The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter (65 page)

“That’s good to know, Mr. Langford.” After a space of silence, she said, “May I ask you a question?”

As long as it’s not pertaining to marriage
, he thought wryly. “Are you wondering why I adopted Thomas?”

“Had you known him beforehand?”

He shook his head. “Just his mother. Years before.”

“I see.”

What exactly she did see, he couldn’t know, but thankfully she didn’t persist. When they reached the Sanders place he asked resignedly at the gate, “I suppose you’re coming next week?”

She averted her eyes and said, “Yes, Mr. Langford.”

Sympathy, for the boldness she obviously had to dredge up to carry out her ridiculous plan, found its way to his heart. He cleared his throat and before turning to leave, said, “The meal was delicious, Miss Sanders.”

That evening, after a supper of warmed-over Shropshire pie, he sat by the fire with Thomas on the footstool at his knees, listening as the boy read aloud from a children’s book from the lending library.
John Tucker’s Path
was rather a silly story, Seth thought, even though he enjoyed hearing Thomas read. John Tucker was a boy faced with the choice of associating himself with one group—ruffians who dipped snuff in secret, gambled with cards, and disobeyed their elders—and another consisting of children dedicated to industry and obedience. Etchings of the disagreeable crowd portrayed them with rumpled clothes, caps worn at cavalier angles, and frowning slashes for mouths. The good boys, on the other hand, wore respectful, serious expressions, neatly pressed clothing even at play, and lacked only wings. From the first page it was clear what John Tucker’s choice would ultimately be, so why go to the trouble of printing out more pages?

But he had been assured by the librarian that such stories were good for developing children’s moral fiber, and he certainly wanted Thomas to be influenced in the proper direction.

“Chair … actor …” Thomas frowned for several seconds at the word before looking up at Seth. “Chair-actor?”

Seth smiled. “This time the ‘ch’ sounds like a ‘k’ instead.”

The boy stared at the word again, moving a finger across it until comprehension smoothed the drawn brow. “Is the word
character
, sir?”

“That it is,” Seth affirmed, clapping the narrow shoulder. “That was a tough one.”

A pleased smile lit up Thomas’s face. “May I write it on my slate and show Mr. Raleigh?”

“Of course. Just remember to bring it back home for practice.” He cleared his throat, almost wishing Miss Sanders were here again to lend him some of her support. “Thomas,” he said directly.

The boy, who had been studying another word on the page, looked up at him again. “Yes, sir?”

Seth swallowed. “Do you think you would mind addressing me as ‘father’?”

Thomas stared at Seth unblinkingly, while some intangible emotion seemed to be trying to surface in the young face. In an incredible awareness that brought a lump to his throat, Seth recognized it as love. He held out his arms, and the boy climbed up into them.

“I love you, Thomas,” he said, awkwardly patting his back.

“I love you, Father,” Thomas murmured into his shoulder.

Bless you, Miss Sanders
, Seth thought hours later when the house was dark and still and his son lay sleeping in the next room.

When Jonathan arrived at the schoolhouse early Wednesday morning, he paused at the corner of the building to shout greetings to Luke Smith and the handful of older students who had coaxed him to allow them to come early and target practice. Several waves of hands were sent in return. Jonathan could not join them because of morning lesson preparations but trusted fully that Mr. Smith would not allow any careless behavior. The excitement for the archery team had gone beyond his most optimistic dreams, changing the whole character of the classroom from one of covert warfare to a team marching under one banner. Even the younger children frequently attended practice to watch, encouraging their older brothers and sisters with applause even for the lowest scores.

Seven more months
, he thought, touching a desk on the way to his own up front. After requesting a few days to pray about it, he had given his answer to the members of the school board yesterday. That had been only the preliminary step, the men had explained to him, because now Miss Clark had to be asked if she would consider teaching the secondary school, and the squire if he would sponsor it. But Jonathan somehow knew that it would happen.

He smiled and brought out his planning ledger, in which he kept track of his responsibilities to the different levels of students. Seven more months in which to prove to Elizabeth that he loved her with all his heart. A gift from God, he had no doubt. And oddly enough, he was almost as happy about the seven more months he would be allowed to continue opening up the world to children, most of whom would never travel farther than Shrewsbury in their lifetimes.

A knock on the door snapped him out of his pleasant reverie just before Vicar Phelps stepped into the room with hat in hand.

“Vicar …” Jonathan said, taken by surprise.

“Mr. Raleigh,” the man nodded tersely as he approached his desk.

Oh no
. Jonathan had a feeling the minister had found out about his decision to stay and, of course, was livid about it. He stood but did not offer his hand for fear that the vicar might not return it in the same condition. “Good morning,” he offered benignly.

Vicar Phelps planted his fists upon the desk and leaned forward slightly, propping himself up by his arms. “You’ve given the board your answer.” Not a question, but a statement of fact.

“Yes, sir.”
I don’t want to fight a man twice my age
. Especially one who happened to be Elizabeth’s father—and with shoulders as broad as a Viking’s.

“How can we make sure we win that archery tournament next month?”

Jonathan blinked. “Sir?” he replied, not because he had not heard, but because he needed a moment to collect his wits.

“The tournament. What would it take to win the thing?”

Now that he could think, Jonathan had a ready answer. “Saturday practices, sir. If just for a month the children could be allowed a couple of hours away from chores—and still be given time to keep up with their schoolwork, of course.”

