my meaning, so it’s best to go along. You wouldn’t want your shoes to end up in the lavatory, or horse dung smeared into your hair while you’re sleeping.”

  Philip was stunned. “How can they get away with that?”

  “Easy. They don’t get caught—even if others see them. Talebearers get tormented worse than anyone.” Another shrug. “But at least we’ll have our chance too in a couple of years.”

  I can hardly wait, Philip thought, frowning.

  “What did he say?” Gabriel asked from his left.

  Philip hesitated because his traveling companion already had expressed misgivings about coming here. But he supposed a warning was necessary. “We’re going to have to carry things for the upperclassmen and make their beds and such.”

  Panic flooded Gabriel’s face. “But I don’t know how to make up a bed.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll teach you.” He thought back to the days when his family had moved to the Larkspur after it had been abandoned for several years. There was so much work to do that his mother had insisted he and his sisters learn to make their beds. Even to this day, they continued the chore. He had occasionally grumbled about it to himself then but was grateful now he had the experience.

  The older boys had jumped down from the wagon with their belongings and were disappearing through the door, leaving the others to retrieve their own scattered belongings. It was then that Philip noticed a man standing at the foot of the wagon, wearing an old-fashioned frock coat and holding a pad and pencil.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said with a welcoming smile. He seemed to be about Mr. Pitney’s age, though the top of his scalp was visible through thinning strands of brown hair. “I’m Mr. Archer, house-master for third form students. I lecture on chemistry as well.”

  Philip found himself relaxing, for he had begun to wonder on the journey from the station if any friendly faces were to be found at the school. A boy of about sixteen came out of the door and joined Mr. Archer. He wore the same Norfolk jacket, but it was clear from his stance at Mr. Archer’s side that he carried some authority. Josiah Smith’s son? Philip wondered half seriously.

  “May I have a show of hands of those in the third form, or perhaps new students in higher forms?” the housemaster asked. Philip lifted his hand, along with Gabriel and two other boys. Mr. Archer nodded. “Wait here and I’ll give you instructions. You who are returning students may go on up to the dormitories. Rooming lists are posted in the corridors.”

  The remaining students climbed down from the wagon, leaving Philip and the other three.

  “You’ll be welcomed formally at the assembly before dinner,” Mr. Archer said, “but I would like to take this opportun
ity to welcome you myself. May I have your names now?”

  As they gave their names, the housemaster ticked them from his list. It turned out all four were third form students. “That’s good,” he said, then nodded toward the boy beside him. “I’d like to introduce Quinton Westbrook. He’s a student prefect and will be rooming in your dormitory as my representative. If you have any concerns or difficulties, Mr. Westbrook will assist you. By the way, students address each other by last name only, no matter what rank. Mr. Westbrook will show you to your dormitory now.”

  Silently the four students followed Westbrook up three flights of stairs. Elsewhere in the huge building were sounds of laughter and camaraderie from students who clearly thought the Josiah Smith Preparatory Academy a home away from home. I’ll feel the same one day, Philip assured himself, though that day seemed far off in the future.

  They were led up a long hardwood floor corridor. Most doors were open, and Philip could see boys making beds, unpacking satchels, or just visiting. Westbrook stopped at the last open door on the left and turned to face the four. He was not much taller than himself, Philip realized now that he wasn’t looking up at him on the staircase or down at him from the wagon. He had coal-black hair, brows, and lashes, oddly mixed with eyes so light blue that they almost looked transparent. And unlike Mr. Archer, he had yet to smile.

  “You will store your immediate belongings in the trunk at the foot of your bed. A lavatory and water closet are at the end of the room. Wipe the sink out after you use it, and if you haven’t experience with hot water faucets, see me before taking your first bath, which are only allowed on Saturday evenings, by the way.”

  He recited this litany with little inflection, as if he had said it hundreds of times. Then he stepped into the room with Philip and his group following. Three boys were already unpacking and stopped to stare with unsure expressions. Eight narrow beds, iron railed and painted dull brown, stood out against each of the two long walls. There was a space of not more than three feet between the sides of each bed, and a corridor of about six feet ran between the two rows. Westbrook went over to the nearest bed and took a sheet of paper from the top.

  “Are you Barnhart?” he asked, looking over his list at a boy with hair as carrot red as Ben Mayhew’s. The boy nodded, causing Westbrook to bark sharply, “Answer yes or no!”

  “Uh, yes.”

  The prefect pointed to the farthest bed on the opposite wall. “Last bed.”

  You know, it would help a lot if you would smile, Philip thought, but of course he didn’t feel the liberty to say.

  “Lowry?” Westbrook said.

  Another boy, the smallest of the lot so far, raised a hand but then checked himself midway and jerked it back to his side. “Yes?” he replied in a voice that cracked in the middle.

  “You don’t wet the bed, do you?”

  “Uh … no.”

  Westbrook jabbed a thumb in the direction of the bed nearest to the lavatory. “Over there. Just in case.” This remark was followed by his first smile—only the mocking look in his pale eyes made it more of a smirk.

  “Smith,” he said next, but there was no Smith yet among the old or new arrivals. He frowned at his list. “Patterson.”

  Gabriel Patterson took a step forward. “Yes?”

  The smirk spread across Westbrook’s face again, even more pronounced. “I had you assigned in the bed next to mine, but I didn’t realize you were such an elephant.”

  There was a titter of laughter from one of the boys. Gabriel smiled, too, as if trying hard to pretend that the joke wasn’t on him, but his eyes gave evidence that he was on the verge of tears. Is being obnoxious a prerequisite for becoming a prefect? Philip wondered.

