The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter (9 page)

It was the following message Vicar Phelps delivered about young David in the palace of his nemesis King Saul that set Mrs. Kingston to thinking. Just as the chords of David’s harp had refreshed Saul’s troubled spirit, couldn’t music also lull animals into a relaxed state? Even
she
knew that agitated cows produced less milk—didn’t it stand to reason that relaxed cows would produce more?

She had the opportunity to voice her theory to Mr. Fletcher during her walk the following Thursday. His reaction had stunned her. Redness stole up from his collar over his clean-shaven face before he practically tore his gate off the hinges in his lunge through it and seized her hand.

“I don’t know how you came up with such a notion, Mrs. Kingston,” he protested.

“Are you saying it’s not true?” She had him there, for a man who stood up in church and played hymns on the violin could not in good conscience stand on the side of Arnold Lane and perjure himself.

“If I tell you, will you promise to keep it a secret?”

“But I should think if you have a technique that will boost milk production, you would be happy to share it with everyone,” she told him in the same tone she’d used when lecturing her son when he was a boy. “It seems rather selfish to keep it to yourself.”

“It’s not so simple, Mrs. Kingston. Please?”

In the end she had yielded to the pleading in his eyes. “Very well then, Mr. Fletcher. I’ll tell no one, but only if you can give me a good reason.”

“Thank you.” He dropped her hand and let out a heavy sigh. “You’re correct. I do play for my cows.”

“Indeed?” It had been an exhilarating feeling, knowing she’d guessed correctly. “Now would you care to tell me why it’s not so simple to share such a method?”

Mr. Fletcher nodded. “I am not a selfish man, Mrs. Kingston. How many times have you heard Vicar Phelps announce that I would be giving free violin lessons in the Village Hall on Saturday afternoons?”

“Well, several,” she admitted. “But what does that have to do with—”

“Everything! Because though that announcement has been made many times, do you know how many people have come to take advantage of them?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Two! The Casper boy and Mrs. Moore. They are progressing well, but neither is in the business of dairying. I realize that there are few wealthy people in Gresham, but most make good livings. And a decent German violin can be ordered through Mr. Trumble for little more than a half-sovereign.”

Mrs. Kingston felt sorry for him then, for there was nothing so disheartening as being enthused about something in which others had no interest. “But surely if you told everyone your secret, you could fill your class.”

“That’s exactly why I cannot do so … don’t you see? If a person wishes to learn the violin for any reason other than a love of music, he will never master the instrument. Yet I would be obliged to give lessons to those who are simply eager for more profit, for how could I refuse a fellow villager?” A shudder seized him. “I can think of no greater agony than attempting to teach music to a room filled with people with wooden ears. And the poor cows, Mrs. Kingston—they’re such helpless creatures and a captive audience in their milking barns. The violin in the hands of a novice can produce sounds that are simply torturous.”

Again Mrs. Kingston could see his point but had to ask, “But what will you do if a dairy farmer asks you for lessons? Simply because he loves the music, I mean.”

For the first time during their exchange Mr. Fletcher produced a smile. “Should that wonderful event ever happen, Mrs. Kingston, I would feel privileged to include such person in on our secret.”

“Our” secret
, Mrs. Kingston thought as the Sanders wagon continued up Nettle Lane. A clever way of reminding her that she had given her word. “People are interesting, aren’t they?” she said to the boy beside her.

“Yes’m,” he mumbled, with his eyes still straight ahead, and no apparent curiosity as to why she would make such an observation out of the blue.

Probably
any
observation she could make, such as
hares have long ears
, would have gotten the same response. She didn’t know what was taxing the boy’s brain so, for it wasn’t driving. Clearly in no hurry to return to his chores, he was allowing the two horses to meander along at a snail’s pace.

“Interesting, indeed,” she said.

“You should have seen the way she talked to Papa,” Mercy said to Mrs. Brent after easing another spoonful of potato soup into the ailing woman’s mouth.

Propped up on her pillows, Mrs. Brent swallowed, then smiled weakly. “So your father changed his mind about the schooling?”

“He did, indeed.” Mercy chuckled at the memory.

“What did she give Mr. Fletcher for the cow? Did she tell you?”

Mercy wiped her friend’s lips with an edge of the napkin she had tucked under her chin. “A bicycle.”

“A what, dear?”

“It looks something like a dogcart, but with the two wheels frontto-back instead of on each side. It has handles to hold on to in front, and you must pedal it with your feet.”

“Do tell? But how does a body keep from toppling over?”

“I’m not quite sure about that part,” Mercy admitted. “Let’s have another bite, shall we?”

Mrs. Brent obeyed, taking a spoonful of soup into her mouth and then another. Presently the effort of eating something even as easy as soup took its toll on her, and she held up a trembling hand just as Mercy was lifting the spoon from the bowl again. “No more, Mercy.”

“You really should try to finish the bowl,” Mercy admonished gently. “You’re wasting away to nothing.”

“Ah, but my soul is fat, child, from feasting on the Word. Take it away—I’ll have Janet give me some more later.”

It was useless to argue once Mrs. Brent made up her mind. In her own softer way she was perhaps as stubborn as Mrs. Kingston. Setting the bowl and spoon on the bedside table, Mercy leaned over to take her friend’s bony shoulders, move two of the pillows from behind her, and ease her back onto one. Mrs. Brent lovingly smiled up at her, and after Mercy had taken her chair again, she said in a voice growing hoarse, “When you take my little herd, dear, remind your father that they’re yours.”

