The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter

by Lawana Blackwell

  While they rode, Mrs. Kingston chatted about her recent visit with her family. That made Mercy recall the primary reason her new friend had left. “Did your leaving get the squire’s attention?” she asked shyly.

  Before she even said a word, Mrs. Kingston’s answer could be seen upon her face. “My, yes,” she grinned. “He met me at the station, most put out!”

  “He was angry?”

  “Until I told him enough was enough. Then he mentioned the upcoming wedding of two of the Larkspur’s lodgers, Mrs. Hyatt and Mr. Durwin, in a hinting sort of way.”

  “How did you reply?” Mercy asked with eyes wide.

  Lifting her chin, she said smugly, “I rather ignored the hint and started talking about chestnuts or some such. Hints aren’t enough, my girl.”

  In spite of her anxiety about her father’s temper, Mercy found herself smiling. “Aren’t you afraid of anything?”

  Mrs. Kingston turned a serious face to her. “Oh, I was once quite the coward. And not too long ago.”

  “You, Mrs. Kingston?”

  “Absolutely. But one day I realized that most of the things I had worried over for sixty-some-odd years had not come to pass. So all the time I had given over to imaginary troubles-to-be was wasted. And my fretful nature had all but alienated me from my family. I determined I’d not spend the remaining years of my life in that fashion.”

  “I wish I could be like you.”

  Sadness briefly passed over the elderly woman’s face. “You can, dear, and it would behoove you to start before you’ve wasted years behind you, as I have. God didn’t tell us in Scripture to ‘be anxious for nothing’ just to have something to say.”

  Soon the landau was stopped in the lane outside the Sanders cottage. Led by God or at least some survival instinct, Mr. Herrick had wisely passed up the drive. From her carriage seat, Mercy could see Oram was running across the yard toward the barnyard, most likely to fetch her father. Her sense of dread returned twofold as Mr. Herrick assisted first Mrs. Kingston and then her to the ground. Mrs. Kingston brushed the folds from her skirt and turned resolutely toward the cottage. “Mr. Herrick, if you’ll be so kind as to get the gate …”

  “Shouldn’t I accompany you?” he asked with a shade of reluctance in his tone.

  “That won’t be necessary, thank you. Come along, Mercy.”

  Mercy followed, dreading the scene that was sure to occur. Sure enough, her father appeared on their right, pushing his way through the barnyard gate with Dale and Fernie flanking him. He turned to growl something at the two, who made unintelligible replies but then skulked back through the gates to whatever chores they had sought to abandon.

  There was nothing to do but wait on the path to the cottage with Mrs. Kingston at her side. When her father was close enough to fix them with his intimidating stare, he stopped in his tracks. “Well, Mercy. What have you got to say for yourself?”

  “You said I could go to town, Papa.”

  He crossed his arms, pointedly ignoring Mrs. Kingston. “No, I didn’t. Oram says you ain’t even touched the breakfast dishes.”

  Mercy glanced at the woman beside her, who stood with a pleasant expression as if absorbed in deep thought. I should have walked, she thought, for it was embarrassing to have her witness this exchange. As calmly as possible she said, “If you’ll just allow one of the boys to help me, I’ll have the kitchen clean and dinner on time.”

  “One of the boys?” He gaped as if she had just suggested one of her brothers wear a frock.

  “They have much more free time than I have, Papa. It wouldn’t hurt—”

  “Boys don’t wash dishes!” he cut in with finality. He decided to vent his spleen on Mrs. Kingston next. “You can go on home to your fancy inn now, Mrs. Kingston. I ain’t got nothing to trade with you this time.”

  “Do tell?” The pleasant smile never left her face. “I didn’t come to trade, Mr. Sanders. I came to thank you.”

  He angled his head suspiciously. “For what?”

  “For allowing your lovely daughter to spend a little time bringing cheer to an old woman. I had mentioned some weeks ago how good it does my heart to be in the company of young people. And what a wonderful surprise to have Mercy show up for a little visit!”

  “She left chores behind!” he snapped, albeit with a little less heat.

