The Vicar's Daughter

by Josi S. Kilpack

  “Uncle Hastings says that the cottage might be ready for us by the end of this month,” Natalie said, fairly bouncing on her seat cushion. The girl’s charm made up for the lack of manners, and, quite frankly, her lightness was invigorating in a house where everyone continued to walk on eggshells. “I shall miss the big house, though,” Natalie said with a frown. “I’ve never seen such a fine house let alone lived in one.”

  “The cottage will be just right for us,” Mrs. Glenside said, giving her daughter a mildly reprimanding look. “For my part, I will enjoy a smaller space.” She looked around the room. “I do love your house here. I so hope that the cottage will feel like this.”

  “Feel?” Papa asked, though Cassie had wanted to ask the same thing.

  “Loved,” Mrs. Glenside said, though she seemed embarrassed to be the center of attention. “Don’t you think you can feel love when you enter a home?”

  “I am greatly humbled to hear you say such a thing,” Papa said. “Though there is friction in any family.”

  “Oh, of course,” Mrs. Glenside said with a nod.

  Papa continued. “But it has always been my hope that love would conquer those difficulties.”

  It certainly didn’t feel like there had been a great deal of love these last few weeks in the vicarage, but could the love they had shared for so many years overcome that? Cassie hoped so, from the very core of her being. She could not help but think of Evan too. Could love, or perhaps should love, be able to conquer all? Even deception? Even broken engagements? But she did not ponder for long; she had promised not to even consider a connection between them. And she was trying.

  Mama stood first. “I believe dinner is ready,” she said, her smile warmer than it had been before. Cassie’s parents exited the room first, and as the rest of the party made their way into the dining room, Cassie found herself beside Mrs. Glenside.

  “I’m glad you invited us, Cassie,” she said so softly Cassie almost didn’t hear it.

  She looked at the older woman, surprised at the open kindness she saw in the woman’s face. Had she so easily forgiven Cassie for the damage done to her son?

  Before she could continue, Mrs. Glenside spoke again. “Evan tells me you are an artist.”

  Cassie’s skin prickled from head to toe. Evan had spoken of her? In a positive way no less. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Pencil or paint?”

  “Paint mostly, though I sketch as well.” Only she had done neither for such a long time. Creation felt like an indulgence she did not deserve right now.

  “I hope one day I might see your work. While not an artist in any true sense of the term, I have made a skill of my penmanship and printing—but I believe you know that already.”

  “Yes, Evan says you have a great talent.” Cassie nearly complimented his hand as well but stopped herself just in time. She did not want to say or do anything that might be misconstrued where Evan was concerned. “I think that printing is every bit as artistic as drawing. Only, perhaps, with greater purpose.”

  Mrs. Glenside touched Cassie’s arm as they crossed into the dining room. “I hope one day we might be friends enough that we can enjoy one another’s work.”

  Cassie felt on the verge of tears for the forgiveness this woman was extending so easily. What would it be to feel such a thing from her own parents? From Lenora? From herself? “I would like that very much, Mrs. Glenside.”

  Mrs. Glenside smiled wider, the apples of her cheeks rounding. “Then we shall do it.”

  As Cassie took her place at the table, she felt lighter than she had in days.

  Bunderson’s man set up a variety of targets—broken household items mostly—on a log some distance across the field then ran to the side.

  Evan lifted the pistol the way Bunderson had taught him and lined up the notch at the front of the barrel. If not for the fact that he had always wanted to learn to shoot, he would never have allowed Bunderson to take him out for practice. The man took far too much joy in Evan missing the mark. Evan pulled the trigger and hit the second bottle on the log, resulting in a satisfying explosion of glass.

  “Well done,” Bunderson said, taking the weapon and handing it to another servant to reload. “Your aim is getting better. Nearly half of your shots actually hit something.”

