“I know Paul is a good man,” Elizabeth went on, as if she feared Julia would argue. “But remember when you asked me if he was a friend? I told myself that he was. But would a friend constantly make you feel that your thoughts and opinions are inferior to his? I’ve been hoping marriage would change all of that, but what if it doesn’t?”
“Perhaps if you spoke with him about this?” Julia suggested. “Put off any talk of marriage for a while and give him an opportunity to decide if he is willing to change?” It was not that she felt Elizabeth should marry or not marry Mr. Treves. But surely she should explore all avenues before making any sort of monumental decision.
Elizabeth thought about this for several seconds but then shook her head. “I don’t want someone I have to try to change, Mrs. Hollis. If he doesn’t see the need to do so on his own, then he would be doing it just to keep me from leaving. And what if he slipped back into his old ways after we were married?”
“That’s something to consider.”
“The early days of our courtship were exciting,” she said miserably. “But I can see now that it was having a new, handsome beau to pay attention to me that made them seem that way. Our personalities are too different. Now all I feel for him is pity.”
“Pity?” Julia asked.
Her chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “Pity for the hurt I’ll cause him if I break off our courtship.”
Julia sighed too. “You’re positive about this, Elizabeth?”
“Very positive … most of the time,” she confessed. “It’s so frightening, the thought that I may be wrong. What if I look back years later and realize I’ve thrown away my only chance for happiness?”
“Your only chance?” Squeezing the girl’s hand, she said, “Do you think when God created you, He designed that your only chance for happiness would be wrapped up in one particular person?”
Again several seconds of thoughtful silence passed. “No, of course not,” she said presently, then leaned her head upon Julia’s shoulder. “I’m so glad you came. My thoughts seem much clearer when I can talk them over with you.”
“Thank you, Elizabeth. I’m glad I could help.”
“I suppose I should get this over with as soon as possible.”
“I don’t know,” Julia replied uneasily. It was a frightening thought that she had perhaps exerted undue influence over the lives of two young people. “Since you expressed some misgivings, would it hurt to wait at least a couple of weeks, just to be sure?”
“Yes, that makes sense,” Elizabeth sighed.
“I should let you get back to your work. Will you be all right if I leave now?”
The girl smiled. “I feel much better, Mrs. Hollis. God must have sent you here today.”
“Actually, it was your father. But since his steps are ordered by the Lord, we could say both.”
“Papa.” Elizabeth grimaced as they both got to their feet. “He’ll blame this on Jonathan, won’t he?”
“No doubt that will be his first reaction,” Julia admitted. “You’ll just need to remind him that he had misgivings about your relationship with Mr. Treves before Mr. Raleigh ever came here.”
The mention of Mr. Raleigh brought another question to Julia’s mind, but now was not the time to ask it. While Elizabeth had declared that Mr. Raleigh’s having settled temporarily in Gresham had nothing to do with her decision concerning Mr. Treves, she wondered how the girl felt about the young man.
She found that she herself rather liked him, but of course that had nothing to do with whether he should be allowed to court Elizabeth again. She had come across Mr. Raleigh at Trumbles Tuesday afternoon, looking worse for the wear. Even though Aleda maintained that the new schoolmaster had to keep on his toes constantly to keep order in the classroom, Mr. Raleigh had not complained when Julia asked how he was faring.
If he has indeed given up his old ways for good, and it’s your will that they be together, please, God, let it be clear to them was included in Julia’s prayers of late, in addition to, And if that be the case, please show Andrew as well.
Back at the Larkspur, she met postman Mr. Jones at the gate and was pleased to be handed a letter from Philip. She hastened to her bedroom to read it:
Dear Mother, Aleda, and Grace,
I hope you are all well. One of the boys in our dormitory contracted a fever yesterday, but I have gotten lots of fresh air and exercise, so my health is good. The food is not nearly as good as Mrs. Herrick’s, but the lectures are interesting. I have become friends with a boy named Gabriel Patterson. He writes very good stories, and I will be bringing home a copy of one on the twenty-fourth for Aleda.
