The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter

by Lawana Blackwell

  “That’s because you’ve already lived in the city, but I’ve never even seen it.”

  “You don’t plan to settle here?”

  Ben shook his head. “You can’t build big buildings in a village, my friend.”

  A sadness rose up in Philip’s chest at the thought of Gresham without Ben. In spite of his desire to grow up and become a doctor, he also wished he could freeze days like this and return to them whenever he wished. He had never fully appreciated how quickly time passed. But just as the waters of the Bryce, which appeared deceptively motionless most days, the years were constantly flowing and would not return.

  “Philip, are you coming?” Ben’s voice, from the doorway now, brought him out of his musings.

  “Oh.” He started for the door again with the chairs still attached to his rapidly fatiguing arms. But his friend did not step aside.

  “I don’t see how I can do this if you plan to stand there in the way all day,” Philip complained.

  Ben’s expression became uncharacteristically sentimental. “No matter where we live, we’ll always be friends. Won’t we?”

  “Friends to the end.” Philip grinned, his mood lightening at once. “And I would shake on that if I had any feeling left in my arms.”

  At a quarter of ten the Prescott team arrived in three wagons, followed by several carriages and wagons of spectators. Andrew, having stepped away from the team just long enough to greet Julia and Grace, caught sight of a familiar carriage being reined to a stop with the others along the edge of the green.

  “I take it your friend is here?” Julia said, her eyes bright with amusement as she held her daughter’s hand.

  Andrew rolled his eyes. “And I’d best leave you now, or I shall be forced to introduce you.”

  “Actually, I’ve met him—outside the academy when we fetched Laurel on the Durwins’ wedding day. But we were not formally introduced.”

  “Count yourself blessed.”

  “Andrew, if he has introduced you to his family, you can’t not introduce him to your fiancée. Surely he’s aware that you’re about to be married.”

  Of course she was right. Andrew sighed and from the corner of his eye spotted the vicar, flanked by his wife and daughter, advancing in their direction as if drawn by a magnet. “Very well, then, Julia. You’ve been warned. But are you sure you want to subject Grace to his company?”

  “I’m not afraid,” the girl said with her usual serious expression. She held up the forefinger of her left hand. “I didn’t even cry when I caught my finger in the door.”

  Taking her small hand carefully in his, Andrew studied the bruised fingernail. “Poor Grace! Did it hurt?”

  She nodded. “But I still didn’t cry.”

  He kissed the injured spot. “Then you’re certainly brave enough to endure this, all right.”

  “To endure what, eh?” asked Vicar Nippert, arriving at his elbow.

  “Oh, just about anything.” Andrew smiled and tipped his hat to the two Nippert females. “I would like you to meet my fiancée, Mrs. Hollis, and her youngest daughter, Grace.”

  “Welcome to Gresham,” Julia said, extending her hand. After introductions were finished, Vicar Nippert’s toothy smile faded into a concerned purse of the lips.

  “Ernestine tells us that you’ve withdrawn your daughter from Saint Julien’s. I say, I do wish she would have asked Ernestine to tutor her. Academic pressure too overwhelming, eh?”

  “Not at all.” Andrew had already expected on the day he withdrew Laurel that Vicar Nippert would have that impression, so he was able to reply with a smooth, “We founded our own secondary school here, and she wanted to be a part of it.”

  “Another school, eh?” For just the fraction of a second, something resembling envy passed over the vicar’s features. “How interesting.”

  Mrs. Nippert waved a gloved hand toward Market Lane. “Quite a charming little village you have here.”

  “Thank you.” It was Julia who spoke, and the glance she sent to Andrew seemed to say, Now, aren’t you ashamed for misjudging them? “We’re happy that so many of you could be here today.”

  “Oh, but I insisted upon it,” said Vicar Nippert. “As I explained to my parishioners Sunday past, nothing makes a person appreciate the green of one’s own pasture more than experiencing what else is out there, eh?”

