The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter (21 page)

She turned and began to retrace her steps, humming the chorus of “She Wore a Wreath of Roses,” a song Mrs. Dearing had been trying to master on the piano. But at the sight of a certain man walking in her direction, the tranquillity that had nestled in her mind all morning evaporated.

“Why, is that you, Mrs. Kingston?” Squire Thurmond Bartley called when within range, waving his hand as if he were Caesar returning home victorious from war.

Mrs. Kingston did not consider herself to be in possession of great intellect, but she could be rather shrewd when it came to judging a person’s motives, and she knew that this meeting was not accidental. Still, she stretched her lips into a smile over her clenched teeth and returned his wave—albeit with less vigor. That of course motivated the squire to hasten his pace, and the gap between them rapidly closed. Then she let him have it. “You knew very well I would be here, you old blister! Didn’t you?”

He froze, openmouthed. “Why, how could I—?”

“You’ve had me followed!”

“Followed?” The gray eyes, topped by belligerent tufts of white eyebrows, grew indignant. “That’s ludicrous beyond comprehension, Mrs. Kingston!”

“Oh, don’t play the innocent with me!” She shook the knob of her walking stick at him. “I’ve seen him darting amongst the shrubbery, that shoe boy of yours.”

“Boot boy,” he corrected, just before his eyes widened with horror at the slip. “What I meant to say was—”

“Another falsehood, no doubt! I think it would be fitting of a gentleman to admit when he has been caught, Squire Bartley.”

He opened his mouth and then closed it a few times, then hung his head. “I was driven to desperation, Mrs. Kingston. You wouldn’t accept my gifts.”

“You know why, don’t you?”

“Why, no.” This time his expression seemed sincere. “I haven’t the foggiest. I thought we got along nicely when you toured the manor gardens.”

He sounded so much like a wounded child that Mrs. Kingston found herself taking pity upon him. She was just about to admit she actually
had
enjoyed his company that day at the manor and that her recent aloofness had only been because she didn’t want to be discarded like an old shoe when he grew bored with her affection, but then she stopped herself. He had pursued her, actually sent his boot boy to spy upon her, because her remoteness had worked. She knew next to nothing about fishing but had gathered from overhearing conversations between Philip and his young friends that when a certain bait proved effective, one continued to use it.

Yet she didn’t think it prudent to discourage him totally. So it was with a slight softening of the voice that she admitted, “I will confess the day was tolerable.”

“Tolerable?”

“Very well, then … somewhat pleasant.”

“Then why do you act as if I’ve the plague, Mrs. Kingston?” They had started walking slowly back toward Gresham, with the squire on her left. She switched the walking stick to that side too in case he had some notion of seizing her hand.

I have to give him a reason
, she thought. But how could she do so without fabricating, which would be terribly shabby behavior after just having spent several minutes in prayer.

“Is there someone else?” the squire asked.

She slowed her steps and thought about what an obliging man he was for providing her with a solution. “What a question to ask,” she replied demurely.

He gave her a sidelong look. “Yes, but you didn’t answer it, did you?”

“I didn’t answer because it’s a silly question.” She concentrated on smoothing a wrinkle from her sleeve, all the while thinking that dear Mr. Clay would be proud of her performance. “Do you think it will rain this afternoon?”

“I would appreciate an answer to the question, Mrs. Kingston.”

“Very well.” She sighed. “Yes, I believe it will rain.” From the corner of her eye she could see crimson creeping up from his chin to his bushy eyebrows, which needed pruning shears more desperately than her azaleas.

“So … you’ll see some other man, but not me. Does
he
send you flowers and cheeses?”

“Well, not exactly …”

“Is it that Mr. Ellis? A shifty-eyed Lothario if I ever saw—”

“For your information, Mr. Ellis is married and extremely devoted to his wife.”

His shoulders slumped forward. “I … beg your pardon. But it isn’t at all fair of you, Mrs. Kingston, to allow some other suitor the pleasure of your company while refusing mine. Won’t you even allow me to prove to you that I can be quite an agreeable companion?”

Pursing her lips and pretending to think the matter over, she allowed several seconds to pass before conceding, “I suppose I haven’t been exactly fair.”

“Not fair at all, Mrs. Kingston,” he agreed stoutly.

“Very well, then. You may call upon me occasionally.”

Finally some life came back into his face. “Indeed?”

“But please bear in mind that I’m a busy woman. What with the gardening and charity work—”

“And that other fellow …” he interjected, causing Mrs. Kingston to send him a disapproving look.

“Jealousy does not become you, Squire.”

“Forgive me—I could not stop myself.” A hopeful note crept into his voice. “Will you take my arm, Mrs. Kingston?”

She considered his question and supposed that it wouldn’t hurt.
But if he attempts to kiss me, I shall clout him with my stick
. “The road surface
is
rather unstable,” she said, surrendering her walking stick to him and resting her left hand upon the inside of his crooked elbow.

“Frightfully unstable,” he agreed but smiled as if the instability of the road was a source of great happiness to him. But the smile lasted only a moment. “Oh bother!” he said. “Who is that coming this way?”

“Why, I haven’t the faintest.” Mrs. Kingston removed her hand from his arm, lest this stranger form the mistaken opinion that she was a woman of dubious morality.

“Sir?” the man addressed them when in range enough not to shout. Tall and muscular-looking, he wore the clothes of a gardener or groomsman, yet seemed too pale to be employed in those capacities. “Squire Bartley?”