  “Oh, but you know what a capable worker she is. She’s never gone to bed with her chores undone yet, I’d wager—if I were inclined to gamble. Has she?”

  “Well …” He scratched the stubble on his chin. “We work hard around here. We need our meals on time.”

  “Why, of course you do … strong men that you are.” Mrs. Kingston’s smile was positively coquettish now. “I’m sure there is more to dairying than milking cows. Those barns didn’t raise themselves, did they?”

  “They didn’t, indeed,” he said, his face assuming an almost pleasant demeanor. “I built ’em all myself years ago, with the aid of Dale and Harold. My two oldest.”

  “My, my!” She shook her head, as if staggered by the whole concept. “And how sturdy they still seem!”

  “Well, they need just a touch with a hammer and nail onest in a while,” he admitted with a shrug. Turning toward the young plum tree just at the end of the drive, the trunk of which seemed to have grown a pair of shoulders, Mercy’s father called, “Fernie!”

  Nothing happened for all of three seconds, and then a head appeared. “What, Papa?” asked an innocent voice.

  “Go inside and help Mercy wash up.”

  “Aw, Papa …” the boy replied, his face full of horror. “Me and Oram got to clear the brambles out o’ the pasture. You told us to.”

  “Go tell Harold to help Oram. And then you get in thet kitchen or I’ll take a bramble bush to your hide!”

  As the boy sprinted toward the barnyard, Mercy’s father turned back to Mrs. Kingston. “Won’t hurt him to learn a few kitchen chores,” he explained gruffly, as if the idea had been his all along. He kicked a small rock with the toe of his boot. “Mercy’s allus been a strong girl, but even healthy folk do take ill sometimes.”

  “That’s so true, Mr. Sanders. And sometimes when we least expect it.”

  “I had a uncle who died in his sleep when he was thirty-eight. Weren’t nothing wrong with him either. Just didn’t get up.”

  “Life is so uncertain,” Mrs. Kingston nodded. She gave a sigh and glanced over her shoulder at the gate. “And upon that note, I’m afraid I must bid you both farewell. I mustn’t keep Mr. Herrick from his duties too long.” She took a step forward and extended her hand. “It was so good to chat with you again, Mr. Sanders. I can see where your daughter acquired her amiable nature.”

  “Well …” They shook hands, and then he kicked the rock again. “Don’t hurt to be reasonable.”

  “Indeed not, Mr. Sanders.” Facing Mercy next, Mrs. Kingston said, “Thank you again for visiting me, Mercy. Don’t be a stranger.”

  “I won’t,” Mercy replied, smiling. “Thank you.”

  The older woman gave her a conspiratorial wink, then turned with a rustle of purple silk and made her way down the path toward the gate, where Mr. Herrick waited and was already swinging it open for her.

  “Thank you for letting Fernie help me,” Mercy felt compelled to say before starting for the cottage. But her father had obviously not heard, for he still stood staring at Mrs. Kingston being assisted into the landau on the other side of the gate.

  “Thet’s a right handsome woman, when she ain’t being so bossy.” He looked at Mercy. “She married?”

  Oh no, Mercy winced inwardly. The last thing Mrs. Kingston needed was for her father to decide to court her. It was a disloyal but realistic thought. “Not yet …” she hedged, for surely the squire was as good as caught.

  “Has a beau?”

  “She has.”

  Her father shrugged, and for a fleeting second Mercy felt sorry for the crushing of his romantic feelings, however brief. “I’m thinking abo
ut baking some blackberry tarts for dessert,” she said.

  “Blackberry tarts?” He raised an eyebrow approvingly before turning back toward the barnyard. “You’d best get on with it, then. I don’t expect Fernie has started without you.”

  As she showed a sullen Fernie how to light the stove to heat some more dishwater, she thought again about Mrs. Kingston. What comfort she had provided today! And she had no doubt that come Friday her new friend would have some suggestions regarding her dilemma.

