After the dust had settled, Squire Bartley went on. “I suppose they’re being ridiculous.”
“Who, Thurmond? The relatives?” Mrs. Kingston asked, though she knew perfectly well of whom he was referring.
“No, Mrs. Hyatt and Mr. Durwin. Carrying on with a huge wedding at their age. Why, they’re even planning to sally off to Scotland afterward for a honeymoon!”
He expects me to argue and protest that romance is appropriate for even old people, she told herself. She could tell by the way his eyes studied her, how he seemed to be holding his breath while waiting for her response. But if she did respond in the manner he expected, it would be tantamount to hinting that she would not be opposed to a proposal and such goings-on herself. And while that was very true, at this point it wouldn’t do to have him deciding she was no different from the women of his earlier courtships.
With drama worthy of Mr. Clay, she replied casually, “I haven’t given it much thought, but it does seem that way, doesn’t it?”
“It does?” He cocked a busy eyebrow. “But don’t you think they’re entitled to this late happiness?”
“Mrs. Hyatt and Mr. Durwin? Oh, but of course. They’re both such dears, aren’t they?” Mrs. Kingston pointed to a tall chestnut tree on his right, shading a herd of resting cattle with its branches. “The chestnuts should be plentiful now, shouldn’t they? I’m so very fond of them, especially roasted at the fireplace. And, of course, Christmas wouldn’t be the same without them.”
The squire stared at her, clearly more than a little befuddled. “Ah … that’s very true, Octavia.”
“ … and so by assigning to hydrogen the atomic weight of ‘one’, Gabriel Dalton was then able to calculate the relative atomic weights of other elements. Hence, a precise quantitative value could be assigned to each atom.”
The wall clock was only seconds away from striking noon when Mr. Archer concluded his chemistry lecture. Philip slowly closed his notebook and gathered his pencils as students hurried past his desk in pursuit of lunch. When the classroom had emptied, he walked up to the lecturer’s desk.
“Yes, Mr. Hollis?” Mr. Archer looked politely up at him over spectacles worn on the bridge of the nose.
Shifting his weight from his right to his left foot, Philip asked, “May I speak with you, sir?”
Mr. Archer sat back in his chair. “Of course.”
“It’s Gabriel Patterson, sir. He’s in our dormitory and sits in your earlier lectures.”
“I’m aware of the young man.”
Philip drew in a galvanizing breath. “Are you aware that students have started ‘oinking’ at him when he passes by?”
“Oinking?”
“Like a pig, sir.” He had no intention of adding that he himself couldn’t walk a corridor without someone producing croaking sounds. It wasn’t talebearing if it was done on someone else’s behalf, and this was about Gabriel.
Lines appeared above the man’s brows. “I see.”
“He’s most miserable. Even some of the underclassmen have started doing it.”
Frowning, Mr. Archer said, “I’m certainly disappointed. It’s unfortunate that institutional living so often breeds cruelty.”
He understands! Philip thought as tension drained from his body.
“But just as unfortunately, there is nothing that can be done about it save advising Mr. Patterson to ignore the insults in hopes that they’ll tire of making sport of him.”
“Nothing can be done? But—”
The man gave him a frank stare. “Mr. Hollis, if I could put a halt to your friend’s ill treatment by ordering it terminated, I would march into the dining room and do so at once. But surely you realize that if we were to order the perpetrators to stop, it would only make them more determined to heap misery upon Mr. Patterson. We cannot be there to protect him all hours of the day.”
In his heart Philip knew that was true. But it wasn’t right and certainly was not just. What had Gabriel done to hurt anyone?
“You must understand that this behavior has gone on for decades, Mr. Hollis,” the man continued. His tone was kindly but lacking the fire that burned in Philip’s chest. “I was treated harshly at school myself, as were many of my friends. But one grows up in spite of it. I assure you, one day you and your friend Mr. Patterson will chuckle at the memories.”
