The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter (12 page)

Next year I should plant some sunflowers
, Octavia Kingston thought. In order to keep her morning walks from becoming monotonous, she had six different routes through Gresham and the surrounding countryside. Wednesdays brought her past the iron foundry and the Clark cottage on Walnut Tree Lane, where an abundance of sunflowers raised their heads above a white picket fence to follow the path of the sun. They were such friendly looking flowers—if plants could be assigned personalities.
I know just the spot to put them too
.

She thought about how bitter she had been upon her arrival in Gresham last year. The person she was then seemed almost alien to her now. Norwood, her son, had made the arrangements for her to live at the
Larkspur
. She was a threat to his marriage, he had declared, and must leave his home while he still had one. Being forced from the place where she had lived for over forty years seemed like a death sentence. A horrid picture had loomed in her mind back then, of herself vegetating away in a hired room, with no one to care if she lived or died except for the rent that could be collected. Like old clothes assigned to a trunk in an attic, she felt she had outlived her usefulness.

But the compassion of Julia Hollis had changed all of that. And after being on the receiving end of such compassion, Mrs. Kingston had learned to give it. With the knowledge that her life did indeed matter came a commitment to fill her days with useful activity—which she fulfilled by turning the
Larkspur
’s practically nonexistent flower garden into a showplace.

Yes, I shall definitely plant sunflowers
, she thought, turning her head for one last look over her shoulder. When she did, she caught a glimpse of motion.

Mrs. Kingston frowned. The same thing had happened Monday while she was walking back up Market Lane at the end of her southwestern route.
But why would someone be following you?
she asked herself.
Ridiculous!
Still, the uncanny feeling of being watched would not leave her, and she turned around to stare at the lane she had just walked. A wide elm spread its branches in front of the Clarks’ cottage, more than wide enough to provide a hiding place. Mrs. Kingston looked in all directions to make sure there were no witnesses to the absurd display she was about to make.

“You there!” she called forcefully, pretending an assurance she didn’t quite possess, for she wasn’t totally sure that her imagination wasn’t playing tricks upon her. There was no answer, nor did she see anything amiss.

“I say, you there!” she bluffed again. She shook the head of her walking stick. “I saw you duck behind that tree! You may as well show yourself!”

There was nothing except a curious raise of the head from a nutmeg-colored cat napping upon the Clarks’ porch.

“Surely you’re not afraid of an old woman!” she called, though not so loudly this time, for the foolishness of her actions was becoming clearer every second. When no lurker gave himself up and came forward for a scolding, Mrs. Kingston slowly turned back around and resumed her walk. She was almost positive she’d seen someone. But she couldn’t very well go searching behind trees without appearing even more foolish, if only to the Clarks’ cat. She reached the end of Walnut Tree Lane and turned east onto Church Lane to make her way back to the
Larkspur
. The Worthy sisters were, as usual, sitting under a patch of sunlight in their garden.

“Mrs. Kingston!” Iris called in a voice as soothing as a warm cup of tea. Her gnarled fingers never stopped winding threads around the pins sticking from the lace-making pillow in her lap. “I was just telling Jewel that you should be by soon.”

Jewel nodded her white head as Mrs. Kingston advanced. Her fingers also seemed to move independently of their owner’s thoughts. It occurred to Mrs. Kingston that the sisters could probably spin laces in their sleep if they could find a way to sleep sitting up in their chairs.

“And I told Iris that a body could set his clock by Mrs. Kingston’s walks,” Jewel said in a tone as raspy as Iris’s was soothing. She turned to her sister-in-law for confirmation. “Didn’t I, Iris?”

“You certainly did,” Iris agreed.

Mrs. Kingston smiled. “What are you making now?”

“A tablecloth,” Jewel replied and tilted her pillow so that Mrs. Kingston could admire the pattern. “We’ll block the strips together when all the lace is finished. Someone in Whitchurch ordered it for a wedding gift.”

“Lovely,” Mrs. Kingston declared, eliciting smiles from both wrinkled faces.

“We thought we heard ye callin’ out to someone just a little while ago,” Jewel said in a questioning tone.

Mrs. Kingston sighed. So there had been witnesses to her lunacy after all. She should have known better, for there was little that escaped the notice of the Worthy sisters, situated as they were at the crossroads of the village. With great reluctance, she admitted, “I thought someone was following me.”

The sisters exchanged understanding looks. “Have you considered spectacles?” asked Iris. “ ’Tis no shame to wear them, you know.”

“I don’t need spectacles,” Mrs. Kingston declared crisply and was immediately sorry, for she could see the injury across both faces. “Forgive me. It’s just unsettling to feel like you’re being watched every time you set foot outside.”

“We understand, dear,” Iris told her.

“We felt that same way when Jake Pitt used to watch us from the
Larkspur
’s window,” Jewel added.

Mrs. Kingston was opening her mouth to say that surely the sisters didn’t still believe in that ghost story when a new idea shoved all thought of the old knife sharpener from her mind. Without glancing back down the lane, she leaned closer to the cushion on Iris’s lap and pretended to examine the lace. “I wonder if you ladies might do me a favor,” she whispered while trying to keep her lips immobile.

“What is it, dear?”

“MY GOODNESS! YOU SHOULD BE SPINNING LACE FOR THE QUEEN!” Mrs. Kingston exclaimed, then whispered, “Don’t look to your left, but I’m
convinced
someone has been following me.”

The sisters exchanged glances, and for once both sets of fingers slowed their spinning. “What does he look like?” Jewel whispered.

