The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter (51 page)

“May I offer you a ride home? I’ve brought my wagon today.”

Stunned, she sought Mrs. Seaton’s eye again, but the minister’s wife was still fussing with her son’s coat. It would be wonderful not to impose upon the pastor and his family for a change. For the sake of propriety, Mrs. Seaton always had to come along, and because their children were too young to be left alone, they as well.

Janet and Elliott had ceased attending chapel after Mrs. Brent’s funeral, and besides, they no longer lived in the cottage nearby. Mercy’s father, resentful of the time she spent away from her chores those few hours every Sunday, refused to allow any of her brothers to drive her there or fetch her. “That’s very kind of you,” she managed.

Five minutes later she was seated next to Mr. Langford with Thomas following on his pony. “He loves to ride any chance he gets,” the man explained as they started out.

“Then why did you bring the wagon?” was out of Mercy’s mouth before good sense could prevent it. Her face grew warm. “I’m sorry, that’s none of my business.”

Strangely, he seemed even more embarrassed by her question. Staring straight ahead at the horses, he replied in a quiet voice, “It seems unreasonable for you to have to depend on Reverend Seaton when I pass right by your cottage.”

For just a second she was overwhelmed that he should be so thoughtful of her when they were practically strangers, until reason told her he was just trying to spare the good reverend some inconvenience. That did not cause her any disappointment because she was used to being taken for granted.

They rode in silence, with the only sounds being the rattle of wheels and the steady, dull
clip-clop
of hooves upon the road. Occasionally Mr. Langford turned to look over his shoulder at Thomas.

“I can stop for you on Sunday mornings too,” he said at length.

This offer almost brought her to tears, even if it was actually to benefit someone else. “Thank you, Mr. Langford. It has been difficult being beholden to the Seatons, even though they insist, when there is no way I can repay their kindness.”

“You’re welcome.” The rugged lines of his face actually softened with a smile for the fraction of a second, though his eyes were still on the road ahead. “Besides, I’m actually beholden to you. The cake you delivered made tinned foods more palatable for a while.”

“You mean you liked it?”

“Why, very much.” Mr. Langford eyed her curiously. “Didn’t your brothers tell you?”

Mercy shook her head.

“Oh.” He frowned. “You must think me terribly ungrateful.”

Actually, I did
, she thought guiltily. “I should have known, Mr. Langford. My brothers …” She could not finish without complaining about her family, so she merely shrugged. “I’m glad you enjoyed the cake after all.”

“Very much,” he repeated. “Thank you.” “You’re welcome.”

This led to another spate of silence. They were turning onto the dirt roadway of Nettle Lane when Mr. Langford asked, “Did you know Mrs. Brent?”

Now Mercy smiled. “Yes. She was my friend.”

“She left so many of her belongings in the cottage.” He paused briefly, as if considering if he should continue. “I feel a little guilty using them. Had she no family?”

The world was her family, even though she saw so little of it
, Mercy thought, her throat thickening with remembrance. “Her husband passed away fifteen years ago. They had no children.” Impulsively she added, “You mustn’t feel guilty, Mr. Langford. She left those things for you.”

He looked at her. “For me?”

“And Thomas.”

The mention of the boy’s name caused Mr. Langford to send an instinctive glance back over his shoulder. Then his eyes settled upon Mercy again. “But she didn’t even know us. Or that we were coming, for that matter.”

“I know.” Mercy absently lifted a hand in an attempt to explain. “Mrs. Brent was closer to God than anyone I ever knew. She was convinced that God had instructed her to leave most of her belongings for the people who would live in her cottage after she was gone.”

“I don’t know what to think,” he said after a thoughtful hesitation. “She must have been a remarkable woman.”

“Very remarkable.” Mercy felt tears sting her eyes and turned her face from him to blink them away. The silence resumed, and soon Mr. Langford was reining the horses to a stop outside her cottage. Before she could tell him that it wasn’t necessary, he had hopped down and was walking around to her side of the wagon.

Leaving a wagon was quite different from exiting a carriage, especially for a woman. One had to step into the back and then over the side to the top of a wheel, using the spokes as a sort of ladder. Mercy had just stepped over the side, keeping her skirts modestly around her ankles, when she felt his hand clasp her elbow while another took her hand. With his support, her descent was much more graceful than usual, and she thanked him when both feet were secure upon the ground.

“You’re welcome, Miss Sanders.” Another smile softened his expression while Thomas, who had been waiting behind, nudged his pony closer. Mercy took a step forward to stroke the animal’s muzzle.

“She’s all mine,” the boy said, pride overcoming his timidity.

“She’s very nice,” she told him. “What’s her name?”

“Lucy. When I can ride a little better, I’ll be taking her to school myself.”

“How wonderful.”

For those few seconds Mercy forgot that she was standing in front of her father’s cottage. It seemed as if the space surrounding the boy and pony had become an entirely different world—a comfortable one where people said gentle things to each other. But reality invaded that world in the form of a slamming door. She glanced to the right and saw Harold heading in their direction.

“Papa says we’re waitin’ on dinner, Mercy!” he called.

Mercy sent him a nod, and he headed back for the house, his innate laziness dictating he walk no farther than necessary. Turning back to Mr. Langford and Thomas, she said, “Thank you again. I’ll be waiting out here next Sunday so you won’t have to come to the door.”

To her relief, he didn’t argue. “Good day, Miss Sanders.” Thomas sent a wave from the back of the pony, which Mercy returned. She could hear them both making their way home as she walked to the cottage. The door jerked open when Mercy was only three feet away from it and out stalked her father. He snatched his pipe from his mouth at the sight of her.

