The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter (61 page)

“Thomas,” Mr. Langford cut in before Mercy could reply. This time he took a step out into the yard. “Miss Sanders was just leaving.”

“But she brought her pot, sir.”

“Thomas!”

The boy turned to him with a stunned expression, which had an immediate effect upon Mr. Langford. He shrugged, sent Mercy a severe glance, and said in a considerably softer voice, “Bring the pot inside for her, will you?”

Mercy lowered her head as she walked past Mr. Langford with the basket. “I didn’t mean to cause disharmony, Mr. Langford,” she murmured as the boy ambled ahead of her toward the kitchen.

“But you did, didn’t you?” was his icy reply. He called for Thomas, and they resumed the task she had interrupted—the reapplication of pitch to the windows of the house. Mercy unpacked her basket, thankful that they were upstairs, for she was so humiliated by the unpleasantness at the door that she continually had to wipe her eyes with the hem of her apron.

Some time later, as she was chopping leeks to add to the braised meat in the pot, she heard only one set of footsteps on the staircase. She gave her eyes a quick swipe again, just before Mr. Langford walked into the kitchen from the parlor. Mercy only knew it was Mr. Langford by the tread of his shoes, not by sight, for she kept her attention upon the task at hand. “I must ask your forgiveness for my rudeness, Miss Sanders,” he said. “I simply don’t want to give you false hope.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. Langford,” she replied softly, still chopping. “But sometimes false hopes are better than no hope at all.”

“I don’t agree. I have seen men drive themselves mad because they couldn’t accept the reality of their situations.”

It was a puzzling thing to say, a reminder that she knew nothing of his past besides the ridiculous speculations of her brothers. “So no one should have hope, Mr. Langford?” she asked.

The question apparently took him by surprise, for several silent seconds passed before he answered. When he did, it was to say in a gentler tone, “You deserve a husband who could
love
you, Miss Sanders.”

The way he stressed “love” made it clear that he did not, but of course Mercy had never imagined that he did. Now she brought herself to look at him, setting down her knife. He stood with arms folded, his face softened by what appeared to be pity. This alarmed Mercy. While she wished very much to marry Mr. Langford, she wanted no man to marry her out of pity.

“My mother married my father out of love and was treated no better than the livestock in his barn. I am not looking to be loved.”

“What
are
you looking for?”

“Respect and consideration, sir. Conversation once in a while that doesn’t center around what needs to be cooked or cleaned or mended. A man not too proud to pray before meals and for the safe keep of his family at night.”

Surprise again filled his face, and understandably so, for Mercy herself was surprised at the candor with which she was able to reply. But it had taken every ounce of boldness from her, so she dropped her gaze to the table again and began scraping carrots for the stew. He left the kitchen shortly afterward.

When she had finished cooking, she went upstairs to announce dinner was ready. Mr. Langford and Thomas were working at one of the two windows in the room that was once Mrs. Brent’s. Mercy had not been up here since the funeral. It smelled of pitch mingled with lamb stew, but everything looked almost the same as it had when illness had confined Mrs. Brent here, even down to the quilt upon the bed. Memories of the woman who had mothered her so lovingly brought fresh tears to Mercy’s eyes. She wiped them quickly, but then to her horror she sniffed.

This caused Mr. Langford and Thomas to turn from the window, seeing her for the first time since she had come upstairs. “Miss Sanders?” the man said in a puzzled tone.

“It’s the room, sir,” she flustered. “It was Mrs. Brent’s.”

He nodded understanding, and Thomas, as if searching for something that would cheer her, offered, “Now the windowpanes won’t rattle so much in the wind.”

Mercy smiled. “That’s good to know.” With forced casualness, she added, “Would you be ready for dinner now?”

“I am!” the boy exclaimed but then turned to his father with an uncertain expression. “May we?”

The man’s shoulders rose and fell with what appeared to be a deep sigh, but he smiled at his son. “Very well.”

They ate quietly, with Thomas doing most of the chattering. He talked mostly of his pony and of how Mr. Raleigh had said he could be a scorekeeper if he studied his arithmetic. Mercy marveled to herself that this was the timid boy who had met her the day she delivered the apple cake. A couple of times her eyes met Mr. Langford’s, and they exchanged looks of amusement, only to glance away again immediately afterward. Both males ate heartily of the stew and brown bread, then smiled at each other’s teeth—stained from the blackberry cobbler she brought out of the oven when the meal was finished.

Mercy, on the other hand, spoke rarely and ate very little. The courage and faith required of her to carry out this plan were monumental, and she had no resources left to quell her own nervousness.

Mr. Langford insisted upon helping her with the dishes while Thomas went out to see about his pony. “That was a delicious meal, Miss Sanders,” he said, his brow drawn in concentration as he scraped at the insides of the iron pot with a knife.

“Thank you, Mr. Langford.”

“I want to know how much you spent on both meals so I can repay you before you leave.”

She shook her head. “I spend nothing. A good friend insists on paying for the food.”

Turning a suspicious eye to her, he asked, “Who?”

“I can’t tell you that, Mr. Langford.”

And then apparently he realized the full meaning of her previous answer. “
Insists?
You aren’t planning to do this again, are you?”

Mercy took in a long breath, and when it was not enough, she took another. Meanwhile, he ceased scraping at the pot and awaited her reply.

