He shrugged, his forest green eyes indifferent. “Why?”
Mercy pulled up a footstool and sat near his knees. “Because you’re sending them there to learn, Papa, not to give their schoolmaster grief.”
“I’m sendin’ them because thet woman made a bargain with me. I don’t want her coming here and taking thet heifer back before it’s old enough for milking.”
“But since they have to go to school anyway to keep your end of the bargain, wouldn’t it be better if they actually learned something?”
Her father stopped sharpening and frowned. “Mercy, it ain’t proper to speak ill of the dead, but you let that Brent woman put grand ideas into yer head. I can’t even write my name, and I manage to keep the seven of you fed and clothed proper. If thet teacher can’t get Jack and Edgar to learn, then I don’t know what you expect I can do.”
“You could order them to behave. They’ll listen to you.”
“But I can’t go sit with them in thet schoolroom.” He resumed moving the knife across the whetstone in a fluid motion. “If they act up too much, maybe thet teacher will send ’em home. Thet Kingston woman can’t say I didn’t keep our bargain then.”
So that was it, Mercy realized. Her father still couldn’t see the use in educating boys who would follow in his footsteps and become dairymen. He would just as soon have them here at their chores. But fear of Mrs. Kingston’s appearing and taking that heifer away—which would most likely happen, though Mercy couldn’t imagine what she would do with the animal—compelled him to send Jack and Edgar to school every day. If they were expelled, however …
Any more conversation along that line was futile, she realized, and since her father’s face had assumed the same look of irritation it would have worn should a persistent fly buzz about his ears, she got up from the stool and went upstairs to her room. She went to the window and opened the curtain. Off in the distance burned two lights at the Brent cottage. Upon more thorough scrutiny, she realized one light burned in what was at one time the milking barn. Mr. Langford’s reclusiveness was almost bizarre, and he had yet to thank her for the cake. But ever since learning about how the man had sent the bolt of fabric to that poor woman, she found herself wondering at times about him and the boy, Thomas. It seemed a little sad, the two of them living on tinned foods, without a wife and mother to care for them.
“Why do we leave food if she’s just going to sleep?” Thomas asked, brushing Lucy’s gray coat with long strokes as Seth had taught him. Seth had surprised him by showing up on horseback after school, leading the Welsh mountain pony so that the boy could ride her home. At only ten hands tall, the little mare was perfect for Thomas, and the sheer joy in the boy’s face was worth even twice what he had paid for the pony and saddle.
He looked up from using the hoof-pick on Lucy’s left forefoot and answered the question. “Because she won’t sleep the entire night, like we do. She’ll wake two or three times and want to eat.”
“Will she lie down, sir?”
“Probably not for a few days.” Seth moved around to the right forefoot. The pony blew out its nostrils nervously, but the soothing effect of the brush upon her coat probably was what kept her from panic. “She’ll need some time to get used to her new home before she feels safe enough to lie down. But in the meantime she’ll rest all right standing.”
“Perhaps I should stay out here with her … just for tonight? In case she gets lonesome?”
Seth smiled at the hopefulness in the boy’s voice. “You’ll need your sleep too. She’ll have Bonny and Soot in the next stalls, and you can see about her in the morning.”
“May I ride her to school by myself?”
“Well, I’ll go with you for a few days until you’ve had more experience. And I’ll need to find a place for her to wait for you.” He had been told by Mr. Worthy’s nephew that the Bow and Fiddle had a paddock and stable, hardly used by customers since the decline of the coaching trade. For a small fee the few students who rode horses to school could keep them contained there. Seth wanted to look over the situation and make sure no aggressive animals would be penned in with her.
He got back to his feet and hung the hoof-pick high on a post, then leaned against the inside of the stall and watched Thomas groom his pony. It was the boy’s bedtime, but he hated to tear him away from the animal. Seth seldom thought about the distant future except to make plans for the boy’s security, but now his mind painted a picture of himself as an old man, perhaps seated by a fire and wearing a shawl as he thought back on the events of his life. This night with Thomas would be one memory he would smile over and savor always.