“What’s this I hear about you ridin’ home with thet Langford fellow?” he demanded, sending a hard look toward the lane. “What happened to thet preacher?”

“Nothing, Papa,” Mercy reassured him as the last remnants of the serenity she had felt minutes ago dissolved. “Mr. Langford offered me a ride home, since he had to pass by anyway.”

His green eyes narrowed. “I’ll not have it, girl!”

“Not have what?”

“Thet Langford fellow thinkin’ he can court you!”

This was too much, even measured against her father’s past outrages. “It was just a ride home, Papa. And his son followed on his pony.”

“I tell you, I’ll not have it, Mercy! Thet man ain’t the sort decent folk keep company with.”

“That’s ridiculous, Papa!” she protested, standing her ground. “Mr. Langford is a decent man. And he goes to
chapel
, which is more than I can say for some people!”

“And if I’d escaped from prison and stole some money, I’d do the same. Who’d think to suspect—”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.” She tried to move past him, but he sidestepped to block her way.

“Don’t you walk away from me, girl!” he said, grabbing her arm. Even though she could muster up the nerve to argue with him occasionally, Mercy dared not shake her arm loose. Abruptly his voice became solicitous, and his forehead furrowed with what appeared to be concern. “I’m just lookin’ out for you, Mercy. Talk is he won’t tell nobody what happened to his wife. He could ha’ kilt her, for all we know about him.”

The charge was ludicrous, but it was pointless to attempt to reason with him. The best thing she could do now was to steer the subject away from Mr. Langford and hope that her father’s anger would cool down during the coming week. “I still have to cook dinner, Papa,” she said calmly.

He released his grip upon her arm. “All right, then. But you can forget about riding around with thet Langford fellow. If you’re so determined to go to thet church and leave yer chores, one of your brothers’ll deliver and fetch you.”

We’ll talk about it later
, Mercy consoled herself as she replied with an affirmative nod. Tomorrow evening perhaps—after she had baked his favorite blackberry tarts for dessert. For now she had kitchen duties to attend. She had learned long ago to prepare quick dinners on Sundays after chapel. If her father became
too
cranky at having to wait for his meals, there was always the chance he would forbid her to attend the services at all. She quickly pulled on an apron and put on some sausages and cabbages to boil. She sliced some cold roasted potatoes to fry in a pan with a little bacon grease, and an apple pie she baked yesterday was ready for dessert. She had also learned long ago that the barest meals would be forgiven if the dessert was ample. Thirty minutes later the table was set, and seven hungry—if somewhat reproachful—faces were busy with the task of devouring forkfuls of cabbages, sausage, and potatoes.

She noticed the unusual quiet a little later when she went outside to toss out the pan of dishwater. Sunday was another workday to her father and brothers, yet she could neither see nor hear any sign of them.

Just then her ears picked up a recognizable sound—her guineas in a state of agitation. Propping her dishpan against the base of a young plum tree, she hurried around the side of the cottage. Jack and Edgar had stationed themselves at opposite ends of the yard and were chasing them back and forth, flapping their arms and roaring like wild animals.
There’ll be no eggs tomorrow!
Mercy thought.

“Edgar! Jack!” she called above the din. She was forced to call twice again before they noticed her and ceased. She did not ask them why they delighted in causing such torment, for what reason could they give? At least she had given the birds a chance to escape in the direction of their coop, where no doubt they would huddle for the next couple of hours.

Her brothers, both red-faced and panting, only looked annoyed at having their sport interrupted. This infuriated Mercy even more. “You just remember how spiteful you were when you’re eating porridge at breakfast in the morning!” she scolded.

“Aw, Mercy,” Edgar whined between puffs of breath. “I don’t like—”

“Then it’ll be a good lesson for you. Why should you get eggs when you mistreat the guineas?” Before either could protest further, she looked around and asked, “Where is Papa?”

Pulling a sour face, Jack replied, “He said we had to stay here. That weren’t fair!”

“The others got to go,” Edgar grumbled.

“Go where?” asked Mercy as foreboding began to chill her skin.

“We ain’t supposed to tell you,” he replied, but the glance he sent to the east, in the direction of the Brent cottage, told the whole story.

“But I
do
like tinned beef, sir,” Thomas insisted as Seth handed him a pewter tumbler to dry. “We had it every Sunday at the Home.”

“And you’re not tired of it by now?” Seth asked. He rather liked sloshing the dishes from breakfast and lunch around in hot sudsy water and the exchange of conversation the task provided as they worked together. For some reason he was in an especially cheerful mood today. “Be honest, now.”

The boy looked up at him while waiting for another dish. Though his face had filled out a bit and he had acquired some color, it still wore traces of the waif he had been. “Not at all, sir. Especially with that … red gravy.”

“Ketchup,” Seth corrected, smiling as he handed over a fork. Thank God for Mr. Trumble’s pointing out the jars of red sauce upon one of his shelves—six pence each with the buyer’s word that the jar would be returned. A dairyman’s wife had started her own enterprise, allowing Mr. Trumble to sell her excess canning on consignment, and he had said it was catching on because the recipe was so time consuming. It did mask some of the tinny flavor of the beef and pork. “Well, now that we know we like it, we’ll stock up—”

His words were cut short by a pounding on the front door that rattled the windowpanes even in the kitchen. Giving Thomas a curious look, Seth took the towel and dried his hands. “You’d best stay in here,” he ordered on his way through the door leading into the parlor. The pounding did not abate until he swung open the door and found the Sanders clan scowling on the opposite side.