“You know, I have to remind myself of that as well,” Julia told her. “Or rather, where the children and I could have ended up had God not taken care of us. He’s brought us both a long way, hasn’t He?”
“Aye, missus,” Fiona replied.
“Missus?”
The former housekeeper smiled at her slip of the tongue. “Old habits die hard. But yes, He has brought us far. And just think … our journeys aren’t over yet.”
Presently they joined the others in the hall. Both archeologists were absent, but that was not unusual, since they spent some evenings after supper cataloging the day’s findings. Julia imagined that Philip was with them—they were patient about allowing him to watch. Mrs. Dearing and Mrs. Hyatt sat on one of the sofas with needlework on their laps. On the facing sofa, Miss Rawlins read passages from a recently finished manuscript to Mrs. Kingston. And on the carpet, Aleda helped Grace cut paper dolls from a book. While Fiona watched the remainder of the draughts match, Julia moved an ottoman over to her daughters to admire their work.
“Let’s clean our teeth and wash our faces,” she told the two when the grandfather clock chimed eight times. Grace looked up from her paper dolls with pleading eyes, but Julia shook her head. She had learned last year, upon assuming the responsibility of mothering her children instead of allowing a nanny to do so, that if bedtime were allowed to be negotiated one night, it would have to be negotiated every night. And since she didn’t wish their last conversations of the day to consist of arguments and pleadings, she enforced the rule with the rigidity of a garrison sergeant except on special occasions.
While the girls headed with reluctant steps for the water closet to take care of their toilet, she went to the bedroom they shared and laid out their nightgowns. Philip’s bedtime was pushed back thirty minutes when he graduated from Gresham School, so she had plenty of time to hear the girls’ prayers and read a story before it would be time to bid him good-night.
And the boy’s bedtime ritual would end with that, for shortly after his graduation he had approached her with the request that he not be tucked into bed anymore. “I’m too old to be coddled now,” he’d explained after some hesitation. “You don’t mind, do you?” Julia had smiled and assured him she understood, then went to her room and wept for a little while. Her son no longer needed her. If Gresham were Alaska, she would be one step closer to being set adrift on an ice floe.
But she had forced herself to see reason. It only meant that he was trying as best he could to become a man—not that he had no use for a mother. She had come to accept that for her son, “tucking in” now meant a kiss on his cheek in his doorway and exchanging wishes for pleasant dreams.
The story Julia selected from Grace’s big book of fairy tales was The Ugly Duckling by Hans Christian Andersen. Two well-scrubbed faces listened intently from their pillows as Julia read:
“It was so lovely in the country—it was summer! The wheat was yellow, the oats were green, the hay was stacked in the meadows and the stork went tiptoeing about on his red legs, jabbering Egyptian, a language his mother had taught him. …”
She could tell that Aleda enjoyed the story as much as her younger sister did, though she would have been loathe to admit it—for she, like Philip, was beginning to feel the constraints of her age. But in Aleda’s case, having a younger sister afforded her the opportunity to listen in.
When both daughters had been properly tucked in for the night, Julia went two rooms down the family corridor and knocked upon Philip’s door. There was no answer, so she returned to the hall. The Clays had retired to their apartment, and Mr. Ellis had come downstairs and was reading Mrs. Hyatt a portion of a letter from his wife back in Liverpool. Shortly after the archeologist had arrived at the Larkspur, he and Mrs. Hyatt had been pleased to discover they were second cousins twice-removed. Mr. Durwin did not seem to mind the shared tidbits of family gossip between his fiancée and Mr. Ellis, for he listened with eyes half-closed and a pleasant smile.
“You must hear this part, Mrs. Hollis,” Miss Rawlins said from the opposite sofa, where she and Mrs. Kingston still sat. “I based the heroine on you.”
“You did?”
“Well, her appearance anyway.”
