The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter

by Lawana Blackwell

  “More than sure, my dear. And now I must ask you this.” Her stare became appraising. “Will you have faith that this plan is for your own good and do whatever I tell you to do … no matter how difficult it’s going to be for you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mercy answered after only a slight hesitation, for she was just now realizing that the person who has faith only in the things that are sure and certain really has no faith at all. “What do you want me to do?”

  Mrs. Kingston smiled. “I’m going to explain that to you, dear girl.” She nodded toward the shop. “But after we’ve made this quick trip to the bakery, and not a minute before.”

  “Your archery equipment arrived about an hour ago,” Mr. Trumble told Jonathan after school that day. It had been a long, hectic day, and this bit of good news lifted Jonathan’s sagging spirits considerably.

  “Thank you for ordering them,” he told the shopkeeper while eyeing the large crate at the side of the counter. “Please take the money out of my account.” Like most inhabitants of Gresham with more than two shillings to rub together, Jonathan also banked at Trumbles.

  “Would you be wantin’ it delivered to the Bow and Fiddle or at the school?”

  “The school.” He would have rather taken it over there himself, but it appeared too bulky for one man to heft even that short distance. “I’ll go back there and wait.” He could always mark papers.

  “You know, this archery must be catching on,” the shopkeeper mused aloud before Jonathan bid him farewell. “Fellow who delivered this from Shrewsbury said he made a similar delivery to the Prescott School only last month.”

  “Archery equipment?”

  Mr. Trumble nodded. “Aye.”

  “Where is Prescott?”

  “Oh, not more than eight miles to the west, as the bird flies. Road curves a mite, so it’s more like eleven to the horse.”

  “Hmm.” Jonathan rubbed his clean-shaven chin as a plan began to form in his mind. “I wonder if this Prescott School would be interested in a little tournament? Later, of course, when we’ve had a chance to train.”

  The shopkeeper grinned and cocked his head. “Haven’t even opened the crate, and you’ve such big plans already?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s grand. A little healthy compensation gives folks something to look forward to.”

  Chapter 33

  You’ve got to do this now, Mercy told herself as she watched her father push away from the breakfast table. Her hands trembled so badly that she had dropped and broken a plate while preparing the meal. Remember, Mrs. Kingston is praying for you, she reminded herself. And if she did not take this chance, did not muster up some courage, her life might never change.

  “May I speak with you, Papa?” she asked.

  He gave her a curious look, though it was clear to see he was anxious as ever to resume his chores. “What, Mercy?”

  Glancing at her brothers, who were also getting to their feet, she said, “Alone, please?”

  He shrugged and waved an arm at his sons. “Get on out to your chores.”

  Reluctantly they shuffled from the cottage, as if they sensed there would be a scene between their sister and father and didn’t want to miss it. When the door had finally closed behind them, he turned back to Mercy. “What is it, girl? I’ve got work to do.”

  Lord, help me do this. “You might want to sit down, Papa.”

  “Sit down?” His green eyes narrowed suspiciously. “This ain’t about ridin’ to church with thet Langford fellow, is it? Like I told you—”

  “It’s not about that.” She took a fortifying breath and told herself to look at him, not as her father this time, but as the obstacle to any future happiness she might have. “The butcher’s cart is going to pass by at ten o’clock. I’m going to get a ride on it to Mr. Langford’s place. His son Thomas will be there, so nothing improper—”

  Mercy had to stop because he had been shaking his head adamantly ever since she said the word “Langford.” And into the silence jumped her father’s stormy voice.

  “Over my dead body, you will!”

  “I am, Papa, unless you plan to lock me in the cellar. And you’d have to let me out sometime.” Recognizing that bitterness had crept into her voice, Mercy reminded herself that this was not the time for dredging up old hurts and lost opportunities from the past. It would only serve to make him defensive and less willing to listen. She could not go to Mr. Langford’s without her father’s permission, however reluctantly given, or she would have to contend with him and her brothers coming over and causing another scene.

