The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter (54 page)

“I know that, Papa,” she assured him. “But it says a lot that he hasn’t given up, doesn’t it? He doesn’t need the salary.”

“It says volumes, I have to admit.”

It did not seem right talking about Jonathan in light of what she had come to say, so Elizabeth made an abrupt change of subject. “And your other calls?”

Her father blew out a long breath. “Well, of course Mrs. Ramsey and her mother are always a blessing. But the wife of one of the cheese factory workers had asked me after church to call today. When I arrived, she wanted me to pray over her three-year-old son. She and her husband had just discovered the boy was left-handed, and she wanted a miracle from God to ‘set him right.’ ”

“What did you do?”

“I read to her from the book of Judges about the army made up of seven hundred left-handed men from the children of Benjamin. The part about their ability to sling stones at a hairsbreadth and not miss seemed to console her.”

“You always know the wise thing to say, don’t you, Papa?”

He gave her a little smile and touched the open Bible upon his desk. “I’m wise enough to know where to look for answers,” he replied. Then he cocked his head a little, his hazel eyes studying her intently. “But you didn’t come in here to inquire about my visits, did you, Beth?”

“No, Papa.” She shook her head. “It’s about Paul.”

“I see. So you’ve decided to break it off with him?”

“How did you know?”

“You haven’t exactly acted as if you looked forward to his coming tonight.”

Elizabeth nodded guiltily. In fact, she’d gone through the whole week with a growing sense of dread. She had agreed with Mrs. Hollis that she should wait two weeks to allow herself enough time to think, but she could not be more certain than she was now. The thought of having supper with him tonight as if it were any other night was too much. She would only be delaying the inevitable. “How do you feel about this?” she asked her father.

“Beth, it’s not important how I feel. This is your future that will be affected. I just have to ask if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure, Papa.”

“No regrets later?”

She shook her head.

“Then it’s best to get it over with tonight.”

Even though she had told herself the same thing all day, the words sounded so harsh. “How should I go about it?”

“I don’t know, Beth. I never really courted anyone before your mother. And, thank God, we never wavered in our affection for each other.” He paused thoughtfully, scratching his beard. “But I would suggest that you allow him his supper first. It’s likely that he won’t feel up to eating for a good while afterward. May as well get one of Mrs. Paget’s good meals down him.”

That plan also sounded cold. “Do you think I’m cruel, Papa?”

A warm smile eased upon his face. “I think you’re an angel. This happens all the time, Beth. But if you end up marrying him out of pity because you can’t bear to break his heart, you’ll be doing him no favor. In fact, you would be cheating him.”

“Cheating him?”

“Of a marriage with someone who truly loves him. Some young woman is waiting in his future. While Mr. Treves’ pain will be acute, it is nothing compared to the pain of an unhappy marriage. I’ve seen too many of them.”

A great sense of relief came over Elizabeth. Her father understood. She was not a monster for not loving Paul. “Thank you, Papa. Now I just have to think of how to tell him.”

He nodded, his expression serious. “I believe tonight the ten-minute rule needs to be waived. You can bring him in the parlor after supper alone. Some things shouldn’t be rushed.”

Paul arrived an hour later, looking handsome as ever in his gray suit. If he had a clue as to what was coming, it did not show in his face or in his appetite, for he ate heartily of Mrs. Paget’s braised lamb. Elizabeth, however, picked at her food, occasionally meeting her father’s eyes across the table. When supper was over, her father excused himself, saying he had some things to attend to in his study. He shook Paul’s hand outside the dining room door, clapped him lightly on the back, and moved on down the corridor.

“Why don’t we sit in the parlor?” Elizabeth asked Paul, who was still staring bemusedly down the corridor at the retreating figure of her father.

“Huh? Oh yes.”

The temptation was strong to take one of the chairs when they entered the room, so they would be forced to sit apart. But she wanted no regrets, and just because she didn’t love him didn’t give her the liberty to treat him like an animal. She took her place on the sofa, and as expected, he sat next to her.

“This is hard to believe,” he said with a glance at the door she had closed behind them. “Your father isn’t concerned about our being alone in here?”

“No.”
Get it over with
. “Paul, I have something to tell you.”

“Yes?” Paul studied her face. “You aren’t still angry over what we talked about last week, are you?”

“No. I’m not angry at all.”
This would be much easier if I were
.

He took the news well, considering that he had planned to spend his life with her. After the initial look of hurt showed in his eyes, he simply rose to his feet and started for the door. “When you come to your senses, you’ll know where to find me” were his last words. After the last hoofbeats had faded into the night, Elizabeth went again to her father’s study.

“Well, it’s over,” she said bleakly from the doorway. While she did not regret her decision, it seemed the parting had been more traumatic for her than for him.

“Already?” Her father got to his feet and came around the desk to gather her into his arms. He held her that way for a little while, then stepped back to look at her. “Are you all right?”

“I … I think so.”

“How did he take it?”

She told him of the initial hurt in his expression and then his parting shot. “It was as if he was more angry than hurt.”

“That’s to be expected,” he nodded. “His pride was wounded.”

“Should I write him a letter? Apologize for hurting him?”

“Do you want him back?”

She did not even have to think about it. “No.”

“Then let’s not rub salt into his wounds,” he said gently.

