The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter (50 page)

“Shall I assist you, madam?” asked a courtly old porter at the door after the family had left.

“Yes, please,” she said, taking his arm and stepping down to the platform. While he set out to collect her trunk, she discreetly brushed crumbs from the seed cakes she’d brought from Sheffield off her skirt. Then she heard her name.

“Octavia!”

She immediately subdued the little smile that had sprung to her lips and turned. In spite of the press of people, he was standing there staring at her, his black suit almost as elegant as her hunter green cashmere traveling costume. His arms were folded across his chest, his head tilted and expression almost comically stern. If he was so cross at her, Octavia reminded herself smugly, why had he bothered to come here?

“Why, Thurmond!” she said, extending a gloved hand. “How good to see you! Are you traveling somewhere?”

“You know good and well why I’m here, Octavia Kingston!” he snapped. His gray eyes blazed under their thatching of white brows.

Mrs. Kingston gave him a blank look, extending the coyness for just a bit longer. “I do?”

Now he rolled his eyes and opened his mouth for another retort but squelched it when Mrs. Kingston’s porter reappeared pulling her trunk upon a cart. “Where shall I carry this, madam?” he asked.

“My carriage is out front,” the squire replied for her, handing the man a coin. Then taking her by the elbow, he escorted her across the platform. He waved away his driver’s efforts to be helpful, assisting Mrs. Kingston into the landau himself. As the pair of black Cleveland bays pulled the barouche north, the two sat in silence—the squire, because he obviously intended to nurse his grudge a bit longer, and Mrs. Kingston, because she wasn’t quite sure that it was incumbent upon her to say something at this point. She owed him no apology, for until he decided to pledge his troth to her, she was her own woman, not answerable to anyone but the Almighty.

But the sulking silence was becoming uncomfortable and more than a little silly. She turned to him with a smile. “It was such a delight to see my grandchildren again, Thurmond! Why, it seemed I couldn’t sit down without one climbing into my lap.”

“Yes?” The face he turned to hers looked as if he’d been weaned upon quinine. “Well, I haven’t any grandchildren, so I wouldn’t know about that, would I?”

And whose fault is that, you old coot?
Yes, she was pleased that he had obviously been shaken by her unannounced departure. But enough was enough. In a calm, frank voice she said, “Squire Bartley, it was thoughtful of you to meet my train. But you shouldn’t have bothered. I somehow doubt Mr. Herrick would have been such unpleasant company.”

He gaped as if she had slapped him. “Octavia, I certainly didn’t—” Both hands lifted helplessly from his knees and fell again. “When you left without warning, I wondered if I had imagined the … affection that seemed to be developing between us.”

It took great effort for Mrs. Kingston to keep from smiling while she touched her chin and assumed a thoughtful pose. “Why, Thurmond. I do apologize. I had no idea it would affect you so.” Which was the truth, because she had left only
hoping
he would see that she couldn’t be taken for granted.

“Well …” he grumbled but then managed a little smile. “You’re back now, so that’s all that matters.”

Settling back contentedly into her seat, Mrs. Kingston agreed. “Yes, that’s true.”

The carriage reached the outskirts of Shrewsbury. Hedgerows flanked the macadamized road, laden with elderberries, blackberries, and the bright crimson berries of the bittersweet. Mrs. Kingston and the squire chatted amiably—his asking about her visit with her family and her asking about goings-on in the village while she’d been away. “Oh, the
Bow and Fiddle
is filling up with relatives of Mr. Durwin and Mrs. Hyatt,” he replied. As if to prove his point, a hired coach drawn by four horses raced by, the driver tipping his hat to them from his lofty perch.

After the dust had settled, Squire Bartley went on. “I suppose they’re being ridiculous.”

“Who, Thurmond? The relatives?” Mrs. Kingston asked, though she knew perfectly well of whom he was referring.

“No, Mrs. Hyatt and Mr. Durwin. Carrying on with a huge wedding at their age. Why, they’re even planning to sally off to Scotland afterward for a honeymoon!”

He expects me to argue and protest that romance is appropriate for even old people
, she told herself. She could tell by the way his eyes studied her, how he seemed to be holding his breath while waiting for her response. But if she
did
respond in the manner he expected, it would be tantamount to hinting that she would not be opposed to a proposal and such goings-on herself. And while that was very true, at this point it wouldn’t do to have him deciding she was no different from the women of his earlier courtships.

With drama worthy of Mr. Clay, she replied casually, “I haven’t given it much thought, but it does seem that way, doesn’t it?”

“It does?” He cocked a busy eyebrow. “But don’t you think they’re entitled to this late happiness?”

“Mrs. Hyatt and Mr. Durwin? Oh, but of course. They’re both such dears, aren’t they?” Mrs. Kingston pointed to a tall chestnut tree on his right, shading a herd of resting cattle with its branches. “The chestnuts should be plentiful now, shouldn’t they? I’m so very fond of them, especially roasted at the fireplace. And, of course, Christmas wouldn’t be the same without them.”

The squire stared at her, clearly more than a little befuddled. “Ah … that’s very true, Octavia.”

“ … and so by assigning to hydrogen the atomic weight of ‘one’, Gabriel Dalton was then able to calculate the relative atomic weights of other elements. Hence, a precise quantitative value could be assigned to each atom.”

The wall clock was only seconds away from striking noon when Mr. Archer concluded his chemistry lecture. Philip slowly closed his notebook and gathered his pencils as students hurried past his desk in pursuit of lunch. When the classroom had emptied, he walked up to the lecturer’s desk.

“Yes, Mr. Hollis?” Mr. Archer looked politely up at him over spectacles worn on the bridge of the nose.

