The Vicar's Daughter

by Josi S. Kilpack

  By the time Cassie came down for breakfast, several platters had already been cleared; apparently she had dawdled too long. She had settled herself with some toast and jam when she heard Lenora’s pianoforte. There was a rule about no music before 9:30 and just as Cassie had supposed, it was exactly 9:30. That Lenora had chosen Mozart seemed a good omen.

  Cassie finished eating and found her sister in the music room. Gone was the easy hairstyle of last night’s ball and the tight bun was back in place—though it was braided. Improvement was improvement. Lenora wore her light-green morning dress with the high ruffled neck and long sleeves. It went well with her eyes, at least.

  Lenora finished the piece and looked up at Cassie, who was sitting across from the instrument. She gave Cassie a nervous smile and straightened her sheet music.

  Cassie’s eyes narrowed. Something was wrong; something Lenora was nervous to talk about.

  “Lenora?” she said, unwilling to beat around the bush. “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything is just as it should be,” Lenora said, tapping her papers into place. Her eyes gave away her lie, however.

  Cassie cocked her head. “You are acting strange.”

  Lenora took a deep breath and finally met Cassie’s gaze with a guilty expression. “Please don’t be cross with me.”

  “Why would I be cross with you?”

  Lenora looked away. She played a single chord on the pianoforte.

  Cassie stood and took a step closer to the piano. “Why would I be cross, Lenora?”

  Lenora moved her hands from the keys to her lap. She did not meet Cassie’s eyes. “I asked Papa to take the handkerchief back for me,” she said quickly. “He shall go this morning after he finishes his work at the church office.”

  Cassie clenched her jaw while Lenora’s words continued to pour out of her. “I thought a lot about what you said, Cassie, and you were exactly right that not to return Mr. Glenside’s handkerchief would be a great offense. I was so ashamed at having considered keeping it—so mortified by my lack of character—that I couldn’t sleep. I rose this morning and washed and pressed the handkerchief myself then begged Father to take it to Mr. Glenside first thing as part of his official parish visit.”

  Cassie lowered herself into a chair and tried to smooth her expression. “If you had returned it, you would have been able to be introduced to the man.”

  “It felt wrong.” Lenora shrugged her slim shoulders. “To use his kindness as an excuse to ingratiate myself is disingenuous.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Cassie said, losing patience. Frustration edged her words. “It would have been courteous. Now he will think you didn’t want to meet him.”

  “No,” Lenora said, though she didn’t sound convinced. “He will simply know that I am not out to manipulate his goodness.”

  Cassie took a deep breath and let it out over the course of five counts but feared it was not long enough to keep her ire in check. “Have you not considered, Lenora, that Mr. Glenside will be highly sought after now that he has presented himself to the society here?” Her voice rose in pitch, and she did not try to remedy the terseness. “And if you take just two seconds of thought, you will realize that there are a great many women who will pursue him this time of year as many of the bachelors are heading to London for the Season. Mr. Glenside was kind to you, he left you with a token, and you have slapped away the chance to use it as an opportunity to know him better.” Filled with indignation, Cassie stood from her chair and began pacing. “You say that crowds make you ill, but here was the chance to meet Mr. Glenside without anyone but the people who love you best in attendance and you ruined everything!” She threw up her hands. Her perfect vision of the future—her future—shattered like glass, the shimmering shards of what was once beautiful shooting in every direction.

  When Lenora didn’t respond, Cassie stopped pacing and faced her, only to find Lenora’s chin trembling and eyes swimming with tears. Cassie’s rant dissolved on her tongue. A little.

  “I knew you would be cross.” Lenora stood and fled the room.

  Cassie should go after her, but what for? Lenora had bungled everything. Who knew when she would accept another invitation for an event where Mr. Glenside would attend, and by then both Rebecca Glanchard and Margaret Holdsworth—eighteen years old to Lenora’s twenty-three—would most certainly have found a way to make his acquaintance. He would have no lack of admirers now that his situation was known throughout the village. That he had sought refuge in the garden at the Dyers’ ball just as Lenora had—and then left the ball early—showed that he was uncomfortable too. The shared discomfort could have been a place for them to build a relationship with one another. Instead, he would get a visit from the local vicar who would hand him the handkerchief as an aside topic of their meeting and every opportunity would be lost.

