The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter

by Lawana Blackwell

  Feeling she would be doing the dear woman disservice if she didn’t voice the little nag of doubt that tugged at her mind, Mercy said respectfully, “You don’t worry he’ll become discouraged, do you? With your leaving and all.”

  “That’s a very good question, my dear. It could happen, but I’m willing to take that risk. I have come to realize that there is nothing more attractive to a man than a woman who is comfortable with her own company and isn’t dependent upon him as her only source of gratification.”

  “Yes?”

  “But of course.” Mrs. Kingston sat back and folded her arms. “Yet here I am rattling on about myself and my plans. Please forgive my self-centeredness.”

  “Oh, but you’ve been very kind to me,” Mercy assured her.

  “It isn’t kind to cultivate a friendship just so one will have an audience. Now, tell me what is going on in your life.”

  “My life? Why, nothing.” Actually, her life was busy from sunup to sundown, but with nothing that could remotely be considered interesting to someone as worldly wise as Mrs. Kingston. She was saved from having to reply by the sounds of Dan and Bob pulling the wagon up Market Lane. She rose from her seat, smiled, and said, “My brother’s on his way. I pray you have a pleasant journey, Mrs. Kingston.”

  Mrs. Kingston returned her smile. “It was most pleasant chatting with you, Mercy. Please remember that you’ve a friend here at the Larkspur.”

  As the horses paused in the lane, Dale screwed up his face and growled out to her, “Papa’s gonter be sore about you visitin’ that old woman and making us late like that.”

  Mercy, lifting the latch to the gate, winced. Maybe she didn’t understand him. After all, the time he’d spent in the Bow and Fiddle had put a slur to his words.

  But then an indignant voice remonstrated from behind her, “It wasn’t your sister who caused you to be late, young man! And if you blame her I’ll come out there and tell your father the truth!”

  Dale flicked the reins with a vengeance the second Mercy was in the seat beside him. She just had time to give Mrs. Kingston a grateful look before the horses started trotting up the lane.

  How did she come to have so much courage? Mercy wondered. Not just to reprimand her brother or to face her father about the boys’ schooling, but also to act upon her convictions, for it certainly took courage to risk losing the affection of the squire by leaving town.

  Mrs. Brent had courage as well. She faced dying without a whimper. That caused her to wonder if age had anything to do with it, but then she considered her father. For all his bluster, he was a coward. As sad as that realization was, it gave her some hope. If courage wasn’t a standard result of aging, it meant that the young could somehow acquire it as well.

  Oh, Father, she prayed meekly, for it was still an incredible thing to her that she could approach the throne of God. Please grant me courage.

  Their father was working in the back pasture, so there was no ranting at either of them for keeping the wagon so long in town. Smug with having gotten away with something, Dale called Fernie and Oram over to unload the wagon while he slipped inside the cottage for a smoke on his pipe before returning to chores. He was full of himself and information at the lunch table later.

  “You know that fellow at the Brent place? Folks say he broke out of prison and is hidin’ from the law.”

  Harold grinned and opened a mouth already stuffed with pork pie to say, “I heard that too.”

  “Did anyone offer any proof?” Mercy asked while slicing bread.

  “Proof enough.” Dale held up tobacco-stained fingers to count his arguments. “He was all doughy-lookin’ when he got here, like he ain’t seen the sun in a long time. And he had a lump of money in his pocket, the likes of which that Mrs. Pool ain’t never seen.” Holding up a third finger, he said, “And last of all, he buys a place way out of the way. And he don’t go anywhere.”

  “He goes to chapel,” Mercy argued. True, Mr. Langford wasn’t the most sociable neighbor, but this was ridiculous. “How many escaped prisoners go to church?”

  But that argument apparently fell on deaf ears, for the next comment, which came from Oram, had nothing to do with church. “He’s a stupid ’un, that’s for sure.”

  This brought chuckles from Jack and Edgar, and a smirk from Fernie. Mercy, weary of attempting reason, shook her head. It was her father who asked, “Why do you say that?” He spoke not in the manner of one who is defending an innocent person, but with the anticipation of one who is hoping for more gossip.

