The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter

by Lawana Blackwell

  This was too much. Philip turned to Westbrook, who stood there with folded arms. “What is this all about?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough, Hollis,” the prefect sneered. “Any more questions and I’ll have ten laps from you tomorrow.”

  After a fraction of indecision Philip decided that, ten laps or a hundred, he wasn’t going anywhere with this lot. “You can’t make us go,” he said, backing away.

  A hand clamped on his arm. One of the upperclassmen said, “We aren’t going to hurt you, infant. We just have a chore for you.”

  “I’ll report you to the headmaster. There aren’t any rules about your paying Westbrook for us to do chores.”

  “You will, will you?” Westbrook stepped up to where their noses were an inch apart. Flickering candlelight was mixed with immense dislike in the prefect’s pale blue eyes. “I wouldn’t advise that, Hollis. You think you’ve got it tough now? Besides, you’ll have no proof.”

  “No proof?” Philip turned and made a sweeping motion with his hand, for he was well aware that fourteen sets of ears were listening from beds. “We’ll all go to the headmaster.”

  “Will you?” Westbrook’s face assumed its usual smirk as he took the candle from the other boy and held it out toward the rest of the darkened room. “So how many talebearers have we in here? Come forward and let us have a look at you.”

  There was no response, not even the creak of a mattress. He shoved the candle inches away from Jenkins’ face. “You?”

  Jenkins took a backwards step. “N-no, sir.”

  Just yell, Philip told himself. You’ll wake one of the housemasters. But his vocal cords wouldn’t obey, and he found himself being led roughly out the door. The candles caused strange shadows to dance upon the paneled walls of the corridor. They passed several doors and then entered one leading into another dormitory. Two more candles burned atop trunks, and combined with the candles the boys leading Philip and Jenkins held, there was a little more illumination.

  “We play Commerce on Friday nights,” one of the older boys explained while another spread a blanket in the middle of the floor.

  Philip could see that less than half of the beds were occupied with sleeping boys. Others milled about visiting in small groups. None seemed surprised at seeing them there.

  “But we haven’t candlestands and daren’t turn the gas back on. Last year Barnes burned a hole in his blanket, so we daren’t keep the candles on the floor either.” He spoke in the tone one would use when addressing a servant who must take care of a situation, not a boy who had been dragged out of a warm bed.

  “So you’re to be our candlestands,” Tupper explained, wearing an expression that dared him to argue. “It’s quite simple, really.”

  It’s quite ludicrous, really, Philip thought. But he actually felt some relief, for he had halfway feared they would be beaten for sport. Two hours later, when the candles in both his and Jenkins’ holders had been changed, he wondered if a beating might have been preferable. At least he would be back in bed now, bruised but allowed to sleep. His arms ached, for the six involved in the card game were not content that the candles be simply held motionless. With Jenkins behind the three boys on the opposite side of the blanket, they were supposed to stretch out the arm holding the candle in order to provide as much direct overhead light as possible. This necessitated switching arms constantly while holding the same position. If they shifted their positions too much, their naked shins became the targets of the nearest elbows.

  For almost three hours they stood in this manner, while below the six upperclassmen dealt cards and cursed and gambled for pennies. Sometimes boys drifted over from their beds to watch. As long as they performed their duties correctly, Philip and Jenkins were ignored, as any other article of furniture might be. When the game was over the candles were taken from them while one of the boys nodded toward the door. They had to feel their way along the corridor, but it was such a relief to be heading back toward his bed that Philip thought he would gladly walk over hot coals to get there.

  Chapter 24

  “But the horses will have the stables,” Thomas said Saturday morning while holding the reins stiffly. Seth was teaching him how to drive the wagon as they hauled lumber and tools out to the back pasture to construct three-sided field shelters. “Why do they need shelters too?”

  “They’ll need places to get in from sudden rain or wind storms,” Seth replied. “Sometimes there isn’t time to herd them all to the stables. And if we’re in town or at chapel, we won’t have to worry.”

