The Vicar's Daughter

by Josi S. Kilpack

  “Your uncle is a fine man,” Mr. Wilton said with a nod and softening expression. “I would daresay he and I were even friends up until Lucy’s passing.”

  “But not after?”

  “I tried to convince him to have them buried in the churchyard. Lucy was devout, and her family was buried there. Your uncle was not in a good . . . state of mind for the discussion and took great offense to my pressing, which I admit I took too far. He asked the vicar in a neighboring village to officiate. I took some offense to that and did not attend the funeral.” He let out a heavy breath. “I have prayed mightily for forgiveness for my pride, and though I believe the Lord has forgiven me, your uncle has not. We are usually cordial with one another when our paths cross, but, as you saw today, there has been little healing between us.” He was quiet again for several contemplative seconds, and then he met Evan’s eye. “I also stand by what I said: God can help him find solace if only he will humble himself.”

  It took some effort on Evan’s part not to bristle. It had never sat well with him when churchgoing folk acted as though every ill could be mended with a prayer and a smile. “I admire your concern for my uncle. Though he and I are only newly acquainted with one another, I have found him to be a kind, hardworking, and admirable man. He seems to enjoy my company, and I believe our continued relationship will improve him as time moves forward. I think . . .” He paused, unsure if he should continue. The eager eyes of Mr. Wilton spurred him forward. “I think my uncle is very lonely.”

  “Something the congregation could remedy as well.”

  Evan was unimpressed by the man’s stubborn insistence that the church had every solution. “Obviously he is not prepared for such connections, but I do think my being here is a positive change for him. In a few months my mother and sisters will be joining us at his invitation. I believe it will help him to have family around him.”

  Mr. Wilton nodded. “I hope he might one day return to the church. Perhaps your mother and sisters will make a good change upon his habits.”

  Evan reminded himself that a vicar’s occupation was to bring people into his fold and so he tried not to be offended by the man’s determination to solve Uncle’s problems with worship. What Uncle needed was genuine friendship. Maybe it was only Evan who could supply that for now. “I shall begin attending services when I can, Mr. Wilton, and you will find my mother to be quite pious. With any luck, our example might encourage him.”

  “I understand,” Mr. Wilton said, seeming to accept Evan’s subtle request that the vicar not press Uncle Hastings about church again. “If you ever feel that I might be of service, you need but ask.”

  Evan nodded his thanks and walked Mr. Wilton to the door. Once the door closed, Evan returned to the drawing room and saw the white handkerchief on the rug. It must have fallen off his knee when he’d stood. He picked up the cloth and wondered at Miss Wilton’s eagerness to rid herself of his handkerchief. He did not wonder for long, however, and stuffed the article into his pocket before leaving the room.

  Evan found his uncle at his desk with a glass of brandy in his hand. A bad sign as he rarely drank this early in the day.

  “I have no place for God,” Uncle said as he swirled the liquor in the snifter. He eyed Evan with suspicion. “And if you think you and Mr. Wilton will change my mind, you’ll find our relationship much different than it’s been thus far, my boy.”

  “You think I would conspire against you?” Evan said, raising his eyebrows. “I only stayed in that room to uphold the manners of your household.”

  Uncle remained suspect. “Did you apologize for me?”

  “I did,” Evan said. “But only after you apologized for yourself.”

  Uncle’s brow softened, and he raised a hand to his forehead. He closed his eyes as his shoulders fell. “Wilton didn’t know,” he said softly, as though talking to himself. “He couldn’t have known.”

  Evan furrowed his eyebrows. “Know what?”

  “Today would have been the twenty-third anniversary of the day Lucy and I were married.” He sniffled, and his eyes became glassy with more than the drink. “The days that should be celebrations mock me and pull me into the depths of despair.” He scrubbed his hand over his face, then took a swallow of brandy.

  Evan let out a sympathetic breath. His mother found such days equally difficult—Father’s birthday, the day he died, their wedding anniversary. “I am sorry.” Evan wished he knew how to help.

  Uncle shook his head. “It’s certainly not your fault.”

  “Nor is it Mr. Wilton’s,” Evan said, earning a glare from his uncle. “I could explain it to him, if you like. He told me of the disagreement you had when Lucy passed—regarding her burial. He regrets handling it as he did. He said you were once friends.”

  Uncle grunted and poured himself another drink. Evan stepped forward and when Uncle put down the bottle, Evan moved it to the sideboard, out of reach.

  “It is a very fine day.” Evan pretended not to notice his uncle’s scowl or the way his nostrils flared. “Would you walk the grounds with me and tell me of my aunt? Perhaps we could put some flowers on her grave to mark this day.”

  The expression on Uncle’s face changed from anger to surprise, perhaps even eagerness. Evan realized that though he had heard a great deal about Uncle’s wife, he had never been the one to request the stories.

  “Please, Uncle,” Evan said, latching onto the possibility of this idea. “I can think of no better way to celebrate the joy you and Aunt Lucy shared.”

  Uncle rose from the desk, not even finishing his brandy, and moved to the door. “Let me change my boots. I shall meet you in the foyer in quarter of an hour.”