  “Oh, I can just tell,” Oram replied after receiving a warning look from Fernie.

  Those two have been up to something, Mercy thought.

  “He’s gonter raise horses,” Harold snorted, rolling his moss green eyes. “That oughter be proof enough. And with a cheese factory in spittin’ distance buyin’ up all the milk!”

  “Stupid,” Fernie laughed.

  “Yeah, stupid,” Edgar echoed.

  God help us, Mercy prayed.

  Chapter 23

  “Was she excited?” Julia asked Andrew in the garden that same Friday afternoon. They sat in their customary places at either end of a willow bench, as if the tea tray still occupied its proprietary spot between them. Having delivered Laurel to school, Mrs. Kingston to the railway station, and then Elizabeth back to the vicarage, he had come straight over to the Larkspur. Julia suspected he needed some consoling, but after having reasoned with her that she should allow Philip to grow up, he was reluctant to admit it.

  “Oh, you know Laurel,” he replied, returning the wave of Mr. Blake, the Rhodeses gardener, who passed pulling a hand cart of firewood. “Eager for a new adventure.”

  “Just like Philip,” Julia said.

  “They’re cut from the same cloth, those two.” But then Andrew’s hazel eyes filled with sadness and he mumbled, “ … from the same cloth.”

  Julia reached over to touch his sleeve. “It’ll be all right, Andrew.”

  “It will?”

  He looked so much like a small boy who has just been reassured that Father Christmas would not forget his address that Julia had to smile. It would be pointless to remind him that she would see her son only once monthly until the Christmas recess—the fact that her situation was more severe did not make his any easier to bear. “She’ll be home next weekend.”

  “Yes. Thank you for reminding me. But I’m afraid Elizabeth will be lonesome for her during the weeks to come. I don’t like the idea of her being lonely when Jonathan Raleigh is in town.”

  That reminded Julia of something. “Perhaps if she stays busy she won’t have time to think about Mr. Raleigh. I must tell you what Mr. Ellis asked me this morning.”

  “Yes?”

  “Because of some of the artifacts Mr. Ellis and Mr. Pitney have uncovered, the Archeological Society has upgraded the importance of the Anwyl’s ruins. They’re to receive funds to hire a secretary to organize their notes and catalogue their findings. Mr. Ellis asked if I could recommend anyone, and I mentioned Elizabeth.”

  Andrew arched a doubtful eyebrow. “Elizabeth? A secretary?”

  “Women are being hired as secretaries all the time these days, Andrew. Or at least they were before I left London, and I doubt if that has changed.”

  “The world is changing too fast for me,” he sighed but smiled. “She might find this interesting work. It won’t require her actually climbing the hill every day, will it?”

  “Not at all. In fact, she would be doing this at home. Why don’t you and Elizabeth come for supper, and you can both discuss it with Mr. Ellis?”

  “Thank you, Julia. It would be good for her to have something to do besides pay calls with me.”

  The sound of hooves clattering upon cobblestone drew their attention to the lane, where a carriage was slowing to a halt outside the gate. It was Squire Bartley’s barouche.

  “I thought the squire held a grudge against you for stealing his cook,” Andrew leaned closer to whisper as they watched a fo
otman in full livery hop down from the back to assist the elderly passenger.

  “I didn’t steal his cook,” Julia whispered back. “It’s not me he’s here to see.”

  “Oh?”

  They both got to their feet as the squire swept through the gate held open by that same footman. He held a bouquet of pink hothouse roses in one hand, a silver-tipped cane in the other. The well-cut black double-breasted jacket and top hat were far too elegant for the simple tastes of Gresham’s inhabitants, but none would have expected any less of their squire.

  “Mrs. Hollis,” he said, hooking his cane over his left elbow to take her offered hand and bow over it.

  “Squire Bartley,” Julia replied. “How are you?”

  “Most excellent, thank you.”

  “Will you join us?” asked Andrew as the two men shook hands.

  “Actually, I’m here to see Mrs. Kingston. I assumed she would be tending the garden this time of day.”

