The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter (6 page)

Mrs. Brent closed her eyes obediently, but her lips still moved. “God has told me that He’s going to send you a husband, Mercy.”

Chapter 4

Seated at the head of the
Larkspur
’s long dining room table that evening, Julia Hollis took in the homey scene before her. Savory aromas rose from plates loaded with Mrs. Herrick’s specialties and mingled with the pleasant conversation of people who had become almost family to one another.

“Actually, they were used for weaving cloth, not for grooming,” Mr. Ellis was saying of the bone combs he and his assistant, Mr. Pitney, had uncovered in the Anwyl’s ruins today. Mr. Ellis looked every bit the archeologist with his studious gray eyes, tall, slightly stooped frame, and graying beard. “And they are not Roman, by the way.”

“Not Roman, Mr. Ellis?” Mrs. Dearing asked from his immediate right. “But the fort
is
Roman, isn’t it?”

“Oh, absolutely. But Mr. Pitney and I have come to the conclusion that there was a fortified village there sometime during the Late Iron Age—around 50
B.C.
, if you will. The Romans apparently leveled this village some two hundred years later to construct their fort atop the ruins.”

“And so the combs are Celtic?” Mr. Durwin, retired founder of
Durwin Stoves
, asked.

“Indeed they are. It was Mr. Pitney who established that. He has a deep abiding interest in Celtic artifacts.”

Julia recognized that Mr. Ellis was generously attempting to draw his younger associate into the conversation. Perhaps it was his great size that contributed to Jacob Pitney’s timidity, for the dark-haired man towered above everyone else in the
Larkspur
. Big-boned he was, with hands that looked as if they should be swinging a pickax at a quarry rather than handling delicate antiquities. But it was obvious that he loved his work, for his brown eyes lit up when Fiona asked him to describe how the combs were used in weaving.

“Aren’t you hungry, Mother?” Aleda asked from Julia’s adjacent right. Julia looked down at her plate and realized her fork had been idly plowing swirls in her creamed turnips for some time now.

“It must be the turnips,” Grace, at Aleda’s other elbow, suggested before Julia could reply. The seven-year-old had an acute dislike for the root vegetable and seemed to assume it was only a matter of time before the rest of the household came to their senses and formed the same opinion.

Julia didn’t force her to eat them, for she could recall a similar enmity with peas when she was a young girl. “The turnips are fine,” she told Grace. “I’m still not used to having everyone here again. It’s nice.”

“Everyone” consisted of, in order of seating beginning with her son on the left, Mrs. Hyatt and Mr. Durwin, who were to marry in September, Mrs. Dearing, who had spent some years in California gold country with her late husband, Mr. Ellis, and Miss Rawlins, author of such penny novelettes as
Dominique’s Peril
.

From Grace’s right were seated Mrs. Kingston, Mr. Pitney, Fiona, and Mr. Clay. Counting Julia and her children and parlormaids, Georgette and Sarah, who were flanking the sideboard in their black alpaca gowns and white aprons, fifteen people were gathered in the room.

Good people
, Julia thought. Oh, some had their minor peculiarities, as she suspected she did herself, but she could not have imagined a more congenial group living under her roof. She became aware that Mrs. Dearing was attempting to establish eye contact and said, “Yes, Mrs. Dearing?”

“Have you heard whether the school board’s call on the Sanderses was successful, Mrs. Hollis?”

All eyes turned to her now. Julia shook her head. “I’m afraid I haven’t.” But as the day wore on, she had ceased worrying about her fiancé being the target of a rock, for surely she would have heard by now if he had.

“I do pray they were able to persuade him.” Mrs. Kingston glanced at the girls at her left. “A merry-go-round would be such a novelty—why, I doubt there’s another village in Shropshire that can boast such a wonder!”

Mrs. Dearing nodded. “It looks as if the whole outcome depends upon Mr. Sanders, doesn’t it? I avoid gossip like the plague, but from what bits and pieces I’ve heard concerning him, he cares for nothing above his cattle—not even his own children.”

“I’ve heard that as well,” Mrs. Hyatt sighed.

