The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter (68 page)

Chapter 39

“You should see Cyril Towly shoot an arrow,” Elizabeth’s father said Monday over a supper of deviled kidneys and pease pudding. “He shot a bull’s-eye three times at practice after school, Luke told me. And he’s but twelve years old.”

“Another William Tell?” she asked while sprinkling salt onto her potatoes.

“Well, we won’t go so far as to test him with an apple, but I daresay Prescott will have no one to match him.”

Elizabeth smiled indulgently. “And we very much want to win over Prescott, don’t we?”

“It would be nice, yes, but winning isn’t the most important thing, Beth.” He buttered his bread lavishly as he spoke, inflecting a casual note into his voice.

“So you won’t mind at all if it turns out that you have to congratulate that vicar?” she asked innocently, for she could see straight through him.

Her father paused to narrow his eyes at her. “You have a waggish sense of humor, daughter.”

“I have? And from whom did I inherit it, I wonder?”

“Well, why couldn’t you have inherited something like my singing talent instead?”

“I did, Papa,” she reminded him.

“Oh … that’s so.” He affected a heavy sigh, for they were both just a hairsbreadth away from being completely tone deaf. “Sorry, Beth.”

She sent him an affectionate smile across the table. “No matter, Papa. I would rather have the humor than the voice anyway.”

“So would I,” he replied with a wink. “Although you don’t get requests to tell jokes at weddings, do you?”

They settled into a companionable silence for the remainder of the meal. It was only when her father had taken a second bite of his custard tart that Elizabeth broached the subject that had occupied the back of her mind for days. “I hear that Jonathan is proving himself quite competent in the classroom.”

Her father’s chewing slowed as he regarded her warily, but through closed lips he gave an affirmative reply. “Mm-hm.”

Elizabeth took a deep breath. “May we invite him for supper, Papa?”

A stricken expression filled his hazel eyes, as if he had just been told the tart was laced with hemlock.
“Here?”

“Of course, Papa. We could have him over on Saturday, when Laurel’s home.”

“Why, I don’t know.” He scratched his cheek beneath his beard, as was his habit when nervous or agitated “It’s just too soon. He’s going to be here for seven more months.”

“Hasn’t he proved himself enough?”

“To teach school, yes. But not to court my daughter. Don’t forget what he did to you—”

“In Cambridge,” she finished for him. “How could I, when you bring it up often enough?”

His expression darkened at the sharpness of her retort. “That was unnecessary, Beth. I’ve only wanted what’s best for you.”

For several seconds she stared back at him, fingernails digging into her palms. And then a picture came, unbidden, to her mind, of the tears that had clung to her father’s lashes the morning he broke the news of Jonathan’s unfaithfulness.
He was hurt by it almost as much as I was
, she realized for the first time. She uncurled her hands. “I’m sorry, Papa.”

His chest rose and fell. “You care for him again.”

Lowering her eyes, she replied, “I believe he’s changed, Papa.”

“If only I could be sure.”

Now it was Elizabeth who sighed, but quietly. She had put such hope into her request. It was becoming more and more difficult to see Jonathan in church or in the village and be constrained to exchange only the most formal of pleasantries. “Then we’ll wait a little longer.”

“You think I’m unreasonable, don’t you?” her father asked, pushing his unfinished tart away.

“No.” She gave him a sad smile. “You’re afraid I’ll be hurt again.”

“The thought of that frightens me more than I can tell you, Beth.”

“But the only way to ensure my not getting hurt again would be to never allow me to leave the house.” He opened his mouth to reply, but Elizabeth shook her head. “We’ll wait, Papa.”

It was with great reluctance that Andrew joined the students Mr. Raleigh assembled for after-school archery practice on Thursday so that Luke could attend a cousin’s funeral in Nonely. After Monday evening’s heart-to-heart talk with Elizabeth, he was unsure how he was supposed to feel in Jonathan Raleigh’s presence. It was difficult to keep the old resentment bottled up now that he was positive his daughter loved the man.

Fortunately, there was enough to do to keep such thoughts at bay. While his main sports activity at college had been the rowing team, he had dabbled in archery and fencing enough to remember the basic form. From somewhere Mr. Raleigh had procured a cheval mirror mounted upon a frame for shadow drills. Andrew’s responsibility, while Mr. Raleigh monitored activity at the target, was to stand one child at a time in front of it with a bow and have the student draw an imaginary arrow to practice proper stance.

It was not too long into practice that he noticed a face was missing. “Where is Cyril Towly?” he asked Aleda after reminding her to move her string elbow straight back at shoulder level.

