The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter (30 page)

Mr. Pitney, who seemed to be turning as introverted as Mrs. Hyatt was outgoing lately, lifted a finger. “I beg your pardon?”

All eyes shifted to his end of the table, which of course caused a blush to stain his cheeks. “Yes, Mr. Pitney?” said Mrs. Dearing.

“The potato.” He dropped his fork on the floor, bent to pick it up, and emerged more red-faced than before. “Oh … thank you,” he said to Sarah, who appeared at his side to supply a clean fork. Everyone else at the table busied themselves with their food, pretending not to notice while still maintaining a posture of alertness.

“What about potatoes?” Mrs. Kingston asked kindly. “Are you fond of them too, Mr. Pitney?”

“Why, yes.” He looked at Mr. Durwin. “But, begging your pardon … they’re actually indigenous to South America, or more specifically, Chile and the Andes.”

“Do tell, Mr. Pitney?” This came with raised eyebrows from Miss Rawlins, who seldom spoke to the young archeologist.

“Why, yes, Miss Rawlins,” he replied, straightening in his chair. “They were brought back to Spain by explorers in the late 1500s.”

“Mr. Pitney is indeed correct,” Mr. Ellis said while chewing.

Philip leaned closer to Julia and whispered, “Mother, may I ask a question?” When she nodded, he turned back to Mr. Pitney and said, “But how did they get to England?”

Mr. Pitney smiled at the boy. He was clearly more at ease speaking with Philip than with Miss Rawlins, in spite of Mr. Pitney’s obvious infatuation with her …
or perhaps because of it
, Julia thought.

“Sir Francis Drake brought them over from Colombia. What’s interesting is that the Spaniards most likely had introduced them there from their explorations in Chile. So the potato has a history of crossing the ocean more than once.”

“Fascinating,” Miss Rawlins declared, and others murmured agreement. The bliss on Mr. Pitney’s face caused Julia to fiddle with her napkin in order to hide a smile.

Later in the hall, though, when Mr. Ellis and Mrs. Kingston had persuaded Mr. Pitney to expound on the methods used by the Romans and Celts for baking bread, she noticed Miss Rawlins cover a yawn—and then another. Mr. Pitney must have noticed, too, for he excused himself to go upstairs as soon as possible.
And then again, love can be a real burden sometimes
, Julia thought.

Chapter 18

Three weeks later on Monday, August twenty-ninth, Jonathan Raleigh sat in the back of a hired coach and chewed on a fingernail—a nervous habit he had acquired of late.
I should have written first
, he thought. But of course he had no doubt that the letter he had sent last year had ended up in Reverend Phelps’s fireplace.
And how can I blame him? I would have done the same had I a daughter so mistreated
.

“Elizabeth, please don’t hate me,” he said under his breath, staring vacantly out the window at the passing countryside.
Hate the man who chose the cesspools of life over your love, yes, but understand that man no longer exists
.

He picked up a Bible from the seat beside him. His Grandfather Hastings had presented it to him only seven months ago, and the leather cover was already showing signs of wear around the edges.

“
He will have compassion upon us; He will subdue our iniquities; and thou wilt cast all their sins into the depths of the sea
,” Jonathan read silently from the seventh chapter of Micah. It was of great comfort to him that God had consigned all memory of his earlier wicked ways to ocean’s depths on the day he committed his life to following the Lord. But of course the consequences of his past actions still remained to haunt him.

Perhaps she’s married now
, he thought, and not for the first time. She would deserve an honest, God-fearing man with no vile past to come between them. But he was selfish enough to hope that wasn’t so and that she still harbored some love for him.

Cottages and gardens began to take the place of pastures, and the surface of the road changed abruptly. All too soon the coach came to a halt. “The
Bow and Fiddle
, sir,” the driver said, opening the door. “Gresham’s onliest coaching inn.”

Jonathan was led to an upstairs room by an innkeeper who identified himself as Mr. Pool. “We don’t get many overnight patrons,” the man said, pausing at a door and opening it. “From this room you can look out at th’ Anwyl.”

“The Anwyl?” Jonathan asked.

“Yes, sir.” Mr. Pool pointed toward a window at the far wall. Even from the doorway Jonathan could see the greens and brownish-reds of a steep hill. “Didn’t you notice it on your way up?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t,” Jonathan replied, but then circus elephants could have passed by his coach’s window without his notice. “This room will be fine.”

“Care for some tea whiles you unpack? Ale, perhaps?”

Nervousness and the strain of his travels had brought on a great thirst. For just a split second the thought of downing a mug of ale was tempting. But he had only to recall the night that Vicar Phelps had caught him inebriated and in the company of a sergeant’s wife in Cambridge, and the tea suddenly sounded better. “I’m in a bit of a hurry, so I’ll have some tea in your dining room instead. Could you tell me how to locate Reverend Andrew Phelps?”

“The vicar? Just look for the steeple of Saint Jude’s when you’re outside. The vicarage is but a stone’s throw behind it.”

The tea was served to him by the innkeeper’s wife, a thin, sharp-featured woman. “Paying a call on the vicar, are you?” she asked while pouring milk into his cup.

“Yes,” Jonathan replied. He sipped his tea, then assumed the reason she was still hovering at his table was to see if it was satisfactory. “It’s fine, thank you.”

“You must not be a relation, or you’d be stayin’ at the vicarage.”

