The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter

by Lawana Blackwell

She took his proffered arm, and they ambled toward the river. “She knew that long before I ever met her, Thurmond.”

  “Yes? I suppose there are nuggets of gold in every field.”

  “An appropriate description. I’m just hoping someone else recognizes the gold in her as well.”

  “Ah, so you’re offering her advice on courtship?”

  “Not exactly. You see, the reputation of her family has prevented her from being courted in the usual manner. So we’ve embarked upon a rather radical plan. Your willingness to hire her as a parlormaid was part of it, by the way.”

  “I didn’t realize I was a co-conspirator.”

  “Oh, but you were, Thurmond—a very important part of the plan.”

  He chuckled. “Well, I hope it works. But I must say, I’m glad you and I have always enjoyed a straightforward courtship. I suppose maturity is the main factor. There has never been a need for intrigue between us.”

  Patting his arm, Mrs. Kingston coyly agreed. “It’s the maturity, Thurmond.”

  “I can’t believe my father suggested we walk together,” Elizabeth told Jonathan as they strolled along the willows lining the Bryce. She kept her wool wrap drawn tightly about her so that she would be unable to take his arm. That would have been enough for the dozens of people still visiting on the green to link them together romantically. And after much thought, she had taken Julia’s advice to heart about not making a reconciliation too easy. Her father had done his part. Now it was her turn.

  “He practically insisted upon it,” Jonathan said, wonder lighting his aristocratic face. “And he even addressed me as Jonathan!”

  “No!”

  “But he did. And I was afraid that after losing the tournament, he would despise me even more so.”

  They paused to exchange pleasantries with Mrs. Kingston and the squire, coming from the opposite direction. As they then moved on, Elizabeth told him, “My father didn’t despise you, Jonathan.”

  “Never?” Her gave her a skeptical look.

  “Well … perhaps for a little while.”

  “And what about his oldest daughter?”

  She was unable to resist. “Perhaps for a little while longer.”

  “I deserved that,” he winced.

  They stopped walking at the bridge before turning back toward the vicarage. Even though Elizabeth was determined to allow their relationship to strengthen in small stages, she would draw the line at being unreasonable and cruel. “At one time, perhaps,” she replied. “But no longer. You’ve asked my forgiveness, and you have it.”

  Jonathan’s gray-green eyes acquired a sheen. “I have?”

  “Yes, Jonathan. I’ll not mention the past again.”

  “Dear Elizabeth! If only you could know how much I’ve prayed for this to happen!” For fear he would embrace her—and that she would allow it—she instinctively took a step backward and without her arms free to balance herself, lost her footing on the decline of the bank. Jonathan reached out both arms to steady her. He held her arms for only a second before dropping his hands back to his sides.

  “Thank you, Jonathan,” she said, more for the letting go than for his helping her regain her balance. They resumed their walk in the direction of the vicarage.

  Still looking straight ahead, he cleared this throat. “You know, I came here assuming that because I had become a Christian, you would realize that I had changed and forgive me right away. Perhaps even come away with me to Cambridge.” Now he looked at her. “After marrying me, of course.”

  It was the first time he had ever mentioned marriage to her. Aware of a blush stealing in her cheeks, Elizabeth did not trust herself to speak. Thankfully, he did not seem to resent her silence and went on after a spell.

  “I was naïve and had no concept of restoration. I never thought I would feel this way, Elizabeth, but there were lessons here that I needed to learn.”

  “Lessons?”

  He nodded. “Everything has been easy for me my whole life. School marks, sports—even joining my uncle’s firm. He would have hired me had I been at the bottom of my class. By coming here and facing an uphill struggle with you—and with your father and with the school—I’ve grown to realize the joy that comes from little victories is preferable to the fun that comes from ease and the pursuit of pleasure.”

  “And what victories have you had, Jonathan?”

  “Perhaps that’s not the best word.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I can’t seem to think of a more appropriate one. But I’m referring to things I would not have known how to appreciate just a year ago. The children finally respecting me at school. Your father addressing me as Jonathan. Your walking with me like this.” Turning to smile at her, he added, “And above all, your forgiveness.”