  April 10

  Dear Mr. Glenside,

  I was glad to hear that your handkerchief found its way to you without incident—my father assures me it was successfully returned—but I have felt unsettled since it left my possession for fear that I had not taken the opportunity to properly express my gratitude for your having lent it to me. I hope that your opinion of me, though limited due to our short connection, is not diminished in the boldness of my letter. However, it is an unfortunate matter of my character that I am very ill at ease with people in person, especially at crowded events, and until I feel known by them, and know their natures as well, I seem only able to adequately express myself in writing. Therefore I pray your forgiveness and understanding for any lack of manner this letter might reflect upon me.

  On the night of the Dyers’ ball, I found myself alone and uncomfortable in the ballroom, and so I made my way to the garden, only to fall prey to my nemesis of nature: wisteria. One would think that a girl so unfortunate as to have anxiety at social events would not be additionally cursed with such a negative reaction to a pretty flower, but alas my condemnations seem to have no bounds. Therefore my escape became another matter of discomfort, and your handkerchief became the greatest boon of the night.

  I realize that you had also sought respite and yet you unveiled yourself in order to help me. Such compassion was most kind, and I shall ever be grateful for it. I would imagine a gentleman with such tender generosity is often at the ready to help a woman in distress, and perhaps you do not even remember how many times you have offered such aid, but I wanted to make sure you knew the change you made for me that night. Whereas I often leave events such as a ball with a pain in my stomach and gratitude for escape, that night I returned home to confess to my dearest sister, Cassandra, how very kind you were. It was a new and wonderful experience for me to be so invigorated at the end of an evening, and I have you to thank for such a change.

  Though I have no expectation of a response to this letter, should you do so, would you kindly address your response to my maid, Edith Young, and have it delivered through the kitchen? My parents would not fault me in expressing myself as I have—though it would certainly surprise them—but they would tease me regarding com
munication with a gentleman and that is something I cannot bear any better than I can muster through the fair wisteria blossoms that so vex me.

  Most kindly yours,

  Miss Lenora E. Wilton

  Evan read the letter over breakfast on Saturday the week following the Dyers’ ball. The letter seemed unorthodox considering the social expectations he was trying to learn, but he could not ignore the sincerity of Miss Wilton’s words, both of gratitude and her explanation for why she had been in the garden. That she wanted to avoid her parents’ teasing was something else he could appreciate. He felt the pressure of his mother’s hopes for him to marry and assumed what Miss Wilton felt was much the same.

  Still, the letter surprised him. Evan had felt sure when he closed the door after the vicar’s visit last week that the chance of furthering his acquaintance with Miss Wilton was at an end. The history between Mr. Wilton and Uncle felt too wide a gap to bridge, not to mention how uneasy Evan was regarding his recent elevation of position. And then Evan had been unable to attend church services the following Sunday due to some spring flooding in the lower field. Faced with such obstacles, Evan convinced himself that he didn’t want to further the acquaintance with Miss Wilton anyway.

  But then she was bold enough to write this letter, which he found refreshing. And she’d admitted her anxiety, which he could relate to. There was also something in the words on the page that expressed a different confidence than he expected from a girl who chose to hide in a freezing garden rather than dance at a ball. Though ill at ease in a crowd, she was not ill at ease in her letter and that intrigued him. So often since coming to Leagrave, he felt like one man on the inside and another on the outside. So often he felt as though no one, not even his uncle, knew, or truly cared, who he really was. This letter seemed a reflection of that same battle—someone trying to rectify two different parts of her person.

  Would he also come across with greater clarity in a letter?

  That she’d initiated contact seemed proof that such correspondence was not inappropriate. Would it be rude if he didn’t respond? Dare he invite a worse opinion if it should become known that, following his uncle’s bad behavior to the vicar, Evan had behaved badly to the vicar’s daughter?

  Evan folded the letter and tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat. He was riding out with the steward this morning to circle the fields, and he wanted to arrive early to the appointment so he could get comfortable in the saddle before they took the tour. He’d never ridden in his life before coming to Leagrave, and he envied men, like the steward, who seemed to take to horseback so easily.

  He would revisit the letter with greater attention this afternoon. Perhaps by then he would have a better idea of what to do about it.

  The Wilton girls had always helped on washing day, and since it was the time for spring cleaning, Cassie’s help was required for longer than usual. Fortunately, the day was warm enough to allow line drying instead of filling the house with drying racks. At least that.

  Lenora was in a pleasant mood, and the sisters talked more comfortably than they had of late. Cassie offered up the gossip from the village, and Lenora relayed more details of the Dyers’ ball. At first the topic was awkward. The last they’d spoken of it, Lenora had run from the room after Cassie berated her for not returning the handkerchief. But now that Cassie had that situation in hand, she felt no ill will toward her sister. In fact, she felt internal satisfaction at being a better sister than even Lenora knew.

  The sisters were hanging a sheet on the line while Mrs. Ashby, the laundress, fished a hot sheet from the washing pot when a man came around the corner of the house, startling the three of them. Lenora immediately stepped behind the hung sheet as though hiding.