  In nearly three years of eligibility, Lenora had only ever shown interest in one man. This man—Mr. Glenside. If no one intervened, she would throw this opportunity away, and who knew when she might have another. Surely if she remained unmarried in another two or three years their parents would have to consent to let Cassie have her debut—but she would be the same age then that Lenora was now. Not on the shelf, yet, but competing for attention with girls five years her junior. Mr. Bunderson would surely have married by then. Such thoughts made the edges of Cassie’s vision shimmer with frustration.

  “I shall be an old maid forever,” Cassie grumbled as she left the music room and climbed the stairs to her bedchamber as though crushing each step underfoot. Her mother’s words rang back to her: “You could help her.”

  Cassie snorted as she entered her room and closed the door behind her. She had helped, and Lenora had rejected the perfect opportunity to further her acquaintance with an eligible man! “She needs far more help than I could give her,” Cassie said to her paintings. Still fuming as she crossed the room, her eyes fixed on her writing desk and her mind spun toward a new possibility.

  Was there another way she might help her sister?

  With a slower step and a more focused mind, Cassie moved toward the desk. She ran her fingers across the worn wooden surface while a new—and rather desperate—idea began to build itself brick by brick in her mind.

  A slow smile spread across Cassie’s face. The confidence Lenora needed would only come through success gained through action she was too nervous to take. Cassie, however, could take that action and write letters on Lenora’s behalf.

  She sat at the writing desk and extracted a fresh sheet of paper.

  The first obstacle would be learning to write in Lenora’s same hand, but for a woman of artistic talent who could draw nearly anything it did not seem too much of a challenge. The second obstacle would be the delivery of the letter without her parents’ or Lenora’s knowledge. Young could help there; she was a trusted confidant among the children and had protected Cassie from trouble with her parents before.

  Cassie would have to confess after the exchange of just one or two letters, enough to intrigue Mr. Glenside and give Lenora the feeling of being “known” by him. Cassie would be disciplined for her deception if her parents learned of it, but if that confession came on the heels of a young man’s interest in Lenora, who would come alive in her letters . . . well, then, Cassie would accept whatever penalty might come. And once her penance for the act—not quite a sin since her intent was good—was complete, Cassie would have the chance to truly live her life.

  Dancing.

  Gowns.

  Mr. Bunderson.

  Oh, and Lenora’s happiness, of course.

  When Evan had come to Leagrave a few weeks earlier with the intent to stay on permanently, Uncle had surprised him with his own desk in his own study. The area had once been a sitting room that connected with Uncle’s study, so a few mornings a week, the men worked with the door open between their spaces, Uncle visiting with his ste
ward, housekeeper, or solicitor, while Evan either studied past ledgers or helped Uncle with matters of accounting. His history as an accounting clerk made him feel capable of at least part of this responsibility. Uncle’s solicitor had even complimented Evan’s attention to detail and fine hand.

  Today, Evan was in his study—sparsely furnished with the desk, a nearly empty set of shelves, and two chairs that faced the desk—­reviewing a county farm report. He would share the more pertinent details with Uncle before the weekly meeting with the steward tomorrow morning, where they would forecast the upcoming season. Evan could hear his ­uncle scratching about with his own records, or perhaps correspondence, though Uncle seemed too solitary for much connection to other people.

  Evan had finished his breakfast and written to his mother before Uncle appeared on his side of the door. He asked after the ball the night before, and Evan gave him an honest report: fine company, excellent music; thank goodness the awkwardness of his first social event was complete. The men returned to their work, but Evan noted that Uncle was unusually subdued. Perhaps he had drunk more than usual the night before.