She took her eyes off her reflection only long enough to reply with lowered voice, “He told Ruthie Derby she was stupid for missing most of her arithmetic answers. Mr. Raleigh made him apologize and stay away from practice today.”

“He did?” Andrew looked over at Jonathan Raleigh, who was reminding one of the Sanders brothers to straddle the shooting line with his feet. The young man was likely as eager as Andrew was to win the competition, albeit for different reasons. To force his star marksman to sit out a practice must have taken some willpower.
And character
, Andrew realized.

When practice was over and the children dismissed to head for their homes, Andrew helped the schoolmaster gather equipment. “That was a good practice,” Mr. Raleigh told him. “I believe they’re developing some confidence.”

“Yes.” With a nod toward the cheval mirror, Andrew said, “Shall I deliver that somewhere?”

The young man grinned, raking his dark hair from his forehead with his fingers. “I’ll have to slip it through the back door of the
Bow and Fiddle
. Mr. Pool lent it to me, but he’s fearful of Mrs. Pool finding out.”

“I can understand that.” Andrew cleared his throat. “Would you care to join my family for supper this Saturday?”

“You mean me?” asked Mr. Raleigh after a short hesitation, as though uncertain his ears had functioned properly.

“Yes, of course.”

“Why, I would be honored. Thank you, sir!”

Such happiness had filled the young man’s expression that Andrew feared for a second he would bound over to him for an embrace, which would have been
too
much.

Brusquely he said, “We dine at seven.”

Seth and Thomas sat down Saturday to a delicious meal of dumplings with thick beef gravy, smothered turnips, and almond pudding for dessert. As Seth watched the affection with which his son and Miss Sanders regarded each other, he felt like the most selfish scoundrel who ever lived. He had made feeble protests against her wasting her time by cooking for them, but had he really been serious he would have barred the door. Or even left the place with Thomas as soon as she insisted her way into his cottage. He could have packed sandwiches for them to picnic on somewhere—perhaps atop the Anwyl—until she became discouraged and left. It would have been cruel, yes, but not as cruel as allowing her to keep false hopes.

His conscience would not be assuaged by the reminder that he had told her flatly from the start that they could have no future together. Not while his plate was piled high with food from her hand.
God forgive me. Why can’t I love her?
It would be wonderful having someone with her sweet nature to grace his cottage, and of course Thomas would benefit in many ways. But it was the years ahead that he had to consider, when bitterness would surely set in as she grew to realize his heart still belonged to a ghost.

It was too late to put an end to her visits when next week’s would be the last. But for her own sake, he would have to treat her from now on with polite coolness. Then she would finally come to realize that her efforts had been wasted and would best be directed toward some other man.

“Careful. Don’t burn your fingers,” Elizabeth cautioned as her sister unwound a strand of her blond fringe from the curling iron.

“And don’t burn my hair either, please.”

Laurel nodded absently. “Yes, the color becomes you.”

“Did you hear a word I said?”

“Mmm. Something about your gown?”

“You’re still dwelling on the new school, aren’t you?”

With a shrug that belied her serious expression, her sister replied, “Well, I think the vicar’s family ought to show support—don’t you?”

“I didn’t realized you disliked the academy so much. You never complained before.”

“I don’t
dislike
the academy.” Again the shrug. “But I never had another option until now. I like it here much better. It’s so much more serene.”

“Serene?”

Laurel rolled her brown eyes. “Girls in large groups tend to become either hysterical, maudlin, or spiteful. Would you talk with Papa about it this week?”

“Well …”

“Mention the seven months’ tuition he would be saving. And that there’s a waiting list, so the academy wouldn’t lose any money.”

“Very well,” Elizabeth sighed. “Are you finished?”

Tapping her cheek thoughtfully, Laurel added, “Well … you could tell him that the breakfast porridge is almost always lumpy.”

“I mean, with my hair, scatterbrain!”

“Oh. See for yourself.”

Elizabeth stood and turned to look in the wall mirror over her chest of drawers. Angling her face to study the mass of tendrils curling well above her eyebrows, she said, “You don’t think it’s too youthful?”

“It frames your face nicely,” her sister assured her, reaching up to make sure the tortoise-shell comb was fastened securely upon the back of her crown. Laurel had talked her into wearing a style she had seen several times on the streets of Shrewsbury. The sides of her long blond hair were drawn up loosely into the comb, while the back, rolled smooth over a frizette, hung just below the ruffled collar of her navy calico gown.

“Yes?” Elizabeth slipped an arm across her sister’s shoulders for a quick embrace. She was aware that the lavender poplin Laurel wore was her favorite dress-up gown. How heartening it was to know that she was not the only one looking forward to Jonathan’s visit. “You look very nice yourself.”