The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter

by Lawana Blackwell

  She was startled when Mr. Sanders responded to her knock at the cottage door. The glare he slanted at her was anything but welcoming, but he jerked his head toward his shoulder to signify that his daughter was inside, then stalked out past her before she could bid him good morning. Mercy appeared a second later, apologizing and taking her by the arm. “I’m afraid he blames you for the Saturdays I was away,” the girl explained. “But he holds back from scolding me too heavily for fear I’ll take that position at the manor.”

  “He should be happy that they’re over now,” Mrs. Kingston said, settling at the table but raising a hand to decline Mercy’s offer of tea. “I shouldn’t detain Mr. Herrick from his duties for too long.”

  “Would he care to come inside?”

  “He brought along a book to occupy himself. He orders them from a German bookseller in London. How was your visit with Mr. Langford Saturday?”

  Mercy pulled out the opposite chair. The mixture of resignation and sadness in her expression leached all youthfulness from her face. “If it weren’t for Thomas, there wouldn’t have been two words exchanged between us.”

  Reaching across the table to pat her hand, Mrs. Kingston soothed, “There, there now. You mustn’t give up hope.”

  “But the plan didn’t work, and I’ve allowed you to waste all of that money.”

  “The plan has not run its course, dear child.”

  Now anxiety flooded her hazel eyes. “Please don’t ask me to start all over again.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Mrs. Kingston replied with a shake of the head. “Now we must allow Mr. Langford the opportunity to miss you. And he will, my young friend. Of course if he’s the stubborn sort, it may take some time. But patience is a virtue, is it not?”

  “But how do you know—”

  “That he will miss you? For the same reason that widowers tend to remarry much sooner than widows. No house seems emptier to a man than one in which a woman’s presence has been felt but is no longer. All that is required of you now, Mercy Sanders, is to step back and allow that to happen. Don’t catch his eye while you sing in front of your church. If he speaks to you, be polite, but then excuse yourself.”

  Some of the hopelessness left the girl’s expression. “When you speak like that, Mrs. Kingston, I believe almost anything is possible.”

  “But of course it is, dear. All a woman with any sense needs is a plan. Just look at the squire and me. While your plan had to be altered to fit the circumstance, it is still a good one. By the way, you’ll remember your promise to sing at my wedding, won’t you?”

  “I will be happy to,” Mercy replied with a smile.

  “Good enough!” Mrs. Kingston pushed out her chair and got to her feet before the girl could hurry around to assist her. “And now I mustn’t keep Mr. Herrick waiting. Do let me know when Mr. Langford shows any sign of progress, dear.”

  “I will, thank you.” At the door, Mercy gave her a quick embrace. “God is so good to give me a friend like you.”

  “Oh, come now,” Mrs. Kingston said brusquely to hide her pleasure in the compliment. On her way to the gate, she prayed silently, You heard her, Father. She’s had so little hope in her life, and she’s grateful to both of us for giving her some. We can’t cause such a good-hearted girl to lose that hope, can we?

  Chapter 40

  “Papa asked me to apologize for his not being here,” Elizabeth told Julia after answering the vicarage door herself on the Friday morning of November eleventh. “He was called away on urgent business soon after Laurel left for school.”

  “Oh dear. I hope no one is gravely ill.”

  “I’m not sure. All he said was that he had to hurry and wouldn’t be back until very late. But do come in.”

  “Why don’t I come back some other time?” Julia asked. With the wedding less than a month away, Andrew had asked her to look over the two spare bedrooms that would belong to her children to determine if any furnishings would be needed from the Larkspur. “I shouldn’t hinder your work.”

  “Oh, but I’ve been working hard all morning. A break would be nice. I’ll even see about the rooms with you. Some of the furniture here was built around the time of the Stonehenge, so we may need to test it for sturdiness.”

  “I would appreciate your help,” Julia said, smiling as they started for the staircase. “But you aren’t suggesting we jump on beds, are you?”

  “Haven’t you always wanted to?” the girl returned with a glint of humor in her eyes.

