The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter (38 page)

“Miss Sanders,” Mrs. Kingston said after offering her a peppermint, which she was too nervous to accept. “May I call you Mercy? It’s such a lovely name.”

“I would be honored, ma’am.”

“Very well, Mercy. God has brought you to my mind many times since we spoke last month. May I ask how you are faring?”

“Faring?” Mercy fidgeted under the scrutiny of the penetrating blue eyes. “Very well, Mrs. Kingston. Thank you.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Yes, ma’am.”
Compared to those without food or shelter, or suffering from some disease, I live a charmed life
. She had to remind herself of that often lately, lest God think her terribly ungrateful.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” Mrs. Kingston said. “But I wish you to know that I’m very moved by what I’ve heard about your tenderness toward your elderly neighbor, may God rest her soul. Most young people don’t seem to have time for those of us who are getting along in years. If there is ever any way that I can help you, will you promise to tell me?”

It was staggering to think that God cared enough about her to move upon another woman’s heart, as He had Mrs. Brent’s, to offer some maternal solicitude. Mercy’s heart felt as if it were welling up in her chest. “I will, ma’am. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, dear child.” She touched her wrinkled cheek. “Oh … but I should tell you that I’ll be away for almost a fortnight. Vicar Phelps will be here to borrow the landau shortly. He’s bringing his daughter Laurel to school in Shrewsbury and will drop me by the railway station. I’m going to visit my son and his family in Sheffield.”

Now Mercy recalled her saying she was going out of town. “You must be looking forward to it.”

“Oh, very much. It’s been over a year since I’ve seen them. I expect my grandchildren have sprouted like weeds. My son asked me to come three or four months ago, but I was afraid it was too soon.”

“Too soon, ma’am?” Mercy asked and then regretted it, for a shadow crossed the woman’s face.

“I used to be quite … overbearing.” She shook her head to ward off Mercy’s protest. “It’s true, Mercy, though it pains me to admit it. Thank God I was brought to realize what a tyrant I had become before I lost my family altogether.”

Mrs. Kingston then waved a hand. “But life is learning, is it not? And there is a secondary purpose to my journey. I want a certain gentleman to see that just because I allow him to call upon me occasionally doesn’t mean I pace the floor waiting for his next visit.”

Mercy had to smile. She almost felt as if she were chatting with Mrs. Brent again. “Is this the same gentleman who caused you to alter your walks?”

“The very same.” Mrs. Kingston leaned closer, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. “Are you good at keeping secrets? I’ll tell you his name if you’ll keep it to yourself.”

“Cross my heart,” Mercy said solemnly and did so.

“Squire Bartley.”

Eyes widening, Mercy breathed, “The squire?”

“He doesn’t look the romantic sort, does he? But I tell you there is some poetry behind that grumpy facade. He just needs the right woman to bring it out.” She actually winked. “And I perceive myself to be that right woman.”

Feeling she would be doing the dear woman disservice if she didn’t voice the little nag of doubt that tugged at her mind, Mercy said respectfully, “You don’t worry he’ll become discouraged, do you? With your leaving and all.”

“That’s a very good question, my dear. It could happen, but I’m willing to take that risk. I have come to realize that there is nothing more attractive to a man than a woman who is comfortable with her own company and isn’t dependent upon him as her only source of gratification.”

“Yes?”

“But of course.” Mrs. Kingston sat back and folded her arms. “Yet here I am rattling on about myself and my plans. Please forgive my self-centeredness.”

“Oh, but you’ve been very kind to me,” Mercy assured her.

“It isn’t kind to cultivate a friendship just so one will have an audience. Now, tell me what is going on in your life.”

“My life? Why, nothing.” Actually, her life was busy from sunup to sundown, but with nothing that could remotely be considered interesting to someone as worldly wise as Mrs. Kingston. She was saved from having to reply by the sounds of Dan and Bob pulling the wagon up Market Lane. She rose from her seat, smiled, and said, “My brother’s on his way. I pray you have a pleasant journey, Mrs. Kingston.”