Mrs. Kingston nodded up at Julia. “As soon as she read it to me, I said, ‘Why, she sounds just like Mrs. Hollis!’ ”
Philip will likely come along soon, Julia thought. The two women moved apart to give her room, and she settled in between them. With a sideways smile that seemed to say, Just wait until you hear this! Miss Rawlins cleared her throat and began to read.
“Penelope St. Martin was a beautiful woman, slender and well-proportioned, who carried herself with a quiet grace that belied her tempestuous spirit. Oh, the eyes were calm enough—green like the sparkling sea under the noon sun—but in contradiction with hair that flamed crimson about her shoulders.”
“Why, that’s very good,” Julia said as the author lowered the page. “I’m flattered, but I must confess I don’t think of myself in quite so exotic terms.”
“I realize your hair is longer.” Miss Rawlins gave Julia’s chignon a glance. “But ‘flamed crimson to her waist’ just didn’t sound as poetic as the shoulders bit. And of course Penelope is much younger.”
Julia’s smile stiffened just a little. “Yes?”
“I pray you don’t take offense, Mrs. Hollis. But I’m sure you realize no one wants to read about older people. I seldom write about any woman past the age of eighteen.”
Being termed “older people” from someone one year older than her own thirty-two years was a bit of a sting, but Julia managed to reply, “Yes, of course.”
Mrs. Kingston, however, took issue with that notion. “And why is that, Miss Rawlins? Why should I, as a woman in her sixties, wish to read about a child barely out of pinafores?”
Favoring her with a patient smile, Miss Rawlins said, “That’s just the way it is, Mrs. Kingston. Surely you’ll concede that youthful courtship is the most romantic.”
“I quite disagree.”
“Then you would be in the minority among readers. You have to understand that there is the market to consider.”
While the issue was cordially but adamantly debated upon on either side of her, Julia sank back into the sofa and allowed her mind to carry her back to the kiss Andrew and she had shared in the garden this morning. She imagined she could still feel the gentle pressure of his lips upon hers, the fresh smell of lavender soap in his beard, and the security of his strong arm around her shoulders. And what do you think of that, Penelope St. Martin?
Silence on either side of her jolted her back to the present.
Why are you smiling so? both sets of eyes seemed to question. Julia made a self-conscious little shrug and decided this was the perfect time to absent herself. “Excuse me,” she said, getting to her feet. She turned to the two, aware that the debate would continue, but appreciating the fact that neither would bear a grudge as a result. “Thank you for sharing the passage with me. I really must find Philip now.”
“He was in the library last time I looked,” offered Sarah, who had just walked into the room with a tray of hot chocolate. “Shall I fetch him, ma’am?”
“No, thank you. I’ll go myself.” Indeed, Philip sat in an armchair in a circle of lamplight, a book open in his lap, his chin tilted upward, and his gaping mouth emitting snoring sounds. She shook his shoulder gently. “Philip.”
He blinked at her. “Huh?”
“It’s time for bed.”
“Huh?”
“Just come with me.” As she guided her half-conscious son by the arm to his room, she thought it was nice to have a reminder once in a while that a boy-almost-a-man still needed his mother. Perhaps I’m not ready for the ice floe yet after all.
She returned to the hall afterward to bid the six remaining lodgers good-night. Miss Rawlins, however, asked her to sit for a moment. Fearing she would be subjected to another reading, Julia was about to politely decline whe
n she noticed the gravity in the writer’s expression.
“I didn’t want to mention this with the children around,” Miss Rawlins began when Julia had settled into a chair. “But I was at Trumbles purchasing some writing paper for my latest manuscript, Lord Sullivan’s Daughters, and overheard Mr. Sway tell Mr. Trumble that Mr. Sanders was not at all receptive today.”
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Hyatt said to Mr. Durwin. “Then the school won’t have full enrollment, will it?”
“I’m afraid not, unless Mr. Sanders changes his mind,” he replied. “He has two eligible children.”
“Oh, surely you can go ahead and get the thing,” Mrs. Kingston said. “It’s not the other children’s fault that Mr. Sanders is muleheaded.”