  “I purged myself of that desire long ago.” She shrugged at Elizabeth’s curious look. “I had an indulgent nanny.”

  “Really? I can’t imagine any nanny allowing that.”

  “Well, it was gin she was indulgent with, so she wasn’t aware of it at the time.”

  Elizabeth’s laugh rang along the upstairs corridor as they reached the first spare bedroom and devoted their energies to taking inventory. It took less than twenty minutes to look over both rooms, so Julia felt relieved that she had not detained Elizabeth from her work for too long. But when it came time to leave, the girl pressed her into staying a little longer. “I’m afraid I’m in need of your counsel again,” she admitted.

  They settled into the parlor and chatted idly until Dora brought tea and shortbread. When the door closed after the maid, Elizabeth said, “I’m not sure if Papa has told you, but Jonathan has been allowed to call twice and has had supper with us once.”

  “It’s so good to see that your father has changed his opinion of him,” Julia told her, smiling. “I confess I wondered if I would ever see the day this would happen.”

  “As did I. But even so, Papa hasn’t allowed us a minute alone together.”

  “You understand why, don’t you?”

  “I’m not sure that I do,” Elizabeth replied frankly. “I don’t think Papa realizes I’m not the infatuated girl I was in Cambridge. You’ve taught me how damaging it is to put someone on a pedestal, but I must confess it would be nice to have a conversation of some length without my father listening in. And surely Jonathan has proved himself trustworthy.”

  “I don’t think it’s a matter of doubting your maturity, Elizabeth. Or even Mr. Raleigh’s trustworthiness.”

  With a searching look at Julia, the girl leaned forward in her chair and asked, “What has Papa told you? Please tell me.”

  “Actually, he has not confided in me regarding his reason. But I believe I understand it.”

  “What is it, Mrs. Hollis?”

  It took Julia several seconds to arrange her thoughts so that they could be explained. She did not take young courtships lightly, for they became the foundations of either strong or disastrous marriages. “While your father has forgiven Mr. Raleigh, he wishes to prove a point to him.”

  Elizabeth shook her head uncomprehendingly. “I beg your pardon?”

  After sending up a quick prayer for the right words, Julia went on. “Your father obviously now believes Jonathan’s conversion to be real. But being in the ministry for so long, he’s aware that even decent people have been known to stray. All of us value more highly the things that were obtained at a great price. Your father, I believe, is making this courtship difficult so that by the time Mr. Raleigh does win your hand, the thought of losing what he worked so hard to gain would be repugnant to him.”

  “In other words, he’s forcing Jonathan to pay penance? While preaching grace from the pulpit?”

  “Grace is a wonderful thing, Elizabeth. But sometimes penance is as well. It teaches us that there are consequences to our actions. I daresay Mr. Raleigh has grown even more in character from it.”

  They both took sips of tea in thoughtful silence, and then Elizabeth sighed. “I’ll try to be more patient with Papa.”

  “You’re a wise young woman,” Julia said warmly.

  “Wise? How can you say that? You see so deeply into things, while I’m still trying to understand the ripples on the surface.”

  “Because you are wise enough to kno
w the limitations of your experience. A teachable spirit is a blessing, Elizabeth. Had I one at your age, perhaps I could have saved myself some heartache.”

  The girl’s brow drew with concern. “Are you happy now, Mrs. Hollis?”

  Julia smiled. “Very much so.”

  “I’m glad.” Brown eyes shining, Elizabeth said, “I look forward to addressing you as ‘mother,’ Mrs. Hollis, but you’ve actually mothered me for over a year now. I appreciate your good advice more than you can know.”

  And I appreciate being allowed the opportunity to give it, Julia thought as she walked down Church Lane a quarter of an hour later, breathing in crisp air touched faintly with the scent of ripe apples from the squire’s orchard. Above the roof of the Larkspur the brown and red Anwyl stood out in vast relief against a canvas of blue sky. How sad it be would if no one ever asked. By being allowed to point out some of the pitfalls she herself had stumbled into during the course of her three decades, she was able to redeem something of value from those mistakes.

