The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter (37 page)

He gave her a grateful, if somewhat ironic, look. “But you don’t care to have the children be the testing ground.”

“Can you understand that?”

“I can, Mrs. Hollis. But what would you have me do? I gave my word to the school board. Until they see fit to release me, I’m bound to it.”

“And I appreciate that commitment.” She lapsed into silence, recalling the thought that had occurred to her yesterday. Dare she mention it without offending him?
Who cares if he’s offended?
she told herself.
The children are more important
. “Mr. Raleigh,” she said. “I have a suggestion.”

He released his knees from his arms and straightened as much as possible. “Yes?”

“Would you allow me to sit in your classroom for the first few days—or weeks?”

Tilting his head as if he hadn’t heard clearly, he said, “Sit in the classroom?”

The Larkspur practically runs itself anyway
. “Without drawing attention to myself, of course.” She peered over her shoulder and then pointed at a back corner. “Over there would be out of the way. I could even mark papers if you’d like.”

To her utter surprise, he expelled a long sigh that sounded suspiciously like relief. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“Why, no,” Julia replied. The smile upon his face confused her. “Mr. Raleigh, you do understand my motive for doing this, don’t you?”

“Of course, Mrs. Hollis. You’re not certain if I’ll be a good moral influence upon the children.”

She wouldn’t have put it quite so bluntly, but as it was the truth, Julia nodded.

His smile did not fade. “You’ll be most welcome here. And I thank you.”

After walking Mrs. Hollis outside, Jonathan stood in the doorway and watched the children at play. It was odd how in the space of a few minutes the headache that had gripped the top of his head had vanished.
I won’t have to be alone with them
.

A small boy looked up and waved an arm from the merry-go-round that had come to a halt to exchange passengers. Jonathan smiled and returned the wave. He had arrived early to have more time to spend at preparations—even so, there had already been a handful of children in the school yard playing with the new device. Earlier, when from inside the schoolroom he had heard the sounds escalating—meaning the crowd outside was growing—he had begun to experience a gnawing sense of panic. How could he, with no experience with children, hope to direct such youthful vigor in the direction of learning? He was a stranger in Gresham and not very long out of childhood himself. Why should they pay attention to him?

Looking out past the row of elder trees, he caught sight of Mrs. Hollis walking along the lane back to wherever she lived. Surely the presence of a woman—especially one with children—would have a calming effect upon the students.

He felt almost giddy with relief. So giddy that on impulse he took off his coat and hung it on the railing, then bounded down the steps and crossed over to the merry-go-round. “Get on,” he told the two boys who were waiting to push. “I’ll push it.”

They jumped on immediately, and Jonathan shouldered a rail and sent six squealing children spinning. Of course when their time was up, another six ran to the contraption and asked that he spin them as well. Even Laurel Phelps, whom he understood was going away to school soon, piled on with the others, and while she did not smile at him, she didn’t frown either.

Finally he had to plead weariness and shook his dizzy head at the children’s pleadings. “I’ve work to do inside,” he explained, mounting the steps again.

“Will you come out later, sir?” a young voice called.

“Perhaps,” he sent back with another wave. He smiled all the way back to his desk.
They like me
, he thought. And with Mrs. Hollis unwittingly supplying moral support, how could he fail to be a good teacher? Why, he was actually looking forward to the first day of school.

On their way back from town, Seth Langford smiled at the boy beside him on the wagon seat. Thomas sat with a serene smile, clutching his newly purchased lunch pail, slate, and tin of chalk as if they were made of gold. Mr. Trumble had advised against the slate and chalk, saying that the squire had donated some to the school, but Seth thought he should have some supplies with which to practice at home.

The Sanders cottage loomed ahead in the distance now, and Seth could see a woman out tending the vegetable garden.
Mrs. Sanders
, he thought, feeling a tinge of guilt. He had some misgivings over whether her sons had relayed his thanks for the apple cake—no doubt she thought him ungrateful.
Should I stop?
he wondered, then reminded himself that almost a month had passed. It seemed better to go on his way than to experience the embarrassment of having delayed gratitude after so long.

As the wagon drew closer, the woman straightened to look curiously in their direction. She was much younger than he had first thought. Long curly brown hair was bound in a ribbon or comb, but some tendrils had escaped to dangle in her face, for she was pushing these aside.
She’s the one who sings
, Seth realized. He had never caught her name because he and Thomas had fallen into the practice of slipping into chapel late and leaving early on Sunday mornings.