“Yes!” her companion snorted. “What is it?”

The man caught up with them and took the cap from his head. “My name is Seth Langford,” he said, clearly sensing that his presence was not welcome. With an apologetic look at Mrs. Kingston he said, “Forgive me for disturbing your walk, but I’m interested in the place on Nettle Lane.”

“Fine. Come by the manor and my bailiff will draw you up an agreement.”

Mr. Langford nodded, but it appeared from his expression that the matter was a bit more complicated. Sure enough, he went on. “I would like to buy the place, Squire Bartley. Would you consider selling it to me?”

“Out of the question,” the squire snorted.

“I can pay with cash.”

“You can offer me the Kohinoor diamond and I would not be interested, young man. I do not sell land.”

Disappointment filled the stranger’s brown eyes, and to Mrs. Kingston he looked like a man who had had more than his share of disappointments. Her heart went out to him. “Why do you insist upon buying, Mr. Langford?” she asked gently.

He gave her a grateful look. “I’ve never owned a place of my own. And I have to consider the future of my boy.”

“How old is your boy?”

“Seven.”

By then Mrs. Kingston wanted to tell him he could just keep the land, free and clear, but of course it wasn’t hers to give. She rather liked this young man who had the nerve to approach the squire with so brash an offer. She especially admired that while he was obviously quite eager to acquire the cottage and pastures, he did not grovel and scrape to the only person who could grant such a wish.

“Oh, why don’t you go ahead and sell him the place,” she said to Squire Bartley. “You’ve more land than you know what to do with, and no one to leave it to but a nephew who hardly ever visits.” He had conveyed his disappointment over the sad state of his remaining family to her in the garden the day she had visited the manor. Mrs. Kingston was aware that she was taking unfair advantage by reminding him of such, but it apparently worked, for he didn’t look quite so adamant anymore.

“I’m not keen on the idea of the land going to strangers. …” he said, a note of unsureness in his voice.

“I’ll give you one hundred pounds for it.”

The squire’s eyes grew sharp again. “Two hundred.”

“One twenty-five.”

“One fifty. With the agreement that if you ever sell, you must first offer it to me for the same price.” His lips tightened. “That doesn’t extend to my nephew when I’ve passed on.”

Mr. Langford nodded and reached out his hand. “Agreed, sir. I thank you.”

“Then you can show your gratitude by leaving,” the squire said testily after they had shook on the agreement. “Again, see my bailiff, and he’ll attend to the details.”

“Yes, of course. And good day to you.” After another grateful glance to Mrs. Kingston, Seth turned and strode quickly out of their morning walk.

“That was very good of you, Squire,” she said, taking his arm when he again offered it. “Again, you’ve proved that you aren’t as irascible as people say you are.”

He actually blushed. “You seem to bring out the good in me, Octavia. May I address you as such?”

She pretended to think it over. “Very well, Squire.”

“Thurmond?”

“Thurmond.” But she drew the line at accepting his invitation to supper, figuring that she had allowed their relationship to progress far enough for the moment. When he expressed his acute disappointment, she did take pity upon him and give his arm a pat. “This is too overwhelming to take in all at once, Thurmond. A lady needs time to think over such things.”

“Next week, then?”

“Very well,” she replied after allowing another hesitation.

It seemed he had been holding his breath, for he expelled a long one. “I’ll have cook prepare
Foie de Veau Gratiné
.” He glanced at her. “You do like calf’s liver, don’t you?”

“I’m terribly fond of it, but I was of the understanding that your digestion forbade such delicacies.”

Gallantly he replied, “It doesn’t forbid me from watching you enjoy them.” He knitted his brow. “Some
Pommes de Terre aux Cèpes
would go nicely with the liver.”

“Quite nicely. Potatoes are most nourishing, according to Mr. Durwin.”

He eyed her for a second, a faint suspicion in his expression. “Mr. Durwin …”

“Is all set to marry Mrs. Hyatt next month, and I’m overjoyed for both of them.”

The roadway turned into the cobbled stones of Market Lane. They lapsed into a companionable silence, with Squire Bartley adding items to next week’s menu, and Mrs. Kingston wondering if a lace collar would look too “youngish” on a wedding gown for a woman of her advanced years.

Thomas’s slight form looked swallowed up by the stone bench in the
Bow and Fiddle
’s courtyard. Both narrow shoulders were hunched forward, and his hands clasped together upon his knees. As Seth drew closer, he suspected the boy had been weeping. He hastened his steps.

“Thomas?”

“Yes, sir?” the boy answered in a small voice.

Seth squatted in front of the bench. Sure enough, the blue eyes were rimmed with red. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing, sir,” Thomas replied, and then to prove his words, the boy stretched the corners of his mouth.

It was the first time Seth could recall seeing him smile, but this was more of a grimace than an expression of happiness.

Giving a sigh, Seth moved himself to sit beside the boy. Raising a child had seemed so easy from the outside. One just told the child what to do, and hopefully the child obeyed. Of course there were measures that must be taken when the child chose not to obey, but he had never thought those through and certainly didn’t anticipate needing them with Thomas. Why, the boy had such a submissive nature that he would probably lie down in the lane and allow a carriage to roll over him if ordered to do so.

“Thomas,” he began wearily.

“Yes, sir?”

“Have I ever been less than honest with you?”