The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter

by Lawana Blackwell

  And lastly, she wasn’t Elaine.

  “Miss Sanders, you’re wasting your time,” he said, not unkindly, but aware that it would be the greatest unkindness to deceive her into thinking there was a possibility of a future between them just to get a home-cooked meal.

  She didn’t even appear surprised but gave him a somber nod and resumed peeling potatoes. “Do you understand?” he was forced to ask.

  There was a moment’s hesitation, when again the uncertainty washed across her face. Then she looked at him again. “I’m willing to take that chance, Mr. Langford.”

  Seth cleared his throat to argue further. He found himself bereft of the right words in the face of such determination, so he turned and left the cottage. There was nothing to do but return to his work. She would have to realize at one point or another that her effort had failed.

  “She’s nice, huh?” Thomas asked when Seth returned to the pasture.

  “Yes,” Seth told him and hefted himself to the top of the structure to finish the roof. “Hand me some more tiles up here, will you?”

  They had started another structure when the boy looked over toward the cottage and said, “Here she comes, sir.”

  Seth paused from sawing a board and looked. Sure enough, Miss Sanders was walking across the pasture toward them. The guineas rustled over to her and flustered around her skirts, either begging for corn or greeting an old friend.

  “Dinner is ready,” she said when close enough to speak.

  “We’re not hungry,” Seth replied and blew the sawdust from the freshly cut end of a board.

  “But I’m hungry, sir,” Thomas told him.

  Traitor! Seth thought. He shot the boy a warning look that was lost, for the young eyes stared at Miss Sanders with an expression of pure adoration.

  “What did you cook us, Miss Sanders?” Thomas asked.

  She smiled back. “Roast beef.”

  “Not tinned?” asked the boy. The hopefulness in his tone cut Seth to the quick. You said you liked tinned beef!

  “Not tinned” was her reply.

  “May we stop and have some?” Thomas asked Seth.

  Seth picked up his hammer. “You have some if you like. I’ll fix my own dinner later.” The truth was that he was ravenous, but it would serve no good to encourage Miss Sanders. While he didn’t have the heart to force the boy to stay away from food that was offered, he had no intention of being led into a culinary trap. Not as long as there was ketchup in his cupboard.

  Thomas left without a backward glance, leading his pony by the reins as he and Miss Sanders walked together. The guineas even deserted Seth, running ahead of the two. Seth’s hammer pounded the nail he was holding so hard and rapidly that it dented the oak wood.

  After some time, the boy returned on the back of his pony. He had the satisfied look of someone who had eaten heartily. Meanwhile, Seth’s stomach had started growling. “Here, come help me hold this beam steady,” Seth told him.

  “Yes, sir,” Thomas replied, hopping to the ground. They worked silently together for five minutes, and then the boy said, “That was the best food I ever tasted.”

  “That’s nice. Here, brace your shoulder against it while I hammer this nail.”

  Another five minutes passed before Seth asked, “She’s gone, then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh.” Seth had not heard horses or wheels this time, so she must have walked. While the chivalrous side of his nature felt uneasy at that thought, the more rational side of him figured that it would discourage her from ever trying this again. While his two sides continued their debate, his stomach sent up another growl. He set down his hammer. “I suppose I’ll go make my dinner now.”

  Thomas gave him a curious glance. “But it’s still on the table.”

  “You mean she left the food behind?”

  “There’s enough for tomorrow, too, I think.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Seth told him, for he had every intention of packing whatever lurked inside his kitchen and delivering it to her cottage. But before he even reached his cottage, with Thomas at his side, he knew that he could not. She had told him that while her father did not approve of her actions, he would not appear and cause a row. But Mr. Sanders was obviously not the most stable individual in Gresham. It was not that Seth was afraid of what the Sanders men might do to him—but what if he took his anger out on his daughter? While he did not want to marry her, he certainly did not want to cause her to be mistreated.

  Since he realized he could not return the food without possibly causing her harm, and that it would be a shame to waste it, he resigned himself to having to eat it. The aroma hit him even before he reached the back door and grew stronger and more savory as he and Thomas walked through the pantry and into the kitchen. There on the table sat a platter of roast beef, surrounded with little potatoes, onions, and carrots. Seth went over to it and cut a small slice, just to taste. Juices ran down the side as the knife went through it like butter.

  “It’s good, huh?” asked Thomas.

  “Yes, it is,” Seth agreed reluctantly and ate two more slices before remembering his manners and sitting down at the table. “Will you have some more?” he asked the boy as he spooned carrots and potatoes onto his plate.

  The boy shook his head. “I’m full, sir. I didn’t even have room for apple pie.”

  “She walked back?” Seth asked him, though he knew the answer.

  “She carried her roasting pan too.” This was said without a trace of accusation, but Seth felt ashamed at the idea of her lugging an iron pan for half a mile after cooking them this glorious meal—no matter what her motives. “I offered to let Lucy carry it on her back, but Miss Sanders said she would manage just fine.”

  Seth frowned guiltily but thought, At least she’s not likely to try this again.