  His hands on his hips, he glared at her while an angry flush suffused his face and neck. “You’re talking crazy, girl!”

  “I don’t think so, Papa.” She took another deep breath. “I am going to cook dinner for Mr. Langford and Thomas and then come home. I’ve shown Fernie how to light the stove, and he can easily warm up your dinner.”

  The graying head began shaking again, but she ignored it. “Papa, ever since Mrs. Brent passed away, you’ve known that I’ve nowhere else to go. But I have somewhere now, and if you stand in my way this time, I’ll go there.”

  “I will lock you in the cellar before havin’ you live in sin right next door!”

  It was almost humorous, Mercy thought, how he had winked at his oldest sons’ immorality all these years, and yet could be so furious at the thought of her possibly engaging in the same behavior. “I’m talking about the manor house, Papa. Mrs. Kingston says there is a need for another parlormaid, and the squire has agreed to hire me if you won’t be reasonable.”

  “Thet woman!” he seethed, the whites of his eyes visible. “I should have knowed she put you up to this!”

  “She’s just trying to help me, Papa.”

  “Help you what! Spit on your family?”

  This was going nowhere, Mercy realized, because he didn’t want to understand. But she was amazed to discover that the fear had left her. In fact, she had never felt more calm. “I love you, Papa. But I want a husband and family of my own, just like other women have. Just like Mother had. In spite of what you’ve heard, Mr. Langford is a good Christian man, and I want to show him that I would make a good wife.”

  “I forbid it, Mercy!” he said, though some uncertainty had crept into his voice. “You throwing yerself at a man like that.”

  “I’m going, Papa. Since I’m not able to be courted like other women, this is how it has to be. And if you don’t want me to come back home afterward, I’ll walk to the manor house and trouble you no more.”

  He gaped at her for several seconds, hurt and fury evident on his face, then turned on his heel and left the cottage. As the door slammed behind him, Mercy felt an immediate urge to follow and apologize, but she held herself rigid until it quelled. A step in that direction would be going backward into her same old life. There were things to do if she was to meet the butcher’s cart—pack vegetables in a basket along with the apple pie Mrs. Kingston had purchased yesterday, set out her roasting pan, and prepare her family’s simple dinner to be warmed by Fernie. She also needed to change into one of her best dresses, put on a clean apron, and attempt to tame her curly brown hair into a chignon.

  Read the book of Ruth, Mrs. Kingston had told her yesterday after they visited the bakery, and Mercy had done so in the Bible Mrs. Brent left her. Ruth, under her mother-in-law Naomi’s instruction, had taken matters into her own hand and lain down at Boaz’s feet in the threshing floor. Scripture did not say if Ruth felt awkward in carrying out these instructions, but Mercy imagined that she did. The result had been a husband for Ruth, a godly man who treated her well, which was also the desire of Mercy’s heart.

  It would be too much to hope that Mr. Langford harbored the same love in his heart that she felt for him. But if he would treat her with consideration and respect, it would be enough. More than enough.

  There was still a myriad of things Julia had to do to prepare for the early afternoon wedding. E
ven though she had no particular role in the ceremony, and last night’s formal supper for the Hyatt and Durwin families was now a memory, the girls and she needed to dress in their new frocks. She would also have to use the curling iron on all three heads of hair.

  And all of that would have to be done in the space of an hour or so, for now Julia and her daughters were being driven by Mr. Herrick down to Shrewsbury to meet Philip’s ten o’clock train. No matter how busy her day promised to be, she had not seen her son in a month, and nothing short of a broken leg could keep her away.

  After meeting Philip they would go on to Saint Julien’s to fetch Laurel. Andrew loved his daughter as much as she loved Philip, but as his presence at the wedding was secondary only to the bride’s and groom’s, he had been relieved when Julia had offered.

  “Will he still remember us?” asked Grace on the outskirts of Shrews-bury. To her seven years, a month was an immensely long time.

  Aleda opened her mouth for what would obviously be a sarcastic remark but then closed it before Julia needed to give her a warning look. “He’ll remember us, Gracie,” she said instead, causing Julia to smile. “Just like you remember him.”