  Andrew was acutely aware that he and Julia and Gresham had just been insulted, however wide Vicar Nippert’s smile now stretched around his prominent teeth. He had to choke back the impulse to point out that just because Saint Jude’s windows could not aesthetically rival Saint Stephen’s did not mean that Gresham was not as good a place to live as Prescott. Tipping his hat again, he said, “Forgive me, but I’m assisting with the tournament and must return to my duties.” He took Julia’s elbow. “And Mrs. Hollis and Grace should position themselves behind the Gresham team.”

  “May the best village win, eh?” was the parting shot Vicar Nippert directed to their backs.

  “Don’t say it, Andrew,” Julia whispered as he tensed to turn. When out of earshot, she smiled and added in a low voice, “And thank you for not leaving me with them.”

  “May the best village win!” Andrew growled. “Is best now defined by how many points are scored on a target by school children?”

  “It’s just one person’s opinion, Andrew,” she said before leaving him to join the spectators well behind the shooting line of the Gresham target. “Don’t allow it to ruin your day.”

  As if Vicar Nippert has the power to ruin my day! Andrew told himself. He only wished that he had thought to remind Vicar Nippert that archery was a sport designed to build self-discipline and confidence—not a means for one village to lord it over another. Reaching Mr. Raleigh, who was squatted on his heels to fasten a holster quiver to Nate Casper’s waist, he leaned down to say, “We have to win this thing!”

  “We’ll give it all we’ve got, Vicar,” the young man answered, raising his head to give him a bemused expression. “But you know as well as I that there are no guarantees.”

  The reminder tempered Andrew’s ill humor a bit, and he returned his attention to queuing the Gresham children in the order in which they would compete. A third standard student from Prescott was the first to step up to the line, fifteen yards from the target on the right, with six arrows in his quiver. Because both village schools had differing numbers of students in each age group, it had been decided well in advance that the top score from each standard would be counted toward the grand totals at the tournament’s end—deciding the winner.

  There were hushed murmurings when the boy’s first two arrows missed the target. Before pulling another arrow from his quiver he sent an embarrassed glance to a couple among the spectators, and Andrew felt sorry for him. It was not the lad’s fault where he happened to live. Andrew’s pity gave way to concern when the next shot landed within the innermost red zone to score nine points and raise a great cheer among the spectators assembled behind the Prescott team.

  Mary Kerns from Gresham shot next, the sum of her scores amounting to sixteen; two less points than scored by the lad from Prescott. Mentally Andrew attempted to keep a tally of the top scores from each team but lost count between helping Luke fasten arm guards or quiver holsters and holding his breath every time an arrow was aimed at either target. Just as the first fifth standard student from Prescott had stepped up to take his turn, Mr. Raleigh touched Andrew’s arm and whispered, “Vicar, perhaps you should sit down for a little while?”

  “What do you mean?” Andrew asked, straining to look over the young man’s shoulder at the target.

  “Frankly, your face is flaming red. It’s just a friendly competition, remember?”

  That was the last straw. Andrew had looked forward to this day for weeks, and now the person who should get on his knees and thank him every day for granting him forgiveness dared to lecture him? “That’s fresh talk coming from someone who wishes to court my daughter!” he seethed through clen
ched teeth.

  He was stunned when Jonathan Raleigh spat back, “Well, her father dropping dead in front of me would put a damper on a courtship, now wouldn’t it?”

  Two seconds passed when all Andrew could do was gape at the face glaring back at him. Then the absurdity of his own behavior dawned upon him. He gave the young man a sheepish nod. “Sorry. I’ll calm myself.”

  Andrew had to remember that promise when Cyril Towly scored thirty-eight points, the most accumulated by any one student, and stifled the impulse to run over to the boy and embrace him.

  He was even more compelled to keep his word a half hour later when Mr. Sykes announced the final scores, declaring the Prescott team the victors by twenty-eight points, and the winner of the handsome plaque the village had commissioned. Handclaps and cheers went up among the people gathered behind the Prescott team. The Gresham spectators were much more subdued.

