The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter

by Lawana Blackwell

  “That school in Scotland is to blame. You can’t house people in tombs without expecting their lungs to be affected.”

  “What are we going to do? Don’t see how we can find someone to take her place in just six days.”

  A collective sigh came from all three as a serving girl brought Jonathan his food. Now he found himself listening on purpose, even though he had no idea who was being discussed and the significance of six days.

  “I wonder if Miss Hillock could be persuaded to combine both sections—just until Miss Clark recovers.”

  The suggestion was silently considered, but then one man shook his head. He was white-haired and older than the rest and seemed to be the head of what Jonathan now realized was the local school board.

  “There would be forty-five students if we combined them—too many for one woman. And I don’t know if Miss Hillock is competent enough in the subject matter of the older sections. She’s been more than able with the younger children, but as you know, she never went to college.”

  The three talked on of their problem and considered—and discarded—several suggestions. Meanwhile, a wild idea was beginning to form itself in Jonathan’s mind. If the town was in dire straits and he could possibly offer some assistance, he would have a reason to stay in Gresham.

  Extending his leave of absence from his position in Cambridge was no problem. Even though he had his degree, he couldn’t become a solicitor until he had articled himself to a practicing lawyer—in this case his father’s brother—for five years. But they weren’t required to be consecutive years, and the firm was already saturated with attorneys. He was aware that his uncle had taken him on only out of family courtesy, yet for him to have applied at any other firm would have offended both his father and uncle. But this …

  “I wonder if we should delay school for a month or so?” he heard from the table beside him.

  What do you know about teaching? Jonathan asked himself.

  “What about one of the students who graduated last term? That Mayhew boy is bright.”

  Graduated last term? Too young, Jonathan thought.

  “Too young,” someone said.

  Suddenly it hit Jonathan like a slap in the face that his prayer had been answered after all. Grandfather was a devout man and undoubtedly correct in saying that most of God’s answers took the form of stirrings of the heart. Some, however, apparently took the form of three men having breakfast. Thank you, Father. He cleared his throat and turned to the table beside him.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said. “I wonder if I might have a word with you?”

  It was not enough that Philip had been forced to carry the tray for Tupper, a hulking figure with teeth as crooked as an old picket fence, but to amuse his friends, the boy wanted his eggs and bacon cut and his toast buttered. From bits and pieces overheard as Philip performed the task, he became aware that his present taskmaster was in the fifth form. Which meant that Tupper had himself been the object of overlording upperclassmen just last year. Philip would have thought that having suffered such treatment would cause a person to be less prone to inflict it upon others, but the older boys seemed to revel in their new authority.

  Finally Tupper was too busy forking down breakfast to make sport of him, and Philip was able to get his own tray. He sat down at a third form table next to Gabriel Patterson, who, like the rest of the third form, had carried trays for older students.

  “I didn’t think you were going to have time to eat,” Gabriel whispered.

  “Me neither,” Philip answered. They were forced to whisper because at the head of the table sat Westbrook, who seemed in an even more vile mood today than yesterday. It seemed wise to take for granted he could silence all conversation at the table with the bark of a command and would do so if they appeared to be enjoying themselves too much. “But it isn’t so bad. My father once told me that he used to get caned by his prefect at Rugby.”

  “He did?” Gabriel’s face clouded. “I don’t think I would be able to bear it! The mocking about my size is bad enough!”

  “I’m sorry” was all Philip could think of to say.

  The boy’s bottom lip trembled for a second, but then he shrugged with an obviously forced casualness. “It’s not your fault, Hollis. In fact, if you hadn’t befriended me, I think I would have thrown myself out of a window last night. I’m sorry you had to run around the school.”

  Philip leaned closer. “Don’t tell Westbrook, but I’m very fond of running.”

  “You are?” Gabriel said with conspiratorial delight.

  “Oh, very much.” And he meant that, even if he was saying it mostly to reassure his new friend. But what he didn’t say was that while he indeed enjoyed a good run, there was a profound difference between racing his friends across the village green and skipping lunch to run around a school building.

