Andrew winced. “Well, a merry heart and all that…”
“He wasn’t so merry afterward, I’m afraid. But he’ll rouse himself in good form.”
They had reached a bedroom, where the young vicar hurried over to the washstand. “Still a little warm,” he said, dipping fingers into the pitcher. “Israel must have filled it this morning. I wonder why he didn’t wake me?”
“Where is everyone?”
“Mrs. Coggins would be at the hall helping lay out refreshments. And no doubt Israel has been put to arranging chairs.” He poured some of the water into the bowl. “You know, I do seem to recall his speaking to me sometime this morning. But it’s all fuzzy.”
“Shall I make you some tea?”
“No, thank you. The shock has me well awake now.” He turned from the mirror while vigorously banging the sides of a shaving brush against the inside of a mug. “But I would have been suicidal if you hadn’t shown up and got me on my feet. Oh…do have a seat, will you?”
Andrew pulled out the chair from a writing table and watched the young man spread lather all over his face. “Your clothes?”
“Mrs. Coggins will no doubt have them laid out in the room next door. Will you get them for me?”
“But of course.” Leaving the chair he had just settled into, he went into the corridor and on into another bedroom, where a black suit and white shirt lay across the bed. Paul was already drying his face when Andrew returned with the clothes over his arm. “That was fast.”
“Hit or miss.” The young man turned to him again and raised an anxious eyebrow. “You won’t tell anyone about this, will you?”
“I suppose I could keep it quiet for a couple of years.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Time has a way of bringing out the humor of circumstances.” Andrew smiled. “Trust me, in two years you’ll be telling people about it yourself.”
After a bemused pause, the young man returned his smile. “I wish I had your maturity, Vicar Phelps.”
“In due time, my friend. And with it come the gray hairs and wrinkles, so don’t wish too hard.”
The young man looked doubtful as he shrugged off his dressing gown and picked up the white shirt. “Youth isn’t always all it’s touted to be.”
“Now, there’s a truth,” Andrew had to agree. There was something to be said for the calm waters of maturity, as opposed to the turbulent currents of youth. But both had their purposes, and he would not presume to improve upon the way God had designed His creation.
They walked over to the town hall, situated on the green just as Gresham’s. Just stepping down from the portico was Israel Coggins, vicarage caretaker and son of vicarage housekeeper, Mrs. Coggins. Thin as a lath and white as an altar sheet under a mop of unruly brown hair, the seventeen-year-old was the most timid creature Andrew had ever met. He rarely even looked anyone beside Vicar Treves or his mother in the eyes.
“Mother says I must have not woke you good,” he said to Paul with halting speech. “But I did, didn’t I?”
“You did fine, Israel,” Paul said, patting the boy’s arm. He motioned toward Andrew with his other hand. “You remember Vicar Phelps, don’t you?”
“Rusty is your horse’s name,” the boy recalled, turning his head to stare at some point over his own left shoulder.
Andrew chuckled. “That’s right. And he remembers you, too, I’ve no doubt.”
“That’s because I give him apples.” He smiled and asked Paul, “May I give him one now, Vicar?”
“Of course. If your mother is finished with you in there, that is.”
“She said to see if you was awoke and needed anything.”
“Well then, I suppose I need Vicar Phelps’ horse watered and given some oats.”
The boy hurried away in a shambling gait, and Andrew accompanied the young vicar into the town hall. Mrs. Coggins returned Andrew’s wave from the far end of the room, where she and two other women were arranging refreshments on a cloth-covered table. Only two other vicars had arrived—Vicar Wright from Myddle and Vicar Nippert from Prescott were drinking tea and engaged in conversation among the dozen chairs that had been grouped together. Or rather, Andrew realized as he drew closer, Vicar Nippert was extolling the talents of his daughter Ernestine into the other vicar’s captive ear.
“I had half a mind to bring her with me today,” Vicar Nippert enthused. “Everyone so enjoys her singing. But Vicar Treves being so young and all…I feared he would take it as a reflection upon his—”
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Andrew cut in after a conspiratorial wink at Paul.
