The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter (76 page)

Her sense of duty then pushed itself to the forefront of her mind, and with great reluctance she asked, “May we wait until Saturday? I would like Mrs. Kingston to be there and to give my father some time to look for a cook.”

“Saturday it is, then,” he smiled.

Mercy could feel her pulse pounding at the base of her throat. In every novel she had ever read, engagements were sealed with a kiss. She did not expect that. Their marriage was to be based upon mutual benefit, not romance. But then Mr. Langford did the second-best thing. He reached down into the basket and picked up the shirt by the shoulder seams. With an expert snap that reminded her that he had been washing clothes at his own cottage for a while, he said, “We’ll finish this little chore before speaking to your father so you won’t have to return to it. And from the looks of things, your brothers’ card playing days may become a little scarce.”

Ten minutes later, as they walked toward the front of the cottage together, he stopped to face her, his expression suddenly grave. “I forgot to tell you something, Miss Sanders.”

Mercy’s heart sank. It had been too good to be true after all. “Y-yes?”

His chest rose and fell. “I was released from Newgate prison four months ago, after serving ten years.”

“Ten years?”

“My sentence was for twenty, but my accusers came forth with proof of my innocence and I was set free.”

She was torn between pity for him and her own relief that he was not calling off the wedding. “Mr. Langford, it was unnecessary to tell me that you were innocent. You’re the most decent man I know besides Reverend Seaton.”

He was clearly much relieved by this and reached for the doorknob. “Well, then … good. Let’s get this over with.”

Her father and brothers directed hostile stares at Mr. Langford as soon as they walked through the doorway, causing Mercy to appreciate just how difficult it must have been for him to come here. “We have something to ask you, Papa,” she began in a shaky voice.

She felt a touch upon her sleeve. “I’ll do it,” the man beside her said in a voice as strong as hers was weak. Taking a step closer to her father’s chair, he said, “Mr. Sanders, your daughter has consented to marry me, and we ask for your blessing.”

As Mercy expected, her father jumped to his feet and accused her of being disloyal. Her brothers echoed that sentiment in the background. All the while Mercy stood with Mr. Langford, and out of respect, she allowed her father to have his say. But when he began to weep copious tears, telling her how much she reminded him of her dear departed mother, Mercy felt the scene had gone on long enough.

“The wedding will be today or Saturday, Papa,” she said quietly. “You decide.”

He dropped back down in his chair again and wiped his eyes. His pride would not allow him to answer, but the tight-lipped nod he gave Mercy was his way of choosing the latter.

Word of the wedding quickly spread among her tiny circle of friends, so when Saturday afternoon came, the first two rows at the Wesleyan Chapel were filled. On the front pew sat Thomas, Mrs. Seaton and her children, Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Kingston and Squire Bartley, and Mr. Trumble. Her father and brothers took up the second pew, managing to look at least cordial. With them sat Mrs. Winters, a fifty-year-old widow with broad shoulders and a stubborn set of the jaw. The reputation of Mercy’s family had made finding a cook more difficult than imaginable, and so it was comical to see the males of her family taking it upon themselves to make life easier for their new house help.

She had seen Mr. Langford—she could not imagine addressing him as anything else—only once since Tuesday, when he had measured her finger with a piece of yarn for the gold band he would purchase in Shrewsbury. He had obviously made some purchases for himself and Thomas as well, for with their Sunday suits they wore new white silk cravats. Mercy, having not had time to sew, wore her newest gown of dove gray crepeline and over her chignon a length of lace purchased from the Worthy sisters. She did have three new nightgowns of lace-trimmed linen in her trousseau. Mrs. Kingston had made a special trip to Shrewsbury to purchase them, along with a silver fruit bowl. Mercy had been too embarrassed to tell her that the silver bowl would likely be more practical than the beautiful gowns, for this was not to be a marriage of the usual sort.

The ceremony was brief. Reverend Seaton read from the thirteenth chapter of Corinthians about “charity” and then had them repeat the vows. Mercy could hardly look at the man with whom she was pledging her troth, and indeed, he seemed to be struggling with shyness himself and directed his gaze in the vicinity of her eyebrows. Afterward there was cake and punch in the parsonage, for which Mr. Trumble could not stay because he had to reopen the shop. Her father and brothers stayed only long enough to consume their slices of cake and cups of punch, but at least they were polite, and Edgar even embraced Mercy before they left.

As soon as the door had closed behind her family, Mrs. Kingston called Mercy aside to say in a low voice, “The boy—Thomas. Would you like us to bring him back to the
Larkspur
? I’m sure Philip Hollis wouldn’t mind sharing his bed for tonight.”

Mercy was unable to look her friend in the eyes. Twisting the gold ring upon her finger, she murmured, “No, thank you, Mrs. Kingston.”

“Are you quite sure?”

Impulsively she stood on tiptoes to kiss the softly wrinkled cheek. “But thank you for everything you’ve done for me. This is all because of you.”

“Well, we must give God due credit,” her friend reminded her while looking immensely pleased.

“Every day,” Mercy agreed.
Every hour
, she corrected herself silently, for surely she had thanked Him that often since Tuesday.

It was half-past five when she walked across the threshold of Mr. Langford’s cottage as the lady of the house.
I hope you can see this, Mrs. Brent
, she thought. While her husband and Thomas fed the horses and cattle—seven, counting the six that Mrs. Brent had given her—she went upstairs to unpack the small tin trunk her brothers had delivered yesterday. It was in the spare bedroom, as she had supposed it would be.