  Apparently Fernie had managed the heating of the meal, Mercy discovered when she arrived at home, though he had considered cleanup not to be part of the job. Soiled dishes still sat on the table, the scraps of which had not even been scraped into the hog’s slop pail.

  She was not a bit surprised at this and immediately stored the roasting pan in the oven and began clearing the table. Tormenting thoughts plagued her as she worked, the most horrendous being Mr. Langford having the opinion that she was a complete fool.

  Father, help me, she prayed as another tear dripped from her chin into the dishwater. Sing was the thought that immediately came into her mind. She had not walked with the Lord long enough to have the discernment Mrs. Brent had possessed, but she was fairly certain that He had spoken to her just then. And so she cleared her thickened throat and began to sing softly:

  O thou, in whose presence my soul takes delight,

  On whom in affliction I call,

  My comfort by day and my song in the night,

  My hope, my salvation, my all.

  By the time she reached the fourth verse, Mercy’s tumultuous thoughts were replaced by a comforting sense of peace. She did not know all the particulars of the plan God had given Mrs. Kingston, for her friend had refused to reveal the additional steps that would have to be taken. But she understood her role in that plan now, and that was to trust. Just as Abraham had been called to follow God’s leading to a place he did not know, Mercy was being called to step out in faith. And she would do so, she determined, even if Mr. Langford thought her the most foolish woman in Gresham.

  Chapter 34

  The wedding was a lovely affair, with most parishioners of Saint Jude’s attending, as well as the people of other faiths who were acquainted with either Mr. Durwin or Mrs. Hyatt. It had done Andrew’s heart good to stand at the front of the church and perform the ceremony that joined two lives into one, for the affection shining from the bride’s and groom’s eyes was a reminder that love was important at any age.

  He was not the only person to be so moved, for there were quite a few sniffles coming from the congregation, and surely only a few related to head colds. Andrew ha
d even noticed during a glance at the congregation while the chancel choir sang “Christian Hearts, in Love United,” that Squire Bartley, seated with Mrs. Kingston, had traded his usual dour expression for one positively glowing with sentiment.

  How blessed I am! Andrew thought during the reception as he caught Julia’s eye across the floor of the town hall. She was busy assisting Elizabeth, Mrs. Sykes, and Laurel with serving cake, punch, and sandwiches, but she still paused long enough to return his smile. In less than three months, it would be the two of them exchanging vows in front of God, Bishop Edwards, and the congregation. For a man to be blessed with one great love during his lifetime was an incredible thing, and he was twice blessed.

  So overwhelming were his feelings that he suddenly felt the need to be alone with God. The day, and even yesterday, had been hectic, so his morning prayers had been rushed—more rote than sincere. He knew he would not be missed with his daughters and Julia occupied and his part of the ceremony finished. Hands in pockets, he strolled out toward the river and ducked under the trailing umbrella of a willow to stand against the trunk. Only the trunk was already taken by Philip Hollis, who turned a tear-streaked face toward him.

  “Philip? What’s wrong, son?”

  Philip wiped his face with his coat sleeve, clearly mortified at being caught weeping. “Nothing, sir.”

  “Now, you don’t expect me to believe that, do you?” Andrew replied gently. “What’s the matter—a touch of homesickness?”

  The boy didn’t answer, but the tremble of his bottom lip told all.

  “That’s nothing to be ashamed of, Philip. Our homes have a way of attaching themselves to our hearts.”

  “Yes,” he replied with a strained voice.

  “You aren’t being mistreated, are you?”

  Philip shook his head, which was what Andrew would have expected. For some perverse reason, at fourteen there was more shame at admitting one was being bullied than the actual bullying itself.

  “You can tell me if you are, son. I’ve suffered through it myself, you know. It might be that I can help you.”

  There was a lengthy pause, during which Philip stared out toward the Bryce. “It’s not just me,” he finally said.

  “Older boys lording it over the young ones?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Now Andrew shook his head. “Nothing changes, I’m afraid. But at least it doesn’t last forever. You’ll be able to stick it out, won’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” He turned his face toward Andrew. “You won’t tell Mother, will you?”

  “Of course not.” Patting the boy’s wiry shoulder, Andrew smiled and said, “Trust me, you’ll laugh at it all one day when you’re a doctor.”

  Philip returned his smile, or at least what was intended to be a smile, for it had a suspicious grimace quality to it. This led Andrew to ask again if the boy was sure he could manage the schooling, but before he could open his mouth, Philip said, “Thank you, Vicar. I think I’ll go find Ben and Jeremiah again.”

  Later, after the Durwins had left for a honeymoon in Scotland, and the last of the tables had been consigned again to the storage room of the town hall, Andrew accompanied Julia across the green toward the Larkspur. He had a sermon to prepare at the vicarage, but the walk would at least give them some time to chat.

  “Have you spoken with Philip today?” she asked.

  He recognized the concern in her voice and replied, “Actually, I did. While the reception was going on.”

  She sighed, absently weaving her fingers together. “He tells me that he’s enjoying school. But he evades my questions about any specific part of it. He has been so protective of me since his father died. …”

  “And that proves that he’s a strong boy, Julia. Boarding school takes some time to get used to. Just allow him that time, and it’ll become old hat to him.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” She turned soulful green eyes to him. “But I’m afraid it’s never going to be old hat with me.”