“Yes, can’t you?” Mrs. Hyatt asked hopefully.
“Nothing would please me more, but I wonder if that would be wise.” Mr. Durwin sent an apologetic look to Julia. “Every child in Gresham is aware of the condition for the offer. What kind of example would it set for them if I were to alter the goal now to fit the circumstance?”
“You don’t believe they’ll become larcenists as a result, do you?” Mr. Ellis scoffed mildly, causing Mrs. Kingston and Miss Rawlins to nod their heads in agreement.
Mrs. Dearing, however, held her head at a thoughtful angle. After a second’s hesitation she replied, “I would like the children to have the merry-go-round just as much as all of you do. But I believe Mr. Durwin has a valid consideration. Our word is supposed to be our bond. If exceptions were to be given, they should have been announced back when the offer was made.”
“But they’re only children,” Mrs. Kingston pleaded.
Mr. Durwin nodded gravely. “All the more reason to keep our word. The example we set, you know. If we capitulate on this issue, what happens later on when we hold up another goal before them?” He gave a heavy sigh. “There is always next year. I’ll make the offer stand indefinitely.”
Julia didn’t know which side was more reasonable, but having two daughters who would be affected caused her to hope Mr. Durwin would reconsider. Yet I can’t tell him how to spend his money.
She happened to glance at Mrs. Kingston. The set of the woman’s chin—with her lips pressed together under her hawkish nose—caused Julia to wonder if she considered the matter settled.
Chapter 5
Jesus shall reign where’er the sun
Does his successive journeys run:
His kingdom spread from shore
to shore Till moons shall wax and wane no more. …
Mercy did not miss a note as she picked another marrow from its vine and tossed it gently into the pail at her feet. There was a technique to knowing exactly when the vegetable should be harvested—picked too soon and the taste was sometimes bitter, too late and the pulp was too dry. Today’s offering from her garden would soon be simmering in a pot with slices of onion and bits of ham for the dinner table.
She had finished the second stanza and was about to launch into the third when she heard a woman’s voice from behind her. “Excuse me, dear?”
Mrs. Brent? Hopefully she turned to look at the figure standing at the beginning of her row, but alas, a stranger stood there. Or rather, someone she had not met, for during the course of attending errands in the village, she had seen the elderly woman walking the lanes.
“Yes, ma’am?” Mercy said, still holding one of the vegetables. So seldom did a caller happen by that she found herself a little dumb struck. Surely the woman had lost her way.
The woman mopped her face with a handkerchief. She was quite becoming in spite of a hawkish nose. A blue calico gown draped from her squared shoulders as regally as a queen’s robe—the walking stick in her hands could have easily been a scepter. “Would this be the Sanders place?”
“Why, yes it is, ma’am.” Mercy’s quick glance past the gate revealed no carriage in the lane. “Did you walk all the way from town?”
“I’m afraid I did, child.” The handkerchief made another swipe across the wrinkled forehead. “Silly, yes? I had another call to make on the way here, so I assumed both would be equal to my usual morning walk. I didn’t realize how far away you lived. I could have easily asked Karl to drive me here. He’s caretaker at the Larkspur, Karl Herrick.”
“Is that where you live?” Mercy had passed the old coaching inn many times and admired the stately look of it.
“How thoughtless of me!” Switching the handkerchief to her left hand, the woman took a couple of careful steps in the valley between the beans and the carrots and extended her right hand. “Octavia Kingston is my name, dear. And yes, I do live at the Larkspur. And you would be … ?”
“Mercy Sanders.” Now that names had been exchanged and hands shaken, Mercy relaxed a little. “Would you like to come inside and have some tea?”
“Oh, water would be most lovely, dear.”
Minutes later, after Mrs. Kingston had drained a tumbler of water and was resting herself in the rocking chair that had been Mercy’s mother’s, she smiled while removing her bonnet. “You have a beautiful singing voice, Miss Sanders. Have you ever performed for an audience?”
