The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter

by Lawana Blackwell

“Next time you knock old Westbrook off his feet, would you make sure I’m there to witness it?”

  Gabriel, reddened from the exertion of running, actually produced a fleeting smile. “Was almost worth … having to run.”

  “Doctor Rhodes says I should be able to teach school in another month,” Miss Clark said to Andrew in her parents’ comfortable back parlor, where she sat reclined with a blanket over her legs and a stack of books at her feet. “If I’m careful not to exert myself too strenuously.”

  “That’s too soon if you ask me,” Mrs. Clark, the schoolmistress’s mother, reproved from her chair. Her hair was light brown like her daughter’s, but that was where the resemblance ended, for she was short and as pleasantly rounded as Miss Clark was tall and slender. “Why, you’ve still got shadows under your eyes. And you’ve lost a stone’s weight at least.”

  Both charges appeared to be true in Andrew’s observation, but who was he to second-guess Doctor Rhodes? Still, he would not wish to cause Miss Clark a relapse by suggesting that one month would certainly be enough time for her to build up some strength.

  He had not called upon this household with the hope of hastening Miss Clark’s return to the school, no matter how much he desired that Jonathan Raleigh leave Gresham. He had called upon her four times already during the course of her illness without mentioning school. She was his parishioner and he was her pastor, and it was his duty to comfort the sick. It was Miss Clark who had brought up the subject this time.

  “I do hate the thought of taking the position from Mr. Raleigh, though,” she went on. “He paid a call here last week and seems a decent person.”

  “Mr. Raleigh took the position with the understanding that it was temporary,” Andrew reminded her. And after witnessing another spectacle this morning, he figured it was about time a capable teacher took charge.

  The only thing that troubled him was that Miss Clark’s only experience had been at a girls’ boarding school. If a strong young man had trouble keeping some of the older boys in line, how would a soft-spoken woman—and one recovering from a grave illness—fare? That’s the school board’s concern, he reminded himself. While they were only too happy to ask his assistance when dealing with the likes of Mr. Sanders, they had made it clear that his opinion was not a concern in the hiring of teachers.

  Four more weeks and Mr. Raleigh will have no excuse to stay was the comforting thought that accompanied Andrew back to the vicarage. He felt no more animosity for the young man, who had held on at the school for three weeks now. Indeed, Andrew wished him well in whatever endeavors he chose to pursue outside of Gresham. But it would take longer than three weeks to prove that Mr. Raleigh’s changed lifestyle would last. And having just broken off her almost-engagement with Mr. Treves, Elizabeth did not need a former beau so close at hand to add to her confusion.

  On Thursday, the twenty-ninth of September, Jonathan found himself practically having to shout the grammar lesson to the fourth standard students. But not because of rowdiness, for ever since Monday afternoon’s practice at the archery target, there had been a noticeable lessening of misbehavior in the classroom. The reason for his strain of voice was a thunderstorm outside, sending rain lashing violently against the windows and pounding the tiles above.

  “Will there be no archery during recess?” Alfred Meeks, a timid second standard student who lived up to his name, asked with raised hand as the lunch hour drew nearer.

  “I’m afraid not,” Jonathan replied, shaking his head regretfully. “We’ll have to stay inside.”

  Another hand went up. “We could practice in here, couldn’t we?”

  It was something to consider. The equipment, aside from the bale of hay, was in the cloak room. Basic form could be practiced indoors. But it was tedious work and not nearly as exciting as aiming real arrows at targets. He thought it best to warn them of that fact. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather play quietly instead?”

  Jonathan smiled to himself at the heads that shook and the eagerness on the faces staring back at him. During recess, after the children had hastened through their lunches, he strung the three bows and formed three queues of students along the aisles between desks. He went from the head of one group to another, reminding students to align their feet properly, to keep their weight distributed evenly, and shoulders squared as they aimed imaginary arrows at a target he had hastily chalked upon the blackboard.

  “The V of your thumb and index finger—see?” he showed Edgar Sanders, moving the boy’s grimy hand into the correct position. “Now you have it!” For the first time the boy actually smiled at him. Thank you for this idea! Jonathan prayed under his breath.