  At the crossroads she turned to the south and walked down to Trumbles. “Good morning, Mrs. Hollis!” Mr. Trumble paused from assembling an order for Mrs. Sykes, who turned to smile and echo the shopkeeper’s greeting.

  “Good morning,” Julia greeted both. “Fine weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

  “Fine indeed,” the churchwarden’s wife replied. “And the almanac says no snow until after Christmas, so your wedding day should be a lovely one.”

  Mr. Trumble chuckled. “In just a short while we’ll have to get used to addressing her as Mrs. Phelps. I suppose you’re terrible busy making plans for the coming nauticals?”

  “There is quite a bit to do,” Julia agreed. “But I’m blessed with some willing helpers.” Indeed her women lodgers, even Mrs. Durwin so recently returned from her honeymoon, and Mrs. Kingston, busy with her own wedding plans, acted as if Julia’s special day was the most important to them. The Worthy sisters had wanted to contribute as well. With their gnarled fingers they had spun nine yard lengths of silvery lace for trimming the ecru silk gown presently being assembled by Mrs. Ramsey.

  “Well, what might I do for you today?” Mr. Trumble asked after Mrs. Sykes had bade them farewell and left the shop.

  Julia produced the list drawn up by Mrs. Beemish. While there were certainly servants capable of shopping, she rather enjoyed taking care of it herself. For most of her life she had been unaware of the goods needed to keep a household properly supplied. Now she found it interesting to stay acquainted with the latest innovations in such things as tooth powder or silver polish.

  “I’m afraid I’m out of vinegar until Monday,” the shopkeeper murmured, perusing the list. “I’ll have to send some over when it comes in. Shall I send the rest this afternoon?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Glancing to her left, she spotted a familiar canvas sack propped against the postal counter. “I don’t suppose you’ve sorted any of tomorrow’s mail, have you?”

  His walrus mustache spread over a grin. “Enough to know that there are three letters so far aimed for the Larkspur. Would you care for them now?”

  They both knew that since Philip had left for school, the question was unnecessary. But as it obviously amused Mr. Trumble to feign ignorance of what her answer would be, Julia repeated her line from the oft-rehearsed script. “If you’re sure you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Why, not at all, Mrs. Hollis,” he said, stepping from behind the counter.

  She looked over the letters after they were handed to her. One was addressed in childish block letters to Gertie, another, bearing a London publisher’s return address, was for Miss Rawlins. She recognized Mr. Jensen’s handwriting on the one addressed to her. Efficient as always, he was likely confirming that he would be arriving in a little over two weeks as planned.

  There was nothing from Philip, but as Mr. Jones was out making rounds now with mail that had come in yesterday, there was always a chance one would appear in the letter box this afternoon. “Thank you, Mr. Trumble,” she said and wished him good-day.

  “And to yourself,” he replied from behind his counter again. Julia was turning to leave when he said, “By the way, Mrs. Hollis, I hope nothing’s wrong with any of the vicar’s family.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He hasn’t told you, then?”

  “Told me what, Mr. Trumble?”

  After a second or two of apparently wondering if he should speak any further, he replied, “Well, I’m not supposed to be disgusting what folks get in their mail, but I believe it would be all right to tell you, seeing as how you’ll soon be married to the vicar. I was sortin’ through this batch earlier, after Mr. Jones had already left, and found a letter addressed to ‘Vicar of Gresham, Shropshire.’ That’s all it said except for the word URGENT underneath in big letters.”

  “That’s odd. But if it were family, surely his name would have appeared on the envelope.”

  Mr. Trumble slapped the countertop. “You know, I didn’t think about that. But being unsure if it could wait till tomorrow’s delivery, I had Rupert run it over to him.”

  As Julia left the shop, she thought that Andrew’s letter surely had to be the reason he had left the vicarage in such a rush this morning. Andrew still had a mother, as well as five brothers and their families. But again, any of these would have known to include his name—unless the sender was in a frantic hurry. In that case, though, why not send a telegram? And if it did involve family, why wouldn’t Andrew have informed Elizabeth?

