The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter (33 page)

Without asking, Vicar Phelps moved to the chair and sat down. “January?” he mumbled, scratching his blond beard.

“I should think you would be pleased, sir.”

“But of course …” He gave another sigh and then studied Jonathan in thoughtful silence.

Jonathan waited, resisting the compulsion to plead his case further. Presently the vicar straightened his shoulders.

“Of course I’m pleased at your news, Mr. Raleigh. But I can’t help but wonder if your
conversion
, if you will, was for the purpose of finding your way back into my daughter’s good graces. People don’t always follow Christ for the right reasons. Look at Judas Iscariot.”

So now you’re comparing me with Judas?
Jonathan thought but managed to hold his indignation in check. He had only to recall a certain evening last year in Cambridge to remind himself that he could expect no less than the rough side of the vicar’s tongue. Still, he had the right to defend himself.

“I would rather look at Saul of Tarsus, sir,” he said respectfully. “As you know, he had a wretched past as well, but the other disciples managed to forgive him.”

Vicar Phelps looked as if he would choke, and sure enough, he lowered his head and started coughing.
Water
, Jonathan thought, padding across the carpet to the door and pulling it open. He jumped back as the innkeeper’s wife stumbled into the room.

The vicar raised his head to stare at her. “Mrs. Pool?” he said between coughs.

She smoothed her apron and raised her chin. “I were just wonderin’ if the young man wanted an extra blanket. The nights are turnin’ chilly.” This was said with a straight, albeit crimson face, in spite of the fact that daylight still poured through the window—and that there was no blanket in her arms.

“No, thank you,” Jonathan told her. “But may we have some water?”

“That’s not necessary. I’m fine now,” the vicar said from behind him. “Good day, Mrs. Pool.”

“Good day, Vicar.” Gathering her bruised dignity around her like a cloak, she gave Jonathan a crisp nod on her way to the door. “Mr. Raleigh.”

Jonathan turned back around as soon as the door snapped shut. Both sets of eyes met, and both men burst into laughter. Vicar Phelps laughed hardest, until he had to take out a handkerchief and wipe his eyes. “I suppose you’ve heard that ‘a merry heart doeth good like a medicine,’ ” he said.

“Proverbs, sir,” Jonathan said, smiling himself. The shared merriment put him at ease enough to sit upon the foot of the bed.

“This doesn’t change a thing, you know.”

The smile froze upon Jonathan’s face. “It doesn’t?”

“Oh, I confess my opinion of you has gone up several notches. But as far as stability goes, Mr. Raleigh, frankly your faith has not been tested. I can’t risk my daughter’s future in the hopes that you won’t grow bored one day with living a decent life and decide debauchery was more appealing.”

“But that’s the very reason I didn’t come here as soon as I committed my life to Christ,” Jonathan argued. “I wanted to make sure I wasn’t just a flash-in-the-pan.”

“Very wise of you,” the vicar said and gave him a sad smile. “But six … seven months? Give yourself another year or two to grow spiritually before thinking about such things as courting.”

“Another year—”

“Or two.”

“But Elizabeth could be married by then.” Something passed across the man’s expression that told Jonathan that was more than a possibility. Rising from the foot of the bed, he said, “She’s seeing someone, isn’t she?”

“Well, yes.”

“Does she plan to marry him?”

“She does, Mr. Raleigh. I’m sorry, but—”

“When is the wedding, Vicar Phelps?” While he didn’t believe the vicar would lie to him, there had been some hesitancy in his tone, enough to give Jonathan some hope.

The vicar sighed. “That hasn’t been decided yet.”

“Have the banns been published?”

“No, but it’s only a matter of …” A little of his former attitude showed itself. “This has nothing to do with you, Mr. Raleigh. The man has dedicated his life to the ministry and will make a decent husband. If you care about Elizabeth as much as you say, you’ll want her to be happy.”

“And this man makes her happy?”

“Yes, Mr. Raleigh.” The vicar rose from the chair, walked toward Jonathan, and offered his hand. “It does my heart good to see the change in you.” Again the sad smile appeared. “Forgive me if I’ve been unduly harsh, but I pray you’ll take to heart what I’ve told you. Elizabeth has been through much heartache and deserves this opportunity for a good life. Sometimes we show our love best by letting go.”

Jonathan could only nod stupidly as he and the vicar shook hands. Here was an older, wiser man, whom he respected almost as much as he respected his own grandfather, finally displaying some warmth toward him.
I’m confident you’ll do the honorable thing
, the eyes that stared into his said. It was enough to raise doubts within himself. He had spent most of his life acting selfishly. Had his coming to Gresham merely been more of the same?

When the vicar was gone, Jonathan went back to his chair and slumped into it. He propped his elbows upon his knees and cradled his head, wishing his grandfather were here to counsel him. Then the thought dawned upon him.
If she had no feelings left for me, her father wouldn’t be so adamant that I leave. It wouldn’t matter
. And shouldn’t Elizabeth have some say in whether he should disappear from her life forever?

If there were only some way he could prove to her—and her father, for he was sure that she would not marry someone of whom he strongly disapproved—that he could stay on the course. As it was, he wasn’t sure if he could prove it to himself. The vicar was correct in stating that his faith had not been tested. Aside from aching to see Elizabeth again, his few months as a new believer had been easy. But what was he to do?

Show me how to prove myself, Father
, he prayed.
And then please help me not to fail you
.

Chapter 20

The man who had quoted Alexander Pope to Philip left the train at Birmingham Station, leaving Philip feeling guiltily relieved. In his place boarded a boy wearing the same brown tweed Norfolk jacket and trousers that were the uniform of the Josiah Smith Preparatory Academy. At least the boy attempted to board, for his weeping mother clung to him at the open door of the compartment and cried, “Don’t make him go!” over and over. At her side stood a stern-faced man in a gray top hat and coat.