Mrs. Kingston returned her smile. “It was most pleasant chatting with you, Mercy. Please remember that you’ve a friend here at the
Larkspur
.”

As the horses paused in the lane, Dale screwed up his face and growled out to her, “Papa’s gonter be sore about you visitin’ that old woman and making us late like that.”

Mercy, lifting the latch to the gate, winced.
Maybe she didn’t understand him
. After all, the time he’d spent in the
Bow and Fiddle
had put a slur to his words.

But then an indignant voice remonstrated from behind her, “It wasn’t your sister who caused you to be late, young man! And if you blame her I’ll come out there and tell your father the truth!”

Dale flicked the reins with a vengeance the second Mercy was in the seat beside him. She just had time to give Mrs. Kingston a grateful look before the horses started trotting up the lane.

How did she come to have so much courage?
Mercy wondered. Not just to reprimand her brother or to face her father about the boys’ schooling, but also to act upon her convictions, for it certainly took courage to risk losing the affection of the squire by leaving town.

Mrs. Brent had courage as well. She faced dying without a whimper
. That caused her to wonder if age had anything to do with it, but then she considered her father. For all his bluster, he was a coward. As sad as that realization was, it gave her some hope. If courage wasn’t a standard result of aging, it meant that the young could somehow acquire it as well.

Oh, Father
, she prayed meekly, for it was still an incredible thing to her that she could approach the throne of God.
Please grant me courage
.

Their father was working in the back pasture, so there was no ranting at either of them for keeping the wagon so long in town. Smug with having gotten away with something, Dale called Fernie and Oram over to unload the wagon while he slipped inside the cottage for a smoke on his pipe before returning to chores. He was full of himself and information at the lunch table later.

“You know that fellow at the Brent place? Folks say he broke out of prison and is hidin’ from the law.”

Harold grinned and opened a mouth already stuffed with pork pie to say, “I heard that too.”

“Did anyone offer any proof?” Mercy asked while slicing bread.

“Proof enough.” Dale held up tobacco-stained fingers to count his arguments. “He was all doughy-lookin’ when he got here, like he ain’t seen the sun in a long time. And he had a lump of money in his pocket, the likes of which that Mrs. Pool ain’t never seen.” Holding up a third finger, he said, “And last of all, he buys a place way out of the way. And he don’t go anywhere.”

“He goes to chapel,” Mercy argued. True, Mr. Langford wasn’t the most sociable neighbor, but this was ridiculous. “How many escaped prisoners go to church?”

But that argument apparently fell on deaf ears, for the next comment, which came from Oram, had nothing to do with church. “He’s a stupid ’un, that’s for sure.”

This brought chuckles from Jack and Edgar, and a smirk from Fernie. Mercy, weary of attempting reason, shook her head. It was her father who asked, “Why do you say that?” He spoke not in the manner of one who is defending an innocent person, but with the anticipation of one who is hoping for more gossip.

“Oh, I can just tell,” Oram replied after receiving a warning look from Fernie.

Those two have been up to something
, Mercy thought.

“He’s gonter raise
horses
,” Harold snorted, rolling his moss green eyes. “That oughter be proof enough. And with a cheese factory in spittin’ distance buyin’ up all the milk!”

“Stupid,” Fernie laughed.

“Yeah, stupid,” Edgar echoed.

God help us
, Mercy prayed.

Chapter 23

“Was she excited?” Julia asked Andrew in the garden that same Friday afternoon. They sat in their customary places at either end of a willow bench, as if the tea tray still occupied its proprietary spot between them. Having delivered Laurel to school, Mrs. Kingston to the railway station, and then Elizabeth back to the vicarage, he had come straight over to the
Larkspur
. Julia suspected he needed some consoling, but after having reasoned with her that she should allow Philip to grow up, he was reluctant to admit it.