  She smiled back, thinking about the things she had learned as well. To distance herself from the emotions of her situation enough to see where a decision would affect her some ten, twenty years from now. Waiting could sometimes be a good thing, for had she thrown herself into Jonathan’s arms the first time he appeared on the vicarage doorstep, she would not have allowed him to learn the lessons that were now obviously so important to him. She would share these things with him one day, she told herself. But for now, it seemed her heart was telling her that the waiting needed to go on just a little longer.

  Chapter 42

  The following day, Mrs. Jones had just begun the introductory notes of the closing hymn, “O Thou, in Whose Presence,” when from his back row pew Seth heard the church door slam open. He twisted in his seat just in time to stare into the bloodshot eyes of one of the older Sanders boys. Swaying a little, the young man walked up the aisle. Reverend Seaton stopped singing to stare from his pulpit in disbelief, causing the voices of the few people up front who had not noticed the sound of the door to taper off. Mrs. Jones continued to play the piano, squinting with concentration at the hymnal propped open in front of her.

  “Who is that, Father?” Thomas whispered from his side.

  “Miss Sanders’ brother,” Seth whispered back. He considered getting up and escorting the young man outside but knew he could not do so without incurring some sort of scene. One look at Miss Sanders’ face—white as whey as she rose to her feet from the front row—told him that it would be easier on her if she just left with her brother.

  But it soon became apparent that fetching his sister was the last thing upon his sodden mind. Muttering to himself, the young man ambled over to a pew in the center of the church and dropped to his knees in the aisle.

  “Why don’t you love me, Mary?”

  Over time Seth had learned most of the names of the small congregation. Even if he had not, it was obvious to whom the young man spoke. Mary Sloane, a serving girl at the Bow and Fiddle, sat at the end of the pew in crimson-faced humiliation.

  Reverend Seaton reached the young man just as he was asking the question a second time. “You have to leave now, Mr. Sanders,” he insisted calmly over the notes still coming from the piano.

  The young man’s back was to Seth, but from the thickness in his voice, it was apparent that tears had begun to flow. “But she don’t ever speak to me when I come in the Bow and Fiddle!” He drew in a loud sniff, then wiped his coat sleeve across his nose. “She speaks to other people. I see her!”

  “Why is he doing that?” Thomas whispered.

  “He’s drunk,” Seth replied. And stupid.

  Finally Mrs. Jones, in the pause between the first and second verse, looked out at the congregation and stopped playing abruptly. Miss Sanders walked down the aisle, chin lowered and shoulders set at an angle that suggested she was struggling to maintain control. The young man was content to sob until the pastor put his hand upon his shoulder and said with gentle firmness, “Why don’t you wait outside in your wagon and I’ll drive you home?”

  With a roar of rage the man seized the hand and pulled himself to his feet. “I ain’t leaving till Mary tells me she loves me!” He was drawing his arm back to launch his fist at t
he pastor when Seth jumped up, caught the man’s arm, and twisted it behind his back.

  “Outside!” he whispered fiercely into his ear.

  “You’re breakin’ my—”

  “Now!”

  Still maintaining his grip, he forced the man to turn and head for the door. He let go only when they were outside and the door had closed behind them. The man spun around, crouched down as if to spring, and fixed him with a lethal glare. “I’m gonter kill you!”

  Seth tensed for an attack just in case and hoped the situation would not escalate into a brawl right outside the church door. Raising a placating hand, he said, “You would do better to go home and sleep it off, don’t you think?”

  The door opened before the young man could make good on his threat and Miss Sanders walked out. She did not look at Seth, but he could see where crimson splotches replaced the earlier chalk white color of her face.

  “Please go to the wagon, Dale,” she said in a subdued tone. “It’s time to go home now.”

  “But he broke my arm!” her brother protested with a spray of saliva.

  “Your arm is fine. Please.”

