My Dear Sophy

by Kimberly Truesdale

  The people dearly loved their curate, too. The little hamlet kept him on his feet with an endless round of births, marriages, and deaths. Each of these he observed with the appropriate weight of custom, never scoffing at the small village's traditional ways of marking each occasion. Indeed, Mr. Croft had entered quite enthusiastically into every new thing.

  And the curate loved his people as they loved him. Harding Croft was a man ideally suited for his pastoral duties as curate of Preston-Bowyer. He was a man ready to enter into every sorrow or joy with the people around him. He was the first to laugh and the first to cry. He was not afraid to ask for help and took great joy in helping others. He loved his wife and children dearly and always had time to bounce his sons on his knee or, when they had learned to talk, listen quite intently to their childish jabberings.

  He was not, however, a very good disciplinarian. That was Maria's job in the household. As a mother, she had learned to set aside some of her own impulse toward levity and indulgence in favor of a necessary sternness when the boys needed it. They must learn to be well-mannered. But, what was more, their mother hoped to teach them kindness and compassion. By and large, she was successful at this task. Her children grew up with a sense of laughter and justice. And all of them were instilled with the idea of service out of love; they found it no hardship to help the people around them, and to do so with an open heart.

  Their compassion also made the children keen observers of those around them. Like their parents, they could quietly recognize a fellow human in need and decide how best to help. Charity was not an easy thing, but they found a way to make it palatable.

  The Croft children eventually numbered three. Conrad had followed Robert and Geoffrey by only a few years. By the time Connie had been born, the previous rector of Milverton had retired and Reverend Croft had been promoted to the larger parish. Though Preston-Bowyer was only a mile away, and still under the purview of his new duties, the Reverend had felt the change keenly. A new curate would move in to the hamlet and assume primary pastoral care for his people.

  But the sadness of parting did not last long, such was the nature of the Croft family, led by their parents to believe the best of all situations. The move to Milverton was an opportunity for the Reverend to tend an even bigger flock, to love them as he had loved the hamlet. Milverton took to the young family as readily as had Preston-Bowyer. It was hard to resist Reverend Croft's open spirit and loving good-nature. One could frequently hear his booming laugh ringing out over the village like the bells of his church.

  Connie had missed the sound of his father's ready laughter. And he had missed the patience of his mother. He smiled to himself, only now appreciating what patience truly meant. Sailors could act a lot like unruly children and it was often difficult as captain to act the patient parent. Connie realized that his mother must have been part saint to have raised three boys.

  Connie had been only a lad himself when he'd begged his parents to send him to sea. His young imagination had been captured by the newspaper's tales of naval actions in faraway lands, of victories attained for England, of acclaim won for man and ship. Connie had learned all a twelve year old lad could about the Navy and dreamed up the rest. He had dropped hints of his naval ambitions at every opportunity, relating the tales he had learned, and generally trying to convince his doubting parents that he knew what he wanted to do with his life, even as such a young man.

  And eventually he had worn them down. His mother had not been entirely convinced, feeling that her youngest son was still too young to set out in the world by himself. But when her husband had brought her a letter from an old school friend – now a chaplain aboard a naval ship of the line called the Baron – who had offered young Connie a berth and the opportunity to begin his training, Maria had shrugged her shoulders and told her son he would have to make the best of it. In private, she had been more worried. But with his usual good temper, the Reverend had convinced her that she need not worry so much about her son. He was a strong-minded lad and if he thought he knew what he wanted, they should let him try it. He could muddle through for a few years at least and leave if he wanted to.

  That had been fourteen years ago. And while Connie had missed his family, he'd found a new one on board ship. His easy temper and desire to learn had endeared him to everyone. He'd quickly become an excellent sailor and risen swiftly in the ranks, making first lieutenant at the age of twenty. After some valiant deeds in action last year, he'd finally been given his own command – a frigate called Pleasant. Connie smiled to himself as he thought of it. The Navy had certainly had a laugh over that name.

  Now the Pleasant was docked in the port at Watchet and Connie was on his way back to those parents he loved so well. He could not wait to surprise them.

  Connie's reverie was interrupted by a cheer from a group of sailors near the foremast at the front of the ship. By the time he had made his way to the group, they had broken out in a merry song. Some sailors were even doing a jig across the deck.

  “What's the occasion for such merriment?” Connie asked the men, his baritone voice carrying even across the raucous singing.

  A young sailor by the name of Fitzhugh answered him without ceasing his jig, “Smithy's finally going to ask his girl to wed him, captain!” Another cheer went up among the men on deck. Connie smiled. Their enthusiasm was catching.

  Able Seaman Alex Smith – known as Smithy to differentiate him from the four other Smiths on board – looked at his captain with a smile at the same time a fierce blush rose to his tanned cheeks.

  “Is this true?” Connie asked the sailor, raising one eyebrow with the question.

  “Yes, sir, it is.” The seaman waited for his captain to say something. The others had grown quiet also.

  “Well...” Connie paused to consider his words, letting the men stew in the tension. “Well... congratulations, man! It's about time.” Connie smiled broadly and clapped the man on the back, as a cheer went up and the singing resumed. He wished Smithy much domestic bliss and then walked back to the wheel.