  The thought of Gresham gave him a little stab of homesickness, but he comforted himself by thinking about his upcoming classes. One can find a bright side to almost any situation if one looks hard enough, he had heard Mrs. Dearing say at the supper table recently. It was a good bit of advice and worth repeating to himself now and then, given his present situation.

  Something flew past his shoulder and hit Lowry, who was seated across from him, squarely in the forehead. The missile turned out to be a crust of well-buttered toast, and it fell to the lapel of the boy’s jacket. It left a greasy smear even after he wiped the spot with a napkin. Philip felt sorry for the boy, who was now staring down at his plate so as not to provoke the thrower into further action, but he didn’t think consolation in the form of Mrs. Dearing’s philosophy would be welcome at the moment.

  “You did what?”

  Elizabeth and Laurel exchanged looks upon hearing their father’s agitated voice. “Who’s in the vestibule?” asked Elizabeth, who reclined against the arm of the sofa wrapped in a blanket. She felt better today, likely because of Mrs. Paget’s soup, but was still forced to keep a handkerchief in hand.

  Laurel put aside the copy of Little Women she’d borrowed from Helen Johnson on recommendation of Aleda Hollis and rose from her chair. “I’ll go see.” She edged over to the door and peered out, but by then it wasn’t necessary because Mr. Sykes’s voice carried clearly.

  “We thought you’d be pleased, Vicar.”

  Laurel turned to whisper loudly, “That was Mr. Sykes. The school board is here.”

  Elizabeth nodded.

  “Well, you could have at least asked me for a character recommendation!” their father’s voice thundered. “The young man led me to believe he was leaving town!”

  He had decided to forgo any calls today to tend to Elizabeth and write his Sunday morning sermon. As she didn’t have a temperature, she wondered if the possibility of Jonathan reappearing on the porch today had anything to do with it. “You have to undo all of this now! What in the world were you thinking?”

  “We can’t undo it, Vicar, and we had no other choice. He has a degree from Cambridge, and he’s wiring for references from his minister there.” Mr. Sway was speaking quite defensively now. “Besides, we didn’t even know you were acquainted with him.”

  “And Mr. Pool vouched he was a good customer,” added Mr. Casper.

  “Mr. Pool?” their father said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “The same Mr. Pool who has known Mr. Raleigh all of twenty-four hours, if that long? The Mr. Pool who will be collecting lodging fees from him for as long as he stays in Gresham?”

  Laurel turned to Elizabeth. “Can you hear all of this? They’ve hired Jonathan!”

  Elizabeth nodded again. “You don’t have to stand there. You can hear every word sitting down.” But her sister waved her away and resumed her post. Why did you allow him to come here, Lord? she prayed as the argument went on in the next room. She meant no disrespect, but it seemed to her that after all the times she’d asked God to help her forget Jonathan Raleigh, He wouldn’t allow something like this to happen.

  Now it was Mr. Sykes who
spoke again. “We’re sorry you ain’t pleased, Vicar, but what’s done is done. It was nothing short of a miracle, his falling into our laps two hours after we find out Miss Clark was ill.”

  There were more words and then the sound of the door closing. Laurel hurried to her chair just as their father stalked into the room. He dropped into his chair, planted both elbows upon his knees, and cradled his head with his hands.

  “What’s wrong, Papa?” Laurel asked innocently.

  He gave a low groan. “We’re going to have to move again.”

  Intercepting the panicked look her sister threw her, Elizabeth realized at that moment from whom she had inherited her tendency toward theatrics. “We can’t go traipsing all over England just to hide from Jonathan, Papa. Besides, you have to consider the Hollises now too. Do you plan to break off your engagement?”

  “No, of course not,” he sighed, looking up at her with the saddest of expressions.

  “You can’t shield us from life, Papa.”

  “I know.” He sighed again, then straightened in his chair. “I’m just so afraid.”