  Evan heard a knock at the front door and greetings exchanged in low tones. Uncle didn’t receive many visitors, and Evan listened as Legget showed the visitor to the drawing room and then came down the hallway toward the men’s studies. Evan continued working on his report.

  “Mr. Wilton to see you, sir,” Legget said, entering Uncle’s room.

  “What business would the vicar have with me?” Uncle grumbled.

  “He is also here to see Master Evan.”

  There was a pause, and Evan straightened in his chair. A visitor for him? From the local vicarage?

  The name Wilton was familiar, but it took a few moments before Evan remembered that he’d shared a bench with Miss Wilton last night in the Dyers’ garden. Was her father the vicar? Evan had told Lord and Lady Dyer about Miss Wilton being in the garden prior to his leaving the ball last night. They had thanked him and said they would see that someone make sure she was well. He hadn’t done anything wrong, had he?

  Uncle appeared in the doorway between their offices. “Seems we have to make the pretty,” he said darkly, his mouth pulled into a scowl. “Shouldn’t take upwards of ten minutes or so, I should think.”

  “I’m happy to meet the vicar,” Evan said, hopeful that acting enthusiastic would improve Uncle’s mood regarding the visit. “I didn’t have a chance to meet him last night.” He stood from the desk and followed his uncle through the study to the hall and into the drawing room.

  A thickly built man with a round face and blue eyes stood when they entered. He wore the simple black coat and white neck cloth of the clergy, and Evan realized he had seen this man as he was leaving the ball last night.

  “Good morning to you, Mr. Glenside,” the vicar said to Uncle Hastings before turning to Evan. “And to you, Mr. Glenside. Welcome to our fine county.”

  Evan shook the man’s hand in turn and thanked him for the welcome.

  “My apologies for not making your acquaintance last night at the Dyers’ ball,” Mr. Wilton said as the men took their seats. Uncle called for tea. “I’m afraid I was having some trouble”—he put a hand on his stomach—“necessitating that we leave earlier than planned. However, we were glad to catch a glimpse of you, Mr. Glenside, as you raced into the night.”

  Evan smiled, though he had a difficult time reading Mr. Wilton. He was kind enough, and welcoming, but there was a reserve about him as well as an aura of judgment. Perhaps that was not too surprising; he was clergy, after all.

  “I hope you are feeling better,” Evan said, wondering if the man should be making calls if he were unwell.

  “I am, thank you,” Mr. Wilton said, nodding. “Nothing a good night’s rest and a good breakfast couldn’t remedy. I’m glad to have found you both at home so I might introduce myself.” The vicar reached into his coat pocket and extracted a square of fabric. “I do believe you met my daughter last night, Mr. Glenside. She asked that I return this to you—washed and pressed—with her sincere thanks.”

  Evan took the handkerchief from Mr. Wilton. He hadn’t expected a return, necessarily, but certainly not the day after the ball. Miss Wilton must have prepared it first thing this morning. Was there some unwritten rule amid the gentle classes that dictated a prompt return of a proffered handkerchief?

  “Thank you,” Evan said, placing the perfectly pressed square on his knee. How much did Mr. Wilton know about his exchange in the garden with Miss Wilton? Should Evan be apologizing for something?

  Before he could determine the proper protocol, Mr. Wilton turned his attention to Uncle Hastings. Evan noted the tiniest bit of tension enter the vicar’s face.

  “And how are you faring, Mr. Glenside? We miss you at services.”

  Uncle bristled, and Evan found himself instinctively tensing as well. “Don’t waste time waiting on me to show. I haven’t been back and I won’t be,” Uncle said with a snort at the end.

  “I understand,” Mr. Wilton said, smiling though it didn’t look completely natural. “But I want you to know you are always welcome.”

  Uncle narrowed his eyes. “I don’t want your welcome, Vicar.”

  Mr. Wilton did not seem surprised. “Yes, well, it is my job to extend the invitation.”

  “It’s not your job to be pressing me.”

  Mr. Wilton looked at his knees, perfectly lined up side by side.