  Remember them he did, as he embraced all three on the platform with a surprising lack of self-consciousness. He even wrapped his arms around Mr. Herrick. “I was hoping you’d all be here,” he said.

  “You look thinner,” Aleda told him on their way to the landau. “Don’t they feed you?”

  “Of course,” he shrugged, then immediately changed the subject to ask her about school and the new schoolmaster.

  Aleda replied that he was nice, but that some of the children misbehaved. “Some of the upper standard boys almost bully him.”

  “Oh.”

  Julia noticed a cloud seemed to passed over her son’s face, but then she admitted to herself that she was just looking for a reason to find something wrong. She sorely regretted allowing Philip and Doctor Rhodes to pressure her into this. Fourteen was too young an age to live away from home, her heart insisted more strongly than ever. Soon enough would come the time to push him from the nest and toward university. He could have gone to school here in Shrewsbury. I should have insisted.

  “Grace says we’re going to get Laurel?” Philip’s voice cut into her thoughts.

  She forced away the misgivings and smiled at her son. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all. I’ll be happy to see her. Will Ben and Jeremiah be at the wedding?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Good.” He blew out a breath. “I have a lot of catching up to do.”

  Only a day and a half, and I have to share him with everybody, Julia thought. But of course it was good for a boy to spend some time with his friends.

  The decision for Julia to fetch Laurel had been made just this week, so the girl would be expecting her father and Elizabeth. Her usually reserved demeanor crumbled at the sight of Philip with Julia in the entrance hall of the school. “I’ve missed you so!” she exclaimed, seizing him by the arm and giving him a rough hug. “Even though you used to torment me!”

  “Torment you?” he replied with feigned indignation. “Who taught you how to fish?”

  “My father.” She made a face and lowered her voice, for other students and parents milled about nearby. “I’ve not met one girl here who has ever gone fishing—or at least will admit to it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Snobbery, I suppose. Some of these girls are blue-blooded to the last drop. They would get the vapors if I dared mention that I bait my own hooks.”

  Julia smiled at this exchange while shepherding them out of the doorway to the waiting carriage. Her attention being upon them and not the walk in front of her, she narrowly missed colliding with a man in a dark suit. “Oh, pardon me!” she told him.

  He flashed a smile full of ivory. “No harm done, eh?” Looking at Laurel, he said, “Say, you’re Vicar Phelp’s daughter, yes?”

  “Yes, sir,” she nodded, suddenly her reserved self again.

  “Ah, no doubt you’ve heard of my daughter, Ernestine Nip-pert, eh?”

  So this is the man Andrew talks about! Julia thought.

  “She’s a grade ahead of me,” Laurel replied.

  “Well, isn’t that nice? Say, if you ever find yourself in need of some tutoring, have your father bring you over to Prescott, mind you? Ernestine doesn’t believe in hiding her talent under a bushel, so she would be more than willing to help you.”

  “Thank you,” Laurel replied with a smile.

  “Music is her calling, I’m sure you’re aware if you’ve heard her sing in chapel, but she has a gift for teaching as well,” the vicar said proudly. “Why, I daresay she could teach a hog his alphabet!”

  “Thank you,” Laurel said again, but when the man had entered the building, she covered a giggle with her hand, causing Philip to chuckle.

  Julia whispered a scolding to both, for surely the vicar’s wife or another family member was waiting in one of the carriages in the circular drive, and she did not want to hurt any feelings.

  But once the carriage was a mile from the school, Philip and Laurel repeated the whole exchange to Aleda and Grace, who also burst into giggles. When Philip began snorting the letters of the alphabet, all four were laughing—Grace so hard that she started hiccuping.

  Julia turned her face away from them to hide a smile. Guiltily so, for she knew as an adult she should lecture them about making fun of others. But he brought it on himself, she rationalized. And it was so good to hear the children enjoying each other’s company. Had she ever fully appreciated these special times together as a family?