Shifting his weight from his right to his left foot, Philip asked, “May I speak with you, sir?”

Mr. Archer sat back in his chair. “Of course.”

“It’s Gabriel Patterson, sir. He’s in our dormitory and sits in your earlier lectures.”

“I’m aware of the young man.”

Philip drew in a galvanizing breath. “Are you aware that students have started ‘oinking’ at him when he passes by?”

“Oinking?”

“Like a pig, sir.” He had no intention of adding that he himself couldn’t walk a corridor without someone producing croaking sounds. It wasn’t talebearing if it was done on someone else’s behalf, and this was about Gabriel.

Lines appeared above the man’s brows. “I see.”

“He’s most miserable. Even some of the underclassmen have started doing it.”

Frowning, Mr. Archer said, “I’m certainly disappointed. It’s unfortunate that institutional living so often breeds cruelty.”

He understands!
Philip thought as tension drained from his body.

“But just as unfortunately, there is nothing that can be done about it save advising Mr. Patterson to ignore the insults in hopes that they’ll tire of making sport of him.”

“Nothing can be done? But—”

The man gave him a frank stare. “Mr. Hollis, if I could put a halt to your friend’s ill treatment by ordering it terminated, I would march into the dining room and do so at once. But surely you realize that if we were to order the perpetrators to stop, it would only make them more determined to heap misery upon Mr. Patterson. We cannot be there to protect him all hours of the day.”

In his heart Philip knew that was true. But it wasn’t right and certainly was not just. What had Gabriel done to hurt anyone?

“You must understand that this behavior has gone on for decades, Mr. Hollis,” the man continued. His tone was kindly but lacking the fire that burned in Philip’s chest. “I was treated harshly at school myself, as were many of my friends. But one grows up in spite of it. I assure you, one day you and your friend Mr. Patterson will chuckle at the memories.”

And that was the whole of it, for Philip could not produce the words to refute such bland acceptance of cruelty. While carrying his lunch tray to join Gabriel at the table, he passed a knot of boys who broke into a chorus of croaking sounds. He ignored them and thought,
I’d rather be made sport of by you than be just like you
.

Chapter 30

As regretful as Mercy was over her family situation, she was also aware of the many blessings in her life. She had lost her best friend, Mrs. Brent, but the memories of their many companionable hours were still a comfort to her. Her garden brought her pleasure, for the work of her hands combined with a miracle of God turned dry seeds into abundant food for the table. Even her singing voice was a continual source of wonder.

Until attending the Wesleyan Chapel, all she had known of music were the bawdy songs her older brothers sometimes bellowed out in slurred voices after acquiring a bottle. She did not know how it was that she could sing unwaveringly every note of her beloved hymns, even when Mrs. Jones’ piano accompaniment struck an occasional raw chord, There were some people in the congregation who seemed to move their voices at random, with no thought to the placement of the notes upon the scale. If striking true notes could not be accomplished by
everyone
who sang, then Mercy realized it was not a skill that could be learned in every case, but a talent—a gift. Why God had chosen to bless her with such, she had no idea. But she thanked Him for it often and was happy to be able to use her talent to honor the Lord.

Of course she had faltered upon first being asked to sing a solo. But Mrs. Brent had gently reminded her of the steward in the Scriptures who had hidden his talent away. “Why would God have given you such a voice if He hadn’t intended for you to use it?” her friend had reasoned. Still, it had taken another three weeks before Mercy could bring herself to deliver a weak-kneed rendition of “Come, Ye Thankful People, Come” in front of the small congregation.

Over a year of singing every week had slowly eased away her shyness, which was another blessing, because now Mercy could concentrate on lifting the words and sentiment of the song up to God instead of dwelling upon the fact that all the eyes and ears of the congregation were upon her. But on that Sunday, September eighteenth, right after Mr. Langford and Thomas had slipped in through the doorway while she was singing “Christian Hearts, in Love United,” she was perplexed to discover that her palms were sweating as in the early days.

She made it through the hymn without looking in their direction and took her usual place on the front pew beside Mrs. Seaton and her three children. Over the rustlings of pages in some fifty hymnals and the clearing of at least half a dozen throats in preparation for congregational singing, a voice echoed through Mercy’s mind.
“God told me He’s going to send you a husband, Mercy”
Mrs. Brent’s voice sounded so clear that the dear woman could have been sitting on her other side.

You’re giving yourself ideas
, Mercy told herself. Naturally seeing an eligible widower would cause her to recall her friend’s prophecy. But why hadn’t she recalled Mrs. Brent’s words two days ago while talking to Mr. Raleigh, who was also unmarried, more handsome, and certainly more sociable than Mr. Langford?

She realized then that Reverend Seaton could have been reciting nursery rhymes for all the consideration she was giving to his sermon. She straightened attentively and pushed all thought of Mr. Langford from her mind. Which was easy to do, in light of the fact that he had never spoken two words to her.

But an astonishing thing happened after the final congregational hymn. She was just leaving through the front door of the chapel, accompanied by Mrs. Seaton and her charming brood, when she spotted Mr. Langford and his son standing off to the side of the lawn.
He must be waiting to talk with Mr. Worthy
, she thought, for she had seen them together last week. But then he met her eye and began leading the boy toward her.

“Miss Sanders?” he ventured politely.

She exchanged rapid glances with Mrs. Seaton, who then covered her surprise by leaning down to fasten a button on her youngest son’s coat. “Yes, Mr. Langford?” Mercy replied in a deceptively calm voice. It helped that Thomas was staring up at her with what appeared to be adoration, and for a second she had the urge to pat the top of his oversized cap.