  Near the close of recess, he decided it was time to implement the second part of his plan. He collected and unstrung the bows as the children returned to their seats. There was the usual commotion, but it tapered and died down when Jonathan stood at the front and raised a silencing hand.

  “Yesterday I received a reply to a letter I sent to the school board at Prescott,” he told them. Eight hands shot up right away but lowered again after Jonathan said, “Prescott is a village about eight miles to the west of us.”

  “The school there founded an archery team just this year,” he went on. “With the permission of our school board, I’ve challenged them to a little contest, to be held in mid-November before the weather turns too forbidding. They have had a three-week head start, so it would require much dedication and hard work upon our part.”

  There was a collective intake of breath at this, then a burst of applause. Again, Jonathan raised his hand for silence. “But there will be two strict requirements for membership on our team. The first, I’m very sorry to announce, is that in the interest of safety you must be ten years old or over.”

  As expected, faces in the front two rows fell. While Jonathan felt great sympathy for his youngest students, he had to remind himself that the disappointment was preferable to an injured eye or worse. “But Mrs. Hillock has offered to allow you to stay with her students during recess when the others are at practice, which means you’ll have more turns on the merry-go-round. And if you’ll attend faithfully to your arithmetic lessons, you can help keep score at the archery contest. Good scorekeepers are very important, you know.”

  His consolations seemed to help somewhat, for a few smiles were sent his way. An arm shot up, belonging to Willard Kerns, a fifth standard student. “What is the other requirement, Mr. Raleigh?”

  Folding his arms, Jonathan leaned back against his desk. “Robin Hood didn’t allow just any person to join his merry men, no matter how skillful. And the Gresham team will be composed only of those students who complete their school assignments to the best of their abilities and who can control their behavior during class time.”

  There were murmurs of disappointment among the older students, to which Jonathan queried, “Is that an impossible demand?” No one challenged that it was, and some students even managed to look embarrassed at their complaints.

  “Then do you understand what you older students have to do to be allowed on the team?” he asked just to make sure.

  Surprisingly, Jack Sanders, who had never yet volunteered an answer, raised his hand.

  “Yes, Mr. Sanders?”

  “Do our schoolwork and be good?”

  Jonathan smiled. “Exactly.”

  “So tell me about your visit to Mr. Langford’s,” Mrs. Kingston said after hailing Mercy in front of the Larkspur after the shopping had been done. This time it was Oram who drove, and a proffered bag of peppermints from the elderly woman’s hand was all that was necessary to appease him into stopping long enough for her to draw Mercy aside. “I’ve been on pins and needles wondering. I was sorely tempted to pay a call but was afraid it would make your father more angry at you for defying him.” She narrowed her eyes appraisingly. “You did carry it out, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Mercy nodded.

  “Good! And what happened?”

  Glancing back at Oram in t
he wagon, whose cheeks now bulged, hamsterlike, with peppermints, she told Mrs. Kingston quickly how the day had gone.

  “I see,” her friend mused, pursing her lips. “I expected that would happen.”

  “You did?” In spite of her determination to have faith, Mercy wondered why Mrs. Kingston had not shared that same expectation with her.

  “Sometimes it takes a while for men to understand what is best for them, dear. But we mustn’t give up. I have ordered lamb to be delivered tomorrow. You do know how to cook a lamb stew, don’t you?”

  Mercy sucked in her breath. “Tomorrow?”

  “Why, yes. Haven’t I explained all this to you?”

  “Not the part about having to go over there again.”

  “Dear me, child.” A hand went up to Mrs. Kingston’s wrinkled cheek. “Have you been of the understanding that only once was required?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mercy replied. The edges of her faith began crumbling even more so at the memory of how he had looked at her from his pantry doorway. “I don’t think I can do that again, Mrs. Kingston.”

  “My dear, you must! And not just tomorrow. You must do this six more times!”