“It was kind of your father to have me here again,” Paul told Elizabeth as she accompanied him through the garden after supper. “I had a most pleasant time.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” she replied. “Because you seemed a little preoccupied.”
“I did? It wasn’t the company, I assure you.” He held the gate open for her, and when they reached the tethered horse, he turned and glanced over at the vicarage. “I wish to apologize for my … behavior last week. I pray you don’t think any less of me, Elizabeth. A minister is supposed to hold himself to a higher standard, and I sadly allowed my emotions to overrule my self-control.”
“Less of you? For what, Paul?” She knew exactly to what he was referring and would have been amused had she not so many other perplexing feelings struggling within her.
Shifting upon his feet he said, “What I did … down by the river.”
Now a definitely recognizable feeling surfaced. Irritation. “Was it that unpleasant for you, Paul?”
In the moonlight she could see his eyes widen. “Unpleasant? Why, no.”
“Then why are you apologizing?”
“Elizabeth. …” Again he glanced over at the house. “I don’t feel comfortable discussing it with you like this. We both know what I did, and until we’re officially betrothed, I haven’t the right to take such liberties. Will you just accept my apology?”
She folded her arms. “If you’ll tell me why you can’t say the word ‘kiss.’ ”
The shock upon his face could not have been greater had she spat out an oath. “Elizabeth, it doesn’t become you to talk this way. There are certain things an unmarried man and woman shouldn’t discuss.”
“Of course there are,” she agreed. But this particular instance seemed quite silly to her. They had already done the deed, as dastardly as he now considered it. Which was worse—doing it or saying it?
It didn’t vex her that his standard of morality was obviously higher than hers, for she had thought nothing wrong with the kiss and even had enjoyed it a little. What was so troublesome was that the few times they had attempted to discuss anything deeper than the usual daily incidents in each other’s lives, they found little mutual agreement. For months she had told herself that marriage would change all that, but now she wondered if that change might be even worse. Would she be expected to surrender every opinion she had that was incompatible with his?
She would have to take those thoughts inside now, because surely the lamp would appear in the window any minute. Paul was looking at her with such worry on his handsome face that she gave him a reassuring smile. “I forgive you, Paul.”
“Thank you, Elizabeth,” he said, his posture easing. “I couldn’t bear the thought of you being disappointed in me.”
“I’m not disappointed in you.” Seconds later, when he had swung into the saddle and was headed for home, Elizabeth stood just inside the gate and told herself she had spoken truthfully. He was a good man, full of integrity and a diligent worker for God. But disappointment of another source lay heavy within her. Her hopes and dreams for a perfect marriage seemed to be fading as rapidly as the sound of hoofbeats in the distance.
If Philip had been unpopular at the Josiah Smith Academy before Saturday’s cricket match, he was now the equivalent of Guy Fawkes in the minds of most upperclassmen. Being held in such low esteem by fellows he cons
idered to be Huns in Norfolk jackets did not trouble him nearly as much as the thought of what those same fellows were capable of doing to make his life even more miserable. After stepping into a shoe Monday morning that contained a raw egg, he had acquired the habit of overturning and shaking his shoes before slipping his feet into them, of hiding his toothbrush under a corner of his mattress, and taking other similar precautions.
He had Gabriel doing the same, for even though he hadn’t Philip’s reputation of being a “bad sport,” he was still an object of scorn because of his size and gentle nature. It also didn’t help Gabriel’s case that he was Philip’s friend, but when Philip had mentioned that perhaps for his own protection he should distance himself, Gabriel refused to hear of it. “I’d rather have the worst done to me and still have your friendship than have it lighter and be alone,” he insisted.
So they took to watching out for each other. They were especially cautious this particular Wednesday night, because the students in the fourth form had caught frogs along the River Severn that afternoon for dissection in class tomorrow. Philip had just come from washing up in the lavatory, when Gabriel approached him.