The two turned to look at him. Both rose to their feet and held out hands. Vicar Nippert’s smile exposed two rows of prominent teeth, and Vicar Wright’s face wore an expression of relief. Other clergymen began arriving shortly. Cups of tea were passed out by the women, who left the hall when white-haired Bishop Edwards stood to call the meeting to order. After an hour of old and new business had been discussed, the women slipped back into the room with fresh pots of tea, and Paul nervously invited everyone to avail themselves of the refreshments upon the table.
“Everything is going well,” Andrew reassured him while their fellow clergymen chatted and stacked sandwiches and small cakes on their plates.
“You don’t think I should have held it in the vicarage, do you?” Paul looked around him. “I thought my parlor would be too small, but this room is so overwhelming…”
“It’s fine, really.” He caught sight of some unruly brown hair on the other side of the refreshment table, where Israel was assisting his mother. An idea crossed his mind. “But why don’t you ask Israel to play?”
He blinked, uncomprehending. “Play?”
“During the break. None of the others have heard him, and I believe they would enjoy it.”
“Do you think the bishop would mind?”
“Not at all. But I’ll ask him while you speak with Israel, if you’d rather.” After all, he’s sat through Ernestine Nippert’s song after song. Which reminded Andrew. “Just make sure you warn him to stop after one song.”
And so five minutes later, Israel Coggins had seated himself with his beloved stringed dulcimer on his knees. With his face turned to the left, so he did not have to look at his audience, he began fingering the rich strains of “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.” A hush fell over the gathering. From the serving table Mrs. Coggins beamed with pride.
And the silence did not break when the last notes had resonated through the room, until Bishop Edwards stood and said, “You have a rare gift, son. I have read of the dulcimer in the Bible but have never seen nor heard one. Will you play another song for us?”
The boy looked to Paul for permission and received a smile and nod. He played “Amazing Grace” so sweetly that Andrew noticed Vicar Stillman of Bomere Heath wiping his eyes. “Do you know any more?” the bishop asked Israel in the reverent silence that followed.
“Yes, sir,” Israel mumbled bashfully to that point over his left shoulder.
Paul Treves stood to say, with a considerable lessening of anxiety in his young face, “He can play any hymn he has ever heard. Just tell him what you would like to hear.”
The bishop asked for “Abide with Me,” which the boy played without a sour note, though he never looked down at the fingers that traveled the delicate chords. Others asked for songs, and Israel delivered them expertly. It was with a regretful expression that Bishop Edwards finally rose to his feet again. “We must resume our meeting, but I could listen to you all day, son. Will you accompany your fine Vicar Treves to visit me one day to play for my family?”
“Y-yes, sir,” the boy answered without looking at the bishop.
When the meeting was over and all the visiting clergymen besides Andrew were on their way home, Paul walked Andrew back to the vicarage where Rusty and the trap waited. “I’d say that turned out rather well, wouldn’t you?” the young vicar asked in an exuberant tone that suggested he couldn’t quite believe it himself.
“Very well,” Andrew agreed.
“I can’t thank you enough for suggesting that Israel play.”
“That was entirely selfish of me, I assure you. I enjoy hearing him myself.”
Paul shook his head. “You wanted to help me make a good impression, Vicar. I hope I can be as selfless as you are one day.”
It was embarrassing to hear Paul speak of him so, when Andrew was painfully aware of his own faults. “I wish that was entirely true. Just like Saint Paul, I have to strive with the old ‘self ’ daily.” He smiled. “But it’s a noble battle, isn’t it?”
“Indeed.” A companionable silence developed as they walked past the imposing tower of Saint Luke’s, along the stone fence surrounding the headstones of the churchyard, and then on to the vicarage. Andrew was loosening Rusty’s reins from the fence when the young man asked, “How is Mrs. Phelps?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“And the children?”
“Eager for summer. Except for Grace, who thrives upon school.”
The young vicar smiled, but his blue eyes betrayed a question still in his mind.
“And Elizabeth is fine,” Andrew added, giving him an understanding smile.