Yours affectionately,
Philip
The letter said nothing about how he was coping with living away from home, but it seemed positive enough. And he’s already made a good friend. She read it two more times, then put it on her night table, for she knew she would want to read it again before going to bed.
Boys go away to school all the time, she reminded herself, for a hollow ache had centered itself in her chest. Many younger than Philip. Besides, he’ll be leaving for university in three years anyway.
It was the way it was, and the way it would be for years to come. If it seemed terribly unnatural, it had to be because she was a neurotic mother who couldn’t let go.
Chapter 29
“Papa doesn’t make us comb our hair,” Edgar whined to Mercy on Friday morning after popping the last piece of sausage into his mouth. His eyes darted over to the head of the table, where their father was busy sopping the egg yolk off his plate with a slice of bread. “Do we have to comb our hair just to go t’school? We’re in a hurry.”
“No,” their father grunted.
“But, Papa,” Mercy protested. “Just look at them.”
Pointing the remaining crust of bread at her, he did not even look over at the two heads of straw-colored hair that stuck out in all directions like hedgehog quills. “Quit tryin’ to make girls out of ’em, Mercy. Now get on—all of you. And don’t forget my tobacco.”
Jack and Edgar left the table immediately and went out the front door with Oram, who would be driving them today. Pressing her lips together, Mercy took her basket from the hook that hung in the kitchen. “We’ve plenty of time,” she grumbled to the two waiting impatiently in the bed of the wagon. “You could have combed your hair ten times and still gotten there early. Why are you in such a hurry?”
“Teacher won’t allow us to play on the merry-go-round at recess,” Jack replied, pulling a sour face. “But we can play on it before school.”
Mercy climbed up into the wagon seat next to Oram, held on to the edge of the seat as the wagon jolted into movement, then turned. “And why won’t he allow it?”
The lightning-quick glances Jack and Edgar exchanged were long enough for them to coordinate identical shrugs of the shoulders.
“Have you been misbehaving again?” Mercy pressed.
“Weren’t just us,” Edgar replied defensively.
Jack nodded. “If you talk during lessons, you have to sit on the steps with teacher at recess.”
“Well, how many people have to sit out during recess?”
Jack shrugged again, but Edgar stared down in concentration at his fingers for a second, then replied, “Four yesterday.”
“But he makes us sit every day,” said Jack.
“So that means you talk every day, yes?”
The brothers threw accusing looks at each other. “Not as much as he does,” Edgar said, only to receive a blow between the shoulder blades from Jack’s fist. Honor compelled him to return the blow and then some, so by the time the horses turned onto Market Lane, both boys were rolling on the boards trading oaths and jabs.
“Stop right here,” Mercy told Oram.
“They ain’t hurtin’ nothin’,” he replied, grinning, but pulled the reins to a stop so that Mercy could step back into the wagon bed and pull Jack and Edgar apart. By the time they reached the schoo
lhouse she was exhausted and had yet to do her shopping. Her two brothers had obviously not been affected by the rough start to the morning, for they jumped off the wagon and raced toward the school yard, where a half-dozen children were playing on the merry-go-round.
“Your lunch pails!” Mercy called, but they did not turn. She was about to have Oram bring them to Jack and Edgar, but an impulse seized her, and she told Oram to wait in the wagon. Crossing the school yard, she set the lunch pails on the ground near the steps and motioned to Jack that she had put them there. She stared up at the open doorway long enough to gather her courage, for she was aware that in her slightly faded blue gingham she was not dressed appropriately for addressing the schoolmaster. But if she waited until her next trip to town, that would be one more week of Jack and Edgar causing trouble at school.
Taking a deep breath, she mounted the steps. She stopped in the open doorway, unsure if she was required to knock since the door was propped open. Then her eyes caught sight of Mr. Raleigh, seated behind the desk. He was much younger than she had expected—in fact was probably her age. He certainly looked more pitiable than the ogre Jack and Edgar had reported him to be. Both shoulders were slumped forward slightly in a rather dejected posture. His hands were clasped upon the desk in front of him, his eyes were closed, and his lips were moving silently.
