The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter (46 page)

Faces became red as the argument escalated between the captains, with several older team members joining in from each side. But Gabriel, standing off to himself and staring at the ground again, had the most crimson face of all.

Don’t cry
, Philip silently urged, for even from several feet away he could see a suspicious tremble to his friend’s bottom lip. That would be the ultimate humiliation, one Gabriel would never live down.

“The rules don’t say anything about having fat people on teams,” Whitby persisted. He turned long enough to send Gabriel a glance of ultimate scorn. “It isn’t fair.”

“Hey, perhaps we could use him for the ball!” one wag offered, which brought roars of laughter from both camps.

As Philip watched Gabriel’s face flush even deeper, he reminded himself of what had happened the last time he’d taken up for him. He wanted to play cricket, not run laps around the grounds.

“You’d break your arm tryin’ to bowl that one!” another hooted.

“But I’ll wager he’s a good roller. Hey, Moby Dick. Show us how you can roll, will you?”

With that insult Philip reached his saturation point. Fists clinched at his sides, he stepped out between the two opposing captains, and when the laughter sputtered down enough for him to be heard, he said, “He’s not an animal, you know.”

A stunned silence fell. “What did you say, boy?” Whitby, his own team captain, demanded.

“He’s brighter than the lot of you.” The stares and smirks of those surrounding him were intimidating, but Philip did not back down. “He hasn’t done anything to any of you, so why don’t you leave him alone?”

In no way did Philip believe his admonishment would be seriously considered, so he was quite prepared for the laughter that began all over again. What mattered was that Gabriel no longer stood alone in the dubious spotlight, and that Philip wouldn’t have to be haunted with guilt days later over not having done anything to help his friend.

One boy stepped over, his face full of venom, and shoved Philip’s shoulder. “He ain’t brighter than me, infant!”

“What’s going on here?” came the adult voice of Mr. Morley. “Why aren’t you ready to start?”

“Just choosing sides, sir,” Whitby replied with a look daring Philip to add anything. Not that Philip would. It was one thing to threaten to tell the headmaster about being dragged out of bed to hold candles so Westbrook could line his pockets, but this incident wasn’t worth getting the reputation as a taleteller. “You there!” Whitby called to Gabriel, as if that had been his plan all along. “You’re on my team.”

It would have been an outstanding turn of events, Philip thought later as he washed his face in the lavatory, if Gabriel would have turned out to be the best player on either team. Or even a capable one. But nervousness and inexperience combined caused him to be put out both times at bat. Their teammates had treated the loss of the match as if it were Philip’s and Gabriel’s fault, even though Philip had scored sixty points, and Lowry, on the opposing team, turned out to be no more skillful than Gabriel.

“They’re only words,” Philip reminded Gabriel as they studied later that afternoon on Gabriel’s bed. They were the lone occupants of their dormitory. On the grounds another cricket match was going on between two more new teams, but neither boy had any inclination to attend and be subject to more derisive comments from their own teammates. “They can’t hurt you if you don’t allow them.” Even as he spoke he knew that wasn’t true. Words could indeed sting and bite, but he had no other consolation for his friend. A tentative smile then came to Gabriel’s round face.

“You were so brave out there,” he said admiringly. “I wish I could be like you.”

“And I wish I had your writing talent,” Philip returned, steering the subject away from what he had done on the cricket field, for the scorn of his teammates didn’t serve as a pleasant memory. “Are you working on anything right now?”

“A short story.” He held up his notebook briefly. “It’s another fantasy. About three cousins who lose their way in some dense woods and stumble upon a field in which air currents lift them up and they can fly. Only no one believes them.”

“No one ever believes children in stories. I wonder why?”

“I don’t know, but their grandfather is the most critical of all. He’s bitter and unpleasant to be around, you see, because he was an army officer and lost both legs.” His forehead furrowed. “I’m not sure where, though. The Crimea?”

“That war started about seventeen years ago, so it would fit. Are you going to have them bring their grandfather to the field?”

“In his wheelchair. And against his will.”

“I like that,” Philip nodded. “Will he scold them the whole way there?”

“And threatens to box their ears and all sorts of other punishments,” Gabriel answered. “But he forgets about that when they reach the field and he discovers he can fly. His legs won’t grow back, of course, but he has his grandchildren bring him there almost every day.”

“Will the other adults believe them now?”

Gabriel smiled again. “They think the grandfather has gone senile. So now the cousins and the old man share a secret, and he loses his bitterness.”

“That’s a good story,” complimented Philip. “May I read it when you’re finished?” He wondered if perhaps the reason Gabriel liked to write fantasies was because his own life was so restricted. It was good, he thought, that his friend had that means of escape, if only in the mind.

“I would be honored.” Gabriel was fairly glowing now. “Perhaps I’ll even copy it again, and you can bring it to your sister Aleda when you visit home.”

“She’d like that.” The mention of Aleda’s name led to talk of Gresham. Having seldom ventured from the walls of his family estate, Gabriel drank in stories of village life like a thirsty wayfarer. And it did Philip’s heart good to relate them, for they lessened the pangs of homesickness for a little while. He told of fishing with Ben and Jeremiah, of watching the Irish children gather reeds along the shallow shoreline of the Bryce, of his collection of ancient marbles from atop the Anwyl, the upcoming marriage of his mother to the vicar, and even of the night Mr. Clay dressed up as a ghost to cure the Sanders brothers of tipping over the Keegans’ shed.