  After exchanging a quick glance with Andrew, Julia said, “She left for Sheffield this morning.”

  “Sheffield?” He could not have looked more stunned had she slapped him. “What for?”

  “She has family there,” Andrew answered for Julia.

  “I’m well aware of that,” the elderly man said, a bit testily. His brow was so furrowed that both bushy white eyebrows had blended into one. “How long will she be away?”

  “A fortnight, Squire,” Julia replied.

  A pink stain, almost the color of the roses he held, was beginning to spread upward from the squire’s collar. “Well, why didn’t she inform me? Was it a family emergency?”

  Recalling that Mrs. Kingston had spoken of her plans to visit her family no less than a week ago, Julia began to suspect that Mrs. Kingston was being coy with Squire Bartley so he wouldn’t take her for granted the way he had the women of his younger courtships. But she certainly couldn’t tell that to the elderly man in front of her. Before she could offer some meager reply, Andrew came to her rescue.

  “Perhaps you should ask her when she returns,” he said.

  “I certainly intend to!” the squire snapped, then turned to stalk back up the path toward his waiting carriage. He jerked his arm away from the footman’s assistance and sprang up into the seat himself, barking an order to the driver to get on the way.

  “Whew!” Andrew blew out his cheeks. “Did you understand any of that?”

  “Every bit of it.” Julia sat down on the bench again, and Andrew did the same. “He’s fond of Mrs. Kingston.”

  “Yes? Well, surely she doesn’t return that sentiment. During the flower show she had not one kind word for him.”

  “Oh, but that was because she wanted to win the blue ribbon. Now that it’s hers, she can afford to be magnanimous.”

  “You mean she likes him too?”

  “Very much so. They’ve been seeing each other quite a bit lately.”

  Now Andrew’s forehead was as drawn as the squire’s had been. “But if she’s fond of him, then why would she leave without telling him?”

  Julia gave him an affectionate smile. He was completely without guile, so naturally he wouldn’t understand the games that women sometimes felt compelled to play to advance a courtship. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you, my dear. Loyalty to my gender forbids it.”

  “Loyalty to your gender?”

  “Yes. It’s one of those secrets among women. Will you forgive me?”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners as he raised a hand to touch her cheek. “With you smiling at me like that, Julia Hollis, I could forgive Napoleon.”

  Being prepared for the next day’s lectures was vital if one was to succeed at the Josiah Smith Preparatory Academy for Boys. The students were reminded often that in the headmaster’s office was a waiting list of over thirty boys who would gladly trade places with any of them—and the list grew longer every week.

  The gaslights were shut off promptly at nine o’clock every evening, and so a student had to learn to manage his time wisely and complete his studying before then. This was not difficult for Philip, who went to the library with Gabriel Patterson as soon as classes were finished for the afternoon. Neither had any desire to join the boys at play on the lawn. Even Philip’s love of cricket wasn’t strong enough to compel him to spend any more time than necessary with the older students.

  He was certainly getting enough exercise, having been ordered by Westbrook to spend his lunch break running around the grounds three times since Monday. On Saturday, after a morning devoted to transcribing a chapter from his Latin text and then lunch, there would be intramural competitions of cricket and tennis. Although Gabriel dreaded the thought of tomorrow because of his inexperience with sports, Philip was reassured that at least housemasters would be present to keep score and hopefully would keep bullying to a minimum.

  The best thing about getting at their studies as soon as lectures were finished was that the library was practically empty. Most students waited until after supper to open their texts. By then, Philip and Gabriel would be in their dormitory room, settled on one or the other’s bed lost in novels. Occasionally they gave their eyes a rest and talked quietly so as not to disturb those who studied in their beds, describing for each other their homes and families.

  “You should be the writer,” Gabriel said that evening. With a plump hand he marked his place in the pages of The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins. “I can almost see Gresham and the Larkspur from the way you describe them.”

  Philip smiled, ignoring the lump of homesickness that had settled in his chest since waking. You haven’t been here a week, he reminded himself. It’ll get better. “That’s because you have a writer’s imagination, Gabriel. Your mind paints pictures.”