  Whatever the problem—and obviously there was one—all she could do about it was pray on her way home, Father, please be with Andrew and whoever is in need of his ministering.

  As the train pulled away from Droitwich Station, the last stop before Worcester, Andrew took Gabriel Patterson’s letter from his waistcoat pocket and read it again.

  Dear Sir,

  Please pardon me for not recalling your name, but I am sending this letter to you because Philip Hollis once told me that his mother was engaged to marry the vicar of Gresham. I do not think he would forgive me if I were to send this to his mother, because it was obvious to me that he is very protective of her.

  I was until recently a schoolmate of Philip’s, until a prank caused me to fracture my arm. Now that I am no longer at the Josiah Smith Academy, I fear that Philip will bear the brunt of the cruelty that pervades the whole atmosphere of the school. At the time I left, he was most miserable and longed to go home.

  The letter went on to describe some incidents, such as a frog squashed into a textbook and even physical assaults. Behavior that one could expect when dozens of boys were housed under one roof, similar to things Andrew had experienced during his own boarding school years. While he had taken it upon himself to warn Philip to expect such treatment, he had also held the opinion held by most men—that bullies were an inevitable part of life and it built a boy’s character to endure them. But it was the last paragraph of the letter that had prevented him from enjoying his breakfast, until he finally felt compelled to grab his hat and coat and hurry down to the Shrews-bury station.

  Sir, I consider it my good fortune to have broken my arm, for it saved me from that wretched place. But I saw boys whose spirits were being broken every day. Is not a person’s spirit more important than an arm? Will Philip have to wait until he is likewise physically injured before he can escape?

  Overly dramatic it was, as if this Gabriel Patterson were an aspiring wordsmith at heart. But combined with Andrew’s memory of Philip’s declining weight and of the tears he had witnessed on the riverbank the day of the Durwins’ wedding, he could not in good conscience ignore the letter. He was not sure what he hoped to accomplish today. Perhaps he would insist that Philip accompany him to meet with the school’s headmaster. Or at least be able to reassure himself that he was doing right by keeping silent.

  Whatever action he would decide to take, he was glad he had gone ahead and caught the morning train. He had promised to help with arch
ery practice tomorrow, and Sunday was of course out of the question. And Monday seemed too far away, if Philip was as miserable as the letter stated. Give me discernment, Father, he prayed.

  Philip could not tell who had tripped him as he lay with legs splayed across the staircase and his books were being trampled by dozens of pairs of feet hurrying to lectures. The worse part was not that his chin throbbed from violent contact with the edge of a step, but the knot of boys congregating on the landing below for the sole purpose of laughing at him. Glaring down at them, he roused himself to his knees and attempted to gather his textbooks. But no one would stop, until seconds later an authoritative voice demanded, “What’s going on here?”

  It was the Latin instructor, Mr. Blake, who spoke. “To classes—on with you!” he ordered the boys below while scooping up a chemistry text. When Philip was finally on his feet with textbooks gathered into his arms, Mr. Blake asked him what had happened.

  Isn’t it obvious? Philip thought, staring dully back at him. Surely any reasonable person could deduce what had happened from the intensity of the jeers launched up at him. Are all the adults here blind?

  “I tripped, sir,” he mumbled.

  “Yes? Well, it was bound to happen, the way you boys rush down the stairs. Haste makes waste, you know.”

  “Yes, sir,” Philip told him. “I’ll be more careful.”

  When it happened again an hour later, this time as he was on his way down the busy corridor to another lecture, he forgot about his books and jumped to his feet in time to catch the self-congratulatory jeer Tupper was sending back in his direction. Elbowing his way through the boys between them, he jumped on the upperclassman’s back and they both fell to the floor. He flailed into the older boy with his fists as a circle of shouting, laughing boys surrounded them. It was Westbrook who broke up the fight, grabbing Philip by the collar and jerking him to his feet.