  Connie had worked for many things in his twenty-seven years, but aside from one grand (or so he had thought at the time) love affair at the age of twenty-two, he'd never much bothered with women. He had focused solely on his advancement in the Navy. Sometimes he felt a keen pang at the lack of a wife, like now, when he saw his young sailor so happy. Smithy would spend his week dreaming of his girl and, finally, marrying her, while Connie would go to visit his parents. He anticipated the visit with all the love in his heart, but how much better would it be to return home to his parents and to a beloved wife? But where in the world would he ever meet a woman he might love? He doubted it would ever happen.

  Connie shook his head, clearing himself of the slight melancholy that had overtaken him. There was no time for that now. He had a ship to prepare for a week at anchor and a surprise visit to his parents to plan.

  Chapter III

  Sophy was very full of cake.

  It was early Wednesday afternoon and she had finished her usual round of visits to the families and friends of Milverton and Preston-Bowyer. She had made these visits for as long as she could remember. The families loved to see her each week. People like old Mrs. Coombe, matriarch and grandmother of a very large family, who used Sophy's weekly visits as an excuse to put on her best dress and eat three pieces of cake. This woman had the gout, which made her movements very painful. Sophy was glad to bring her a little sunshine every week.

  But she did always leave Mrs. Coombe's feeling heavy with all she had eaten. It was impossible to refuse the woman, though. She did like so much to entertain her guests.

  And Sophy liked to be entertained. These people brought sunshine into her life, too. They were all an extended family. She loved to share the small joys of family life with them. She was happy to listen to the children tell her about what they had learned at school. Or to hear the women share recipes, in amongst the gossip and tall tales they loved to trade. Sophy did not have m
any vices in life, but she loved to listen to stories, to hear others talk about their lives and those of their ancestors. And so – to her eventual regret – she was guilty every now and again of being a gossip. But every time she chastised herself, some juicy bit would come along to tempt her again. It was an endless cycle. And one she was not trying too hard to break.

  What would Mr. Hollingson think of such wanton disregard of the precepts she had learned from birth in the bosom of the church? Sophy's heart skipped a beat and a gentle blush rose to her cheeks at the thought both of her transgression and of Mr. Hollingson.

  Mr. Joshua Hollingson was the curate of the small parish of Preston-Bowyer, a short walk down the road from Milverton. He had come to the town five months ago, having taken his orders. By all accounts, he was doing wonderful work so far. The ladies she visited liked to tell Sophy this with a wink in her direction. They had spotted the curate's attentions toward her and had started to tease her.

  It hadn't hurt that Mr. Hollingson was a handsome young man at the start of a promising career. He was tall without being too thin – like most of the previous young curates Sophy could remember. Though he stayed clean and well-groomed, he let his hair fall naturally over his forehead. He did not affect any of the current popular styles. But even from behind his hair, he had kind eyes and was always ready with a smile, which he proffered every time he saw Sophy.

  She was in the habit of stopping by the parish house after her weekly visits. Her stated errand was to come have a “proper visit” and teach her brothers some manners. But in the past month the boys had had their own conversation and left their sister and their tutor to a semi-private chat.

  Reverend Croft, claiming that he had run out of things to teach the Wentworth boys, had handed his two pupils over to Mr. Hollingson almost as soon as the young man had arrived in town five months ago. Mr. Hollingson, being just down from Oxford, the Reverend had declared, could teach the boys more than he had in his arsenal of knowledge.

  Sophy knew the truth, however, and loved Reverend Croft for his caring and tact. The truth was that the Reverend had done everyone a favor. In handing over the sons of one of Milverton's most respected families, the Reverend had publicly declared Mr. Hollingson's worth to the community. He had also provided the young man a good source of extra income. In addition, the Reverend had let her father out of the potentially awkward confusion of transferring his son's studies to a new tutor, one better able to prepare them for the rigors of academic study at a university.

  In their weekly conversations, it had become clear to Sophy that Mr. Hollingson knew and appreciated his good fortune. But he bore it quietly, knowing any outward show of elaborate thanks would embarrass all involved. Instead, he passed along the good fortune to everyone he could. He seemed so passionate about his vocation. And the community had accepted him quite readily. There was already talk of young Hollingson replacing Reverend Croft when he chose to retire.

  But all of this was not what made Sophy blush when she thought of him. It was a feeling she hadn't yet taken the time to name. Perhaps it was happiness. Perhaps it was... the first bloom of love? She had no experience with the feeling and so could not quite comprehend it at the moment. She only knew that she felt very aware of herself and her actions when he was around, a not unpleasant feeling.

  These reflections carried her all the way to Mr. Hollingson's doorstep. She heard the sounds of her brothers' argument even before she could knock at the door. Sophy sighed quietly to herself, a rueful smile playing over her lips. What was she going to do about them? Perhaps Mr. Hollingson would have an idea.

  She knocked and was summoned into the house. Her attention went immediately toward her brothers, who seemed to be arguing over some point in their lessons. So she was taken by surprise when she looked toward Mr. Hollingson and saw the expression on his face. He was standing by his chair with an overwhelming smile beaming in her direction. It spoke of hope and excitement. Well beyond the excitement he showed anyone else.