She’s a Sanders?
he thought with wonder. He had seen none of the rest of the family at chapel—and he thought he could recognize all of the males now after passing their place every now and then. Perhaps she was married to one. That had to be it, he told himself, for a family of antisocial scowlers surely couldn’t produce someone with such a lovely voice and pleasant demeanor. But then it was even harder to imagine someone such as she actually
choosing
to marry one of their ilk.

“There’s the cake lady,” Thomas said, finally looking up from his bounty.

“The cake lady? You mean she’s the one?”

The boy nodded, but by then the young woman had gone back to her gardening.
Surely someone thanked her for me
, Seth thought. Every time he had stopped in front of this cottage he had ended up regretting it, so it seemed best just to turn his eyes back to the road ahead.

Two days later, Dale was finally allowed to drive Mercy to town for supplies. It had been four weeks since his last turn, and he had had to promise his father within an inch of his life that he would not set foot in the
Bow and Fiddle
.

But that was exactly where he headed as soon as he had tied the reins to the hitching rail in front of
Trumbles
. “Dale, Papa will be furious,” Mercy warned his retreating back as he crossed the lane.

Her brother waved a hand, still walking. “I’ll only be gone long enough for a swallow or two, and he’ll never know unless you go takin’ another ride home.” Of course he knew she wouldn’t do that, for their father had grumbled on for days about her riding in a trap with Vicar Phelps, engaged or not.

“Good morning, Miss Sanders!” Mr. Trumble greeted from behind his counter. “And what might I do for you today?”

She smiled and gave him the list she had made. “It’s mostly the usual, Mr. Trumble, and we’ll need two lunch pails for Jack and Edgar.”

“I’ll get right to it. I’m afraid we’re out of sugar, though. But I expect some in on Monday morning.”

“We aren’t completely out yet,” Mercy reassured him. And Oram and Fernie had robbed a honey tree just last week. Papa didn’t care for it, but when given a choice between cakes and pies sweetened with honey or no sweets, he preferred the former.

“You know, I’ve gotten in another shipment of cloth. There’s a bolt of organdy that would suit you right fancy.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Trumble.” But while he gathered the items on her list, Mercy found herself moving over to the bolt table. The organdy was indeed soft and fine, a lovely shade of blue.
Wedgwood Blue
, said the lettering on the end of the bolt.

“You know what they say, don’t you?” Mr. Trumble said from behind his counter.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Trumble.”

“He who hesperates is lost. Or
she
, being in your case. I don’t think that bolt is goin’ to last long.”

Maybe it will go to someone who has someone special to dress up for
, she thought. The bell over the door tinkled, and suddenly Mercy was face-to-face with Mrs. Kingston.

“My dear Miss Sanders!” the elderly woman exclaimed. She was splendidly dressed in a gown of rose and beige silk that brought out the high color in her cheeks and a straw bonnet trimmed with lace and silk flowers. “How good to see you!”

“Mrs. Kingston.” Mercy smiled. “I haven’t seen you out walking lately.”

Mrs. Kingston sent a wave and greeting to Mr. Trumble, then drew Mercy off toward the front corner of the shop, beside the window. Lowering her voice, she said, “I walked twice yesterday to make up for today, because I’m leaving town in another hour or so. I’ve been forced to alter my route again, after a certain person ‘happened’ to cross my path last Monday morning. I had dined with him a few evenings earlier, you see, and I’m afraid that encouraged him all the more so.”

Even though Mrs. Kingston had used the word “afraid,” she didn’t seem very fearful to Mercy. In fact, her blue eyes shone with what appeared to be pure enjoyment.

“But won’t he become discouraged eventually?” Mercy dared to venture.

Mrs. Kingston didn’t seem insulted but did change the subject abruptly. “Did your brother accompany you here?”

Mercy shifted her eyes uneasily away from the woman’s face. “He’s at the
Bow and Fiddle.”

“I see. Then you have time for a little visit, don’t you?” She moved over to the counter, opened her beaded reticule, and handed over a coin. “I would like a dozen peppermints, Mr. Trumble. And you won’t mind holding Miss Sanders’ purchases, will you?”

“Of course not, Mrs. Kingston,” he replied, setting down Mercy’s list long enough to wrap some candies in brown paper.

“When her brother returns, please have him stop by the
Larkspur
.”

“The
Larkspur
?” Mercy asked, for if Mary was snubbing Dale again at the
Bow and Fiddle
, he would be in no mood to do anyone any favors.

“Just the garden, child. We’ll spot him as he comes up the lane.”

Before Mercy had time to think, she was being escorted arm in arm with Mrs. Kingston up Market Lane. She had admired the
Larkspur
’s garden many times upon passing. What a treat it was to be seated upon a willow bench near a rose of Sharon hibiscus with flowers still a deep pink even with autumn approaching.