  In the two weeks since Evan had spoken to Mr. Wilton, things had improved in Leagrave. His mother and sisters had enjoyed a comfortable dinner at the vicarage—he had been careful not to ask any questions about Cassie directly—and since then had been visited by half a dozen ladies of the village. The Wiltons’ welcome and forgiveness seemed to have had exactly the effect they had hoped for.

  No longer as concerned over his family’s acceptance, Evan was able to relax somewhat. Bunderson had advised learning pistols first, then moving on to rifle shooting. If Evan had realized that being Bunderson’s student would also make him the butt of endless jokes, he might have reconsidered. Still, he needed instruction, and Bunderson sometimes felt like Evan’s only real friend here in Leagrave. Especially now.

  “Ho,” Bunderson’s man called after setting up a new selection of bottles on the log.

  “You take this,” Bunderson said, handing the pistol back to him, newly loaded. He held his second pistol at his side, awaiting his turn.

  Evan lined up the shot and had just touched the trigger when a crack from the side made him jump. The bottle shattered, and Evan turned to see a smug look on Bunderson’s face.

  “Sorry, man, I couldn’t let them all go to waste,” Bunderson said, lowering his other pistol. It wasn’t the first time Bunderson had taken a shot he’d said was for Evan.

  Evan lowered his gun, pride getting the better of him. Surely he could talk to his uncle about finding a way to practice on his own. The gun was still loaded, however, so he quickly lined up his shot and fired. He missed. “Perhaps we’ve had a day of it,” Evan said.

  “Is this because of my impatience?” Bunderson asked. “I suppose I’m not much of a teacher.”

  Whether or not Bunderson had meant it as a slight, Evan heard the insult of not being a quick study at what was a gentleman’s sport. He was definitely finished for the day.

  “I’ve enjoyed myself,” Evan said. It wasn’t entirely a lie.

  “Good,” Bunderson said, rolling his own shoulders. The men turned back to their horses, tied some distance away so as not to be spooked. “Will you join me for a drink at Stoney’s?”

  Evan’s first thought was that he’d had enough of the man’s company, but that was unkind. Bunderson had been a good friend to Evan, and Evan needed to get used to spending time with gentlemen.

  “That sounds like just the thing,” Evan said before he could talk himself out of it.

  They reached their horses, left the servants in charge of the equipment, and headed directly to the pub on High Street. Bunderson wanted to race, so they made short time of the distance to town. Evan lost, unsurprisingly, and so he paid for the drinks. He kept to himself that he was already low on this quarter’s allowance, which would have to last him another month. Before he’d left London, he’d arranged through a friend for some repairs to be made to the Doristers’ house. The generosity had left his pockets substantially lighter, but he would not ask for an advance from his uncle. He would simply have to be more careful not to pay for too many drinks in the future.

  The men found an empty table and ordered brandy for Bunderson and a good mug of porter for Evan.

  “Porter?” Bunderson said, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms over his head before letting them flop to his sides.

  Evan smiled, determined to remain good-natured. “What can I say? I’m a common man with common tastes.”

  “You are a gentleman now, Glenside, and should drink a gentleman’s drink.”

  “Thank ya kindly, gov’nah,” he said in his best Cockney. “But I’ll bur
n my belly with whatever I’ve a mind to, thank ya very much.”

  Bunderson hooted and clapped at Evan’s performance, and Evan inclined his head in a makeshift bow. They continued their banter, Evan softening after he’d finished his mug. He ordered another. Porter was not nearly as strong as liquor so he could enjoy two drinks to Bunderson’s one without feeling wobbly-headed. Only after ordering did he remember his need to economize. He would need to be more attentive.

  “ . . . New coat should arrive by Thursday,” Bunderson said after taking the final swallow of his drink. “I daresay it’s the finest thing you’ve ever seen. Blue superfine, cut to perfection in the latest fashion.”

  Evan’s first thought was what the coat cost. Uncle had said men paid upwards of a hundred pounds for a simple waistcoat by the famous tailor Weston. Evan could not fathom paying such a price for any article of clothing. As it was, what he would pay for today’s drinks was nearly what his mother had spent on a week of foodstuffs in London.