“There is a lump under your covers,” he whispered.
Philip groaned. While he didn’t share Aleda’s repulsion toward amphibians and reptiles, the idea of having a slimy creature between one’s sheets didn’t appeal to him.
“What’s the matter?” Smith, one of their dormitory mates, asked as Philip and Gabriel walked toward Philip’s bed.
“We think there’s a frog in Philip’s bed,” Gabriel replied.
“Oh, nasty!” The boy said, making a face. He fell into step with the two and was soon joined by three others. Sure enough, there was a lump in the center of the mattress, one that was too large and well-defined to be caused by a wrinkle in the sheets.
“What’s going on?” This voice came from Westbrook, standing four feet away and sending his usual scowl in their direction. “You’re supposed to be dressing for bed.”
“There’s a frog under the covers, sir,” Smith replied.
“I think it just moved,” Lowry declared.
“That’s ridiculous,” said Westbrook. “Nobody brought frogs in here. Hollis was too lazy to make up his bed proper.”
Then what do you call this! Philip thought, grabbing hold of the edge of his blanket. It was almost worth having a frog soil his sheets, to prove Westbrook wrong. He threw back the blanket and top sheet and sure enough, the lump quivered slightly. But it was brown, not green, and revealed itself on closer inspection to be a pair of woolen stockings rolled up in a ball.
Laughter erupted around him, and Philip had no choice but to smile sheepishly, though he wished the incident had not drawn an audience. But they’re not my stockings, he protested silently when Westbrook railed him out about staging a stunt to get attention. It was better to swallow the accusation and run his laps tomorrow than to risk making the prefect despise him even more.
The next morning a small frog happened to show up after all—not in Philip’s sheets or shoes, but smashed flat between the pages of his Latin text. Seated in his Latin lecture, he quickly turned several pages and pretended that he hadn’t made the grisly discovery. There were a handful of older students who had failed the subject in previous terms, and he could feel their eyes upon him.
The deaths of small animals had never before affected Philip. Many a worm, cricket, and minnow he had impaled upon a hook and afterward gutted his catch without a second thought—other than how tasty his supper would be. But this disturbed him for reasons he could not quite fathom.
“Say, Hollis … you look a bit peaked,” Quain, the captain of Saturday’s opposing cricket team, commented as students filed out of the room on their way to their next classes.
“Maybe you should hop on over to the infirmary,” his companion grinned just before Philip lost his breakfast on his shoes.
After seeing her daughters off to school Thursday morning and having tea with Andrew, Julia walked over to the town hall with Mrs. Hyatt and Mrs. Dearing. Mr. and Mrs. Sykes met them there, and they spent an hour deciding how the room should be arranged for the Hyatt-Durwin wedding reception a week from Saturday. Four ancient serving tables were brought from the storage room and inspected for stability. Table linens were inspected for holes and then sent to Mrs. Moore’s to be laundered.
Soon members of both the Hyatt and Durwin families would be arriving in Gresham and lodging at the Bow and Fiddle, which accounted for the bounce in the innkeeper’s step as he dashed from greengrocer to butcher to baker, making plans for the flood of guests. Julia, Mrs. Beemish, and Mrs. Herrick were making plans for the Larkspur’s dining room as well. On the eve of the wedding there would be a supper for the family members and lodgers, and, of course, Andrew and his daughters, since he would be conducting the ceremony. And Philip will be here that weekend, Julia thought, holding up two corners of a long tablecloth while Mrs. Sykes held the other end for the other two women’s scrutiny. I wonder if he’s as eager to come home as we are to have him.
Mrs. Sykes caught her eye and sent her a sentimental smile.
“I can read your thoughts, dear, by the look in your eyes.”
Julia returned the smile. “Can you, now?”
“You’re thinking it won’t be long before we’ll be doing this for your wedding.”
“And I think you’re a very wise woman,” Julia told her, causing the churchwarden’s wife to flush with pleasure. It would have served no purpose to reply that, while she spent a good amount of time thinking about her own wedding, her thoughts at that moment had centered around her son. .