“I don’t even know who he is. Or if it’s even a ‘he,’ ” she said in a low voice. “I FEEL SO FOOLISH NOW, THINKING THAT SOMEONE WAS FOLLOWING ME. ONE WOULD THINK I WAS LOSING MY MIND. WELL, IT’S BEEN GOOD CHATTING WITH YOU, BUT I MUST RESUME MY WALK.”

“But aren’t you finished walking, dear?” asked Iris.

“He’ll stop following me if he thinks I’m finished,” Mrs. Kingston hissed through a gap in her lips. “Would you mind paying notice if anyone of a suspicious nature comes down the lane shortly?”

Jewel’s eyes grew alive with excitement. “Spy on him, you mean?”

“Yes. Only act natural, so he doesn’t suspect anything. I’ll come back later.” With a farewell wave she turned right at the crossroads instead of her usual left and made her way down Market Lane. She resumed her usual brisk pace, pausing occasionally to exchange greetings with customers leaving the greengrocer’s and to admire the geraniums in the window boxes of the
Bow and Fiddle
.

Finally she decided she should go back home, lest her follower find it suspicious that today’s walk was longer than usual. When she came upon Mr. Trumble sweeping the stoop of his general shop, post office, and bank, she stopped and announced in a voice clear and loud, “I suppose I should buy some peppermints, Mr. Trumble, since I’m finished with my walk and am now on my way back to the
Larkspur
.”

She waited an hour before slipping out to visit the Worthy sisters. Both faces lit up as she drew closer.

“Remy Starks,” Iris said in a conspiratorial whisper, as if Mrs. Kingston’s follower still lurked nearby.

“He come strollin’ past soon after ye left, pretty as ye please with his hands in his pockets,” Jewel added.

“Remy Starks?” Mrs. Kingston shook her head. “But who is he?”

“The squire’s boot boy,” Iris replied. “Odd little man, I hate to say.”

Chapter 8

Though the use of torture had long been outlawed in Great Britain, to the convicts of London’s Newgate Prison the treadmill was almost as debilitating as the rack had been to their predecessors. It only took longer for the treadmill to wear a man down, both physically and mentally. The nasty device consisted of a wide iron cylinder made to revolve by marching around the steps fixed to it. Wooden panels separated each man from sight of his neighbor, and to his front was only another panel to stare at for six hours at a time. Fill the convict’s day with the most useless activity imaginable, and he will be too weary and disheartened to cause trouble was the philosophy behind the treadmill’s invention.

For ten years now, thirty-one-year-old Seth Langford had marched those steps daily. To keep himself sane, he mentally recited the Scriptures the Wesleyans taught in Sunday chapel. And toward the end of every six-hour session, he would tally anew the “miles.” One step of the treadmill represented one linear foot, and taken at one step per second meant sixty feet per minute, thirty-six hundred feet per hour. Which added up to over four miles daily. During his ten-year confinement, Seth figured he had walked to China and back.
And uphill all the way
, he thought, lifting his foot again.

He became aware that the steps were becoming more and more difficult to take, which meant that one of the guards was tightening the screws to bring the device to a halt. Yet it seemed much too early for the lunch break. Turning to look over his shoulder was against the rules and could result in a jab in the small of the back with a club, so when the treadmill came to a dead stop, Seth stayed in place and stared at the panel in front of him.

“You! Langford!” came a voice behind him. Seth recognized it as belonging to Mr. Baker, one of the more decent guards. He turned his head to give him a sidelong look and waited for further instructions.

“Major Spencer wants to see you right away,” the guard said, motioning for him to step down. Seth had no choice but to obey, yet he did so with a terrible sense of foreboding. A summons from the warden could only mean bad news. Yet he couldn’t recall having done anything to deserve punishment. Oh, he had raised a row upon his arrival ten years ago, but when several guards explained to him, using their clubs for emphasis, that such behavior would lengthen his sentence, he settled down. They neither believed his protestations of innocence, nor cared, he realized. The best a man could do here was to serve his time quietly.

“Do you know why?” Seth asked Baker while holding out his hands for manacles. The guard shrugged but gave him a wry smile.

“Allst I know is there’s a woman in there wi’ him.”

Immediately Seth’s pulse jumped.
Elaine!
But it couldn’t be so. He had lied to her when she tried to visit after his sentencing, claiming that he no longer loved her. Still, his heart clung to enough feeble hope that it gave a lurch when he was ushered into the warden’s office and she wasn’t there.

He did recognize the woman in spite of her black veil and clothes of mourning. It was Lady Esther Hamilton, wife of his former employer, Lord Arthur Hamilton. Seth had been head groomsman on their Kensington estate until accused of stealing a gold and ruby brooch from Lady Esther’s boudoir.
Lord Hamilton must have died
, he thought with no emotion.

“You may release his chains,” Major Spencer said from behind his desk to the guard. “And wait outside the door.”

Baker complied immediately, though with a disappointed droop of the shoulders at being excluded from the meeting. As he held out his wrists again, Seth darted another glance in Lady Hamilton’s direction. Two men sat on either side of her. The young one at her right looked vaguely familiar.
Benjamin?
he thought with wonder.

His last memory of young master Benjamin had been of a small face pressed against the glass of an upstairs window. Seth had happened to look up in that direction from the courtyard through the bars of the police wagon. He had locked eyes with the lad, and then the face disappeared.
He’s grown so
.

The warden nodded toward a chair beside his desk, six feet away from the visitors. “Please have a seat, Mr. Langford.”

Mr. Langford?
As he obeyed, Seth felt his eyes sting at this small measure of respect directed toward him after so long. He stared at the floor, resisting the urge to wipe his eyes with the sleeve of his grayand-white-striped prison shirt.