  Mrs. Kingston’s words about worrying came back to her. She recalled the sadness that had come to the woman’s face over the sixty years she had spent allowing worry to consume her. Mercy could clearly recognize the same tendency in herself. Will it take me sixty years to learn to trust God to take care of me?

  But if Mrs. Kingston had taught herself to “be anxious for nothing,” couldn’t Mercy learn as well? Did she have to live through decades of anxiety and worry before finally deciding to give it up and have faith? Or could she apply Mrs. Kingston’s sad experiences to her own life?

  I will try, she promised God. She would concentrate on her household duties and put Mr. Langford out of her mind until Friday. But she couldn’t make that promise regarding her heart. She did not know when it was that she had begun to love the man—and even the child. Perhaps as she watched them in the lane in front of the school building. Or one of the times they had slipped into chapel during one of her hymns.

  There were many uncertainties in life, but Mercy was as certain of this as the day she was born: God had given Mrs. Brent a vision of Mr. Langford as her husband. And now she prayed that He would give Mr. Langford the same vision.

  Chapter 32

  “Are you busy?” Elizabeth asked her father Monday afternoon from the doorway to his study. She had never thought about it before, but she liked it that he kept the door open all the time unless counseling a parishioner. Asking him if he was busy wasn’t really necessary, for of course he would be busy if he sat behind his desk. In her family, “Are you busy?” actually meant, “Have you time to spend with me?” Her father’s answer to that was always in the affirmative.

  “Come in,” he said, smiling and closing his book of sermon notes. As she settled in the chair facing his desk, he asked, “Have you finished your work for the day?”

  “Just now,” Elizabeth answered. She held up a hand. “I’ve still the ink stains on my fingers.”

  “Not just your fingers,” her father said, mischievous humor glinting in his hazel eyes.

  “What?”

  “Did your nose happen to itch some time today?”

  “I don’t remember.” She rose to peer at her reflection in the glass of his wall clock. Sure enough, a blue stain decorated the tip of her nose. She licked a finger and rubbed at it, then went back to her seat. “Is that better?”

  “Not as funny, but better.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “How were your calls this morning?” As proud as she was of the caring way he had with the people of his parish, his calls were far from her mind now. But she could not yet bring herself to mention the real reason for her visit to his study and was very aware that she was stalling for time.

  “A little vexing, I must admit.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all part of the calling. First, the school seems to be suffering from a serious lack of order.” There was a curious lack of glee in his expression over Mr. Raleigh’s having difficulty. “I heard chaos from the outside of the door before devotions. When I entered, it was to discover that one of the Sanders boys had brought a small grass snake and put it on Ellie McFarley’s back.”

  “Oh dear.” Elizabeth raised her ink-stained hand up to her mouth. The urge to laugh only lasted a second, replaced with sympathy for Jonathan in spite of her ambiguous feelings about him.

  “If matters don’t improve, I’ll be forced to recommend that the board look for someone else to take over the school,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Miss Clark is still too weak.” When he opened his eyes again, her father gave her a frank stare. “I know you think I’m being vindictive, but this has nothing to do with anything that happened in the past. I bear a responsibility to the people of this village, and if their children aren’t being educated properly, then I can’t sit idly by.”

  “I know that, Papa,” she assured him. “But it says a lot that he hasn’t given up, doesn’t it? He doesn’t need the salary.”

  “It says volumes, I have to admit.”

  It did not seem right talking about Jonathan in light of what she had come to say, so Elizabeth made an abrupt change of subject. “And your other calls?”

  Her father blew out a long breath. “Well, of course Mrs. Ramsey and her mother are always a blessing. But the wife of one of the cheese factory workers had asked me after church to call today. When I arrived, she wanted me to pray over her three-year-old son. She and her husband had just discovered the boy was left-handed, and she wanted a miracle from God to ‘set him right.’ ”

  “What did you do?”

  “I read to her from the book of Judges about the army made up of seven hundred left-handed men from the children of Benjamin. The part about their ability to sling stones at a hairsbreadth and not miss seemed to console her.”

  “You always know the wise thing to say, don’t you, Papa?”