Why, he’s praying! Mercy thought. She was just about to back away when the man’s eyes opened and looked at her.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I didn’t mean to disturb—”
“Please … do come in.” Mr. Raleigh stood. The elegance of his black suit and pearl-colored silk cravat made him appear every bit as elegant as Squire Bartley. He gave her a weary smile that did little to lighten the shadows in his handsome face. “Do you wish to speak with me?”
“If you’re sure it’s no trouble.”
“Not at all. Please come in.”
Mercy walked into the schoolroom for the first time in her life, and Mr. Raleigh, pulling the chair from behind his desk, asked if she would like to have a seat.
“No, thank you.” With great reluctance she introduced herself as Jack and Edgar’s sister. “I have to apologize for their misbehavior, Mr. Raleigh.”
He did not contradict her. “Your brothers aren’t the only ones, Miss Sanders. I blame myself. A teacher should be able to command respect. I haven’t quite figured out how that works, to be honest.”
“Keeping them off the merry-go-round works, doesn’t it?”
“Barely. They have the opportunity to ride it before and after school, so recess is just one portion of their day.”
Timidly, for she knew next to nothing about schooling, she asked, “Should you make them stay off in the mornings too?”
Mr. Raleigh’s tight smile held no mirth. “Punishment is supposed to come after the crime, Miss Sanders. There’s always the hope that one will tire of spending recesses sitting on the steps and decide to behave. And it happens occasionally.”
She felt so sorry for the part her family played in adding to the young man’s troubles, especially when it was his first experience teaching. She knew speaking to her father again would do about as much good as speaking to one of Mrs. Brent’s cows. So all she could do was apologize for taking up so much of his time.
“On the contrary, it was a pleasure to meet you,” he replied warmly. “And I do appreciate your concern.”
“I just wish there was something I could do.”
Mr. Raleigh glanced over at the open door, from which the sounds of children at play could be heard along with metallic squeaks made by the merry-go-round. Mercy could see him draw in a deep breath before he looked at her again.
“Are you a believer, Miss Sanders?”
“Why, yes.”
“Then I would appreciate your prayers.”
He escorted her to the door, and she thanked him for his time. As she turned to descend the steps, she glanced across the school yard and spotted her neighbor, Seth Langford, between two elder trees, holding the reins to his horse and a pony as he spoke with Thomas. It was touching how his hand rested on the young shoulder as the boy looked trustingly up at him. She had never witnessed such a display of mutual affection at home, and it struck her to wonder if the lack of such was why her brothers were so fractious. Of course there had to reside some love in her father’s heart for his children, but obviously there were degrees to love. Whatever people chose to whisper and speculate about Mr. Langford, Mercy knew two things that were certain—he had a kind heart, as proved by his sending the bolt of cloth to Mrs. Kerns, and he loved his son. What did it matter if he never thanked her for the cake? It had probably slipped his mind with so much to do when he moved in.
Mrs. Brent would have been so pleased to know that such nice people lived in her cottage, she thought on her way across the school yard. And then it occurred to her that, knowing how close Mrs. Brent had been with the Lord, perhaps He had given her an inkling. Why else would she be content leaving her household treasures to strangers?
Now, if I’ve played my cards right …
Fresh from a fortnight with her family in Sheffield, Octavia Kingston peered through the window of her first-class compartment as the train chugged to a halt at the Shrewsbury station. That a certain face was not conspicuous among the others upon the platform did not put a damper upon her hopes. Thurmond Bartley could not abide crowds and naturally would be waiting somewhere off to the side. But then, so would Mr. Herrick. Being a dwarf, he found it difficult to negotiate when surrounded by heads taller than his. If indeed it was Mr. Herrick waiting, then her strategy had failed.
She pressed her lips together and forced that thought from her mind. It had to be Thurmond out there.