When everything that could be done at the hall that day was finished, Julia did not accompany Mrs. Hyatt and Mrs. Dearing back to the Larkspur. During their brief morning tea together, Andrew had asked her if she would see about Elizabeth while he was out making calls. She seemed to be quietly wrapped in melancholia lately, and he feared asking her what was wrong. “If it turns out that her mood has anything to do with Jonathan Raleigh, I’m afraid I’ll lose my temper and make matters worse,” he had confessed.
At the vicarage, Dora led Julia upstairs to the sitting room. Elizabeth looked up from her desk and immediately pushed out her chair. “What a pleasant surprise!” she declared, crossing the carpet for an embrace. “I thought of visiting you this morning but was afraid to interfere with the wedding plans.”
“You should never worry about that,” Julia admonished lightly. “You’re practically my daughter.”
“I like the thought of that.” Elizabeth led her over to the desk and showed her how she went about her duties. It was easy to see why Mr. Ellis and Mr. Pitney now considered her an integral part of their team. On the left of the desk top sat a stack of papers torn from a notebook. Some of the pages were creased from having been folded; some were marked with dirty fingerprints, and Elizabeth even brought out one smeared with something resembling quince jam. The girl had meticulously transformed all of this into fines of neat, uniform words and spaces. “I was afraid it would become boring, but I’m enjoying the challenge of making order from chaos.”
“And from quince jam,” Julia reminded her.
Elizabeth giggled. “Yes … and from quince jam.”
When the giggles intensified into laughter, Julia grew alarmed. She had not thought her own remark that amusing. She put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Elizabeth?”
Now the laughter turned into sobs, the girl’s breath coming in spasmodic heaves while tears spilled from the brown eyes. After a second of stunned immobility, Julia gathered Elizabeth into her arms and patted her back as she continued to sob upon her shoulder. “There, there, now,” she soothed while wondering if she should call out for Dora. She decided that such action might make Elizabeth more agitated. To wait this out until she could compose herself would be best. This either has to do with Mr. Treves or Mr. Raleigh, Julia thought. Or more likely, both.
It took some five minutes for
the sobbing to cease, during which time the shoulder of Julia’s burgundy gown became soaked. When Elizabeth raised her head and realized the mess she had made, she appeared on the verge of bursting into tears again.
“It’s poplin, dear,” Julia reassured her. “It’ll wash.”
“I’ve some handkerchiefs here,” the girl sniffed, her face mottled with red splotches. She leaned down to open the top drawer of her desk and pulled two squares of linen from an orderly stack. Handing one to Julia, she used the other to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. “I seem to be crying a lot lately, so I keep them close at hand.”
“You poor child.” After the words left her mouth, Julia realized they were the wrong thing to say, for misery washed across Elizabeth’s face again, and her bottom lip began to tremble. Taking the girl by the elbow, she started leading her to the settee. “Let’s sit, shall we?”
“Your gown …”
Julia dabbed at it with the handkerchief when they had seated themselves. “See? No harm done. Now, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong, Elizabeth?”
Closing her eyes, Elizabeth sighed and then said in a voice strained from weeping, “I don’t love Paul, Mrs. Hollis. I don’t know if I ever did.”
“I see.” The question had to be asked. “May I ask you, Elizabeth, how much this has to do with Mr. Raleigh?”
The girl nodded, as if she expected the inquiry. “I’ve asked myself that a hundred times. It’s likely that Jonathan’s arrival in Gresham caused me to think more about my relationship with Paul, but to the best of my knowledge, I’ve never compared the two of them. Or if I have, it has been to Paul’s favor because of his stability.”
How hard it is to be young, Julia thought, taking up her hand. So many life-altering decisions had to be made by young men and women without the life experience to understand them fully. She herself had been no more competent to choose a marriage partner at the age of seventeen than she was to teach architecture.
The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter Page 32