  “You are going, aren’t you? To the Allens’ ball?” Bunderson continued. “A number of townspeople will be returned from London by then so it ought to be a merry affair. I shall introduce you all around.” He looped his hand above his head.

  “I’m unsure if I received an invitation and am not acquainted with the Allens—at least I don’t think I am.” He still struggled to keep track of names and positions.

  “Of course you received an invitation,” Bunderson said, shaking his head. “Everyone is invited. Even former fiancé’s of the local vicar’s daughter, I’d wager.”

  Evan smiled politely. “Or perhaps not. It is no matter.” He was determined to play this off correctly. His sisters had only attended a few dinner parties since they’d arrived. They would love to attend a proper ball, but there were plenty of people still wary of the Glenside family.

  “Well, my mother is good friends with Mrs. Allen. I shall inquire about an invitation.”

  “I would not—”

  “It is ridiculous for anyone to be so harsh towards a man crying off in this day and age,” Bunderson continued. He blew out his lips and shook his head. “I never understood why you proposed to Miss Wilton in the first place.”

  “You told me to,” Evan said with as much of a laugh as he could muster to cover his surprise. “You said I had all but offered for her already.”

  Bunderson seemed to consider that. “I suppose I did say that. And it’s a shame, now that you bring it up. If you had married Lenora, Cassie would be on the market by now. You should have seen it through.”

  Evan was surprised by the fire of jealousy that flared in his chest knowing that Bunderson could look at Cassie and see what Evan saw. Could pursue what Evan could not. He forced himself to take a breath, wondering if his growing irritation toward this man these last weeks had anything to do with Bunderson’s feelings for Cassie. It was not a topic they discussed, but Bunderson had never hidden his interest in her.

  “Do you know Miss Cassandra very well?” Certainly Bunderson didn’t know her as well as Evan did. The letters she’d sent resided in a drawer in Evan’s study. He had not looked at them since showing them to his mother, but he had not destroyed them either.

  “Not nearly as well as I’d like to,” Bunderson said, lifting his eyebrows. “My cousin married a vicar’s girl, you know. Said all that holiness was just a cover for some real passion. Wasn’t sure I could believe it until I saw Cassie after I returned to Leagrave last year.” He shrugged one shoulder and his smile fell. “But unless Lenora gets swept off her feet by some widower in Bath, Cassie may very well turn to dust before anyone’s allowed to find out how hot her passions burn.”

  Evan’s jaw clenched, and he had to force himself to relax his grip on the handle of his mug. He took another long drink and wished he had ordered something stronger after all.

  Bunderson leaned in as though inviting a private conversation. “I do have a question I’ve been meaning to ask you, Glenside.”

  “About Cassie?” Evan was not about to encourage the topic.

  Bunderson laughed and shook his head. “Cassie is thoughts for another day. Next week, however, I’m meeting my cousin in London. He’s newly released from the shackles of Cambridge, you know.”

  Evan had dreamed of having such shackles of education.

  Bunderson continued. “I’m looking to get him a bit of fun . . . of the female variety. I’ve always had good luck at Covent Garden, but I’ve heard there are some delightful establishments hidden away from the greater part of London that offer more . . . customized fun, if you know what I mean.”

  Evan bit back a sharp retort, looked at the table between them, and turned his mug around in his hand. Going from a conversation about Cassie to one about light skirts was too sharp a transition for him to make in a moment. “I’m sure I’m not the man to ask. I’ve never been in the petticoat line.”

  “But you are from London, and not from the sanitized portion of the city. Surely you know a good house, tucked away in some corner somewhere, that could cater to a few men eager to cat about with the darker bits of society.”

  Evan wished he dared speak his mind plainly. Those darker bits of society existed because of unbridled appetites that created an industry that held souls hostage. Evan knew of a few women, widows or women married to drunks, who had turned to that employ when they had no other choice to keep their children fed. It destroyed them. “As I said, I’m not the man to give that direction. Wasn’t a side of life I ever cared to look at.”