The mood of the assemblage turned somber, with the scroll clock on the chimneypiece ticking off several seconds of silence. Presently Mr. Clay, whose face betrayed an apparent struggle with some sort of emotion, said, “We can only hope Mr. Sanders was in an agreeable
moo-ood
.” He winced afterward. “Forgive me—I just couldn’t help myself.”

Another silence followed, during which everyone appeared to be collecting his thoughts. Mr. Durwin was the first to speak, scrutinizing Mr. Clay unsmilingly, but with eyes that held a suspicious glint. “I suppose you find that
a-moosing
, Mr. Clay?”

Now somber expressions turned to chuckles. Even Georgette and Sarah sent giggles from the sideboard. “May I give it a try?” asked Mr. Ellis.

“But of course,” Mr. Durwin invited.

He assumed an eloquent pose. “It would be-
hoof
any child to be educated.”

“Wait—I have one!” Miss Rawlins said above the laughter that followed Mr. Ellis’s contribution. “I
cud
listen to you make puns for days.”

“Thank you, Miss Rawlins.” Mr. Clay inclined his head toward the head of the table. “But wouldn’t you rather listen to Aleda play the piano?”

The mirth that erupted fizzled out in the same breath. Before anyone could ask Mr. Clay to explain his answer, he sent Aleda a wink. “
Mooo
-sic.”

It seemed a dam had been broken. An assortment of nonsense words were twittered and guffawed over—even those that weren’t quite up to mark, such as Mrs. Kingston’s “It was
beast-ly
of Mr. Sanders to crown poor Mr. Clay with a rock.”

“Aren’t you going to say one, Mother?” Aleda whispered.

“I’ve been trying to think,” Julia whispered back. “
Moon
is the only word I can come up with, but it hasn’t anything to do with the subject.”

Philip turned to her, his face flushed from laughter. “May I?”

“If you like,” she nodded, relieved that at least one person from the Hollis family would be represented. Her son turned to the others, raised a timid hand as if in school, and was soon noticed by Mrs. Hyatt.

“Have you a good one for us, Philip?”

“I think so.”

“Well, let’s hear it, young man,” Mrs. Dearing urged.

“This is
udderly
the funniest supper I’ve ever had,” he said, which caused Mr. Clay to roar and Mr. Ellis to remove his spectacles and wipe his eyes with his napkin. By the time dessert was served—raspberry torte with cream—everyone had settled down somewhat, though the mood was still light.

As the lodgers moved from the room later, Mr. Clay accepted Mr. Durwin’s request for a game of draughts “for old time’s sake.” Julia suspected that he did so to give Fiona and her some time to spend together and appreciated him all the more for it. “Why don’t you show me the rest of your new wardrobe?” she asked her friend.

“I would love to,” Fiona said, linking her arm through Julia’s. They ambled down the corridor toward the courtyard door, first stepping into the kitchen to compliment Mrs. Herrick and the kitchen maids on the meal. Inside, the women were laying the table for the servants’ supper.

“Ah, so’s Mr. Clay
does
allow you out of his sight now and then,” Mrs. Herrick told Fiona, causing a shocked giggle from scullery maid Gertie and a smile from Mildred.

“Now and then” was Fiona’s smiling reply. “I’m happy to know that the cooking here is still the best in England.”

“Flattery will land you another dish of raspberry torte, Mrs. Clay.”

Fiona raised a hand to her waist. “It sounds wonderful, but I’m afraid I’ve no room for it, Mrs. Herrick.”

They stayed only a minute or two longer, for the rest of the servants had begun drifting into the kitchen for their meal. In the comfortably furnished apartment over the stables, Julia sat at Fiona’s dressing table and tried on an assortment of hats. She angled her face to study herself wearing a particularly flattering one of midnight blue felt, the brim turned up at one side and adorned with feathers and ribbons. “Is this French?”

Standing behind her like in the old days when she used to brush Julia’s hair, Fiona nodded. “It looks stunning on you.”

“It does?” Julia allowed Fiona to tilt the brim a bit farther down on her forehead, then looked in the mirror again. She had begun to feel pretty again in spite of her thirty-two years, for Andrew told her so every day. Her waist-length auburn hair had no gray as of yet, and her slightly freckled cheeks were still smooth. “I do look like I’m about to have tea with the Queen, don’t I?”