  She had not expected that look. Not at all. It made her breath catch in her throat. She knew he esteemed her for her connections to the parish, but that look spoke of something more. It blinded her for a moment, made her stop breathing. It was a look of such joy and it was directed at her. She had to take a moment to remember where she was.

  So many thoughts rushed through her mind. Could it be that Mr. Hollingson felt something for her? That smile she had never seen before – on anyone. No, she was wrong. She recognized that smile, though it took her a moment to remember where. There was a reason she knew what it meant, a reason it had hit her so palpably.

  She remembered seeing her father look at her mother that way. Her mother had taken them away on a journey to visit her parents. Occupied with his duties in Milverton, her father had not gone with them. When they had returned three weeks later, her father had been waiting. And he had looked at her mother like Mr. Hollingson had looked at her. The way a man looks at a woman. The way he looks at his wife. Sophy couldn't stop her answering smile to Mr. Hollingson. Her heart leaped into action again, now speeding away with her. How was she to sit quietly and converse after she had seen that look? No, it was impossible.

  Sophy stopped halfway to the chair Mr. Hollingson had offered her.

  “You know, I have been sitting for a very long time. Perhaps you would not object to a long walk? It is a little hot, but nothing that we cannot handle, I am sure.” Her voice sounded too loud and rushed, as her smile turned into a nervous grimace.

  Still standing, Mr. Hollingson agreed. “Yes, that sounds like a wonderful idea. We have been inside arguing all morning and it is time to air ourselves out a bit.” His voice sounded steady and assured.

  The boys needed no further convincing. Lessons were over! They took their freedom quickly, lest it be as swiftly revoked. As they sped outside, Sophy laughed at their haste and followed them. She paused on the porch, as Mr. Hollingson stepped out beside her and pulled the door closed.

  “I believe I shall venture forth into the world without a hat today, if my impropriety does not offend you, Miss Wentworth.” He spoke overly formally and with a laugh in his voice that also twinkled in his eyes.

  Sophy could not resist his good humor. “Only if you will not balk at a lady who deigns to follow a gentleman's example.” She was already untying the strings of her bonnet. They both laughed and Sophy was aware again of his attention toward her.

  Smiling broadly, Mr. Hollingson made a slight bow and offered Sophy his arm. She made a dainty curtsy and took the proffered arm with alacrity. In the laughter and mock formality of the moment, Sophy did not realize that they were now quite alone together.

  Sophy enjoyed the pleasant echoes of laughter as they stepped off the front step and turned in the direction the boys had run. The two young men were already out of sight, but Sophy could still hear them up ahead. Thankfully, they seemed to have forgotten their recent academic spat and were overwhelmed with the simple joy a scholar feels – no matter what age he may be or how dedicated to his studies – when a master dismisses lessons early. It was the joy of sudden and unexpected freedom.

  Their master seemed just as excited as the boys about those extra minutes of freedom. Sophy looked at him and noticed that the smile had not yet left his face, though it no longer seemed to be directed at anyone in particular. Mr. Hollingson seemed content with everything in the world.

  Sophy was also quietly content. There did not seem to be a need, a pressure to converse with her companion. They had now been a minute alone and no words had passed their lips. It was an unusual situation for her, Sophy realized. Even when she was mending at her window, she was rarely alone and silent. She loved talking with people and they loved talking with her. And there always was so much to share. Indeed, it sometimes amazed her how much there was of news even in their small town. Something was always happening. And someone always needed to be cared for. If not her own family then one of the many families she visited.

&nb
sp; Sophy realized that even her times alone walking between visits or running errands around the town, even these times had lately not been her own. She was always anticipating, planning what else needed to be done. Every moment lately – in many years, truly – had been about someone else.

  And yet here was Mr. Hollingson. He was not demanding her attention or prodding her with some problem he needed help solving. He did not need tending in any way, actually. He was simply walking at her side, enjoying the world around him. He hadn't even looked at her as they walked. He was looking ahead, eyes toward the path in front of them.

  Sophy turned her gaze in the same direction. She had grown up running these pathways and hills. But her companion was new enough to see them with fresh eyes. He had never seen the beautiful colors of the changing season or the silent whiteness that descended when it snowed. One could look out over the whole valley or up at the hills and see sheets of white in the winter or green in the summer time. Some of it was farmed and some of the land was allowed to lie fallow. The patterns of these fields on the hillsides changed from year to year. And yet it seemed a slow change. Like everything else in Milverton.

  Sophy had climbed the hills many times in order to see her town from above. It was cradled in the soft arms of the hills, no startling irregularities of shape. The whole valley was slowly rocking in a cradle, happy to doze on the edge of sleep for as long as time would allow.

  Even the stream next to the path where they were walking seemed to move only at its own leisure, softly tugging on low-hanging tree branches and gently propelling anything that happened to float down to its surface. Sophy saw a downy bird feather being pushed along. She wondered how it would be to float along that way, not caring about anything. She would simply allow the water to take her where it wanted to go.