  So am I, Elizabeth thought. Of what, she wasn’t quite sure. “Doctor Rhodes is extremely competent,” she told him. “Miss Clark will probably be on her feet in a couple of weeks, then Mr. Raleigh will have no excuse to stay in Gresham.”

  Then the absurdity of the whole matter struck her. Jonathan Raleigh teach school? The mental picture alone was enough to cause her a bit of a smile just before another sneeze seized her.

  “Laurel, fetch your sister another handkerchief,” their father said, getting to his feet. “I want to see how Miss Clark is faring.” Whether he had decided Elizabeth’s reassurance had merit or his innate sense of duty had taken over was unclear, but he seemed relieved to have something constructive to do.

  And since the Larkspur happened to be on the way to the Clarks’ cottage, she had no doubt that he would call upon Mrs. Hollis. If anyone could coax him out of a foul mood, she could.

  Dear Uncle Everet … I’ve completely lost my mind, Jonathan thought, holding his pen above the page as he struggled for words.

  “It’s not too late to back out,” he mumbled and entertained the thought of looking up the school board members and confessing that youthful impulsiveness had rendered him temporarily insane. Or better yet, asking Mr. Pool to procure a coach or carriage so that he could put Gresham to his back as soon as possible.

  But then he would be giving up any chance, however slim, of winning Elizabeth back, which would prove to her—and her father—that his word was no better than it had been before. How difficult can it be? he asked himself. He’d sat under schoolmasters for most of his life, and they hadn’t appeared to be under any great strain. Just a matter of organizing the lessons. The members of the school board had informed him that he could avail himself of the school building at any time. He had only a few days to plan a schedule, but as long as he stayed a week or two ahead of the students, they would learn. It was like walking down a road after dark. If one could see to the edge of his lantern’s light, he could go on for miles.

  He didn’t have to go miles—just until this Miss Clark was well again.

  And you’re fond of children. On second thought, he couldn’t recall any he actually had held a conversation with in the past five years besides Laurel Phelps. But one of his uncle’s solicitors had a threeyear-old, Hannah, whose lisping voice made everyone in the office chuckle whenever her mother brought her around. And I gave her that paperweight. It had been a cross-section of topaz stone that everyone who passed his desk would pause to admire. He hadn’t had to give it to her, which must prove he had a soft spot for children.

  He was beginning to feel better about the whole idea and decided that as soon as he finished writing letters and had a quick lunch, he would go over to the school and prepare lessons. Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might he had read somewhere in the Scriptures. Ecclesiastes, he believed.

  “I’ve just finished visiting the Clarks,” Andrew told Julia in the Larkspur’s library. He had asked to speak with her privately, but of course that was now impossible in light of their engagement. With Mrs. Kingston tending the flower garden out front and Mr. Herrick the vegetable garden in back, the best she could offer was the library with the door open wide so that anyone who passed down the corridor could see that they sat in chairs some two feet apart. “I suppose you’ve heard about Miss Clark’s pleurisy?”

  “Yes,” Julia nodded. “So sad. Were you able to speak with her?”

  “A little. They’re treating her with steam. If you’ve an abundance of mint in your kitchen garden, you may wish to send some over.”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll see to that as soon as you leave.”

  “Thank you.” He was studying her face now, as if trying to decide whether to say something.

  “What is it, Andrew?” Julia asked.

  A pained look came into his hazel eyes. “You haven’t heard the rest, have you?”

  “About Miss Clark?”

  “Jonathan Raleigh is in Gresham.”

  “No …” Julia breathed. “Has he attempted to see Elizabeth?”

  Andrew’s lips tightened. “Thank God she had the good sense to send him away. But the school board members apparently had something stronger than tea with their breakfast this morning. They’ve hired him as a temporary replacement for Miss Clark.”

  “But they can’t do that—can they?”

  “Apparently they can. We did elect them, you know.”