  “What if it snows?”

  “A little snow won’t hurt them.” He smiled and gave a playful tug to the bill of Thomas’s oversized cap, which the boy had grown accustomed to and declined his offer of a replacement. “But now a hailstorm, well, that’s another story.”

  “Have you ever been in a hailstorm, sir?”

  “Once or twice.”

  The boy was full of questions now that he had gotten over some of his initial shyness, but Seth wasn’t annoyed. It was, in fact, rewarding to him that Thomas looked to him to explain so many things.

  It was also good to see some color in his cheeks. He even seemed heartier, though Seth couldn’t imagine how that could have come to pass on a diet of cheese sandwiches, porridge, and tinned beef. Of course having fresh milk helped. I need to ask Mr. Trumble where I can buy chickens, he reminded himself as he directed Thomas to a high spot in the pasture. They still needed eggs. He had come to accept that he had been cheated by the Sanders boys regarding the guineas, but now the boy had become too fond of them for him to consider giving them back. Even now, they hurried behind the wagon, clucking and clattering their pot-rack! calls.

  It would be a welcome change to have a meal at the Bow and Fiddle once in a while, but he had only to remember Mr. and Mrs. Pool’s inquisitiveness to put that notion to rest. Sometimes when passing cottages on the way to town, he would get a whiff of roast beef cooking or some savory stew that made his mouth water. If his business turned out to be profitable, he could hire a cook and perhaps a housekeeper, but he couldn’t risk Thomas’s future now on any unnecessary expenditures.

  They would be in that spot in the pasture for the rest of the morning, so Seth unhitched Bonny and Soot from the wagon and allowed them to wander. Thomas scrambled back into the wagon bed without being asked and began hefting one oak plank at a time and handing them over. Seth could have unloaded them in a third of the time by himself, but he wouldn’t have caused the boy’s expression of pride to be hindered for anything in the world.

  God has been better to me than I ever deserved, he reminded himself while taking another board from the boy. So his meals were less than desirable. Food wasn’t everything. He had the companionship of a little fellow who trusted him completely for his every need. The only thing that would make life completely perfect would be to have Elaine here with them, but that wasn’t going to happen. When thoughts like that came around, he forced himself to think of something else. Sometimes it actually worked.

  Of all days … Andrew thought from the pulpit the next morning upon catching sight of Jonathan Raleigh’s face in the back row. Why didn’t I consider that he might come to church? He knew the answer to that one. He was still skeptical of the young man’s professed conversion, no matter how many Bible verses he had memorized. Even Satan could quote the Bible, as he had while tempting the Lord Jesus. If Mr. Raleigh had truly become a Christian, the fruits were surely lacking. Wouldn’t a true Christian heed the counsel of a man of God?

  Andrew realized at that moment that while he was staring toward the back of the church, his congregation had begun to direct curious stares in his direction. Bringing himself sharply back to the duties at hand, he cleared his throat and looked down at the text he had announced seconds ago. It was only because he had already announced this particular chapter and verse that he didn’t switch over to something safe, such as the feeding of the five thousand or perhaps even Joshua and the battle of Jerich
o.

  Clearing his throat, he began to read from the eighteenth chapter of Matthew: “ ‘Then came Peter to him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? till seven times? Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto thee, Until seven times: but, Until seventy times seven.’ ”

  His sermon revolved around the servant who was forgiven by his master of an overwhelming debt but then turned around and threw into prison another who owed him a pittance. He kept his eyes averted from the back row as he delivered it. Just the sight of a smug look on Jonathan Raleigh’s face, and Andrew feared he would lose all control of his temper, stalk down the aisle, and seize him by the throat.