  Mercy knew her friend had said something, for her lips had moved emphatically, but before her numbed mind could ask Mrs. Kingston to repeat herself, the elderly woman launched ahead.

  “You see, that was the answer God gave to me. I had thought it was only because of my money that He chose to reveal the most difficult part of the plan to me, but now I see you would have been too overwhelmed by it to believe it came from Him.”

  “Six more times?” Mercy could only mumble.

  “Which will total seven. The same number of times Naaman was told to dip in the Jordan; the number of days Joshua was to march around Jericho; and the number of seals in the book of Revelation. So many things are done in sevens in Scripture, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

  Indeed Mercy had, but she could not refrain from asking, “Mrs. Kingston, what does that have to do with Mr. Langford?”

  A cherubic smile lit her aged face. “My dear, that’s how many times God told me that you are to prepare Saturday dinner for Mr. Langford. Your presence in Mr. Langford’s kitchen seven Saturdays in a row will constitute a habit for him—one that he will be unaware he has acquired until after you have stopped.”

  Five minutes later, Mercy sat in the wagon, staring straight ahead with hands folded in her lap as Oram drove home. She did not know quite how Mrs. Kingston had managed to talk her into continuing with this plan. Perhaps it was when she said, “Just think of what would have happened to poor old Naaman if he had decided to dunk himself only once?”

  Chapter 35

  “The ancient Egyptians are credited with the invention of archery,” Mr. Ellis said at the Larkspur’s breakfast table Saturday morning, in reply to the question Mrs. Dearing had posed. With the Durwins away for yet another three weeks and Philip at school, the gathering seemed sadly sparse. Still, conversation accompanied the meal as usual.

  “Indeed, Mr. Ellis?” Mrs. Dearing said while passing the cream to Aleda. “Then if they invented it, surely that gave them an edge over their enemies.”

  “Quite so, Mrs. Dearing. The Persians were doing battle with slingshots and spears at that time. They were simply overwhelmed.”

  With her eyes Grace asked Julia’s permission to speak. Julia nodded.

  “But a spear is bigger than an arrow,” she said shyly, as if concerned that the archeologist would think she questioned his authority on the matter.

  “But not able to be aimed as precisely, Miss Hollis,” Mr. Ellis explained with a smile. Perhaps because he had several grandchildren, he seemed flattered whenever one of Julia’s children showed an interest in his profession. “And a spear can only cover a short distance, depending upon the strength of the person throwing it. But an arrow … even the weakest archer, if he has skill, has an advantage over someone whose only weapon is a spear.”

  Table talk had drifted, as Julia supposed was true in many other homes in Gresham, to the archery team Mr. Raleigh had founded. Even Andrew seemed grudgingly interested after learning nearby Prescott had accepted the challenge for a tournament. Both archeologists, who shared an affinity for ancient tools and weapons, considered the idea an excellent way for children to experience a bit of history.

  After swallowing a forkful of his coddled eggs, Mr. Ellis nodded across the table at his bashful assistant. “And of course the Romans owed much of their military superiority to the bow and arrow. Correct, Mr. Pitney?”

  “Yes,” the younger man affirmed, cheeks assuming their usual flush at being the center of attention, especially when in the vicinity of Miss Rawlings. But as the subject was one close to his heart, he did manage to share in the conversation. “Until the early medieval period, when they were up against the more highly skilled archers of the Huns, Goths, and Vandals.”

  Mrs. Kingston paused from buttering her toast to ask, “Goths, Mr. Pitney?”

  “From a section of what is now Germany.”

  “Well, if Vandals and Goths ever decide to take on the Larkspur,” the elderly woman said with a glint of humor in her blue eyes, “I shall be the first to hide behind Aleda.”

  This brought laughter, and more when Aleda reminded her, “We have to practice a long time before we’re any good.”

  Even the Worthy sisters had something to say on the subject, Julia discovered. She had gone out to the stables to ask Mr. Herrick to assist the maids with moving Mrs. Hyatt’s belongings into Mr. Durwin’s room. Mr. Pitney, now occupying the room reserved for her former butler Mr. Jensen, would be moving into Mrs. Hyatt’s old room in bits and snatches, whenever he wasn’t working atop the Anwyl. Julia was heading toward the courtyard when the lace spinners beckoned to her.