  Seth and Thomas were constructing another shelter—their tenth—out in the pasture when Seth heard the sound of a wagon approaching in the lane. Anyone who came this far down Nettle Lane was either lost, which wasn’t likely, or looking for him, which was only a little more likely. “Shall I go see who it is?” Thomas asked.

  Seth nodded down from the roof of the structure because his teeth were engaged in holding nails between them. The boy jumped on the back of his pony and headed for the cottage, causing the trio of guineas to scatter out of the way.

  Must have been lost after all, Seth thought, for less than a minute later he paused long enough from hammering to listen to the rattle of wheels fade down Nettle Lane. Yet Thomas did not return for another five minutes. When he did, a smile was spread across his young face.

  “It’s the cake lady!” he called when close enough for Seth to hear. “Miss Sanders.”

  Seth removed the nails from his mouth. “Miss Sanders?” But what was she doing here? “Has she left?”

  “No, sir. She’s in the kitchen.”

  This made no sense at all. “Is there something wrong?” Seth asked the boy.

  “No, sir. She said you should keep on working and that she was cooking our dinner.”

  But Seth could no more work than fly. He eased himself down from the roof of the shelter. “Here, finish putting the lumber scraps in the wagon,” he told Thomas and started for the cottage with long strides. The thought of Miss Sanders in his kitchen was an unsettling one, for if her father had gotten so incensed about his giving her a ride home from church, this would make him livid.

  It was not that he was afraid of any of the Sanders men, but he was not foolish enough to believe that he could fight a whole gang of them. Besides, his primary reason for moving out to Nettle Lane was to be left alone.

  Sure enough, he heard kitchen sounds as soon as he opened the back door. He walked through the pantry and stood for a second, speechless. She was a vision of loveliness, standing at the table, peeling potatoes with her lips set in a straight line of concentration and stray curls forming a halo around her face. It appeared she was so lost in thought that she had not heard him enter the house. On the cupboard ledge sat a pie, and he could feel the heat wafting over from the oven, so he knew something was inside. There wasn’t a tin in sight. It was a pleasant, domestic scene that warme
d his heart only long enough for Seth to remind himself that she was still a Sanders.

  Before he could speak, she looked up at him and started slightly. “Oh. Mr. Langford.”

  “Miss Sanders,” he nodded. He waited for her to explain herself, but she merely went back to work. “What are you doing?” he was finally forced to ask.

  “Peeling potatoes.”

  That riled him just a little, for he had a feeling she knew exactly what he meant and was being evasive. “I mean, here, Miss Sanders. Why are you here?”

  She looked up at him, and for a fleeting second, he detected some uncertainty in her expression. “I’m cooking dinner for you and Thomas,” she replied softly.

  “But why?”

  Her lips pressed together, as if she had to gather courage before she could answer. “Because I want to show you that I would make a good wife, Mr. Langford.”

  “A good—” he began when he was able to speak. “I don’t want a wife. Thomas and I are getting by just fine. Besides, your father is likely on his way over here now with a gun.”

  “My father doesn’t approve of my being here, correct, but he won’t trouble you.” Again, that press of the lips while her hazel eyes acquired a luster that could be seen from across the room. “You may not want a wife, Mr. Langford, but you’re in need of one. I could tend to your cottage so that you can concentrate on your horse business. I would plant a garden, too, so you would never want for good meals. I have six cows of my own, and I could sell the milk to the cheese factory so that you never have to give me spending money.”

  She paused, and Seth saw her shoulders rise and fall.

  “All I would ask is that you treat me decently and sit with me during chapel so that I don’t have to intrude always upon other people’s families.”

  This was too staggering a proposal even to consider. He and Thomas had a pleasant life here. If he felt any temptation at all—for she was a lovely young woman and surely a good-hearted one, judging by the fact that she sang like an angel in church and had tended to Mrs. Brent—it was more than nullified by the fact that she was a Sanders. While she could not be held accountable for her parentage, she certainly could not blame him for not wishing to be involved in any way with her family.