  Get this over with now, Andrew ordered himself. With growing trepidation he hurried to Vicar Nippert’s family and waited for a break in the congratulatory handshakes he was exchanging with parishioners. When the vicar noticed him, Andrew thrust out his hand. “Your team played admirably well.”

  “Why thank you!” Vicar Nippert said, pursing his lips sympathetically while pumping Andrew’s hand. “Very big of you to say so!”

  “Thank you.” Andrew bade him and his family good day, but the other vicar did not release his grip upon his hand.

  “Another tournament in the spring might be worth some thought, eh? It would be our turn to host, of course.”

  That was the last thing Andrew wanted to think about at the moment, but he responded with a polite, “That would be up to Mr. Raleigh and the school board. Why don’t you write them?” Finally Andrew’s hand was free, and with a tip of his hat, he turned and returned to where the team was still assembled. And what he saw shamed him.

  While his first concern had been proving to Vicar Nippert that he could be a good sport, Mr. Raleigh’s first thought had been for the children who had participated. Parents waited in the background as the schoolmaster patted shoulders and reminded the students that they were still new at this sport and had performed admirably. “We don’t measure our worth to God by a few inches on a target, now do we?” Andrew heard him say.

  It was wrong of me to subject them to this, Jonathan thought after the students scattered to their families. He had introduced archery as a tool to make his time in the classroom easier, not giving a thought to how losing a competition would affect the children. They’re too young. I should have waited until they’ve had more experience.

  “Should we gather up the equipment now?” Luke Smith’s voice, whistling through his gaping teeth at the word should, interrupted his self-recrimination.

  “Huh? Oh yes—thank you.” Jonathan held a bow vertically against the ground, stepped his right foot through the space, and flexed it enough to remove the string. He felt a touch upon his back and turned to find Vicar Phelps staring at him. The words he had said during the heat of competition came rushing back to him, causing heat to rise in his face. “Vicar. What I said—”

  “You did well, Mr. Raleigh.”

  Oddly, the vicar’s hazel eyes were warm. Jonathan waved a hand toward the two targets. “All this was too soon. It only served to discourage them.”

  “Children are heartier than you think. Of course they wanted to win. We all wanted to. But this was only a sporting competition, not a life-or-death issue. Something that I forgot myself for a while. Thank you for calling me down when I was making a fool of myself.”

  Now Jonathan’s cheeks burned like flatirons. “I had no right to do that, Vicar.”

  “You had every right.” He actually grinned. “And it was funny too—that part about my dropping dead.”

  Not trusting himself to smile, just in case he was being set up for a tongue-lashing, Jonathan said, “I appreciate you saying that.”

  “I meant it.” Vicar Phelps glanced past Jonathan for a second, then raised a hand to grip his shoulder lightly. “You know, while we’ve had our fun, Elizabeth has been hard at work with the charity ladies at the lemonade table. Why don’t I help Luke here, and you go on over to see her? Perhaps a nice walk would be pleasant, don’t you think? Then you join us at the vicarage for lunch.”

  “Why, yes. Thank you, sir.”

  The older man took the unstrung bow from his hands. “Good enough … Jonathan.”

  While Mercy’s father had declared himself too busy to watch Jack and Edgar compete in the tournament, at least he had allowed Fernie and Oram to accompany her without too much grumbling. “You might as well get some o’ them meat pies, since you ain’t gonter be here to cook,” he had even told Mercy, handing her some coins as she prepared to leave the cottage. “I don’t fancy any more of thet tinned meat.”

  After the tournament was over, Mercy told her brothers to stay within sight of the wagon and hurried over to the bakery. Others had the same idea, for a queue of at least a dozen people from both villages had already formed, stretching until half waited outside the doors. She took her place at the end. The line moved quickly, for obviously Mr. Johnson had anticipated the rush of customers and prepared for them in advance. She was inside the shop and about fifth from the counter when she recognized the back of Mr. Langford’s head as he gave his order. He turned a minute later, a parcel wrapped in brown paper under his arm. He had to pass by her in order to leave the shop. Still, Mercy was a little surprised when he stopped.

