The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter (60 page)

“My dear, you must! And not just tomorrow. You must do this six more times!”

Mercy knew her friend had said something, for her lips had moved emphatically, but before her numbed mind could ask Mrs. Kingston to repeat herself, the elderly woman launched ahead.

“You see, that was the answer God gave to me. I had thought it was only because of my money that He chose to reveal the most difficult part of the plan to me, but now I see you would have been too overwhelmed by it to believe it came from Him.”

“Six more times?” Mercy could only mumble.

“Which will total seven. The same number of times Naaman was told to dip in the Jordan; the number of days Joshua was to march around Jericho; and the number of seals in the book of Revelation. So many things are done in sevens in Scripture, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Indeed Mercy had, but she could not refrain from asking, “Mrs. Kingston, what does that have to do with Mr. Langford?”

A cherubic smile lit her aged face. “My dear, that’s how many times God told me that you are to prepare Saturday dinner for Mr. Langford. Your presence in Mr. Langford’s kitchen seven Saturdays in a row will constitute a habit for him—one that he will be unaware he has acquired until after you have stopped.”

Five minutes later, Mercy sat in the wagon, staring straight ahead with hands folded in her lap as Oram drove home. She did not know quite how Mrs. Kingston had managed to talk her into continuing with this plan. Perhaps it was when she said, “Just think of what would have happened to poor old Naaman if he had decided to dunk himself only once?”

Chapter 35

“The ancient Egyptians are credited with the invention of archery,” Mr. Ellis said at the
Larkspur
’s breakfast table Saturday morning, in reply to the question Mrs. Dearing had posed. With the Durwins away for yet another three weeks and Philip at school, the gathering seemed sadly sparse. Still, conversation accompanied the meal as usual.

“Indeed, Mr. Ellis?” Mrs. Dearing said while passing the cream to Aleda. “Then if they invented it, surely that gave them an edge over their enemies.”

“Quite so, Mrs. Dearing. The Persians were doing battle with slingshots and spears at that time. They were simply overwhelmed.”

With her eyes Grace asked Julia’s permission to speak. Julia nodded.

“But a spear is bigger than an arrow,” she said shyly, as if concerned that the archeologist would think she questioned his authority on the matter.

“But not able to be aimed as precisely, Miss Hollis,” Mr. Ellis explained with a smile. Perhaps because he had several grandchildren, he seemed flattered whenever one of Julia’s children showed an interest in his profession. “And a spear can only cover a short distance, depending upon the strength of the person throwing it. But an arrow … even the weakest archer, if he has skill, has an advantage over someone whose only weapon is a spear.”

Table talk had drifted, as Julia supposed was true in many other homes in Gresham, to the archery team Mr. Raleigh had founded. Even Andrew seemed grudgingly interested after learning nearby Prescott had accepted the challenge for a tournament. Both archeologists, who shared an affinity for ancient tools and weapons, considered the idea an excellent way for children to experience a bit of history.

After swallowing a forkful of his coddled eggs, Mr. Ellis nodded across the table at his bashful assistant. “And of course the Romans owed much of their military superiority to the bow and arrow. Correct, Mr. Pitney?”

“Yes,” the younger man affirmed, cheeks assuming their usual flush at being the center of attention, especially when in the vicinity of Miss Rawlings. But as the subject was one close to his heart, he did manage to share in the conversation. “Until the early medieval period, when they were up against the more highly skilled archers of the Huns, Goths, and Vandals.”

Mrs. Kingston paused from buttering her toast to ask, “Goths, Mr. Pitney?”

“From a section of what is now Germany.”

“Well, if Vandals and Goths ever decide to take on the
Larkspur
,” the elderly woman said with a glint of humor in her blue eyes, “I shall be the first to hide behind Aleda.”

This brought laughter, and more when Aleda reminded her, “We have to practice a long time before we’re any good.”

Even the Worthy sisters had something to say on the subject, Julia discovered. She had gone out to the stables to ask Mr. Herrick to assist the maids with moving Mrs. Hyatt’s belongings into Mr. Durwin’s room. Mr. Pitney, now occupying the room reserved for her former butler Mr. Jensen, would be moving into Mrs. Hyatt’s old room in bits and snatches, whenever he wasn’t working atop the Anwyl. Julia was heading toward the courtyard when the lace spinners beckoned to her.

Though the wind on this first day of October was strong enough to rattle the gold and red leaves of a maple in their tiny garden, the sisters would continue to work outside until first frost. Mufflers wrapped their gray heads and woolens swathed their thin frames, but still they could witness the village goings-on at the crossroads—a pleasure denied them at their comfortable fireplace. And their work did not suffer, for woolen gloves snipped at the ends allowed their deft fingers the same freedom of movement.

“What’s to keep ’em from shootin’ each other?” Jewel asked, wide-eyed.

“Or their schoolmaster?” Iris added.

“I’m positive Mr. Raleigh is teaching them to be careful,” Julia reassured the two. “Aleda is taking the lessons too, and I’m not worried. They tell me he won’t give them an arrow if someone is standing even to the side of them.”

“But he hasn’t any little ones of his own,” Jewel argued. “He don’t know how some of ’em is plain mean. Take Horace Perkins, for instance. He pitched his mother’s cat down the well in ’61.”

“It was ’62,” corrected Iris.

Julia took the opportunity to take her leave politely. She had a ready excuse, for Mrs. Kingston wanted to ask her advice about where to plant some Rembrandt tulip bulbs in the garden for spring blooming.

“I didn’t want to say anything at breakfast,” Mrs. Kingston said in a confidential tone after they had decided upon a patch of ground between a coralberry shrub and rose trellis. “But I believe Mr. Raleigh is infatuated with Miss Phelps.”