  He gave her a little smile and touched the open Bible upon his desk. “I’m wise enough to know where to look for answers,” he replied. Then he cocked his head a little, his hazel eyes studying her intently. “But you didn’t come in here to inquire about my visits, did you, Beth?”

  “No, Papa.” She shook her head. “It’s about Paul.”

  “I see. So you’ve decided to break it off with him?”

  “How did you know?”

  “You haven’t exactly acted as if you looked forward to his coming tonight.”

  Elizabeth nodded guiltily. In fact, she’d gone through the whole week with a growing sense of dread. She had agreed with Mrs. Hollis that she should wait two weeks to allow herself enough time to think, but she could not be more certain than she was now. The thought of having supper with him tonight as if it were any other night was too much. She would only be delaying the inevitable. “How do you feel about this?” she asked her father.

  “Beth, it’s not important how I feel. This is your future that will be affected. I just have to ask if you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure, Papa.”

  “No regrets later?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then it’s best to get it over with tonight.”

  Even though she had told herself the same thing all day, the words sounded so harsh. “How should I go about it?”

  “I don’t know, Beth. I never really courted anyone before your mother. And, thank God, we never wavered in our affection for each other.” He paused thoughtfully, scratching his beard. “But I would suggest that you allow him his supper first. It’s likely that he won’t feel up to eating for a good while afterward. May as well get one of Mrs. Paget’s good meals down him.”

  That plan also sounded cold. “Do you think I’m cruel, Papa?”

  A warm smile eased upon his face. “I think you’re an angel. This happens all the time, Beth. But if you end up marrying him out of pity because you can’t bear to break his heart, you’ll be doing him no favor. In fact, you would be cheating him.”

  “Cheating him?”

  “Of a marriage with someone who truly loves him. Some young woman is waiting in his future. While Mr. Treves’ pain will be acute, it is nothing compared to the pain of an unhappy marriage. I’ve seen too many of them.”

  A great sense of relief came over Elizabeth. Her father understood. She was not a monster for not loving Paul. “Thank you, Papa. Now I just have to think of how to tell him.”

  He nodded, his expression serious. “I believe tonight the ten-minute rule needs to be waived. You can bring him in the parlor after supper alone. Some things shouldn’t be
rushed.”

  Paul arrived an hour later, looking handsome as ever in his gray suit. If he had a clue as to what was coming, it did not show in his face or in his appetite, for he ate heartily of Mrs. Paget’s braised lamb. Elizabeth, however, picked at her food, occasionally meeting her father’s eyes across the table. When supper was over, her father excused himself, saying he had some things to attend to in his study. He shook Paul’s hand outside the dining room door, clapped him lightly on the back, and moved on down the corridor.

  “Why don’t we sit in the parlor?” Elizabeth asked Paul, who was still staring bemusedly down the corridor at the retreating figure of her father.

  “Huh? Oh yes.”

  The temptation was strong to take one of the chairs when they entered the room, so they would be forced to sit apart. But she wanted no regrets, and just because she didn’t love him didn’t give her the liberty to treat him like an animal. She took her place on the sofa, and as expected, he sat next to her.

  “This is hard to believe,” he said with a glance at the door she had closed behind them. “Your father isn’t concerned about our being alone in here?”

  “No.” Get it over with. “Paul, I have something to tell you.”

  “Yes?” Paul studied her face. “You aren’t still angry over what we talked about last week, are you?”

  “No. I’m not angry at all.” This would be much easier if I were.

  He took the news well, considering that he had planned to spend his life with her. After the initial look of hurt showed in his eyes, he simply rose to his feet and started for the door. “When you come to your senses, you’ll know where to find me” were his last words. After the last hoofbeats had faded into the night, Elizabeth went again to her father’s study.

  “Well, it’s over,” she said bleakly from the doorway. While she did not regret her decision, it seemed the parting had been more traumatic for her than for him.

  “Already?” Her father got to his feet and came around the desk to gather her into his arms. He held her that way for a little while, then stepped back to look at her. “Are you all right?”