The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter (59 page)

“What are you doing out here?”

Gabriel, who seemed to be concentrating with all his might on staying vertical and in motion, panted in reply, “Pushed Westbrook down.”

“No!”

“Didn’t mean to.” Six gulps of breath issued before he could continue. “Stood in my face … and called me hog … because … I brushed against his trunk.” He dredged up and let out another six lungfuls. “Knocked his ink jar to floor … was accident … everyone laughed at me.”

“Oh no.” Philip, now used to running fast to get the punishment over with, was finding it difficult to adjust to Gabriel’s slower pace. But of course he could not in good conscience leave his friend to lumber along alone. “Well, at least you didn’t get caned.”

“Want to go home, Philip.”

“Then write to your parents, Gabriel. Tell them how miserable you are.”

“I told them … Saturday at home … Father says it’ll … make a man out of me.”

“I’m sorry.” For the first time since his return two days ago, Philip was unable to stop himself from recalling the joy and sadness that had infused his soul during his brief stay at home. Joy, because it was the place he loved more than anywhere else, and sadness, because it was no longer truly his.

But at this moment Philip needed to put away his melancholy as Gabriel was in immediate need of cheering. He lightly punched his friend’s arm. “Will you grant me one favor, Gabriel?”

“Yes, what?” Gabriel huffed.

“Next time you knock old Westbrook off his feet, would you make sure I’m there to witness it?”

Gabriel, reddened from the exertion of running, actually produced a fleeting smile. “Was almost worth … having to run.”

“Doctor Rhodes says I should be able to teach school in another month,” Miss Clark said to Andrew in her parents’ comfortable back parlor, where she sat reclined with a blanket over her legs and a stack of books at her feet. “If I’m careful not to exert myself too strenuously.”

“That’s too soon if you ask me,” Mrs. Clark, the schoolmistress’s mother, reproved from her chair. Her hair was light brown like her daughter’s, but that was where the resemblance ended, for she was short and as pleasantly rounded as Miss Clark was tall and slender. “Why, you’ve still got shadows under your eyes. And you’ve lost a stone’s weight at least.”

Both charges appeared to be true in Andrew’s observation, but who was he to second-guess Doctor Rhodes? Still, he would not wish to cause Miss Clark a relapse by suggesting that one month would certainly be enough time for her to build up some strength.

He had not called upon this household with the hope of hastening Miss Clark’s return to the school, no matter how much he desired that Jonathan Raleigh leave Gresham. He had called upon her four times already during the course of her illness without mentioning school. She was his parishioner and he was her pastor, and it was his duty to comfort the sick. It was Miss Clark who had brought up the subject this time.

“I do hate the thought of taking the position from Mr. Raleigh, though,” she went on. “He paid a call here last week and seems a decent person.”

“Mr. Raleigh took the position with the understanding that it was temporary,” Andrew reminded her. And after witnessing another spectacle this morning, he figured it was about time a capable teacher took charge.

The only thing that troubled him was that Miss Clark’s only experience had been at a girls’ boarding school. If a strong young man had trouble keeping some of the older boys in line, how would a soft-spoken woman—and one recovering from a grave illness—fare?
That’s the school board’s concern
, he reminded himself. While they were only too happy to ask his assistance when dealing with the likes of Mr. Sanders, they had made it clear that his opinion was not a concern in the hiring of teachers.

Four more weeks and Mr. Raleigh will have no excuse to stay
was the comforting thought that accompanied Andrew back to the vicarage. He felt no more animosity for the young man, who had held on at the school for three weeks now. Indeed, Andrew wished him well in whatever endeavors he chose to pursue outside of Gresham. But it would take longer than three weeks to prove that Mr. Raleigh’s changed lifestyle would last. And having just broken off her almost-engagement with Mr. Treves, Elizabeth did not need a former beau so close at hand to add to her confusion.

On Thursday, the twenty-ninth of September, Jonathan found himself practically having to shout the grammar lesson to the fourth standard students. But not because of rowdiness, for ever since Monday afternoon’s practice at the archery target, there had been a noticeable lessening of misbehavior in the classroom. The reason for his strain of voice was a thunderstorm outside, sending rain lashing violently against the windows and pounding the tiles above.

“Will there be no archery during recess?” Alfred Meeks, a timid second standard student who lived up to his name, asked with raised hand as the lunch hour drew nearer.

“I’m afraid not,” Jonathan replied, shaking his head regretfully. “We’ll have to stay inside.”

Another hand went up. “We could practice in here, couldn’t we?”