“I am.”

The scraping resumed with a vengeance. “How long do you intend to keep this up?”

Taking another breath, she replied, “Five more times.”

“Five?” An eyebrow quirked as he turned his face to her again. “Did you say
five
?”

Mercy nodded and reached for another plate to dry.

“Is there nothing I can say to stop you?”

“Nothing, Mr. Langford.”

He sighed heavily, then, “Why five?”

“That, I cannot tell you.”

“You plan to intrude upon my life five more times, and you won’t tell me why?” he said incredulously.

To keep from dissolving into tears, Mercy reminded herself that Mrs. Kingston was likely praying for her at this very minute. “I cannot tell you,” she repeated.

He shook his head and muttered something under his breath, and the kitchen was taken over by sounds of clinking of dishes and the swishing water. When they were finished, he eyed the pot and sighed again. “You can’t carry that home by yourself. I’ll walk with you.”

Mr. Langford was on his way to the door before she could protest with, “I can carry—”

He did not turn around but raised a hand from his side as if to quell any argument.

“I’m going to walk Miss Sanders home,” Seth told Thomas, calling the boy over from the stables.

“Will she come again?” he asked.

There was no mistaking the hopefulness in his voice, and for a second, Seth felt sorry for the boy’s motherless condition.
He has me
, he reminded himself with tightened jaw. And no child needed Mr. Sanders as a grandfather or that crew of savages for uncles. The thought alone was enough to bring a shudder.

Thomas was watching him for an answer, so Seth replied flatly, “She will.”
At least she’s planned a stopping point to it
. She waited outside the door, her arms burdened with her pot and basket.

“How is it that your father allows you to do this?” he asked as he carried the iron pot out toward the lane, with her walking beside him. In spite of himself, he took a glance at the hands clutching the basket. They were work-worn, as Elaine’s had been, but also slender and feminine.
What are you doing?
he asked himself and shot his eyes back to the lane ahead of him.

“I told him I would move away if he did anything to prevent it.”

“Oh?” This piqued his curiosity. “Move where?”
Surely she doesn’t mean with us!

“To the manor house. There is a position vacant for a parlor-maid.”

“I see. So the squire is the mysterious person behind all this?”

“No,” she replied.

Seth waited for more, but she did not offer it, so he lapsed into silence himself. Just before they reached the cottage gate, Mr. Sanders and a couple of boys could be seen trimming the hedgerow. Curiously, aside from stony glances, they did not stop working to provoke hostilities.

“I’ll take it from here,” Miss Sanders told him at the gate. “Thank you.”

Seth set it over the gate to the ground so one of her brothers could get it for her if so inclined. “I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask you one more time not to come next week,” he said in a resigned voice.

Uncertainty crept into her hazel eyes, which made Seth feel almost boorish for even asking the question. But in spite of her obvious struggle, she replied before turning toward her cottage, “It would not, Mr. Langford.”

After exchanging affectionate smiles with Andrew at the door of Saint Jude’s on Sunday, Julia was surprised to see that Mr. Raleigh had not made his customary beeline for the
Bow and Fiddle
. The reason for his delay became apparent after a knot of people moved from her line of vision. Mrs. McFarley, the barber’s wife, was speaking with him and, judging by her gesturing, was pleased about something.
Archery
, she told herself, and curiosity to see if her guess was correct compelled her to move a little closer as her daughters scattered to seek out playmates.

“My Robert has ne’er been so eager about school,” she was saying, though the Gaelic of her accent caused
about
to come out as
aboot
. “Who would ha’ thought that gettin’ a chance to shoot arrows would make him get to his homework?”

Mr. Raleigh smiled back, nodding and thanking her. When Mrs. McFarley had turned to leave, Julia walked over to the schoolmaster before he could do the same. “I would like to add my compliments as well,” she said, extending her hand. “There is little talk of anything else at the
Larkspur
’s table. What a clever idea!”

“I must confess it came in the midst of a desperate prayer,” he said modestly as they shook hands.

“And Aleda tells me that the children have calmed down considerably.”

A pleased smile touched his lips. “Considerably, Mrs. Hollis. Why, I find myself at times even
liking
being a schoolmaster.” Immediate distress altered his expression. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know. It was rough going for you at first.”

He sent a breath through his teeth. “Extremely rough.”

From the corner of her eye Julia sensed movement. She turned her face to find Elizabeth standing close by, her hand upon Laurel’s shoulder. “Hello, Mrs. Hollis,” she said and then added as if almost an afterthought, “and Jonathan.”

Julia glanced at the doorway of the church after greeting both. Although she doubted her fiancé would come tearing across the grounds to break up their conversation, she was relieved to find him still occupied with shaking the hands of departing worshipers. She respected Andrew’s wishes not to allow Mr. Raleigh to court Elizabeth, but as they lived in the same village, it was inevitable that they would speak occasionally.

She would have taken her leave at this time under ordinary circumstances. But these were not, and she knew that, perchance Andrew would glance in their direction, he would be more reassured to see Laurel and her acting as chaperones.

“Hello, Elizabeth.” He appeared to be struggling to keep his expression casual. “How are you?”

“Fine.” Elizabeth lowered her eyes for a second, perhaps having that same struggle herself. She looked lovely in a simple fawn-colored silk trimmed with dark brown piping. “And you?”