And that was the whole of it, for Philip could not produce the words to refute such bland acceptance of cruelty. While carrying his lunch tray to join Gabriel at the table, he passed a knot of boys who broke into a chorus of croaking sounds. He ignored them and thought, I’d rather be made sport of by you than be just like you.
Chapter 30
As regretful as Mercy was over her family situation, she was also aware of the many blessings in her life. She had lost her best friend, Mrs. Brent, but the memories of their many companionable hours were still a comfort to her. Her garden brought her pleasure, for the work of her hands combined with a miracle of God turned dry seeds into abundant food for the table. Even her singing voice was a continual source of wonder.
Until attending the Wesleyan Chapel, all she had known of music were the bawdy songs her older brothers sometimes bellowed out in slurred voices after acquiring a bottle. She did not know how it was that she could sing unwaveringly every note of her beloved hymns, even when Mrs. Jones’ piano accompaniment struck an occasional raw chord, There were some people in the congregation who seemed to move their voices at random, with no thought to the placement of the notes upon the scale. If striking true notes could not be accomplished by everyone who sang, then Mercy realized it was not a skill that could be learned in every case, but a talent—a gift. Why God had chosen to bless her with such, she had no idea. But she thanked Him for it often and was happy to be able to use her talent to honor the Lord.
Of course she had faltered upon first being asked to sing a solo. But Mrs. Brent had gently reminded her of the steward in the Scriptures who had hidden his talent away. “Why would God have given you such a voice if He hadn’t intended for you to use it?” her friend had reasoned. Still, it had taken another three weeks before Mercy could bring herself to deliver a weak-kneed rendition of “Come, Ye Thankful People, Come” in front of the small congregation.
Over a year of singing every week had slowly eased away her shyness, which was another blessing, because now Mercy could concentrate on lifting the words and sentiment of the song up to God instead of dwelling upon the fact that all the eyes and ears of the congregation were upon her. But on that Sunday, September eighteenth, right after Mr. Langford and Thomas had slipped in through the doorway while she was singing “Christian Hearts, in Love United,” she was perplexed to discover that her palms were sweating as in the early days.
She made it through the hymn without looking in their direction and took her usual place on the front pew beside Mrs. Seaton and her three children. Over the rustlings of pages in some fifty hymnals and the clearing of at least half a dozen throats in preparation for congregational singing, a voice echoed through Mercy’s mind. “God told me He’s going to send you a husband, Mercy” Mrs. Brent’s voice sounded so clear that the dear woman could have been sitting on her other side.
You’re giving yourself ideas, Mercy told herself. Naturally seeing an eligible widower would cause her to recall her friend’s prophecy. But why hadn’t she recalled Mrs. Brent’s words two days ago while talking to Mr. Raleigh, who was also unmarried, more handsome, and certainly more sociable than Mr. Langford?
She realized then that Reverend Seaton could have been reciting nursery rhymes for all the consideration she was giving to his sermon. She straightened attentively and pushed all thought of Mr. Langford from her mind. Which was easy to do, in light of the fact that he had never spoken two words to her.
But an astonishing thing happened after the final congregational hymn. She was just leaving through the front door of the chapel, accompanied by Mrs. Seaton and her charming brood, when she spotted Mr. Langford and his s
on standing off to the side of the lawn. He must be waiting to talk with Mr. Worthy, she thought, for she had seen them together last week. But then he met her eye and began leading the boy toward her.
“Miss Sanders?” he ventured politely.
She exchanged rapid glances with Mrs. Seaton, who then covered her surprise by leaning down to fasten a button on her youngest son’s coat. “Yes, Mr. Langford?” Mercy replied in a deceptively calm voice. It helped that Thomas was staring up at her with what appeared to be adoration, and for a second she had the urge to pat the top of his oversized cap.
“May I offer you a ride home? I’ve brought my wagon today.”
Stunned, she sought Mrs. Seaton’s eye again, but the minister’s wife was still fussing with her son’s coat. It would be wonderful not to impose upon the pastor and his family for a change. For the sake of propriety, Mrs. Seaton always had to come along, and because their children were too young to be left alone, they as well.