His face altered marginally. “I’m glad.”
“I know you are.” After a pause Andrew continued. “God has someone for you, Paul.” And it was a little surprising that he had not found someone else yet, for with his blond Nordic looks, Paul Treves was considered by even the women of neighboring villages to be the most handsome vicar to ever put on a vestment.
The answer came in the young man’s thickened voice. “Not like Elizabeth.”
“No, not like her,” Andrew agreed. “But you have to stop looking for Elizabeth. I would have never married again had I determined to find someone exactly like my first wife.”
“And you’re just as happy as you were…before?” There was apology in his expression for asking such a personal question, mixed with a longing to understand.
“Absolutely. I have been twice blessed, Paul. It’s possible to find that great love again. But it won’t happen while you’re still living in the past.”
“That’s just it,” Paul said miserably. “I don’t know how to stop living there.”
Now Andrew felt the need to be blunt for the young man’s sake. Kindly but with insistence he said, “We can control our thoughts to a great degree, my young friend. When you find yourself dwelling upon memories that only make you feel miserable, force yourself to think of something else. You can’t think of two ideas at once, see?”
“And if they keep returning…?”
He didn’t say to Elizabeth, but it wasn’t necessary for Andrew understood his meaning. “You have to be persistent. Habit is one of the strongest forces, and it can be used for or against us. Let it work for you in this case.”
“I’ll try,” Paul promised, but then frowned slightly, a furrow denting his brow. “My father despises the word ‘try.’ ”
“Wise man, your father.”
“I’ll do it, is what I meant to say. With God’s help.”
Andrew smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Yes, you will. And He will help you.”
Chapter 17
“Have you tried some of Mrs. Herrick’s strawberry jam?” Mrs. Durwin timidly asked Noelle at the breakfast table on Sunday morning, leaning forward to see past her husband while holding the crystal serving dish in case she should be called upon to pass it.
“I don’t care for fruit,” Noelle replied without thinking and mentally kicked herself for causing the embarrassment on the older woman’s face as the dish was lowered to the table again. Then she chastized herself mentally again for caring, when these people meant nothing to her. But it was hard to stay aloof when surrounded by such relentless warmth. “Most fruit, that is,” she amended quickly. “But strawberries—well, that’s another story. Will you pass it, please?”
Her aged face beaming, Mrs. Durwin handed the dish over to her husband, who passed it to Noelle. Noelle spread as little as possible on a toast point and took a bite. It was surprisingly good, so she nodded at Mrs. Durwin and said, “Very nice,” and received a grateful smile in return.
“No doubt you’ve gathered by now that Mrs. Herrick indulges us almost sinfully,” Mrs. Clay added.
Noelle had gathered that by her second day. Spreading a liberal amount of jam on a second toast point, she said, “My clothes are already feeling a little snug. I’m going to have to start cutting back on portions, or Quetin won’t allow me back to London.” Her spoon stopped moving as she realized her slip of the tongue. Surely no one had noticed?
“Quetin?” asked Mr. Ellis.
“My brother. He teases me constantly about my appetite.” Congratulating herself on her quick thinking, she sent a smile down the table. “I don’t suppose any of you grew up with siblings who were lovingly insufferable.”
“Oh, dear me!” Mrs. Dearing chuckled. “My brother, Martin—the one who brought home the marbles when I was a child—knew I was terrified of insects. I learned never to put on my shoes in the mornings without shaking them.”
That set in motion a discussion about other notorious siblings. Even Mr. Pitney mentioned unobtrusively that his brothers and sister labeled him “Jake the Giant” when he started outgrowing them. Everyone chuckled at this except for Miss Rawlins, whose contribution to the conversation was that she was an only child.
“You should come down for breakfast more often, Mrs. Somerville,” Mrs. Dearing told her. “See how you’ve already brightened our day?”
Noelle thanked her. She could hardly believe that she had risen early and dressed for church, but after four days of venturing no farther than Trumbles to see if a letter or wire from Quetin had arrived, she was desperate for something to do. Besides, it seemed a waste to have a trunk of such beautiful clothes—such as the white poplin sprigged with little mauve and burgundy flowers that she was now wearing—and no place to show them off.