Her tone of voice made it more of a question than a statement. Jonathan didn’t rise to the bait but gave her a slight nod before taking another sip of tea.

“I s’pose you know he’s got two daughters—one about your age.”

Pushing out his chair, he said, “I’m sorry I haven’t time to finish the rest, but it was good.” He noticed from the inn’s courtyard that indeed the steeple of a church rose above the treetops. Heading toward it down a road that went east, he happened upon a school building where two workmen were constructing something of metal piping and wood in the yard. A dozen or so children and adults had gathered to watch. Jonathan returned the nods of greeting some gave and searched the faces. He was relieved when none proved familiar. Though he had dreamt of this day for a year now, he still had to fight a strong impulse to turn and sprint for the safety of the
Bow and Fiddle
.

Please give me a chance to have my say before he slams the door, Father
, Jonathan prayed silently.
And please … if I could at least see Elizabeth’s face today
.

He turned up a lane and a pleasant cottage came into his sight, settled on a knoll behind a wooden fence and garden shaded by a couple of giant oaks. With his stomach in knots, he crossed the garden to the porch and knocked on the door. It was answered by a young maid wearing a brown dress, white apron, and frilled cap. “Yes, sir?” she said with a welcoming smile that reassured him a little.

Jonathan cleared his throat and fought the temptation not to give his name. “My name is Jonathan Raleigh. May I speak with the vicar and Miss Phelps?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but the vicar is out making calls. But he shouldn’t be away too long on account of Miss Phelps being ill.”

His heart lurched in his chest. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, just a head cold, sir. Mr. Raleigh, is it?”

“Yes,” he said after a sigh of both relief that her illness was not serious and disappointment that he would have to wait still longer to see her. “But of course I’ll call again when Miss Phelps is well.”

“Is there any message you’d like me to give her?”

“No, thank you. Just that I called.”

The maid disappeared from his sight, leaving the door partly open. Jonathan stood there wondering if she had misunderstood him. He was just about to turn to leave when the space was filled with Elizabeth’s form.

“Donathan?” she called in a clogged nasal voice. Her nose was red, her eyes puffy, but she could have smeared her face with mud and looked beautiful to him. Jonathan’s knees turned to butter, while his voice betrayed him and would not function.

Elizabeth seemed to be battling some emotion herself, for she stared for several seconds before speaking. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to tell you how sorry, how much I wish I had never—”

“You hab to go.”

“Elizabeth, please …”

“My father will be home any minute. Go back to Kensington, Mr. Raleigh.”

“I live in Cambridge again. My uncle’s law firm—”

“Cambridge, then.” Her brown eyes filled with recrimination. “You should nebber hab come here. Go away now.”

It was no different than what he’d expected, but disappointment still surged through him like a fever. Raising a hand in the hopes that she wouldn’t close the door until he’d had at least enough time to plead his case, he said, “I’ll leave if that’s what you really want, Elizabeth. Just tell me … is that what you want?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation.

The word was like a knife through his heart.
What are you doing here?
he asked himself, suddenly aware that he must be the most foolish man in England. “Very well,” he replied in a thick voice. He had traveled so far and still possessed just enough feeble hope to add, “But your name has been in my prayers every day for the past seven months, Elizabeth. If you could see my heart, you would know how truly sorry I am … and how much love I have for you.”

He became aware sometime during the course of his impassioned words that his eyes were wet. He did not move to wipe them for fear that she would think he was attempting to manipulate her with theatrics. But amazingly, he could see tears quivering upon her bottom eyelashes.

“Elizabeth?”

She looked away for the briefest of seconds. “My father would die before allowing me to see you. Go away, Jonathan.”

When Jonathan found himself facing a closed door, he stared at it until he realized it wasn’t going to open again. With a heavy heart he turned. It was as he walked across the garden that he found a small measure of encouragement.
“My father would die before allowing me to see you,”
she had said. The focus had shifted away from
her
not wishing to see him to her father’s wishes. Did that mean she still felt something for him?

Please, God, let it be so
. Even if she did still care and could see her way to forgive him, there still remained a formidable obstacle in the form of her protective father.

“Are you all right, miss?”

Elizabeth opened her eyes and focused them upon Dora, then moved away from the door upon which she had been leaning. “Yes, I think so.”

The maid stared skeptically. “That man—he upset you? Shall I send Luke to find Vicar?”

“No. Please.” She blew her nose into the handkerchief. “I just need to lie down for a while.”

With Dora’s assistance Elizabeth went upstairs to her room. She lay on her side on top of her bed, insisting that she did not need cover. Seconds later, though, she felt a quilt being smoothed over her. Elizabeth curled up under it and tried to forget that her first instinct had been to fly into Jonathan’s arms.
Paul is a decent man, and I love him. It’s the future that I have to think about, and he can provide a stable one for me
.

Just a short while later she heard footsteps bounding up the stairs. “Elizabeth!” came Laurel’s voice from the doorway. Elizabeth opened her eyes reluctantly.

“Yes?”

Her sister hurried to the bedside. “I just saw Jonathan Raleigh outside the
Bow and Fiddle
!” Leaning closer, she said, “You’ve been crying?”

“Miss Laurel!” Now Mrs. Paget stood in the doorway, her arms folded across her ample chest and Dora looking over her shoulder. “Let your sister rest. She’s not feeling well.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Paget … Dora,” Elizabeth told them, raising her head and smiling weakly to show her gratitude at their concern.