The subject of Mrs. Brent’s cows was not a pleasant one for Mercy because they would be in her possession only because of her friend’s death. But to comfort her, Mercy mumbled something in agreement. However, that didn’t satisfy the elderly woman.

“Of course they will be pastured with his herd, and he will profit from the milk. But only until your husband comes along,” Mrs. Brent said.

“Yes, Mrs. Brent,” Mercy replied obediently. She could not match Mrs. Brent’s adamant faith regarding a husband but would not have argued with her dying friend had she declared that a prince would ride into Gresham upon a white horse and claim her for his bride.

“Thank you, child.” Even the frailty of Mrs. Brent’s voice could not prevent her affection for Mercy from coming through. “Now run along and tend to your chores at home. You’ve enough to do without listening to an old woman ramble.”

Mrs. Brent’s six cows had their heads loped over the drystone wall separating the pasture from the yard. Mercy could feel their gentle brown eyes following her as she walked out to the lane, as if the small herd had assembled themselves to inquire about their mistress’s condition and were now mutely calling her back to them. Finally Mercy could stand it no longer, and she turned and went over to the wall. She pulled some long stalks of hawkweed from the ground. “There, there now,” she cooed as they nudged one another gently for a better position to receive the treat. Her vision blurred. “Everything will be all right.”

She had doubts about that herself, but she didn’t think God would fault her for saying it to reassure a few pitiful cows.

Chapter 6

Andrew left Luther Sloane’s small dairy farm north of the river later than he had intended and now wondered if he would reach the vicarage before his guests arrived for supper.

The Sloanes’ four-month marriage had reached a crisis state when Mrs. Sloane demanded that her husband make a choice between her and his collie, Shep, that had enjoyed the run of the cottage and slept at his master’s feet long before she was carried across the threshold. In reply to her demand, Mr. Sloane had requested a day or two to consider his answer, causing his wife to pack her belongings and threaten to leave.

As Rusty pulled the trap up Church Lane, Andrew flicked the reins lightly to coax a little more speed. Thankfully he’d been able to negotiate a compromise between the husband and wife. Mr. Sloane was brought to the understanding that wives were more important than pets and offered to clear a space in the hay barn for the dog’s bed, keeping him outside from now on. Warmed by that concession, Mrs. Sloane had decided that a blanket in a corner of the gardening hut would provide more comfort for sleeping, and that the animal could continue taking meals at the cottage hearth.

Please grant my daughters good marriages, Lord
, Andrew prayed as Rusty automatically turned north up Vicarage Lane. During his twenty-plus years in the ministry, he had witnessed the misery a bad one could cause. He believed strongly that a loving family was the core of a person’s well-being. If there was strife and contention in the home, very little else in life could compensate for it.

The carriage from the
Larkspur
had not yet arrived at the vicarage, but he could see Mr. Treves’ gray Welsh cob tethered to a low limb of the chestnut tree outside the garden.

“There you are, Papa!” He scarcely had climbed down from the trap and Laurel was at his side. “What took you so long? We were beginning to worry.”

Andrew didn’t answer but touched a spot on his cheek above his blond beard. Feigning a martyred sigh, his daughter dutifully planted a kiss on the spot before repeating her question.

“I was unavoidably detained during a call,” he told her.

The girl’s eyes lit up. “What happened? Something exciting?”

“You know I can’t tell you. Are the children still here?”

The fourteen-year-old nodded. Like her father and sister, she had straight, wheat-colored hair and dimples in both cheeks. But that was where the resemblance to Andrew stopped, for both daughters had been blessed with their late mother’s brown eyes, slender build, and fair complexion.

“Luke was wondering whether he should borrow Mr. Sykes’s wagon.”

“Well, he can use the trap now. I doubt their mother is home yet.”

The Burrell situation was a sad one. Mr. Burrell, the village drunk and slacker, had left his long-suffering wife and seven children back in October of last year. It was then that Elizabeth had offered to tend the two youngest, Molly and David, while their mother worked at the cheese factory so the older children could attend school. She grew so attached to the children that the offer was extended to the summer months as well. The five older children were hardy, as were many from tragic circumstances—the girls kept house and tended a small garden while the boys kept odd jobs such as stripping bark from downed trees for the local tanner. They could manage their chores much easier without tending to the two youngest, and the arrangement gave Elizabeth something worthwhile to do with her days.

Just as Andrew and Laurel stepped up on the porch, Elizabeth came out of the door with David in her arms. Mr. Treves followed, holding Molly’s hand. Andrew’s daughter frowned and opened her mouth, but Andrew silenced her with a look.

“Your sister has already taken it upon herself to reprimand me, Beth.” He shook Mr. Treves’ free hand and patted Molly on the head, then held out both hands to David, who lunged his little body forward into his arms. “So, you’re going to leave us again, are you?” he said to the child, who wove his little fingers through Andrew’s beard and with the other hand pointed to the waiting trap.

“Tor?” he said.

Andrew took the boy to mean
horse
and replied, “Yes. And he’s waiting to take you home.”

“Luke is on his way around the back,” Elizabeth told him. A little ridge appeared between her eyebrows, and she leaned forward to study the sleeve of his black coat. “You’re shedding, Papa.”

“Shedding, Papa,” Molly echoed, her light brown curls a halo about her round face. “Papa read book now?”