“Hmmm.” The vicar rubbed his bearded chin. “Would have to be on Saturday mornings, after the milk from the first milkings is delivered to the factory. If I call on the parents and can convince most of them, can you be ready this Saturday?”

“Of course.”

Incredibly, Vicar Phelps stretched his hand over the desk. Even more incredibly, his face wore a grin. “Then let’s give it all we’ve got.”

Chapter 38

With a parcel of peppermints lying on the nearby bench, Mrs. Kingston trimmed dead leaves from her prize
Rosa Allea
and waited for the Sanderses’ wagon to appear on its return trip up Market Lane. She could only hope that neither of Mercy’s older brothers had been commissioned to drive this Friday, for she was sure the candy would not serve as sufficient bribery for them. And being a strong temperance supporter, she could not in good conscience provide what would surely do the trick.

To her relief, the one named “Fernie” was at the reins and gladly agreed to wait. Actually he requested ten pence in addition to the peppermints, but after being subjected to Mrs. Kingston’s shaming stare, he meekly held out his hand for the candy.

“I’ve been praying for you every day, dear,” she told Mercy as they walked with linked arms in a remote part of the garden. “Can you see any weakening in Mr. Langford’s refusal to marry?”

“None at all, ma’am,” Mercy replied. In spite of the slight melancholy set of her hazel eyes, she looked rather endearing in a simple frock of dove gray crepeline that she must have sewn up this week.

Can’t the man see what a jewel she is?
Mrs. Kingston thought and briefly considered calling upon Mr. Langford to point out that fact. But it was a sad fact of life that some men could not be bullied, and if Mr. Langford happened to be of the same cast, she would be doing more harm than good.

“But we did have a good chat last week,” the girl went on, as if fearing she was painting too dismal a picture.

“Well, that’s
something
.” Mrs. Kingston nodded. “And don’t forget, you’ve three more times to go. I’ve ordered river trout this time. It’s about time we tried some fish, don’t you think?”

“I feel so beholden to you.”

“Nonsense! I’m having the time of my life, so let’s not dredge up that old issue,” she added commandingly. She looked about for any lurking ears, then leaned her head closer. “Besides … there is a way you can repay the favor.”

“There is? Anything!” the girl replied with fervor.

Lowering her voice, Mrs. Kingston replied, “You can sing at my wedding, dear.”

The girl froze on the spot to gape at her in wide-eyed wonder. “The squire proposed!”

“Sh-h-h! No, he has not proposed … yet.”

After a bemused silence, the straight line of Mercy’s mouth curved into a smile. “No doubt it’s only a matter of time, then?”

Mrs. Kingston smiled back. “Faith is a wonderful thing, child.”

After lunch she changed from her gardening and walking clothes into the hunter green cashmere gown she wore when the squire met her train in Shrewsbury. She then settled a gray felt hat trimmed with black velvet ribbon above her chignon. She could have easily walked the distance to the manor house, but it seemed on the occasion of the formal request she was to make, a carriage would be more appropriate. Mr. Herrick, who was the most obliging man on earth, in her opinion, agreed to chauffeur her in the landau.

“Why, Octavia!” the squire said, rising from his chair and newspaper after she had been introduced at the sitting room door. It was tastefully furnished with walnut paneling and Brussels carpets, in spite of the rather dour portraits of Bartley forebears staring down from all four walls. Catching up her gloved hand to press it against his lips in a courtly fashion, he said, “What a pleasant surprise!”

“And no inconvenience, Thurmond, I trust?”

“None at all, madam! Would that I be so inconvenienced every day!”

If the hint of a future together was attached to this latter statement, Mrs. Kingston chose to treat it with a benign smile. She still harbored a suspicion that the squire uttered such vaguely promising things to see how she would react, thereby justifying himself in assuming she desired to marry him—and possibly losing interest in her.

“I’m afraid this is not a social call, Thurmond,” she said from the leather high-backed chair he had offered near his after he had dispatched the maid for tea.

Uncertainty washed across his wrinkled face. “Is something wrong, Octavia?”

“Not at all,” she reassured him but then amended that with a purse of the lips. “On second consideration, I would be forced to respond that there is.”

“Pray tell … what is it?”

She gave a sigh and glanced up at the host of Bartleys captured in gilded frames. “Your ancestors founded this village, as you’ve told me.”

“Yes, yes,” he nodded. “Do go on, Octavia.”

“I wonder what they would think if they could know how sadly Gresham neglects its older children.”

“Neglects?” The squire’s eyebrows raised, resembling two patches of white broom sedge sprung out of bare earth. “How so, Octavia?”

Now that she was confident he was in the correct frame of mind, she related the proposal for the secondary school as was put to her by Mrs. Hollis and Vicar Phelps. He listened, alternately pursing his lips and fingering the cuff of his velvet coat—sometimes both activities at the same time. The maid brought tea, and he sipped thoughtfully until he had drained his cup, then set it back on its saucer with a soft clink.

“And so the primary expenses would be the teacher’s wages and some texts?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Of course some lamp oil would be necessary and firewood during the cold months.”

“That shouldn’t be a liability,” he mused aloud. “We’ve firewood in abundance in the woods, and the caretaker could see to delivering it.”

Mrs. Kingston was not sure if that implied an affirmative answer, so when he became silent again, she waited. And then an idea suddenly struck her, one that would surely ensure his cooperation.
And if the board wants to complain, I’ll tell them they shouldn’t send an old woman to do their job!
She cleared her throat and gave him a prim smile.