“Let him go, Helen,” he said, looking much embarrassed.

This scene continued for about a full minute, until a ticket taker came to collect tickets and close the door. On the platform Philip could see through the window that the man had put an arm around the woman’s shoulder—whether to comfort her or to keep her from flinging open the door to the compartment, he couldn’t tell.

Finally the train began rolling. After the boy had waved to his parents until they were out of sight, he turned to look at Philip. He was rather stout, with full cheeks and light brown hair. It was clear that he was embarrassed. “My mother,” he said, his face crumpling a bit as if he would weep himself. “My older brother died in a typhus epidemic at boarding school in Gloucester.”

Philip gave a sympathetic nod, and the women across from them made sympathetic little sounds. “She’s afraid it will happen to you?”

“Or something just as bad.”

Philip felt pity for the mother now. As worried as his own mother had been about him, at least she had not experienced the loss of another son. “Aren’t there preparatory schools in Birmingham?” At least he
assumed
the boy was from Birmingham.

It turned out he was right, for the boy shrugged. “Father says I’m too sheltered, and that it will be better for me to get away. Are you going to the Josiah Smith Academy?”

“Yes. And you?”

The boy smiled. “My first time away from home.”

“Mine too.” Philip extended a hand and they shook. “Philip Hollis.”

“Gabriel Patterson.”

They exchanged particulars about their homes and families, and Philip discovered that Gabriel’s father was also a surgeon, as his had been.

“Only I’m not so keen on becoming a doctor,” the boy confessed in a lower voice, as if he feared the two women, who had resumed chatting about a cousin they were on their way to visit, would overhear and shame him.

Philip’s wish to become a doctor was so strong that it was hard to imagine anyone with the opportunity to do so
not
having that same desire. But he sympathized with the boy again. “What do you want to do?”

Gabriel Patterson hesitated before replying. “I like to write stories.”

“Yes? Are they any good?”

“I hope so. I once had one published.”

Now Philip was impressed … and a little skeptical. “You did, truly?”

His new traveling companion smiled and stood, then brought down his satchel from the overhead compartment. “I keep it with me constantly,” he confessed, handing over a copy of the March issue of Beeton’s
Boy’s Own Magazine
. “It begins on page thirty-one.”

Reverently Philip opened up the magazine and found a five-page story titled “The Dagger” by Gabriel Kendrick Patterson.

“They don’t usually print stories by children,” Gabriel explained. “But there is a yearly competition for boys.”

“And you won?”

“Yes,” the boy replied with a modest flush.

“You say you write other stories?” This came from the younger of the two women, who had ceased their conversation when Gabriel brought down his satchel.

He nodded. “But none that have been published. I usually just show them to my mother and my tutor.”

Both women agreed aloud that he was a bright boy and went back to their chat. “Would you like to read it?” Gabriel asked Philip.

“Yes, of course.” Philip began to read, aware from the corner of his eye that his new friend was watching expectantly. He soon forgot about Gabriel as he became immersed in the story of two children who find a small rusty, blunt dagger which they almost discard, until accidentally discovering it has the power to cause people to tell the truth when pointed in their direction. When he was finished, Philip remarked, “Why, this is very good.”

“Thank you.”

A discussion ensued over favorite novels. Philip found that in spite of Gabriel’s not wanting to be a doctor, being the youngest child in his family, and having never gone fishing, they had much in common. In fact, by the time the train steamed into Worcester Station, Philip felt as if they had known each other for years.

A man holding up a placard with the hand-lettered words Josiah Smith Preparatory Academy directed Philip and Gabriel to a waiting wagon and team of four horses. At least a dozen boys ranging in ages from thirteen to seventeen came from other parts of the train, tossed gripsacks and portmanteaus in the middle, and took places on benches built into both sides. The older boys were obviously familiar with the routine and fell to chatter and laughter as they bounded up into the wagon bed. The younger ones, like Philip and Gabriel, were intimidated into silence.

They were carried down some six miles of gently undulating road—past shops, a cathedral, and many half-timbered houses. Knuckles became white from gripping the edges of the bench, and the older boys, who had managed to seat themselves along one side, laughed every time the wagon hit a bump. They also laughed for other reasons unclear to Philip until he realized it was he and his fellow younger students who were providing the source of levity.
Why?
he wondered, but a glance at his bench mates told him they were too absorbed with simply holding on to the side of the wagon to engage in any clowning.

Finally the wagon turned into a gravel drive lined with copper beeches and lime trees. Philip caught glimpses of a river off to the north and assumed it to be the Severn because it appeared to be much wider than the Bryce. Presently they passed iron gates and a cricket field, then came to a four-story building of brown brick, its roof hidden by a parapet. Wide portico and steps led up to a wooden door carved with what Philip assumed to be the Smith family’s coat of arms. Flanking this main door and some feet away on either side were two plain doors at the tops of steps with iron balustrades. It was in front of one of these that the driver reined the team to a halt.

There was a mad scramble for satchels and cases—at least among the older boys. The younger sat and stared. “If this were the first day, we’d have to carry their things upstairs,” the boy on Philip’s right, obviously a returning student, said in a low voice.

“You’re serious?” Philip whispered back.

“Upperclassmen have the right to order the younger students about. They can make us carry their food trays and make their beds too.”

Vicar Phelps’s warning about bullies came back to Philip. “And if we refuse?”

The boy shrugged. “They actually
like
it when you refuse, if you understand my meaning, so it’s best to go along. You wouldn’t want your shoes to end up in the lavatory, or horse dung smeared into your hair while you’re sleeping.”

Philip was stunned. “How can they get away with that?”