“I wish I could live there,” Gabriel said dreamily.

I wish I could too
was Philip’s immediate thought.

“Let’s go,” Seth whispered to Thomas on Sunday when the last strains of the closing hymn, “There Is a Fountain,” had been sung. After discovering that speculation over his past was providing fodder for the village rumor mill, he was more determined than ever to guard their privacy zealously. At the door he gave a quick handshake to Reverend Seaton, again politely turning down his invitation to have supper one night with his family. “We’re still quite busy fixing up the place,” he explained, for the reverend was a good sort and Seth didn’t want to offend him.

He and Thomas were headed for the wagon when a male voice from behind called, “Mr. Langford?”

Seth turned and recognized one of the elderly men who had been in the
Bow and Fiddle
his first day in Gresham. He had noticed him occasionally in the congregation, but since he always left early they had not spoken. “Yes?”

Skirting a puddle from yesterday evening’s rainstorm, the white-haired man caught up with him. “Are you finding your new home to your liking?” he asked.

“Yes, very much,” Seth replied, anxious to be on his way because now more people were outside, and he certainly didn’t want to be drawn into any conversation. But manners and a respect for the man’s years constrained him to ask how he was fairing.

“Good, now that the rain is let up.” The man tapped his knee. “Hard on the rheumatism, you see.”

“I’m sorry.” He really was.

“Oh, could always be worse, couldn’t it?” Reaching out a gnarled hand, he said, “By the way, I’m Amos Worthy.”

“Seth Langford,” Seth said, although unnecessary because Mr. Worthy had called him by name. “And this is Thomas.”

The weathered face creased with a grin. “And a fine boy too.” To Seth again, he said, “I wonder if I might have a word with you privately.”

Oh no … what’s happened now?
Seth looked down at Thomas. “Go wait in the wagon, will you?” When the boy was gone, he asked, “What’s wrong, Mr. Worthy?”

“Wrong? Why, naught that I know of.” The elderly man glanced toward the wagon and lowered his voice. “I seen you taking the boy to school mornings and bringing him back afternoons. Just wanted to see if you’re in the market for a pony. Didn’t want to get his hopes up if you wasn’t.”

Seth rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He had never even considered that Thomas could bring himself to and from school, because he thought the boy still too young to manage a horse. But a pony, well, that was worth thinking about. “You’ve one for sale, Mr. Worthy?”

“Not me, but my nephew. Good gentle animal. His son outgrew him and now prefers a horse. Why don’t you give ’im a look after you take the boy to school tomorrow?”

“I’ll do that.” After finding out the location of the farm where the animal was for sale, Seth reached out to shake the man’s hand again. “Thank you.”

“Oh, ain’t nothing.” Now Mr. Worthy looked a little embarrassed. “That time you was in the
Bow and Fiddle
… you knew we was just havin’ some fun with you, didn’t you?”

Seth smiled. “I was pretty ignorant, wasn’t I?”

“Oh, we’re all green at some time in our lives. It’s good to hear you ain’t gave up on a horse farm. Just ’cause folks been getting them from Wolverhampton all these years don’t mean they
like
havin’ to go there. You’ll have yourself a tidy business one day.”

That was the most encouraging news Seth had heard in weeks. If anyone knew about what would be successful in Gresham, it would be someone who had lived here for decades. When they had parted company, there was a lightness to his step as he went to join Thomas. The boy did not ask why he had been sent away, and Seth was grateful for that. He didn’t want to get his hopes up before having a look at the animal, and besides, it would make a nice surprise.

He had taken up the reins when he noticed that most worshipers had left the tiny stone church. “There’s the cake lady,” the boy said in his ear.

In spite of wanting nothing to do with the Sanderses, Seth looked. The young woman sat in Reverend Seaton’s carriage on the other side of his wife.
They’re bringing her home
, he realized. Because he was the last to arrive and the first to leave, he had never noticed. Not that he cared anyway, he told himself, but he did feel a bit guilty knowing that the good minister had to make the weekly trip when he himself lived only a stone’s throw away from her cottage and could easily bring the wagon to and from chapel.

It has nothing to do with me
, Seth told himself, flicking the reins so as to put some distance between them and the carriage. He had no desire to stare at their backs all the way home. But even when they were out of sight, his conscience refused to ease up on him.

An hour later, he and Thomas cleaned the kitchen after a lunch of tinned pork and fried eggs. When Seth recently discovered that the greengrocer also sold eggs, he had decided he was not so eager to purchase chickens and possibly repeat the guinea mistake. After mulling it over, he reached a reluctant compromise with himself. Nothing on earth could persuade him to call at the Sanderses, but he would not leave quite so early next Sunday after the service. If it appeared that Miss Sanders needed a ride home, he would offer it. And then they could discuss his collecting her on Sunday mornings as well—as long as she waited outside, where he wouldn’t be forced to have contact with any of her family.

Chapter 28

“There, now! Let’s have some order, shall we?” Jonathan Raleigh addressed the boys in the back row of the classroom, who continued with their conversation as if he had never spoken. He raised his hands and his voice. “Silence, if you please!”

The classroom chatter ceased—for all of two minutes.
If only you were here, Mrs. Hollis!
He wished now that he had gotten on his knees and begged her not to desert him, but his pride had gotten in the way of his good sense, and now he was reaping the consequences.

Even some of the younger students, not so bold as the fifth and sixth standard boys but impressed with how they were getting away with misbehaving, began whispering behind hands to their neighbors.