“My father is very ill,” Jonathan practiced under his breath the next afternoon while slumped at his desk, drained of every ounce of strength. He was grateful none of those little heathens had brought a snake to school today! But as usual, he had had to stay constantly on his toes to maintain even a semblance of order.

His conscience forced him to discard the excuse that involved his father. First, it was a lie, and secondly, it seemed to be tempting fate. “How about … my parents miss me?” But they didn’t. In fact, his mother’s last letter, after several paragraphs questioning his sanity, had made mention of an iminent holiday in Brighton.

“My health is beginning to fail me.” That one had a ring of truth, but not enough to keep it out of the “falsehood” category.

“Why not the truth?” he muttered, staring down at fingernails chewed to the quick. “I’m sending my resignation because I’m a failure.”

He had conversed in such a manner with himself almost every day lately and knew deep inside that he would stick it out another day. Each day was one more closer to when Miss Clark would be well enough to take over the reins. When she did, he decided he would send her the largest bouquet of hothouse roses ever seen in Gresham.
But then what excuse will I have for staying?

With the sigh of someone weary beyond his years, he got to his feet and went to a window. Some children still lingered in the school yard, mostly to play upon the merry-go-round. It wasn’t that they were all unruly, but the handful that
were
caused an atmosphere of disrespect in the classroom that was becoming unbearable.
How can I get them to respect me, Lord?

If he approached the school board with the threat to leave unless certain students were expelled, no doubt they were desperate enough to give him his way. But then he would be admitting to the whole village that he couldn’t manage children. Pride was a sin, he well knew, and he was finding it a far more difficult one to overcome than his past debaucheries.

Even in his despondent state, he found himself smiling at the sight of two young boys engaged in a pretend battle with invisible arrows and bows of sticks. He could recall the excitement he felt when presented with a real archery set on his eleventh birthday. By the time he made it to Cambridge, shooting arrows was second nature to him, and he was voted captain of the archery team at the start of his second term—the youngest ever to hold that position. It was a shame, he thought, that the school did not have an archery team. It would teach the older children a whole lot more about important things, such as self-discipline and setting goals, than a merry-go-round did.

The idea seemed to seize him from nowhere. Or at least it
seemed
like nowhere for the first few seconds, until Jonathan realized it could have only come from God. Why could Gresham School not have an archery team? True, he would not be schoolmaster for the whole year, but if he got one started, by the time Miss Clark took over, surely there would be enough excitement that someone in the village would volunteer to take his place. There must be at least one person in the whole of Gresham who knew enough about archery to keep a team going. If not, he could train someone willing to learn. Perhaps that would even take several weeks, thereby giving him an excuse to stay in the village longer.

And only the students who could discipline themselves in the classroom would be allowed to join. It would be an honor society, a reward for those students like Aleda Hollis and Ira Johnson, who actually came to school to learn. And hopefully, it would provide motivation for the troublemakers to mend their ways.

He grabbed his hat from a hook on the wall near the chalkboard, brushed off the inevitable chalk dust, and headed for the door. As he walked toward
Trumbles
with his hands in his pockets, he heard whistling and realized a fraction of a second later that it was coming from his own lips.

There were three school children purchasing candy in the shop. They mumbled shy greetings to Jonathan as they turned from the counter to leave. “What might I do for you today, Mr. Raleigh?” Mr. Trumble’s voice greeted him above the tinkle of the bell.

Jonathan smiled. He had become fairly well acquainted with Mr. Trumble during his three weeks in Gresham. The shopkeeper was always ready for a chat when the loneliness of living at the inn became overwhelming. “How would I go about getting some archery equipment?”

“Same as you get anything else that ain’t right before your eyes. I send down to Shrewsbury for it—for a small commission, you understand.”

“I understand. How long would it take?”

“Not more than two days.” Mr. Trumble leaned upon his counter. “Plan to do a little hobbying?”

Shaking his head, Jonathan was grateful for the opportunity to get a reaction to his idea. “I’d like to organize an archery team at school. For ages ten and up, I should think.”

“Do tell? Sounds intruding.”

Does he mean intriguing?
Jonathan wondered. “If I give you a list of equipment, will you order it for me?”

“I’ll send an order down with one of the cheese wagons in the morning.” Mr. Trumble angled his head thoughtfully. “Pardon my acquisitiveness, but don’t you have to get the board’s approval before you spend that much money?”

“It’s my own money.” Jonathan shrugged self-consciously. “My family is wealthy.”

“Do tell? Then why are you teachin’ school, if you’ll pardon me again?”

“Sorry, my friend, but that’s a long story.”

And the principal character in that long story, it turned out, was coming down Market Lane toward the shop when Jonathan walked outside. Though he saw her every Sunday from his back pew at church, this was the closest he had been to her physically since his first day in Gresham. His senses immediately took leave of him, for he stood rooted to the spot as he watched her approach. Her steps faltered, as if she were deciding whether to make a retreat. But then she lifted her chin slightly and continued.

“Hello, Elizabeth,” he said when she was some six feet away.

“Good day, Mr. Raleigh.” She did not even look at him while giving the cool reply but had fixed her eyes upon the door to
Trumbles
as if it were Mecca and she a pilgriming Arab.