She had decided to tough it out and stay in Gresham. True, the village was about as exciting as a monastery, but she had begun to wonder if Quetin might be testing her somehow by choosing such a place. He had accused her of being a malcontent more than once in the past, when she complained about servants or pressed for a more spacious flat. Wouldn’t he be surprised, when he came for a visit, to find her participating in the community like one of the natives? She would show him that she had more mettle than he suspected!
And besides, as enamored as she was with Quetin, she enjoyed being in the company of Mr. Clay. Even if that necessitated including his dull, ever-amiable wife. He was witty and handsome, with certainly a most interesting profession.
She was a little piqued later to learn that the lodgers walked to Saint Jude’s when weather permitted, except for Mrs. Dearing, who went to the Baptist chapel with the Herricks and one of the parlormaids. Noelle was no great judge of distance, but it looked to be at least a half mile across the green. Didn’t these people know what carriages were for?
She supposed she could have asked Mr. Jensen to have the little man drive her there, but then she would look like a spoiled city girl to everyone else. And it had dawned upon her that she cared what the other lodgers thought. Not that they were anything special, except for Mr. Clay, but they made up the little world that she inhabited at present. They didn’t necessarily have to like her, but for some inexplicable reason, she was uncomfortable with the thought of them talking about her in derogatory ways.
So as the bell broke solemnly from the stone tower of Saint Jude’s, Noelle walked across the green with the group consisting of lodgers, Mr. Jensen, and even three of the maids, whose names she still confused one for another. The vicar stood beside the open doorway greeting worshipers. Blond-bearded and broad-shouldered, he was a little shorter and certainly more robust than the clergymen who had been her father’s associates. His hazel eyes crinkled at the corners as Mrs. Durwin introduced them.
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��Mrs. Phelps has been most anxious to meet you,” the vicar told Noelle, “but thought she should give you some time to settle in before rushing over.”
“Well, I’m quite settled now,” Noelle said, offering her hand. Any more settled and I would sprout roots.
“You know, she lived in London most of her life. No doubt you’ll have much to discuss.”
So why isn’t she there now? Surely no one purposely chose this place as opposed to the most exciting city on earth. From bits and pieces of conversation that had drifted her way, she had gathered that even the Clays were here only for a respite from the demands of the theatre.
“I look forward to meeting her,” Noelle lied, for she had no use for anyone so overly pious as she would imagine his wife to be. As she moved on through the vestibule, the familiar aromas of candles and polished old wood greeted her in the sanctuary. Rows of bench pews faced an altar with a decorative frontal cloth, and brightly colored stained-glass windows depicted Biblical scenes. A choir of a dozen or so robed people were filing into the chancel, and at the west end a woman sat behind a pipe organ while a man standing nearby tightened the strings on a violin.
For a second Noelle faltered and considered making some excuse and turning back for the Larkspur. She had assumed that because Saint Jude’s was a village church it would be different enough from Marylebow so as not to bring back any painful memories. But the atmosphere was the same—hushed, august, reverential. Closing her eyes, she could almost imagine her father stepping up to the pulpit.
She felt a light touch upon her sleeve.
“Are you all right, dear?”
Noelle turned to find Mrs. Durwin peering up at her with concern in her soft eyes. I’m so sorry, but this beastly headache has come upon me. But for some reason the words would not form. “I’m just wondering where to sit.”
“Why, you’ll sit with us, won’t you?”
This invitation was echoed by Mr. Durwin, with Miss Rawlins nodding at his elbow, so she really had no choice. The group from the Larkspur seemed so tightly knit that she was surprised to see them separate. She would have much rather sat with the Clays, but they had gone off to sit on the opposite side of the church. Once she was established in a pew between Mrs. Durwin and Miss Rawlins, Noelle looked around and was amused to notice that many sets of eyes were studying her, only to dart away when she looked at them directly. Newcomers were likely rare in a place so off the beaten path, so she could not blame anyone for staring.
The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark Page 18