  “Miss Sanders,” he said with a smile that seemed almost bashful.

  “Hello, Mr. Langford,” she replied, returning his smile. “Where is Thomas?”

  “He asked to sit in the wagon and watch the people still on the green. Did you enjoy the tournament?”

  The woman in front of Mercy, who had been chatting with the woman in front of her, now held her head at a listening angle. This intimidated her, but even more intimidating was the prospect of having to tell Mrs. Kingston that she had failed to follow her advice. “Very much,” Mercy replied before pretending to study the chalked signboard above the counter.

  From the corner of her eye she watched him shift the parcel awkwardly to his other hand. After a second he said, “Good day, Miss Sanders.”

  She turned to smile at him again, as if she had momentarily forgotten he was standing there. “Good day, Mr. Langford. Please give my regards to Thomas.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  Did I overdo it? she wondered as a cold, miserable clamminess spread in her stomach. Should I have looked away like that? By the time she exited the bakery with her parcel, she had convinced herself that she had come just a fraction short of slapping the man’s face.

  “It was washing the cups so they could be used over and over that kept us busiest,” Mrs. Kingston explained, her gloved hand resting in the crook of Squire Bartley’s arm as they strolled along the west side of the green. “We had already made the crocks of lemonade yesterday.”

  Her fiancé’s untamed eyebrows drew together sympathetically. “You poor dear. I could have had my servants helping you.”

  “Oh, but they would have missed the tournament. We were happy to do it.”

  Several feet away Mrs. Kingston caught sight of Mercy Sanders, handing a parcel to a lad in the back of their wagon. She wore a wool shawl over a brown calico dress, and the expression of someone deep in thought. “I’d like you to meet someone, Thurmond,” she said, waving a beckoning hand. “Mercy, dear?”

  The girl looked over at her and waved back. After saying something to the boy in the wagon, she walked over to join them. “Mrs. Kingston,” she said, smiling.

  “This is my fiancé, Squire Bartley,” Mrs. Kingston said. “Mercy Sanders. She’s the dear child who has agreed to sing at our wedding.”

  The girl blushed charmingly, dipping a timid curtsey to the squire. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”

  He touched the brim of his hat. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Sanders. Mr
s. Kingston speaks highly of you.”

  “Mrs. Kingston is most kind, sir.”

  “Truthful, you mean,” Mrs. Kingston corrected. “Tell me, has a certain young man spoken with you since we last met?”

  “Ah … yes, ma’am.”

  Mercy sent an embarrassed glance toward the squire, who rolled his eyes. “I’ll step over here and have a word with Mr. Sykes.”

  When he was out of earshot, the girl went on. “In the bakery just a little while ago. And at church last Sunday.”

  “Indeed? And how did you respond?”

  She bit her lip. “I’m afraid I was rude.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “But you didn’t hear how I—”

  “I know you, Mercy, and you’re incapable of rudeness. You’re just digging up in doubt what was planted in faith.”

  “Am I?”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Kingston touched the girl’s cheek. “Now stop tormenting yourself, dear child, and keep your mind on other things. This is a major commitment we’re asking of Mr. Langford. We must give him time to think, mustn’t we?”

  The smile Mercy gave her appeared to require some effort, but at least some of the worry had eased from her expression. “I’ll try to have more faith.”

  After they embraced, Mrs. Kingston watched the girl return to the wagon. The boy at the reins called to three other boys, who ran from the green to hop into the back.

  The two horses were pulling the wagon onto Market Lane when the squire reappeared. His gray eyes followed the course of the wagon. “The Sanderses have had quite a notorious reputation for years. It was good of you to take that young woman under your wing, Octavia, and teach her the proper way to conduct herself.”