It was something to consider. The equipment, aside from the bale of hay, was in the cloak room. Basic form could be practiced indoors. But it was tedious work and not nearly as exciting as aiming real arrows at targets. He thought it best to warn them of that fact. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather play quietly instead?”

Jonathan smiled to himself at the heads that shook and the eagerness on the faces staring back at him. During recess, after the children had hastened through their lunches, he strung the three bows and formed three queues of students along the aisles between desks. He went from the head of one group to another, reminding students to align their feet properly, to keep their weight distributed evenly, and shoulders squared as they aimed imaginary arrows at a target he had hastily chalked upon the blackboard.

“The V of your thumb and index finger—see?” he showed Edgar Sanders, moving the boy’s grimy hand into the correct position. “Now you have it!” For the first time the boy actually smiled at him.
Thank you for this idea!
Jonathan prayed under his breath.

Near the close of recess, he decided it was time to implement the second part of his plan. He collected and unstrung the bows as the children returned to their seats. There was the usual commotion, but it tapered and died down when Jonathan stood at the front and raised a silencing hand.

“Yesterday I received a reply to a letter I sent to the school board at Prescott,” he told them. Eight hands shot up right away but lowered again after Jonathan said, “Prescott is a village about eight miles to the west of us.”

“The school there founded an archery team just this year,” he went on. “With the permission of our school board, I’ve challenged them to a little contest, to be held in mid-November before the weather turns too forbidding. They have had a three-week head start, so it would require much dedication and hard work upon our part.”

There was a collective intake of breath at this, then a burst of applause. Again, Jonathan raised his hand for silence. “But there will be two strict requirements for membership on our team. The first, I’m very sorry to announce, is that in the interest of safety you must be ten years old or over.”

As expected, faces in the front two rows fell. While Jonathan felt great sympathy for his youngest students, he had to remind himself that the disappointment was preferable to an injured eye or worse. “But Mrs. Hillock has offered to allow you to stay with her students during recess when the others are at practice, which means you’ll have more turns on the merry-go-round. And if you’ll attend faithfully to your arithmetic lessons, you can help keep score at the archery contest. Good scorekeepers are very important, you know.”

His consolations seemed to help somewhat, for a few smiles were sent his way. An arm shot up, belonging to Willard Kerns, a fifth standard student. “What is the other requirement, Mr. Raleigh?”

Folding his arms, Jonathan leaned back against his desk. “Robin Hood didn’t allow just
any
person to join his merry men, no matter how skillful. And the Gresham team will be composed only of those students who complete their school assignments to the best of their abilities and who can control their behavior during class time.”

There were murmurs of disappointment among the older students, to which Jonathan queried, “Is that an impossible demand?” No one challenged that it was, and some students even managed to look embarrassed at their complaints.

“Then do you understand what you older students have to do to be allowed on the team?” he asked just to make sure.

Surprisingly, Jack Sanders, who had never yet volunteered an answer, raised his hand.

“Yes, Mr. Sanders?”

“Do our schoolwork and be good?”

Jonathan smiled. “Exactly.”

“So tell me about your visit to Mr. Langford’s,” Mrs. Kingston said after hailing Mercy in front of the
Larkspur
after the shopping had been done. This time it was Oram who drove, and a proffered bag of peppermints from the elderly woman’s hand was all that was necessary to appease him into stopping long enough for her to draw Mercy aside. “I’ve been on pins and needles wondering. I was sorely tempted to pay a call but was afraid it would make your father more angry at you for defying him.” She narrowed her eyes appraisingly. “You
did
carry it out, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Mercy nodded.

“Good! And what happened?”

Glancing back at Oram in the wagon, whose cheeks now bulged, hamsterlike, with peppermints, she told Mrs. Kingston quickly how the day had gone.

“I see,” her friend mused, pursing her lips. “I expected that would happen.”

“You did?” In spite of her determination to have faith, Mercy wondered why Mrs. Kingston had not shared that same expectation with her.

“Sometimes it takes a while for men to understand what is best for them, dear. But we mustn’t give up. I have ordered lamb to be delivered tomorrow. You do know how to cook a lamb stew, don’t you?”

Mercy sucked in her breath. “Tomorrow?”

“Why, yes. Haven’t I explained all this to you?”

“Not the part about having to go over there again.”

“Dear me, child.” A hand went up to Mrs. Kingston’s wrinkled cheek. “Have you been of the understanding that only once was required?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mercy replied. The edges of her faith began crumbling even more so at the memory of how he had looked at her from his pantry doorway. “I don’t think I can do that again, Mrs. Kingston.”