“Why don’t you keep it?”

“Oh no, I couldn’t.”

“You could wear it to the vicarage tomorrow evening.”

The idea was tempting. For just a few seconds, Julia relived the years when the latest Parisian fashions were something she took for granted. The richness of her clothing had been important to her then, for there was little else in her life over which she had any control. But before temptation could take too great a hold upon her, she removed the hat. “Thank you, Fiona, but I can’t.”

“If you’re worried that Ambrose might object …”

“No, it’s not that.” Julia sighed and tried to explain. “Most women here in Gresham can’t afford anything so fine. I don’t want to set myself apart from them.”

She had given much thought on how she should conduct herself now that she was betrothed to a minister. There was no sin in being fashionable, and she had no intention of dressing dowdy. But how could she help her husband minister to people like Mrs. Burrell if she were bedecked out in Parisian finery, when the poor woman couldn’t clothe herself or her children without parish assistance?

“I understand,” Fiona said, which of course came as no surprise to Julia. Taking the hat and handing over another, this time a muslin morning cap, her friend said, “Then we’ll just have our own Easter parade right here. Try this one on, please.”

Julia did as she was told. After every hat had been modeled and every gown admired, they sat on a small settee in front of the empty fireplace and propped their feet on the fender. Mr. Trumble had sent the Clays a tin of Belgium chocolate bonbons last week, and the two managed to find room for two or three each in spite of Mrs. Herrick’s torte. Fiona entertained Julia with tidbits she’d learned about the theatre, and Julia told Fiona about her wedding plans.

And then abruptly Fiona asked, “You don’t think I’m prideful, do you?”

Stifling a smile, Julia replied, “Are you referring to your wardrobe?”

“It’s not that I require all that finery to be happy. Ambrose insists upon buying them for me.”

“Fiona, there’s not a prideful bone in your body.”

“I’m afraid I’m capable of any emotion,” she sighed. “In London we’re often approached by people who recognize my husband. I must admit it’s rather flattering being at his side. During my quiet times with God, I often have to remind myself from whence I came.”

Julia nodded, understanding. Fiona’s origins had indeed been humble, beginning with servitude in Ireland as soon as she was old enough to labor, then marriage to a brutal man at fourteen. She ran away from her husband, now dead, four years later to emigrate to London and was hired into Julia’s household as a chambermaid. Fiona rose in position to become housekeeper of the
Larkspur
, but when she was twenty-six years old, her servitude became a thing of the past with her marriage to Mr. Clay.

“You know, I have to remind myself of that as well,” Julia told her. “Or rather, where the children and I could have ended up had God not taken care of us. He’s brought us both a long way, hasn’t He?”

“Aye, missus,” Fiona replied.

“Missus?”

The former housekeeper smiled at her slip of the tongue. “Old habits die hard. But yes, He has brought us far. And just think … our journeys aren’t over yet.”

Presently they joined the others in the hall. Both archeologists were absent, but that was not unusual, since they spent some evenings after supper cataloging the day’s findings. Julia imagined that Philip was with them—they were patient about allowing him to watch. Mrs. Dearing and Mrs. Hyatt sat on one of the sofas with needlework on their laps. On the facing sofa, Miss Rawlins read passages from a recently finished manuscript to Mrs. Kingston. And on the carpet, Aleda helped Grace cut paper dolls from a book. While Fiona watched the remainder of the draughts match, Julia moved an ottoman over to her daughters to admire their work.

“Let’s clean our teeth and wash our faces,” she told the two when the grandfather clock chimed eight times. Grace looked up from her paper dolls with pleading eyes, but Julia shook her head. She had learned last year, upon assuming the responsibility of mothering her children instead of allowing a nanny to do so, that if bedtime were allowed to be negotiated
one
night, it would have to be negotiated
every
night. And since she didn’t wish their last conversations of the day to consist of arguments and pleadings, she enforced the rule with the rigidity of a garrison sergeant except on special occasions.