The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter (44 page)

“Well, you’ve expressed it. So may we talk about something else now?”

He nodded miserably. “Yes, of course.”

And then, to Elizabeth’s amazement, he looked about them, took her by the elbow, and led her into the shade between two willows. Before she could think to ask what was going on, her shoulders were seized, and he pressed a kiss upon her lips.
My first kiss
went through her muddled mind as he raised his head again, for even Jonathan had not taken that liberty back in Cambridge. “Paul,” she breathed, touching her burning cheek.

He eased his hands away from her shoulders. “Don’t be angry at me, Elizabeth. I care for you so much.”

“I care for you too, Paul.” And she meant it. What was a little disagreement between two who planned to build their lives together? Even Papa and Mrs. Hollis did not hold the same opinion about
everything
.

As they started back to the vicarage, she only wished that instead of backing away from his argument simply to appease her, he would have made an attempt to see her point of view. While she couldn’t expect him to know how it was to be female, surely he could imagine himself with time weighing heavy upon his hands. Then he might understand that even a vicar’s daughter has a need for something interesting with which to fill her days.

Seth and Thomas had settled comfortably into a supper routine during the month they had occupied what townspeople continually referred to as “the Brent cottage.” Seth had even begun to think of it in that way, for reminders of the elderly woman’s former life were everywhere. Her needlepoint samplers hung on the walls; the same woven cloth rugs were upon the stone floors; and items such as the chipped blue vase containing a geranium in the front window and the porcelain figurine of a shepherdess atop the chimneypiece were still just as Mrs. Brent had left them. At times he felt guilty that the belongings she had acquired over a lifetime were now a stranger’s, who had no idea of the memories behind them that must have made them special to her.

Seth did feel some sentiment for Mrs. Brent’s things. The little touches here and there gave the stone cottage an almost nurturing atmosphere and were a softening to the days spent outside with hammer and nails. More than once, when smoothing the quilt over Thomas’s shoulders at bedtime, he had wondered what the woman would have thought had she known that her handiwork would one day provide warmth for an orphaned boy.

But this evening as he heard Thomas’s prayers and tucked him in for the night, his thoughts were taken up with what was troubling the boy. He claimed to have had a good first day at school the three times Seth had inquired. Each time he had responded with the same hollow inflection in his voice and the same unconvincing smile. Across the table from him at their usual supper of tinned beef and pears, the boy’s eyes had rarely met his.

This left Seth in a quandary over what to do. While common sense told him that children were entitled to moods too—he certainly had his own struggles with them, especially when thoughts of Elaine drifted through his mind—he didn’t like the idea of leaving the boy alone in that big bed with such a haunted look in his blue eyes.

He decided to make one more attempt and this time not ask the same question in the same way. “Thomas,” he said, seating himself on the side of the bed.

“Yes, sir?” answered the small voice.

As usual, Seth felt a little pang at being referred to as
sir
instead of
father
, as he himself had come to think of the boy as his own son. But he would never allow Thomas to know. There were some things that shouldn’t be forced. “I want to know what happened at school today.”

Whether it was because of the insistence in Seth’s voice or because he could no longer bear the burden of his thoughts alone, Thomas gave a truthful reply. “Some boys said you killed someone and stole his money.”

The answer was so unexpected and delivered with such seriousness that Seth gave a chuckle.
So that’s all there was to it!
“Oh yes?” he said, raising both eyebrows. “And who is it that I’m supposed to have killed? Did they tell you?”

“No, sir.” Relief mingled with the worry in Thomas’s expression. “You didn’t?”

“Of course not.” Smoothing some ash-colored hair back from the boy’s forehead, Seth replied, “Did you really think it was true?”

After a fractional hesitation, the boy shook his head.

“Well there, now you have it,” Seth said, reaching for the lamp.

“Then you didn’t go to prison?”

Heaviness from within suddenly pulled at Seth’s chest. How foolish he had been, he told himself, to assume that moving far away from Newgate would ensure that this question would never be asked. It was even more painful to have it come from the lips of the person who mattered most in the world to him! His immediate thought was to deny it, but he found himself unable to give voice to a lie. He straightened again and let the lamplight be.

“I’ve been to prison, Thomas,” he replied softly, watching for any sign of waning of affection in the boy’s face.

“Why?”

Seth blew out his cheeks and figured he may as well tell the whole story now and be done with it. “I was accused of stealing a piece of jewelry. I spent ten years in Newgate Prison. Have you heard of it?”

“No, sir.”

“And you never would have had someone not said such a thing to you. I was innocent, Thomas. When the person who accused me confessed, I was set free. That’s how I came to have enough money to buy this place.”

“He gave it to you?”

“Yes. Now, do you think any less of me?”

The boy blinked again, his blue eyes serious. “I never did, sir.”

Studying the young face, Seth said, “Not even when you worried that they might have been telling the truth?”

Now his bottom lip trembled a bit. “You’re good to me, sir.”