Presently she heard the murmur of voices and went downstairs, where Mr. Langford and Thomas sat in front of the fireplace. They had saved the rocking chair for her. When she had sat down at their insistence, she noticed the boy was holding a parcel wrapped in brown paper. He approached her with flushed excitement, “We bought a gift for you in Shrewsbury, Miss Sanders.”

Mercy did not correct him and appreciated that her husband did not either, though he sent her an apologetic look. This was new to all of them. “Why, you shouldn’t have.”

“But we wanted to,” Thomas replied, grinning. He rose and placed the parcel in her lap, then shifted his weight from one foot to another while she carefully unwound the paper. It was a small hinged box of glossy jet paper-mache, about the size of her Bible, painted with colorful roses and birds.

“It’s beautiful,” Mercy breathed.

“You use the latch to raise the lid—see? You can keep things inside.”

She did as instructed, opening it up to reveal a lining of royal blue velvet. And then music began to tinkle forth. “The shopkeeper said it’s by a man named Mr. Mozart,” Thomas explained.

Mercy shook her head in awe as the box blurred in her vision. “I’ve never owned anything so beautiful.” She sat there listening to the music while Thomas got on his knees at the side of her chair and assigned himself the task of rewinding it when necessary. Mr. Langford presently went into the kitchen to make bacon sandwiches for supper. He apologized for his lack of cooking skills but was adamant that she should not have to cook her first night there. After supper the three of them played a game of dominos, also purchased in Shrewsbury, at the table.

Soon it was time for Thomas to go to bed. Mercy stood with head bowed at the foot of the bed while Mr. Langford led the boy in a prayer. When it was over and his father had tucked the quilt around his shoulders, Thomas’s wide eyes studied Mercy. “Are you my mother now?”

Mercy glanced at Mr. Langford, who gave her a slight nod.

“Yes, Thomas.”

“May I call you ‘Mother’?”

“I would be honored, Thomas,” she replied over a lump in her throat. She moved to the side of the bed as Mr. Langford stepped back out of her way and leaned down to press a kiss upon the boy’s forehead.

“Are you all right?” Mr. Langford asked when they were outside the boy’s door.

She nodded but had to dab at her eyes with her knuckles. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

They returned downstairs to their chairs at the fireplace. He began sharing with her his dreams of selling horses, and he answered her questions about prison. Kindly Seth also asked questions about her life, but there was little she could tell him. As far as she was concerned, her life had only begun two years ago.
That was when Mrs. Brent and you came into my life, Father
, she prayed during one of their comfortable silences.

Somewhere during that discourse, they began to address each other by their first names. And then when darkness pressed itself against the windowpanes, her husband got to his feet, took two steps over to her chair, and held out a hand. “Will you come upstairs with me, Mercy?”

Mercy stood, taking his hand, somehow aware that he was not referring to the extra room that housed her tin trunk. They walked upstairs in silence, while she berated herself for being too embarrassed to ask Mrs. Kingston or Mrs. Seaton for any information beyond her vague notion of what was to happen. It was only when they paused outside the door to his room that she regained control of her voice enough to confess, “I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to do, Mr. Langford.”

“Seth,” he gently reminded her.

“Seth.”

To her surprise, he smiled and touched her cheek. “We’ll have to teach each other, Mercy Langford.”

One week later, Seth smiled at the memory of that night as he and Thomas sawed and hammered boards to construct new stables behind the hay barn. A wind from the west carried to them the aroma of bread baking in the kitchen. His cottage truly seemed like a home now.

He was not yet sure if what he held in his heart for his wife was love, but of one thing he was absolutely certain. There was not a man on earth with whom he would trade places—not even with a bushel of gold thrown in.

Chapter 43

“Please remember to bring us each back a playbill,” Mrs. Dearing reminded Julia in the dining room on the fifth of December as her lodgers made suggestions for the eight days she would be honeymooning in London. Their gaiety warded off any feelings of melancholy, just as the fire snapping in the grate warded off the chill of the evening.

It was not that Julia was not looking forward to her wedding the next morning. But she could not help but be mindful of the fact that this was her last supper as manager of the
Larkspur
, for she and her children would be moving into the vicarage as soon as she and Andrew returned.

“I’ll be happy to,” Julia replied, smiling. Tomorrow Mr. Jensen would move from his place between Mr. Pitney and the end of the table to take her position at the head. Professional to the core, he had learned his duties quickly during the past week so that she could concentrate on wedding plans. If it seemed strange to her that a man who had spent most of his sixty years in servitude now occupied a place at the main table, she could only imagine how odd he must feel. Still, her former butler was most pleasant, if just a bit reticent.

Miss Rawlins nodded her agreement to Mrs. Dearing’s request. “And, Mrs. Hollis, if you could somehow persuade Mr. Clay to procure a poster, it would look quite nice in the hall.”

“A poster would be lovely!” Mrs. Kingston declared, clasping her hands together. “Oh, but we should have it framed so the corners wouldn’t curl. Do see that it’s rolled up carefully, will you, Mrs. Hollis?”

“And perhaps you could ask all of the actors and actresses to sign their names,” Mr. Ellis suggested.

Holding his fork, upon which a small potato was impaled, just above his plate, Mr. Durwin said, “That would certainly add to its worth. Although I can’t imagine that you would ever desire to sell something with such sentimental value.”

“But the autographs would still be interesting to look at.” This came in a hopeful tone from Mrs. Durwin. “Do you agree, Mr. Pitney?”