  “Well, doesn’t yours?”

  “Yes, but only of people I want to cut open and make well.”

  This brought a rare grin from Gabriel. Glancing at the prefect’s empty bunk, he whispered, “I wonder what you would find if you cut Westbrook open?”

  “Snakes and lizards, I would guess. I wonder how he got to be a prefect?”

  “The work-study program. That’s how a few of the older ones can earn their tuition, if they were students here as underclassmen. Didn’t you know that?”

  Philip shook his head.

  “I’m sure that’s why they hate us—because they think we’re rich.”

  “I’m not rich,” Philip protested.

  “But you’re not poor either. Westbrook most likely is.” Gabriel sighed. “The prefects hate us because we’re not poor, and the upperclassmen hate us because we’re not older.”

  “And the teachers likely hate us because we’re not Newton or Pasteur. Do you ever wish you could wake up and discover this place was all a bad dream?” At first Gabriel didn’t reply, making Philip wonder whether he’d understood the question. But then he noticed the sheen that had come to his friend’s eyes.

  “Every day,” Gabriel finally mumbled after an audible swallow. Because of his size and meekness, he presented more of a target for ridicule than any of the other underclassmen.

  “It’s going to get better, Gabriel. I mean, it can’t get any worse.”

  “Yes, thank you.” His friend gave him a grateful smile and they returned to their novels.

  Philip became so caught up in Mark Twain’s Innocents Abroad that he was totally caught off guard when Westbrook’s sharp voice declared, “Lights out in ten minutes.”

  It was a scramble to ready himself for bed, for the fifteen other residents of the room had the same intention. He accomplished everything but cleaning his teeth, and by the time he had a turn at the lavatory basin, Westbrook had extinguished the gas lamps. He had to find his way back by touching and counting trunks at the ends of the beds.

  “Is that you, Hollis?” Milton Hayes’ voice came from the bed on his right. He was a quiet boy of medium height. It was likely his ordinary, nondescript features that saved him from the intense bullying that Gabriel Patterson suffered, for he s
eemed to fade into the background.

  “It’s me,” Philip answered, pulling his blanket up to his shoulders. He listened for the boy’s response but there was none save a sniff. So he doesn’t have it so easy after all. “Sleep tight, Hayes,” he whispered.

  “And you,” the boy whispered back.

  But there was no sleeping tight for anyone just yet, for at that moment a noise came from the door. Philip raised his head to see four boys enter the room, two bearing candles. Even in the muted light it was obvious they were upperclassmen. They walked over to Westbrook’s bed and there was a low mumble of voices. When Westbrook got to his feet, Philip’s stomach began to feel queasy as the group approached his bed. He dropped his head to his pillow and closed his eyes, barely daring to breathe.

  “Hollis!” came Westbrook’s loud whisper.

  Ignore him and he’ll go away, Philip told himself.

  A hand seized his shoulder and shook it roughly. “Hollis!”

  “Huh?” Philip muttered as if just waking. “Westbrook?”

  “Get up.”

  There was nothing to do but obey, not if he didn’t want to run laps tomorrow with the whole school outside at intramurals to jeer him. He got out of bed and stood there in his nightshirt on the cold quarry tiles.

  “Put your slippers on,” Westbrook ordered. Philip would have been grateful for the consideration coming from anyone else. As he felt with his feet under the bed for his slippers, he could see Hayes’ dark outline. The boy wisely lay as still as a corpse.

  Westbrook motioned for him to wait at the foot of the bed while he roused another student. It was Sydney Jenkins, who had gotten into some trouble with Westbrook earlier today for balking when ordered to shine the prefect’s boots. When Jenkins was close enough to Philip so they could see each other’s faces, they exchanged worried looks while silently following Westbrook back to his bunk and into the dim light.

  One upperclassman briefly held a candle up to inspect both faces. Philip recognized him as Tupper, the upperclassman who had ordered him to cut up his food on the first morning. To Westbrook he said, “They’ll do fine. Here’s your two-bob.”