Janet and Elliott had ceased attending chapel after Mrs. Brent’s funeral, and besides, they no longer lived in the cottage nearby. Mercy’s father, resentful of the time she spent away from her chores those few hours every Sunday, refused to allow any of her brothers to drive her there or fetch her. “That’s very kind of you,” she managed.
Five minutes later she was seated next to Mr. Langford with Thomas following on his pony. “He loves to ride any chance he gets,” the man explained as they started out.
“Then why did you bring the wagon?” was out of Mercy’s mouth before good sense could prevent it. Her face grew warm. “I’m sorry, that’s none of my business.”
Strangely, he seemed even more embarrassed by her question. Staring straight ahead at the horses, he replied in a quiet voice, “It seems unreasonable for you to have to depend on Reverend Seaton when I pass right by your cottage.”
For just a second she was overwhelmed that he should be so thoughtful of her when they were practically strangers, until reason told her he was just trying to spare the good reverend some inconvenience. That did not cause her any disappointment because she was used to being taken for granted.
They rode in silence, with the only sounds being the rattle of wheels and the steady, dull clip-clop of hooves upon the road. Occasionally Mr. Langford turned to look over his shoulder at Thomas.
“I can stop for you on Sunday mornings too,” he said at length.
This offer almost brought her to tears, even if it was actually to benefit someone else. “Thank you, Mr. Langford. It has been difficult being beholden to the Seatons, even though they insist, when there is no way I can repay their kindness.”
“You’re welcome.” The rugged lines of his face actually softened with a smile for the fraction of a second, though his eyes were still on the road ahead. “Besides, I’m actually beholden to you. The cake you delivered made tinned foods more palatable for a while.”
“You mean you liked it?”
“Why, very much.” Mr. Langford eyed her curiously. “Didn’t your brothers tell you?”
Mercy shook her head.
“Oh.” He frowned. “You must think me terribly ungrateful.”
Actually, I did, she thought guiltily. “I should have known, Mr. Langford. My brothers …” She could not finish without complaining about her family, so she merely shrugged. “I’m glad you enjoyed the cake after all.”
“Very much,” he repeated. “Thank you.” “You’re welcome.”
This led to another spate of silence. They were turning onto the dirt roadway of Nettle Lane when Mr. Langford asked, “Did you know Mrs. Brent?”
Now Mercy smiled. “Yes. She was my friend.”
“She left so many of her belongings in the cottage.” He paused briefly, as if considering if he should continue. “I feel a little guilty using them. Had she no family?”
The world was her family, even though she saw so little of it, Mercy thought, her throat thickening with remembrance. “Her husband passed away fifteen years ago. They had no children.” Impulsively she added, “You mustn’t feel guilty, Mr. Langford. She left those things for you.”
He looked at her. “For me?”
“And Thomas.”
The mention of the boy’s name caused Mr. Langford to send an instinctive glance back over his shoulder. Then his eyes settled upon Mercy again. “But she didn’t even know us. Or that we were coming, for that matter.”
“I know.” Mercy absently lifted a hand in an attempt to explain. “Mrs. Brent was closer to God than anyone I ever knew. She was convinced that God had instructed her to leave most of her belongings for the people who would live in her cottage after she was gone.”
“I don’t know what to think,” he said after a thoughtful hesitation. “She must have been a remarkable woman.”
“Very remarkable.” Mercy felt tears sting her eyes and turned her face from him to blink them away. The silence resumed, and soon Mr. Langford was reining the horses to a stop outside her cottage. Before she could tell him that it wasn’t necessary, he had hopped down and was walking around to her side of the wagon.
Leaving a wagon was quite different from exiting a carriage, especially for a woman. One had to step into the back and then over the side to the top of a wheel, using the spokes as a sort of ladder. Mercy had just stepped over the side, keeping her skirts modestly around her ankles, when she felt his hand clasp her elbow while another took her hand. With his support, her descent was much more graceful than usual, and she thanked him when both feet were secure upon the ground.