  He motioned toward the door. “Mary …”

  “You embarrassed her, Dale. Please go to the wagon.”

  At last her words seemed to pierce the haze of alcohol. Shoulders slumping with resignation, he turned and wove his way toward the lane where the horses and wagon waited. Miss Sanders finally looked at Seth. “Thank you, Mr. Langford.”

  With a skeptical glance at the wagon, Seth said, “Will he be able to get you home safely? Thomas and I could hitch our animals to the back and—”

  “The horses know the way by now. But again, thank you.”

  It was the same politeness with which she had spoken to him yesterday. But this time he could see that the eyes were different. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, while their liquid depths revealed a painful mixture of humiliation and resignation. He had seen that expression innumerable times in the faces of his fellow convicts at Newgate.

  “Miss Sanders?”

  She had taken a couple of steps away from him but paused and turned to give him a questioning look. Unsure of why he had stopped her, Seth raised a hand helplessly while all he could think to say was, “I’m sorry.”

  Miss Sanders shook her head. “You’ve naught to be sorry for, Mr. Langford. But please explain to Thomas why …” She didn’t finish but made a motion toward her brother, attempting to climb the spokes of a wagon wheel.

  “I already have.”

  “Good.”

  You can’t marry a woman out of pity! Seth told himself, watching the young man snap the reins as she sat beside him with her chin raised and her hands folded in her lap. There were things in the world beyond his control.

  That afternoon as Thomas napped, Seth poured himself a cup of lukewarm tea and pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. He rested his elbows upon the table top and thought about the span of his life. Once he had loved with the whole essence of his being. When that was taken from him, he determined that the damage done to his heart now rendered it incapable of anything but pumping blood through his veins.

  And then came Thomas. It was a different kind of love than what he had felt for Elaine, and yet it brought the same joy and contentment to his every waking moment. He had not purposed or expected to love Thomas in the beginning—only to provide him with a home. God had touched his heart while he was unaware of it even happening. Could He do the same again?

  He took a sip of the tea, now tepid, and looked over at the curtain Mercy Sanders had mended. Even with nothing but a row of neat stitches of thread to prove she had ever been here, the kitchen seemed lacking something vital. Yet a room was not capable of feelings. Was it his heart that missed her? Only two hours ago he had reckoned himself feeling only pity for her, but would mere pity for a human being cause the ache he now felt in his soul as he remembered the sadness in her eyes?

  Father, please … I need some clarity of thought, he prayed. I don’t want to do anything that would ultimately cause her more pain.

  The next morning he prepared a pot of porridge, then packed the lunch pail while Thomas ate breakfast. He was coming from the pantry with an apple in hand when the boy looked up at him, his laden spoon paused over his bowl. “May I have two today, Father?”

  “Two? Certainly.” The apple trees along the creek behind the pasture were as prolific as Miss Sanders had said, and he could have packed a dozen if he had wished. But for Thomas’s small size, even two seemed unusual. Stepping back into the kitchen with another apple, he asked, “Am I not packing you enough food?”

  Thomas’s cheeks turned a faint shade of pink, and he glanced away before replying, “I want to give it to someone.”

  Mr. Raleigh, Seth realized. Of course. He had heard somewhere, or read in a story, that children sometimes brought apples to their teachers. He tossed the apple up in the air and caught it again. “You can bring Mr. Raleigh one every day if you like, Thomas. We’ve more than enough.”

  Oddly, the pink seemed to deepen. Glancing away again, the boy said, “It’s not for Mr. Raleigh.”

  “Oh.” And then Seth caught on. At seven years old? He had to walk over to the cupboard to hide a smile. “What’s her name?” he asked casually when he could trust himself to speak again.

  There was a hesitation and then a barely audible, “Grace Hollis.”

  “She’s nice, huh?”

  The boy nodded. “She showed me her smashed fingernail.”