  It isn’t a matter of forgiveness, he reminded himself as the words of his sermon hopefully found their way into the hearts of his congregation. But a little part of him was aware that it was. During the closing hymn he slipped away to the vestibule and front door, as was his custom, to bid farewell to the parishioners as they left. Because Mr. Raleigh had been seated in the back, he was one of the first to come through. Andrew girded himself mentally for the triumph that would surely be in his expression—after all, not only had the young man refused his request that he leave town, but he had wormed his way into a teaching position.

  But curiously, Mr. Raleigh merely shook his hand, gave a respectful nod, and then walked across the green toward the Bow and Fiddle. He did not even look back, Andrew noticed between shaking other hands. Grudgingly he felt grateful that Mr. Raleigh at least had the decency not to linger in the hopes of a chat with Elizabeth.

  “Would you come to visit Stanley this week?” Mrs. Croft, the joiner’s wife, asked as they clasped hands. “His bunion’s giving him horrible fits.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Croft,” Andrew answered. “I’ll come tomorrow. But don’t you think Doctor Rhodes should have a look at it?”

  “Ooh … he’s afeared the doctor will go at it with a knife.”

  All he could do was reassure her again that he would come, hoping he could talk some sense into the man. Just then he caught sight of Elizabeth, who had slipped through the door behind Mrs. Croft and was standing off to herself. His lips tightened at the realization that she was staring in the direction of Mr. Raleigh’s retreating back.

  “Good morning, boys and girls,” Jonathan said the next morning, hands clasped behind his back. “I am Mr. Raleigh, your schoolmaster.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Raleigh,” the children replied in perfect unison—or they would have replied in such a manner had they been present in the rows of empty desks that Jonathan addressed.

  “Just as a ship raises anchor and sets forth to discover new lands, we will embark upon a journey of learning,” he went on and then shook his head at the pompous way that sounded to his own ears.

  “We will learn many things together,” he said next. Too casual and too bland, he thought. And the older children will think I’m talking down to them.

  “It was Aristotle in the fourth century who said, ‘The roots of education are bitter, but the fruit is sweet.’ ” Frowning, Jonathan mumbled, “What if they only consider the bitter part and get discouraged?”

  “I don’t think that will happen,” came a voice from the doorway. Jonathan jerked his head in that direction and felt his face flush at the sight of Mrs. Hollis.

  “Mrs. Hollis,” he said. “When did you get here?”

  She walked inside the room. “Just as the ship was raising anchor, Mr. Raleigh.”

  After a stunned second he could do nothing but smile sheepishly, and she smiled back. She was an attractive woman with rich auburn hair and a gracious manner. Jonathan felt happy that Elizabeth would be gaining such a person as a stepmother, for once during their earlier courtship she had confided in him a longing for a maternal presence in her life.

  “I decided to come early,” she said. “In case you needed some moral support on your first day.”

  “How thoughtful of you.” As he shook the hand she offered, he held up his other hand for her to see. “I’ve been shaking since last night.”

  “You’ll do fine.” A childish whoop sounded from outside. “It looks as if the merry-go-round has drawn some other early arrivers.”

  “Yes, more early arrivers,” Jonathan echoed. The sound of a flesh and blood child, as opposed to the invisible ones in the desks, intensified his panic. Yes, he had played with them in the school yard, but then he hadn’t been burdened with being in a position of authority. What if they figured him out for the phony he was? Whatever makes you think you can teach anyway? he asked himself for the hundredth time.

  Apparently reading his thoughts, Mrs. Hollis remarked gently, “No one ever died from teaching school, Mr. Raleigh.”

  “Now, remember to mind your schoolmaster,” Seth told Thomas as they stood beside the wagon in the lane facing the school yard. He was aware that such a reminder was unnecessary for someone as obedient as Thomas, but having never gone to school himself, he wasn’t quite sure what it was that parents were supposed to say.

  “Yes, sir.” Thomas smiled back at him. With his lunch pail on one arm, he looked eager to begin the day.

  “And take your cap off when you’re inside.” Seth gave the bill a tug. “I’ll be out here when it’s over.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, be off with you then,” Seth said with a gruffness that belied the sudden thickness of his throat. The boy turned and walked toward the school yard. He paused only once to send back to Seth a nervous little smile.