  “But his morals …” Now it was Julia pressing her lips together. “I’ll not allow someone like that to teach Aleda and Grace, Andrew. Didn’t you tell them about that woman in Cambridge?”

  He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “I was so vexed I can’t recall exactly what I told them, Julia. I was fairly certain that Laurel could overhear us, so I couldn’t go into too much detail.”

  “You will tell them now, won’t you?”

  “Yes … of course.”

  The hesitancy in his reply made Julia suspect there was more to this than he had divulged so far. “Andrew?” she said. “What haven’t you told me?”

  Andrew’s shoulders rose and fell with a heavy sigh. “Mr. Raleigh claims to have been led to Christ by his grandfather.”

  “He has?” It took Julia a second to digest this bit of information. “And now he comes here to win back Elizabeth? How convenient. Surely you don’t believe him.”

  “No … yes.” He shook his head. “I don’t know. But he had the audacity to bring up how the disciples eventually forgave the apostle Paul of his past. His grandfather has encouraged him to ground himself in the Word, and it’s quite obvious that he has been doing so.”

  “Oh.” Julia was struck by how odd a picture they made, she and Andrew. They were discussing a young man’s conversion in somber tones that would have been better suited for a funeral parlor. “Could it be that he’s sincere, Andrew?”

  “Not knowing that is what troubles me the most, Julia. As much as I tell myself he’s only acting sincere in the hopes of winning back Elizabeth’s affections, there is a part of me that believes him.” His expression darkened again. “But that doesn’t change my conviction that he’s totally unsuitable for Elizabeth. My daughter deserves better than a husband who’ll be comparing her to every strumpet who walked the streets of Cambridge.”

  It was in that glum mood that he took his leave. Julia went to her office and attempted to tally last month’s receipts but gave up. She missed Philip terribly, and now there was Elizabeth to be concerned about, not to mention some anxiety about Mr. Raleigh becoming schoolmaster, however temporary the arrangement. If indeed the young man had become a Christian, that was wonderful news. But until she was convinced of that fact, she would not compromise her daughters’ welfare. If Andrew can’t talk the board out of hiring him, I’ll sit in that classroom myself.

  Chapter 22

  The next morning after having tea with Andrew,
who still wore a long face, Julia walked to Trumbles to post the letter she’d penned to Philip last night. She had filled her letter with little tidbits of news about the lodgers, servants, and neighbors, avoiding any mention of their latest worries. There was not much to tell, with his having been away only three days now, but she was of the mind that the contents of a letter from home were not nearly so important as the overall message—that the receiver of the letter is loved and missed.

  “Ah, a letter to young Philip, eh?” said Mr. Trumble, holding up the envelope to the window’s light. He had no timidity about reading the addresses of envelopes handed to him in his official role of postmaster.

  Julia had once heard Ophelia Rhodes declare that if it weren’t for seals, Mr. Trumble would likely open the letter in front of the bearer and peruse its contents. But Mr. Trumble was such an engaging and affable fellow that no one really complained.

  “Did you tell him that the merry-go-round was finished yesterday?” he asked.

  Julia let out a sigh. How could she have forgotten, when her two daughters practically had to be tied to their chairs at breakfast in their haste to go to the school yard? “It didn’t even cross my mind, Mr. Trumble.”

  “Ah well … then you’ll have some news for your next letter. Give him my warmest regrets, will you?”

  Julia smiled at the man’s blunder and assured him that she would. Then she walked on to the school yard, where it seemed half the village children had assembled. Amazingly some of the older children, Aleda and Laurel included, had persuaded the younger ones to form a queue so that turns could be taken in an orderly fashion. Six children at a time would assemble on the merry-go-round, with the younger children holding on to its posts for dear life and older boys pushing until it went fast enough for them to jump on for a while. While squeals came from the blurred images of passengers, equally enthusiastic squeals and handclaps came from the children waiting their turns. Finally after about three minutes, the merry-go-round would slow to a halt, and the six disoriented children would weave their ways to the back of the queue, while others scrambled for seating on the contraption.