  “Ah, well,” Bunderson said, shrugging. “You might have missed the best part of living in the slums, then.”

  Evan bristled and this time did not try to hide it. “I did not live in the slums, Bunderson, and most of the people who do are trying to make an honest living.”

  Bunderson put up both hands and shook his head. “Sorry, Glenside—too much drink in the afternoon. Forgive me?”

  Evan could do little more than incline his head before making his excuses on why he needed to return to the manor. If Bunderson made the connection between his bawdy talk and Evan’s exit, he gave no indication.

  All the way home, Evan argued with himself not to cast judgment too harshly, but he could not get over the disgust he felt toward Bunderson’s casualness regarding “a bit of fun.” While Evan was determined to find his place in society, there had to be room for his own values too. And there had to be gentlemen somewhere who could provide better friendship than Ronald Bunderson.

  Cassie was getting faster at doing the wash. She and Mrs. Ashby, the laundress, had found a rhythm so that by three o’clock on Thursday, only a few items remained on the line. Mrs. Ashby returned home since Cassie was capable of finishing the rest. It was a warm day, and Cassie could feel the grit of dried sweat on her face. Her chemise was surely soaked through beneath her dress. But finishing early meant she could take a bath before dinner at the Wells’ home that evening.

  “Cassie.”

  She looked over her shoulder to see Mama approaching. She smiled, more honestly than she would have a few weeks ago. As Mama had come to accept Cassie’s determination to help Evan’s mother and sisters find a place in the village, and as Cassie had continued fulfilling all the responsibilities left in her charge, the edge between them had faded. Cassie was certain the truce was in large part because Cassie and Evan all but ignored one another, which allowed Mama’s fears to cool. That a thrill still rushed through Cassie when her eyes met his was something she kept very much to herself.

  “I’m almost finished,” Cassie said, unpinning a sheet on the line so she could fold it. Young would take responsibility for putting the clean sheets back on the beds.

  “I can speak with you while we finish,” Mama said, falling in beside Cassie. She unpinned the next sheet on the line. “I received the invitation from the Allens for their ball Saturday next.”

  Cassie nodded, wonde
ring why her mother was talking about the event since she would not be attending. Perhaps she would paint that evening. She could set up her easel in the orchard after her parents left and paint the sunset. It had been such a long time since she’d indulged in her art. She was beginning to miss it and felt like she might be ready to find a place for it again. Her mind was clearer and her thoughts not as dark as they had been.

  “Would you like to go?”

  Cassie snapped her head to the side. “Me?”

  Mama did not meet her eye, still focused on the sheet. “Lenora is in Bath, and it feels awkward for your father and me to attend alone. We haven’t attended without at least one child for, well, years. Victoria will be visiting in London that day, and Rose is confined to the house.”

  Evan might be there. Cassie quickly pushed away the thought. “I would very much like to go,” she said carefully, as though Mama might be testing her and would snatch back the offer if Cassie proved too eager.

  “Do you feel that one of your sister’s dresses would serve for the occasion? I could help with the fitting.”

  “Certainly,” Cassie said, still feeling cautious.

  “I have two concerns.”

  Cassie braced herself and forced her hands to keep moving, folding the sheet.

  “The Glensides will be there.”

  “I believe they were left off the guest list,” Cassie said, remembering the conversation she’d had with Rebecca just after the engagement was broken. Mrs. Allen was Rebecca’s aunt.

  “Mrs. Allen brought me the invitation herself so she might explain the circumstance. Mr. Glenside had been removed, but with the arrival of his mother and sisters, and the increasing acceptance of them in the community . . .” She glanced at Cassie, offering her a small smile that acknowledged her role for those changing opinions. “She felt excluding them would be unkind, but she was equally worried about awkwardness on our part.”

  “It will not be awkward for me,” Cassie said. She imagined seeing Evan dressed for a ball with a high collar and a fitted waistcoat, candlelight reflecting off his short, blond hair.