“It was pleasant chatting with you,” the young woman who had sat across from her said after her husband appeared at the door of the compartment. She had boarded at Buxton with her two little daughters after having spent a week with her family.
“And you, too, my dears,” Mrs. Kingston said after tearing her attention away from the window. She patted both little girls on the tops of their bonnets and smiled at the look of pure affection the young woman and her husband exchanged. How nice to be missed by someone that badly!
“Shall I assist you, madam?” asked a courtly old porter at the door after the family had left.
“Yes, please,” she said, taking his arm and stepping down to the platform. While he set out to collect her trunk, she discreetly brushed crumbs from the seed cakes she’d brought from Sheffield off her skirt. Then she heard her name.
“Octavia!”
She immediately subdued the little smile that had sprung to her lips and turned. In spite of the press of people, he was standing there staring at her, his black suit almost as elegant as her hunter green cashmere traveling costume. His arms were folded across his chest, his head tilted and expression almost comically stern. If he was so cross at her, Octavia reminded herself smugly, why had he bothered to come here?
“Why, Thurmond!” she said, extending a gloved hand. “How good to see you! Are you traveling somewhere?”
“You know good and well why I’m here, Octavia Kingston!” he snapped. His gray eyes blazed under their thatching of white brows.
Mrs. Kingston gave him a blank look, extending the coyness for just a bit longer. “I do?”
Now he rolled his eyes and opened his mouth for another retort but squelched it when Mrs. Kingston’s porter reappeared pulling her trunk upon a cart. “Where shall I carry this, madam?” he asked.
“My carriage is out front,” the squire replied for her, handing the man a coin. Then taking her by the elbow, he escorted her across the platform. He waved away his driver’s efforts to be helpful, assisting Mrs. Kingston into the landau himself. As the pair of black Cleveland bays pulled the barouche north, the two sat in silence—the squire, because he obviously intended to nurse his grudge a bit longer, and Mrs. Kingston, because she wasn’t quite sure that it was incumbent upon her to sa
y something at this point. She owed him no apology, for until he decided to pledge his troth to her, she was her own woman, not answerable to anyone but the Almighty.
But the sulking silence was becoming uncomfortable and more than a little silly. She turned to him with a smile. “It was such a delight to see my grandchildren again, Thurmond! Why, it seemed I couldn’t sit down without one climbing into my lap.”
“Yes?” The face he turned to hers looked as if he’d been weaned upon quinine. “Well, I haven’t any grandchildren, so I wouldn’t know about that, would I?”
And whose fault is that, you old coot? Yes, she was pleased that he had obviously been shaken by her unannounced departure. But enough was enough. In a calm, frank voice she said, “Squire Bartley, it was thoughtful of you to meet my train. But you shouldn’t have bothered. I somehow doubt Mr. Herrick would have been such unpleasant company.”
He gaped as if she had slapped him. “Octavia, I certainly didn’t—” Both hands lifted helplessly from his knees and fell again. “When you left without warning, I wondered if I had imagined the … affection that seemed to be developing between us.”
It took great effort for Mrs. Kingston to keep from smiling while she touched her chin and assumed a thoughtful pose. “Why, Thurmond. I do apologize. I had no idea it would affect you so.” Which was the truth, because she had left only hoping he would see that she couldn’t be taken for granted.
“Well …” he grumbled but then managed a little smile. “You’re back now, so that’s all that matters.”
Settling back contentedly into her seat, Mrs. Kingston agreed. “Yes, that’s true.”
The carriage reached the outskirts of Shrewsbury. Hedgerows flanked the macadamized road, laden with elderberries, blackberries, and the bright crimson berries of the bittersweet. Mrs. Kingston and the squire chatted amiably—his asking about her visit with her family and her asking about goings-on in the village while she’d been away. “Oh, the Bow and Fiddle is filling up with relatives of Mr. Durwin and Mrs. Hyatt,” he replied. As if to prove his point, a hired coach drawn by four horses raced by, the driver tipping his hat to them from his lofty perch.
The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter Page 33