  “Take Barnhart’s,” Westbrook continued, nodding toward the farthest bed. “You move up here, Barnhart. I don’t care for my first sight every morning to be a mountain of blubber.”

  More chortles came from a couple of the other boys. Gabriel’s face assumed a blank look, as if he had retreated somewhere safer inside himself. Philip had had enough. “There’s no call to be so rude, you know,” he told Westbrook. Silence immediately followed as stunned faces were whipped in his direction.

  “What did you say to me?” the prefect demanded, his washed-out eyes now slits.

  “I said there was no call to be rude. He hasn’t done anything to you.”

  “Philip, don’t—” Gabriel began but was pushed aside roughly by Westbrook, who stepped up to Philip’s face and assumed the smirk again.

  “Because this is your first day, I’m going to be agreeable and forget I ever heard your squeak, little mouse,” he said in a controlled voice, as if he were enjoying himself. “But you’d best do yourself a favor and never cross me again.”

  What am I, in the army? thought Philip, whose previous educational experience had been with his tutor in London and Captain Powell in Gresham, both whose authority had been tempered with kindness. Something inside told him that reasoning with such a beast would be futile, but his emotions were so charged that he ignored it. “Do you consider a simple request to be civil to be ‘crossing you’?”

  Now the slits that were Westbrook’s eyes opened to the point of bulging. Still the volume of his voice never increased as he said, “I’ve got to go downstairs to meet another group, Hollis. You are Hollis, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  He pointed to a bed in the center of the opposite wall. “Over there, Hollis. But before you make your bed, change into knickers and give me four laps.”

  Philip didn’t understand. “Four laps …”

  “Running, you half-wit. Around the building, then the tennis courts and cricket field. Cross me again and you’ll spend your lunch breaks running around in circles.”

  It was not until Laurel had gone to bed that Elizabeth came down from her room. Her blond hair was a mess about her shoulders, and her dress rumpled as if she had slept in it all day—and according to Dora, she had.

  “Hello, Papa,” she yawned in the doorway to his study.

  Andrew rose and hurried around his desk. “Beth … I’ve been so worried.”

  “Oh, I’m—” she said, but then assumed a pinched expression. She held up a hand bearing a handkerchief more crumpled than her gown.

  “You’re what? Should I call for Dora?”

  She shook her head, her expression growing more pinched. Then the handkerchief flew up to her face and she sneezed violently into it. “I’m all right,” she said when she could speak again.

  “I can see that,” Andrew said, taking her by the arm and leading her down the passageway. “Mrs. Paget left some soup on the back of the stove.”

  “But I’m not hungry.”

  “Then have some just to humor me.” In the kitchen the kettle was lukewarm to the touch, but it only took Andrew a minute to figure out how to light the gas jet with a match. He soon dished her up a bowl of beef-and-cabbage soup and sat beside her at the table. For someone who had declared herself not hungry, she ate well, finishing that bowl and asking for a half serving more. And then it was time to talk.

  “I called upon Mr. Raleigh today,” Andrew said. His daughter nodded. He couldn’t discern any emotion in her expression, perhaps because of the cold.

  “I assumed you would.”

  “Laurel says he came here to see you.”

  “We spoke in the front doorway.” She blew her nose. “I didn’t ask him in, of course.”

  Andrew felt some relief upon hearing that. “So you won’t care if he leaves town?”

  “Care? I insisted upon that very thing.”

  Good for you! Andrew thought. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that Jonathan Raleigh now claimed to be a Christian, but he thought better of it. No sense in muddying the waters. Days from now Mr. Raleigh’s visit would be just a memory. “Now, let me help you upstairs,” he said, rising to take her empty bowl. “You’ll get over that cold much sooner if you have enough rest.” And as soon as she’s well, we should have
Mr. Treves over for supper again.

  He felt a little guilty when he recalled praying about a month ago that he wouldn’t influence his daughter in the wrong direction in the matter of choosing a suitor and potential husband. But he was only trying to influence her in the right direction, he told himself. Even if he wasn’t sure exactly where that path happened to lie, he was more than certain it wasn’t in the direction of Jonathan Raleigh—converted or not.

  Chapter 21

  What should I do? Jonathan asked himself as he shaved his face in the water closet of the Bow and Fiddle. Yesterday’s prayer for discernment had not been answered—or perhaps God’s silence on the matter was the answer. Did that mean he was supposed to go back to Cambridge?

  Grandfather had said that it sometimes took years to recognize the stirrings of God in the heart, that he mustn’t be discouraged. Jonathan wasn’t discouraged about his newfound faith, because he still had it in him to appreciate feeling clean after so many years of self-centered, self-destructive behavior. Yet he could not help but wish that, until he grew in wisdom, he had more concrete directions from God for matters not directly spelled out in his Bible. There was no chapter or verse to tell him whether he should leave Gresham today.

  His stomach, however, was sending up a clear message, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since the toast and tea yesterday morning. Mrs. Pool took his order for bacon and eggs as if she had never stumbled into his room yesterday, and she didn’t ask prying questions beyond, “Will you be stayin’ another day?” Which of course she had the duty to ask, being the innkeeper’s wife.

  “I’m not sure,” he replied. “May I tell you in a little while?” Perhaps some more prayer was in order after breakfast.

  “Certainly,” she sniffed and moved on to the next table. There sat three men with long faces, close enough for Jonathan to overhear their conversation. Not that he was purposely trying, but he couldn’t very well stop up his ears.

  “Doctor Rhodes says it’s pleurisy all right. She likely had it for a while and didn’t know it until it came upon her so intense late last night.”