“You’re welcome, Miss Sanders.” Another smile softened his expression while Thomas, who had been waiting behind, nudged his pony closer. Mercy took a step forward to stroke the animal’s muzzle.
“She’s all mine,” the boy said, pride overcoming his timidity.
“She’s very nice,” she told him. “What’s her name?”
“Lucy. When I can ride a little better, I’ll be taking her to school myself.”
“How wonderful.”
For those few seconds Mercy forgot that she was standing in front of her father’s cottage. It seemed as if the space surrounding the boy and pony had become an entirely different world—a comfortable one where people said gentle things to each other. But reality invaded that world in the form of a slamming door. She glanced to the right and saw Harold heading in their direction.
“Papa says we’re waitin’ on dinner, Mercy!” he called.
Mercy sent him a nod, and he headed back for the house, his innate laziness dictating he walk no farther than necessary. Turning back to Mr. Langford and Thomas, she said, “Thank you again. I’ll be waiting out here next Sunday so you won’t have to come to the door.”
To her relief, he didn’t argue. “Good day, Miss Sanders.” Thomas sent a wave from the back of the pony, which Mercy returned. She could hear them both making their way home as she walked to the cottage. The door jerked open when Mercy was only three feet away from it and out stalked her father. He snatched his pipe from his mouth at the sight of her.
“What’s this I hear about you ridin’ home with thet Langford fellow?” he demanded, sending a hard look toward the lane. “What happened to thet preacher?”
“Nothing, Papa,” Mercy reassured him as the last remnants of the serenity she had felt minutes ago dissolved. “Mr. Langford offered me a ride home, since he had to pass by anyway.”
His green eyes narrowed. “I’ll not have it, girl!”
“Not have what?”
“Thet Langford fellow thinkin’ he can court you!”
This was too much, even measured against her father’s past outrages. “It was just a ride home, Papa. And his son followed on his pony.”
“I tell you, I’ll not have it, Mercy! Thet man ain’t the sort decent folk keep company with.”
“That’s ridiculous, Papa!” she protested, standing her ground. “Mr. Langford is a decent man. And he goes to chapel, which is more than I can say for some people!”
“And if I’d escaped from prison and stole some money, I’d do the same. Who’d think to suspect—”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.” She tried to move past him, but he sidestepped to block her way.
“Don’t you walk away from me, girl!” he said, grabbing her arm. Even though she could muster up the nerve to argue with him occasionally, Mercy dared not shake her arm loose. Abruptly his voice became solicitous, and his forehead furrowed with what appeared to be concern. “I’m just lookin’ out for you, Mercy. Talk is he won’t tell nobody what happened to his wife. He could ha’ kilt her, for all we know about him.”
The charge was ludicrous, but it was pointless to attempt to reason with him. The best thing she could do now was to steer the subject away from Mr. Langford and hope that her father’s anger would cool down during the coming week. “I still have to cook dinner, Papa,” she said calmly.
He released his grip upon her arm. “All right, then. But you can forget about riding around with thet Langford fellow. If you’re so determined to go to thet church and leave yer chores, one of your brothers’ll deliver and fetch you.”
We’ll talk about it later, Mercy consoled herself as she replied with an affirmative nod. Tomorrow evening perhaps—after she had baked his favorite blackberry tarts for dessert. For now she had kitchen duties to attend. She had learned long ago to prepare quick dinners on Sundays after chapel. If her father became too cranky at having to wait for his meals, there was always the chance he would forbid her to attend the services at all. She quickly pulled on an apron and put on some sausages and cabbages to boil. She sliced some cold roasted potatoes to fry in a pan with a little bacon grease, and an apple pie she baked yesterday was ready for dessert. She had also learned long ago that the barest meals would be forgiven if the dessert was ample. Thirty minutes later the table was set, and seven hungry—if somewhat reproachful—faces were busy with the task of devouring forkfuls of cabbages, sausage, and potatoes.
The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter Page 34