“Oh, you know Laurel,” he replied, returning the wave of Mr. Blake, the Rhodeses gardener, who passed pulling a hand cart of firewood. “Eager for a new adventure.”

“Just like Philip,” Julia said.

“They’re cut from the same cloth, those two.” But then Andrew’s hazel eyes filled with sadness and he mumbled, “ … from the same cloth.”

Julia reached over to touch his sleeve. “It’ll be all right, Andrew.”

“It will?”

He looked so much like a small boy who has just been reassured that Father Christmas would not forget his address that Julia had to smile. It would be pointless to remind him that she would see her son only once monthly until the Christmas recess—the fact that her situation was more severe did not make his any easier to bear. “She’ll be home next weekend.”

“Yes. Thank you for reminding me. But I’m afraid Elizabeth will be lonesome for her during the weeks to come. I don’t like the idea of her being lonely when Jonathan Raleigh is in town.”

That reminded Julia of something. “Perhaps if she stays busy she won’t have time to think about Mr. Raleigh. I must tell you what Mr. Ellis asked me this morning.”

“Yes?”

“Because of some of the artifacts Mr. Ellis and Mr. Pitney have uncovered, the Archeological Society has upgraded the importance of the Anwyl’s ruins. They’re to receive funds to hire a secretary to organize their notes and catalogue their findings. Mr. Ellis asked if I could recommend anyone, and I mentioned Elizabeth.”

Andrew arched a doubtful eyebrow. “Elizabeth? A secretary?”

“Women are being hired as secretaries all the time these days, Andrew. Or at least they were before I left London, and I doubt if that has changed.”

“The world is changing too fast for me,” he sighed but smiled. “She might find this interesting work. It won’t require her actually climbing the hill every day, will it?”

“Not at all. In fact, she would be doing this at home. Why don’t you and Elizabeth come for supper, and you can both discuss it with Mr. Ellis?”

“Thank you, Julia. It would be good for her to have something to do besides pay calls with me.”

The sound of hooves clattering upon cobblestone drew their attention to the lane, where a carriage was slowing to a halt outside the gate. It was Squire Bartley’s barouche.

“I thought the squire held a grudge against you for stealing his cook,” Andrew leaned closer to whisper as they watched a footman in full livery hop down from the back to assist the elderly passenger.

“I didn’t steal his cook,” Julia whispered back. “It’s not me he’s here to see.”

“Oh?”

They both got to their feet as the squire swept through the gate held open by that same footman. He held a bouquet of pink hothouse roses in one hand, a silver-tipped cane in the other. The well-cut black double-breasted jacket and top hat were far too elegant for the simple tastes of Gresham’s inhabitants, but none would have expected any less of their squire.

“Mrs. Hollis,” he said, hooking his cane over his left elbow to take her offered hand and bow over it.

“Squire Bartley,” Julia replied. “How are you?”

“Most excellent, thank you.”

“Will you join us?” asked Andrew as the two men shook hands.

“Actually, I’m here to see Mrs. Kingston. I assumed she would be tending the garden this time of day.”

After exchanging a quick glance with Andrew, Julia said, “She left for Sheffield this morning.”

“Sheffield?” He could not have looked more stunned had she slapped him. “What for?”

“She has family there,” Andrew answered for Julia.

“I’m well aware of that,” the elderly man said, a bit testily. His brow was so furrowed that both bushy white eyebrows had blended into one. “How long will she be away?”

“A fortnight, Squire,” Julia replied.

A pink stain, almost the color of the roses he held, was beginning to spread upward from the squire’s collar. “Well, why didn’t she inform me? Was it a family emergency?”

Recalling that Mrs. Kingston had spoken of her plans to visit her family no less than a week ago, Julia began to suspect that Mrs. Kingston was being coy with Squire Bartley so he wouldn’t take her for granted the way he had the women of his younger courtships. But she certainly couldn’t tell that to the elderly man in front of her. Before she could offer some meager reply, Andrew came to her rescue.