  Seth’s smile returned at odd hours of the morning, long after the boy had left on his pony’s back for school. He found himself wishing he had someone with whom he could share the exchange that had occurred at breakfast. Mercy Sanders came immediately to his mind. Next to himself, she cared more about Thomas than did anyone, and it would certainly lighten the sadness in her eyes to hear that the boy’s young heart had been captured by a little girl with a bruised fingernail. But of course, it was unthinkable to make any sort of social call next door.

  Yet less than an hour later, he found himself walking the half mile down the lane. He had at least figured out a small way to help her. It was ludicrous of Mr. Sanders to refuse to allow his daughter to ride to and from chapel with him and Thomas when they passed right by their cottage every Sunday. Especially now, after he had allowed her to cook meals at his cottage for seven weeks in a row. And surely upon seeing the condition of his son yesterday, he would be more amenable to reason. She wouldn’t have to worry about being humiliated like that again.

  Over the hedgerow he caught sight of her on the west side of the cottage, hanging clothes upon a line stretched between two posts. A capricious wind whipped wet shirtsleeves and trouser legs into odd flapping movements, while from a kettle nearby, wisps of steam were sent up in all directions. She did not look his way, and he saw no other human outside. Voices drifted from the other side of the cottage door as he drew nearer. He was glad she was outside and knocked lightly so that she would not come to investigate. If he was to be throttled by a horde of Sanderses, he didn’t want her to see it.

  The door was opened by the younger looking of the two boys who had sold him the guineas. After gaping at Seth for a second, he stepped back and motioned to someone out of sight.

  “Well, who is it?” demanded a recognizable voice.

  “It’s me, Mr. Sanders,” Seth replied, taking the initiative and stepping across the threshold. What he saw irritated him immensely. While Mercy Sanders struggled outside with wet clothing, her father sat at the fireplace carving a short piece of wood, pipe in his mouth, and feet resting on a pile of shavings. The oldest three glared at him from the table, with playing cards fanned out in their hands. A pile of cards lying face down in front of an empty chair told Seth that he’d interrupted their game. On the stove behind them, a black pot made soft bubbling noises and sent up the same savory aroma that had permeated his kitchen on a rainy Saturday past.

  Mr. Sanders took the pipe f
rom his mouth. “What do you want?”

  Forgetting the intention of his visit, he said, “I don’t see how any of you can relax with your daughter out there working.”

  The man’s green eyes narrowed. “What’s it to you?”

  “Yeah, what’s it to him, huh, Papa?” said one of the younger boys at the table.

  Returning Mr. Sanders’ scowl, Seth replied, “It just pains me to see someone treated so unfairly.”

  “We done the mornin’ milking already. She’s got her chores, and we’ve got ours.”

  “Well, when do hers stop?”

  “Want us to throw him out, Papa?” This came from Dale, who had made such a spectacle of himself at church yesterday. Two other brothers echoed the question.

  The older man ignored them, but pointing the knife at Seth, he said, “You sure didn’t mind her cookin’ for you all those times, did you?”

  That stung. “I had no idea she was so overworked … and under appreciated.”

  “If you’re so concerned, why don’t you go out there and help her?”

  “Maybe I will.” Seth swept a distasteful glance across all of them, turned on his heel, and left. Behind him the door slammed with such force that his already-pounding heart jumped in his chest. He stalked around to the west side of the cottage, where Miss Sanders now stood holding a wet shirt and stared in his direction. The wind had whipped color into her cheeks and pulled curls from her ribbon to dance about her face.

  “Mr. Langford?”

  “Miss Sanders.” The shirt was an irritation because it belonged to one of the men loafing inside. He took it from her and tossed it into the basket at her feet, admiring his own restraint for not dropping it on the ground. Seth had no idea what he was about to say until the words started spilling out of his mouth. All he knew was that it felt good to say them. “I don’t know that I will ever love you. But your presence in our home is a comfort to me … and to my son. If you still wish to marry me, I’ll treat you kindly and sit with you in chapel as you asked.”

  She stared back at him, unspeaking, for so long that Seth began to worry that her recent cool politeness had been because she had changed her mind. He cleared his throat, which seemed to snap her out of some sort of reverie.