“What makes you say that?” Julia hedged, for she and Andrew had managed to keep the reason for the young man’s arrival in Gresham a secret so far. There was no sense in having Elizabeth undergo the pressure of villagers speculating as to whether or not he would win her hand, Andrew had wisely said.

“I have eyes, haven’t I? And Mr. Raleigh’s eyes seem to spend a lot of time fastened upon Miss Phelps’s back during church.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be paying attention to the
sermon
during church?” Julia gently chided.

“Well, yes,” Mrs. Kingston huffed, raising her chin. “But one does feel the need to shift one’s head occasionally. And besides, he hails from Cambridge. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he must have come to Gresham in the pursuit of Miss Phelps.”

Julia wished just this once, Mrs. Kingston weren’t so astute. “If I tell you that you’re correct, will you please keep it to yourself?”

“Why, I’ll be the soul of discretion.” The elderly woman wore a pleased-with-herself expression. “He must be the reason Miss Phelps broke off her engagement with that curate.”

“Are there no secrets in Gresham?” Julia sighed.

“Calm yourself, Mrs. Hollis,” Mrs. Kingston said, patting her arm. “I happen to be too observant for my own good. I’ve heard no gossip linking Mr. Raleigh and Miss Elizabeth. Most likely because one never sees them together.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Perhaps to everyone but Mr. Raleigh. Has she no feelings for him whatsoever?”

“It’s not that simple.” Julia had to weigh her words carefully, even though she could count on Mrs. Kingston’s discretion. “Something happened in Cambridge that is not easy to forgive.”

“Ah … and so Mr. Raleigh has come to pay penance.”

“Something like that.”

“Is it working?”

“I don’t know,” Julia confessed with a shake of the head.

“Well, tell him not to give up.” Mrs. Kingston glanced in the direction of the schoolhouse, as if she could see Mr. Raleigh on the steps. “Look at Jacob.”

“Mr. Pitney?”

“No, dear. From the Bible. He worked to earn Rachel’s hand for fourteen years.”

Julia did not think Mr. Raleigh would last fourteen years at Gresham school, archery or no archery, but did not say so. After Mrs. Kingston took up her walking stick and set out on her usual routine, Julia was about to look for Mr. Herrick when she noticed Ben Mayhew on the other side of the gate. He was walking toward the Bryce with fishing pole slung over his shoulder and a basket in the crook of his arm. He stopped when she hailed him.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hollis,” the boy said as they met on opposite sides of the gate. The bite of the wind gave his freckled cheeks a rosy glow that almost matched his red hair. “Have you received a letter from Philip since his return?”

“Not yet. I sent him one yesterday, so they’re likely to cross.” The sight of Ben or Jeremiah usually brought a little pang, since it seemed only natural that Philip should be at their sides. But she gave him an affectionate smile and asked, “Aren’t you heading from the wrong direction?”

He smiled sheepishly, indicating the tackle basket. “I had a craving for lemon drops. Would you care for one?”

Julia did enjoy an occasional lemon drop, but the thought of it sharing the same basket, even if wrapped, with a jar of worms or crickets was not an appealing one. “No, thank you.” She glanced up at the sky, azure blue beneath white cotton clouds. “At least you’ll have no rain, but I hope you’ll stay warm.”

“Oh, I’m bundled snugly enough,” he smiled. “My father’s right fond of fish, so he allows me Saturday mornings off.”

It was then that Julia noticed the book tucked under the arm that held the fishing pole. “Reading and fishing and lemon drops—you do have a fine morning ahead of you, Ben. May I ask what you’re reading?”

The sheepish look returned, but he held the book out over the gate. Julia took it from his hands. It was
Principles of Architecture
, authored by an S.S. Teulon.

“You still want to be an architect.” It was a statement, not a question, for of course he did with such a book in his possession.

He shrugged as if it didn’t matter, but a shadow passed over his freckled face. “My father doesn’t want to spend the money for schooling when he can teach me wheelwrighting for free.”

“I’m sorry, Ben” was all Julia could think of to say.

Again the shrug, and he sent a glance up the lane. “I’d best be catching some fish. It was good talking with you, Mrs. Hollis.”

“It was good to see you as well,” she said, handing back his book. “And Ben …”

“Yes, ma’am?”

She had been about to say that surely there was some way he could acquire some extra schooling. If Philip’s tuition were not so high—and she did not have Aleda’s to plan for in another year—she would have liked to have sponsored him herself. But since she couldn’t, it would be cruel to raise his hopes. “I hope the fish are biting well,” she said instead. The prayer she prayed after the boy had bade her farewell and started again for the river had nothing to do with fish.
Please show me a way to help him
.

This time Mr. Langford appeared at his door seconds after the butcher’s cart bearing Mercy and a lamb roast stopped outside his cottage. He did not step out to offer assistance as Henry unloaded the basket of food and Mercy lifted her iron stewing pot. He merely stood there with arms akimbo.

“It’s not necessary to unload all of that, Miss Sanders. Take it back and cook it for your family.”

Henry paused to give Mercy an uncertain look, to which she responded with a tight-lipped shake of the head. “You don’t have to eat the dinner, Mr. Langford,” she told him, not quite meeting his eyes, lest she be intimidated into following his order. “But I’m going to prepare it.”

“Miss Sanders, you’re wasting your time.”

“It’s my time to waste, Mr. Langford.”

Just then Thomas’s face appeared behind the crook of his father’s bent elbow. “Miss Sanders!” he said, squirming past him to take the pot from her arms. “You’ve come to cook for us again?”