  “Beg yer pardon,” the man said. He inclined his head slightly at Cassie, who had stepped forward. “I’ve a letter for Miss Young.”

  “Young?” Cassie said, instantly alert as she hurried to dry her hands on the apron of her skirt before taking the letter.

  “Who’s it from?” Mrs. Ashby asked with cheeky suspicion.

  Lenora was nothing more than the bottom of a skirt and a pair of shoes beneath the hung sheet.

  “Glenside Manor,” the young man said.

  “I’ll see that she gets it,” Cassie said with a smile. She gave a quick nod. “Thank you.”

  “See that she gets what?”

  Cassie spun around to see Mama, holding a basket on her hip. Cassie blinked, feeling caught until she remembered that the letter was not addressed to her. “A letter, I suppose. For Young.” She feigned boredom as she looked over the envelope. The script was very fine, with flourished curves and excellent form. It had to be from Mr. Glenside, and the idea filled Cassie with a nervous anticipation she could not allow her mother—or Lenora—to see. She slid the letter into her apron pocket with a shrug just as Lenora peeked around the sheet and let out a breath.

  “I’ll give it to her when we finish here,” Cassie said, then took the basket from her mother. “Are these ready for the pot?”

  Mrs. Ashby finished removing the hot sheet, and Cassie traded her the dirty linens in Mama’s basket for the tub that held the laundered sheets. She moved toward the ringer and Mama followed. The work required two people to make sure nothing landed in the dirt.

  “When did Young begin receiving letters?” Mama asked.

  “I don’t know,” Cassie said, but her stomach tightened. She did not want to lie to her mother directly. Lenora fished another sheet from her basket and threw it over the line, silently glancing between them as the conversation continued. In her own way she was curious, Cassie knew, but she would not assert herself.

  “Where was it from?” Mama asked.

  Cassie pretended she hadn’t heard Mama as she put the basket down on the table to which the ringer was bolted. “I hope the weather doesn’t turn on us,” she said, squinting up at the sky that, while overcast, was not heavy with rain clouds.

  “Said he was from Glenside Manor, marme.” Mrs. Ashby picked up the basket and dumped the dirty linens into the hot water. The women had worked together for so long that the movements were nearly a dance between them. She picked up the paddle and began to agitate the items.

  “Glenside Manor?” Mama separated out the first sheet to feed through the machinery. “It’s all the way on the other side of the village. Who would Young know from that house?”

  Cassie tried to keep her breathing in check. “Surely it isn’t any of our business, Mama. What interest do we have in who she knows from anywhere?”

  Mama began to feed the fabric through the ringer, and Cassie turned the handle, which pulled the fabric through, squeezing out a great deal of water.

  “As her employer, I most certainly do have interest. And as a family of the church, we have certain expectations beyond those of a typical house.” The first sheet was finished, and Mama reached for another. “I shall speak to your father about it.”

  Cassie managed a laugh. “You act as though receiving a letter is a sin.”

  “If it is only a letter, then of course it is of no consequence, but we can all benefit—Young included—from reminders now and again of what is appropriate and what is not. Besides that, secrets can be destructive. I certainly won’t pry into anyone’s privacy, but your father and I deserve the assurance that those under our care are behaving as they ought. Now, Cassie, keep turning the handle.”

  Cassie did as she was told, swallowing the discomfort Mama’s words presented. If Mama was this concerned about Young exchanging letters, what would she think of Cassie doing so? She reminded herself that she was doing this for the greater good, and she even dared think that her parents, in the end, would be impressed with her cleverness. But she would need to keep Young from getting in trouble as well. Already this was becoming more complicated than she’d anticipated. But surely that was only because she was so unused to deception.
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  It was another two hours before the sisters were dismissed. Lenora went to the music room—she practiced for hours every day—while Cassie hurried to her bedroom. She tried to ignore her scalded and aching hands as she removed the letter from her pocket. She looked over the script again and felt a rush of excitement until she remembered that this letter was meant for Lenora. Cassie was merely a facilitator.

  Reminded of her role in this exchange, Cassie unfolded the letter and settled on the window seat to read what it was Mr. Glenside had to say in response to her letter . . . rather, Lenora’s letter.

  April 13

  Dear Miss Wilton,

  I thank you most kindly for your letter and wish to assure you that I did not in any way disapprove of your boldness. Rather, I found it intriguing enough to respond—as you can see. Finding myself in new society has been an unsettling experience, since until now I could always count myself among people I was acquainted with from my youth. I do not mean to disparage my situation—it is certainly a blessing for me to be in the place I am, and I am quite enjoying Leagrave—but it is very different from East London, and I have found it rather lonesome, though I enjoy my uncle’s company a great deal.

  You rightly accuse me of having sought refuge in the garden the night of the Dyers’ ball, and I am grateful for your explanation as to why you were there too. I feared my offer of my handkerchief had startled you and made you uncomfortable. Though I do not suffer the effects of spring myself, my mother is sorely afflicted. I worry how she shall settle into the country when she and my sisters come to Leagrave themselves, but I hope that the country air will be enough of a relief to compensate for any other discomfort. I am glad to hear that you are recovered so well.