  “When are services?” Evan said before the vicar was forced to defend himself again. Evan had never heard his uncle talk to anyone so harshly, except perhaps the servants after he’d had too much to drink. “I can’t promise weekly attendance, but I would like to become familiar with the congregation. My mother and sisters will be joining us in a few months, and they are faithful churchgoers.”

  “The congregation would embrace you and your family, Mr. Glenside,” Mr. Wilton said with a relieved smile.

  Uncle snorted, causing Mr. Wilton to tense again. He kept his eyes on Evan and continued. “Services begin at ten o’clock on the Sabbath. We have a children’s class on Tuesday afternoons, choir that evening, and a study hour on Wednesday evenings.”

  “A study hour?” Evan had never heard of such a thing. “What do you study?”

  “Themes found in the Bible, mostly,” Mr. Wilton said. “Some parishioners bring their older children to teach them to read the language, and then we have open discussions about ancient practices and how they transpose to our daily lives.”

  “Do you discuss Job?” Uncle said.

  Mr. Wilton and Evan both looked at him.

  Uncle continued, glaring at Mr. Wilton. “Do you talk about the way God made a deal with the devil and ruined the life of a good man? A worshipful man?”

  Mr. Wilton cleared his throat uncomfortably. “We have discussed Job, yes.”

  Uncle kept his eyes fixed on the vicar. “And do you tell your congregation that we are all playthings in the hands of a callous God who wants nothing but His own entertainment at our expense?”

  “Uncle,” Evan said in surprise. He might not attend services on a regular basis, but he did not insult his Creator.

  “No, it is all right,” Mr. Wilton said. He seemed to pull himself up as he looked back at Uncle with confidence. “There is balm in Gilead, and Christ can help you bear your sorrow if you will but exchange your burdens for His.”

  Uncle’s face began to redden and Evan shifted in his chair, but Mr. Wilton did not stop. “All He asks of us is a broken heart and a—”

  “My heart is broken,” Uncle hissed through his teeth, leaning forward in his chair. “My wife and child are dead, but I have received no solace or comfort or balm in all these years. You want me to come to church and worship a vengeful, hateful, and cruel God who would take the best a man has and sentence him to hell on earth?” Uncle rose from his chair, and Evan did too,
hurrying to put a hand on his Uncle’s arm. He’d never seen Uncle like this and feared he might strike the vicar.

  “Uncle,” Evan said quietly, “he means no offense to you.”

  “He offends me with every word he has ever said from that blasted pulpit!”

  “Uncle,” Evan repeated, with greater emphasis this time. He moved to block the vicar from view. “Why don’t you return to your study. I shall finish conversing with Mr. Wilton and join you shortly.”

  Uncle finally turned his eyes to Evan, who forced a sympathetic smile in hopes of diffusing the stifling tension in the room.

  Silence prevailed for several seconds before Uncle took a breath, looked at the ground, and then glanced at the vicar. “My apologies, Wilton. Not a good day for me.”

  Mr. Wilton gave a wavering smile as Uncle turned and left the room. Only when the door closed behind his uncle did Evan face the vicar.

  “My most heartfelt apologies on behalf of my uncle, Mr. Wilton,” Evan said, trying not to show his own embarrassment. “I’m afraid he has endured a great deal of pain.”

  “I did not mean to add to it,” Mr. Wilton said, finally standing. “I have struggled all these years to find a way to connect with him, and perhaps help him connect with God once again, yet I continue to go about it badly, it seems.”

  Evan was quiet a moment as questions began to list themselves in his mind. He worried he would overstep a boundary he ought to know, but if Evan were going to make a mistake in etiquette, a vicar seemed likely to forgive him. “I don’t know if you are aware that I only met my uncle a year ago, when the previous heir—his cousin—succumbed to a lung disease quite unexpectedly. I know very little of his life before now, and the only thing he talks about is my Aunt Lucy, and only then when he has had perhaps more to drink than is recommended.”