  I should go with him and take him inside to meet the schoolmaster. But he didn’t see any other fathers around. Again, he had to consider Thomas’s relationship with his schoolmates. Some teasing was inevitable because of the boy’s small size. Even though he was filling out a bit, he still looked younger than his seven years. But there was no sense in providing those who were so inclined to tease with further ammunition.

  Just drive away, he thought as Thomas appeared to be conversing with a little girl with curly brown hair. There was work to be done, and he would sure enough subject Thomas to ridicule if he sat staring from the wagon all morning. Giving the reins a twitch, he forced himself to keep his eyes on the lane ahead.

  He needed to get some things from Trumbles, so at the crossroads he reined the horses to the left. The bell above the door gave its usual tinkle after he had tied the reins to the rail outside. To his right a middle-aged woman turned her head briefly from a table piled with bolts of cloth to give him a timid smile, and Seth nodded back. She held a blanket-swathed baby up to one shoulder and a small package tucked under the other elbow. Seth thought no more about her when Mr. Trumble bade him good day from behind the counter.

  “How may I assist you this morning, Mr. Langford?”

  “A needle and some thread, please,” Seth replied, reluctantly adding, “and half a dozen tins of beef.”

  “Got some mending to do, eh?”

  “Some,” Seth admitted. The repairs on the outbuildings were wreaking havoc with his clothing, and now two shirts and a pair of trousers had rips, as well as one of Thomas’s shirts. He had sewn a button on a shirt once years ago and thought surely he could learn to mend as well.

  The shopkeeper spread his hands authoritatively upon the counter. “May I offer you some advice, Mr. Langford?”

  Seth wasn’t sure he wanted advice this morning but nodded.

  “You need more than one needle. They’re easy to lose, you see. One falls between the cracks of a stone floor, and you’ll be hard pressed to find it.”

  “How many would you recommend?” Seth asked, relieved that it was nothing more personal.

  “Smallest pack is a half dozen. That oughter do you rightly for a couple o’ years.” The shopkeeper’s walrus mustache widened over a grin. “Unless you’re particular clumsy. I have a cousin over to Horton who can’t tie his own cravat without gettin’ a thumb caught in the knot.”

  Seth had to smile at the mental picture that evoked. “A half dozen, then
.”

  “They’re in a rack over by Mrs. Kerns if you’d care to get them whilst I fetch some more tins from the back. Just got a shipment in early this morning, and I ain’t had the chance to uncrate it all yet. Thread’s on the same rack, by the way.”

  While Mr. Trumble disappeared behind his curtain, Seth went over to the rack near the draper’s table and perused the display of needles. But making a selection wasn’t as easy as he would have thought, for some packages contained the words “darners” and “quilters” and “upholstery.” Mr. Trumble still hadn’t reappeared, so he considered asking the woman standing at the table for advice. Had she looked up at him, as she did earlier, he would have felt no shyness in speaking to her, but she seemed to be unaware that he stood only three feet away.

  There was something about the way she stared longingly at a bolt of blue cloth that touched him. He began to watch her while pretending to examine packages of needles. The green dress she wore was exceedingly faded and bereft of any lace or trim. Her straw bonnet, frayed at the edges, was trimmed with a limp red ribbon. Clearly she could not afford the cloth, but she could not tear herself away from it either. But soon he noticed the resignation alter her face—an expression that suggested there were very few pretty things in her life. She turned from the table, murmuring soothing noises to the infant on her shoulder as she made her way to the door. Mr. Trumble reappeared at the same time the bell jingled with her exit.

  “Got your beef here.” Mr. Trumble raised eyebrows at the sight of the woman passing on the other side of the glass shopfront but said nothing about, her and came around the counter. “I take it you’re havin’ trouble findin the right needles?”

  “Yes,” Seth replied. “I didn’t realize there were so many types.”