  Though the wind on this first day of October was strong enough to rattle the gold and red leaves of a maple in their tiny garden, the sisters would continue to work outside until first frost. Mufflers wrapped their gray heads and woolens swathed their thin frames, but still they could witness the village goings-on at the crossroads—a pleasure denied them at their comfortable fireplace. And their work did not suffer, for woolen gloves snipped at the ends allowed their deft fingers the same freedom of movement.

  “What’s to keep ’em from shootin’ each other?” Jewel asked, wide-eyed.

  “Or their schoolmaster?” Iris added.

  “I’m positive Mr. Raleigh is teaching them to be careful,” Julia reassured the two. “Aleda is taking the lessons too, and I’m not worried. They tell me he won’t give them an arrow if someone is standing even to the side of them.”

  “But he hasn’t any little ones of his own,” Jewel argued. “He don’t know how some of ’em is plain mean. Take Horace Perkins, for instance. He pitched his mother’s cat down the well in ’61.”

  “It was ’62,” corrected Iris.

  Julia took the opportunity to take her leave politely. She had a ready excuse, for Mrs. Kingston wanted to ask her advice about where to plant some Rembrandt tulip bulbs in the garden for spring blooming.

  “I didn’t want to say anything at breakfast,” Mrs. Kingston said in a confidential tone after they had decided upon a patch of ground between a coralberry shrub and rose trellis. “But I believe Mr. Raleigh is infatuated with Miss Phelps.”

  “What makes you say that?” Julia hedged, for she and Andrew had managed to keep the reason for the young man’s arrival in Gresham a secret so far. There was no sense in having Elizabeth undergo the pressure of villagers speculating as to whether or not he would win her hand, Andrew had wisely said.

  “I have eyes, haven’t I? And Mr. Raleigh’s eyes seem to spend a lot of time fastened upon Miss Phelps’s back during church.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be paying attention to the sermon during church?” Julia gently chided.

  “Well, yes,” Mrs. Kingston huffed, raising her chin. “But one does feel the need to shift one’s head occasionally. And bes
ides, he hails from Cambridge. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he must have come to Gresham in the pursuit of Miss Phelps.”

  Julia wished just this once, Mrs. Kingston weren’t so astute. “If I tell you that you’re correct, will you please keep it to yourself?”

  “Why, I’ll be the soul of discretion.” The elderly woman wore a pleased-with-herself expression. “He must be the reason Miss Phelps broke off her engagement with that curate.”

  “Are there no secrets in Gresham?” Julia sighed.

  “Calm yourself, Mrs. Hollis,” Mrs. Kingston said, patting her arm. “I happen to be too observant for my own good. I’ve heard no gossip linking Mr. Raleigh and Miss Elizabeth. Most likely because one never sees them together.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  “Perhaps to everyone but Mr. Raleigh. Has she no feelings for him whatsoever?”

  “It’s not that simple.” Julia had to weigh her words carefully, even though she could count on Mrs. Kingston’s discretion. “Something happened in Cambridge that is not easy to forgive.”

  “Ah … and so Mr. Raleigh has come to pay penance.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Is it working?”

  “I don’t know,” Julia confessed with a shake of the head.

  “Well, tell him not to give up.” Mrs. Kingston glanced in the direction of the schoolhouse, as if she could see Mr. Raleigh on the steps. “Look at Jacob.”

  “Mr. Pitney?”

  “No, dear. From the Bible. He worked to earn Rachel’s hand for fourteen years.”

  Julia did not think Mr. Raleigh would last fourteen years at Gresham school, archery or no archery, but did not say so. After Mrs. Kingston took up her walking stick and set out on her usual routine, Julia was about to look for Mr. Herrick when she noticed Ben Mayhew on the other side of the gate. He was walking toward the Bryce with fishing pole slung over his shoulder and a basket in the crook of his arm. He stopped when she hailed him.