  “Now listen up!” Jonathan commanded his students on Monday morning. “Vicar Phelps will be here any minute, and I’ll not have you running about like a cage of monkeys!” To assure himself of that, he had conducted an inspection of the Sanders brothers’ pockets and lunch pails for reptiles. Unfortunately, he hadn’t counted on Jessie Sykes, one of the fifth standard boys, having a mild stomach ailment and giving evidence of that fact during Jonathan’s calling of the role. The squeals and shrieks of laughter had been immediate, with even crimson-faced Jessie grinning proudly as if he had performed an operatic solo.

  It was into this atmosphere Vicar Phelps stepped. An immediate silence swept through the classroom, and though that was what Jonathan had been attempting to attain, it nettled him that the vicar was able to do so without uttering a word. The man sent his usual nod to Jonathan and led the class in prayer. He then delivered a short sermon on the value of self-control. Whether that was another barb aimed at his past behavior or not, Jonathan hadn’t the strength to care. He leaned against the wall as the devotion went on, worn out though the day had just begun.

  By running from one brush fire to another he was able to maintain a fragile discipline as the morning wore on, thus sapping the remainder of his strength. He spent the whole of recess aware that the three miscreants who sat with him on the steps as punishment were making faces behind his back, yet he lacked even the will to turn and glare at them. By early afternoon he had almost decided to save his plan for tomorrow, but then the realization came to him that tomorrow would be no different from today, so he might as well get on with his plan and pray that it worked.

  Casually, he stood in front of the students and announced, “We’re going to spend the remaining hour and a half outside.”

  This was greeted with murmurs of pleased disbelief and a few cheers. “Why, Mr. Raleigh?” asked George Temple.

  “I want to show all of you something. We’re going to go beyond the school yard toward the squire’s apple orchard.” He assigned four older boys to carry the crate, which had sat unheeded in a back corner but now roused the students curiosity.

  “What is it, Mr. Raleigh?” one of the boys hefting the crate asked.

  “You’ll see” was Jonathan’s enigmatic reply. He had almost begun to enjoy himself as the children filed out of the classroom behind him, the boys with the crate bringing up the rear. He led the chattering queue past the backs of cottages toward the drystone wall surrounding the squire’s apple orchard. Even though the archery equipment had been purchased with his own funds, he had still felt it wise to consult the school board about starting a team. Fortunately, the three men had expressed enthusiasm for the idea, for he had not thought to ask permission until after ordering the equipment. Mr. Sway had even volunteered to stack a bale of hay against the wall, and it was there that Jonathan stopped.

  Almost all chatter ceased when he motioned for the boys with the crate to come over. Those few students who continued to talk were, incredibly, shushed by their classmates. When the crate was upon the ground, Jonathan lifted the lid and brought out a square of heavy canvas cloth. There were oohs and aahs as he unfolded it to reveal a painted circular target constructed of rings of gold, red, blue, black, and white. Jonathan smiled and, with a flourish, draped it over the bale of hay.

  “We’re gonter shoot arrows, Mr. Raleigh?” someone asked, causing an excited murmur to spread through the group.

  “Going to shoot arrows,” he corrected without thinking and told himself wryly, So there’s some teacher in you after all.

  “Are we going to shoot arrows?” the same voice queried.

  “We are.”

  “All of us?” someone else asked hopefully.

  “Today, yes.” Jonathan brought one of the three wooden bows from the crate. Today he would string it himself in order to give the children more time to experience the excitement of aiming an arrow at the target. He had a personal stake in making this as pleasant an experience as possible. “But first, I want to
tell you about Robin Hood.”

  Philip had run his first lap around the grounds Tuesday afternoon when a familiar shape appeared in the distance ahead. He sprinted to catch up with Gabriel Patterson.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  Gabriel, who seemed to be concentrating with all his might on staying vertical and in motion, panted in reply, “Pushed Westbrook down.”

  “No!”

  “Didn’t mean to.” Six gulps of breath issued before he could continue. “Stood in my face … and called me hog … because … I brushed against his trunk.” He dredged up and let out another six lungfuls. “Knocked his ink jar to floor … was accident … everyone laughed at me.”

  “Oh no.” Philip, now used to running fast to get the punishment over with, was finding it difficult to adjust to Gabriel’s slower pace. But of course he could not in good conscience leave his friend to lumber along alone. “Well, at least you didn’t get caned.”

  “Want to go home, Philip.”

  “Then write to your parents, Gabriel. Tell them how miserable you are.”

  “I told them … Saturday at home … Father says it’ll … make a man out of me.”

  “I’m sorry.” For the first time since his return two days ago, Philip was unable to stop himself from recalling the joy and sadness that had infused his soul during his brief stay at home. Joy, because it was the place he loved more than anywhere else, and sadness, because it was no longer truly his.

  But at this moment Philip needed to put away his melancholy as Gabriel was in immediate need of cheering. He lightly punched his friend’s arm. “Will you grant me one favor, Gabriel?”

  “Yes, what?” Gabriel huffed.