How overwhelming, to be the recipient of such blind devotion, when just seconds ago Seth had fretted inwardly over being addressed as
sir
. He could have robbed and murdered someone, and Thomas would still want to be with him! While he would have much preferred that his past had never been mentioned, the heaviness in his chest lifted, replaced by a great warmth.

Finally a question occurred to him. “Which boys said this to you, Thomas?”

“Jack and Edgar.”

“Who?”

“They live in that house with the cake lady.”

“Oh …” Now it was becoming clear to him. He could see now that the prison talk was simply a weapon with which to goad someone smaller and more naïve. Perhaps he himself had helped to foster such notions, keeping their lives as private as possible and spending so much money upon his arrival in Gresham. How ironic that the very actions he had taken to keep his past from being discovered were used to spin fabrications that were painfully close to the truth.

“Well, next time you hear such talk, just ignore it,” he told the boy. “If they can’t get a reaction from you, they’ll soon tire of trying.”

“They will?”

Smiling, Seth smoothed back hair that really didn’t need smoothing, just to have an excuse to touch the boy. “Yes, they will—unless boys have changed a whole lot since I was one.”

“You seemed preoccupied at supper last night,” Elizabeth’s father commented over breakfast the next day. “Did you not enjoy Mr. Treves’ company?”

“We had words earlier,” Elizabeth replied truthfully.

Her father’s bearded face became anxious. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have invited him without consulting you.”

“It was kind of you to invite him, Papa. It was just a small disagreement.”

“Well, that’s good. I was thinking we should have him over every Monday evening—a standing invitation.”

“That would be nice,” she replied, picking up her fork and knife to cut her bacon.
Men’s work!
As if God made only the male fingers capable of grasping a pen! She had assumed she was over her irritation, but as she recalled their walk late yesterday afternoon, her pulse quickened, and it wasn’t because of the kiss.

“Beth?”

She looked up at her father. “Yes, Papa?”

“You’re overdoing the bacon a bit, aren’t you?”

It was then she realized that she had sawed the strip into tiny pieces, bearing down so hard that her knife scratched the china. Sheepishly she met her father’s hazel eyes again. They were filled with concern or sadness—she couldn’t tell which. Perhaps both.

Hours later, after Andrew had retired to his study to write his sermon and Elizabeth had penned several pages of notes into the journal, her father came into the upstairs sitting room to remind her that they were invited to have lunch at the Sykeses. “He’s trying to make it up to me,” he grumbled but did not elaborate.

Of course Elizabeth knew exactly what he meant. She couldn’t help but smile a little. “Would you mind going without me?”

“Not if you would rather stay. Are you all right, Beth?”

“Yes. Just not in the mood for company.”

He nodded understandingly. That was the good thing about her father. While he insisted that she and Laurel live their lives according to biblical, moral standards, he seldom obligated them socially. His way of thinking was that
he
was the person the church had assigned to Gresham, and his girls were just as entitled to lives of their own as were the cobbler’s or smithy’s daughters. “Shall I ask Mrs. Paget to send up a tray?”

“No, thank you,” she replied, stretching in her chair. “But if she wouldn’t mind making a sandwich, I’ll come down later for it. It’ll be good to have an excuse to move around for a few minutes.”

Some ten minutes later, she found herself on her way downstairs to the kitchen. “Miss Phelps,” the cook said, looking up from the potatoes she was peeling at the worktable. “The vicar said you wasn’t in no hurry for the sandwich. If you’ll sit a minute I’ll make one right away.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry yet, Mrs. Paget. I just thought I’d get some fresh air. Would you care for anything from one of the shops?”

“We’ll be needin’ more silver polish soon!” Dora called from the scullery.

The cook pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I could use a pound of salt. And Luke was sayin’ this morning he was almost out of harness soap. Can you manage that, Miss Phelps?”

“Of course.” She was taking her everyday straw bonnet from the rack in the vestibule when it occurred to her that one of her nicer hats upstairs would best accent the burgundy-and-cream gown she wore. She chose a narrow-brimmed hat of fine burgundy felt, trimmed with a velvet band and a cluster of ribbons at the side. And as long as she was in her room, she sat briefly at her dressing table and decided to twist her straight, wheat-colored hair into a chignon before angling the hat upon her head.

“Why, Miss Phelps, you look like a princess!” Dora said, appearing just as Elizabeth reached the bottom of the staircase for the second time. “If Mr. Treves could see you now, eh?”

Elizabeth thanked her but flushed guiltily, for Paul had been the last person on her mind. She wished now that she hadn’t committed to making purchases. Her place was upstairs penning archeological material, not strolling by the schoolhouse in the hopes of seeing Jonathan Raleigh while the children were at recess.

There was no use in denying it to herself. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she had known all along her reason for offering to shop for Mrs. Paget.
Why do you even care about seeing him? He made a fool of you
. She decided that since she couldn’t very well tell the cook she had changed her mind, she would send not even a glance toward the schoolhouse. If Mr. Raleigh happened to be outside, there was nothing she could do about that, since he had ensconced himself into a position of importance in the village. But there was no law that said she had to look at him. As she unlatched the garden gate, harness soap, silver polish, and salt were the only thoughts occupying her mind—at least for a while.