“Thank you.” Mercy perched herself upon a cane-bottomed chair. “I sing at the Wesleyan Chapel on Sundays.”
“And what better audience than God, eh? Well, the Wesleyans are blessed to have you. One of my parlormaids back in Sheffield was a Wesleyan. Fine person.”
Mercy didn’t know if she was expected to express thanks for the compliment, since it was mixed with one for the woman’s former servant. She settled for a grateful smile. It was rather nice to have a visitor and be able to sit like two lady friends. Suddenly it occurred to her to wonder exactly why Mrs. Kingston would walk some five miles to her family’s cottage. But since it would be rude to ask, she asked instead if Mrs. Kingston would care for more water or perhaps some bread and jam.
“Oh, no thank you, dear. I’m quite fine now.”
“I’ll ask one of my brothers to drive you home in the wagon when you’re ready to leave,” Mercy offered.
“How very kind of you.” Mrs. Kingston’s blue eyes swept across the room, missing nothing. Then she smiled again. “Would it be possible for me to speak with Mr. Sanders?”
“You want to speak with my father?” Mercy echoed, though she had heard her perfectly the first time.
“If it isn’t too much of a bother. I shan’t stay but a minute.”
“Well …” Mercy stalled for time to consider the request. Her father had not been in the best of moods when he walked away from the breakfast table a couple of hours ago. Of course, that wasn’t anything unusual, but what if he were to curse at Mrs. Kingston? Her family’s reputation could hardly stand any more tarnishing.
Mrs. Kingston seemed to read her thoughts, for she said, “I informed no one that I was embarking upon anything other than my daily walk. Whatever we happen to discuss, I will keep to myself.”
“Thank you,” Mercy said, letting out a relieved breath. “I believe he’s still in the hay barn patching a hole in the loft.”
After Mrs. Kingston replaced her bonnet, they walked out toward the barnyard together. Faint hammering sounds drifted from that direction. The cows were all out to pasture, having been milked earlier in the morning. Mercy found herself wishing her brothers had been sent out to pasture as well, for as each caught sight of Mrs. Kingston, he stopped his chores to stare. Oram, who was supposed to be scrubbing milking pails, gaped with his jaw hung so low that Mercy worried it might lock. Harold was rude enough to look up from the post hole he was digging and say, “Papa’s too busy for comp’ny, Mercy.”
Mercy ignored him, and miraculously, he did not press the issue. At the barnyard gate she turned to Mrs. Kingston and said apologetically, “You’d best wait here. I’ll see if Papa will come down.”
Mrs. Kingston sent a doubtful glance back at Harold, who now stood glowering at both of them with hands upon hips. Fixing Mercy with her frank blue eyes, she said, “I don’t wish to inco
nvenience your father, Miss Sanders. It will defeat my purpose in coming here if he becomes angry.”
That’s likely to happen anyway, Mercy thought.
“Why don’t you lead me to him?”
Mercy would have argued had she not the feeling that Mrs. Kingston was not one to be discouraged so easily. Instead, she nodded down at the woman’s shoes.
“You’ll need to watch your step in there, ma’am.” As if to illustrate her point, a shovelful of muck flew from the open door of the milking barn only ten feet away. “Dale is sluicing out the stalls,” Mercy explained, highly embarrassed.
Mrs. Kingston was already gathering the folds of her skirt with both hands and smiled reassuringly. “I didn’t expect your cows to be wearing nappies, Miss Sanders. Just lead the way, and we’ll be fine.”
The hammering sounds increased as the two gingerly made their way across the barnyard. Six feet away from the barn, Mercy stopped and cupped her hands to her mouth. “Papa?”
There was no answer, so she tried again a little louder. This time the hammering ceased, and a grunt floated down from the open hayloft door. It likely was his way of saying what? but could just as well translate into go away! or this board is too heavy! She gave Mrs. Kingston a helpless look, then raised her hands to her mouth again.
“Would you please come to the door, Papa?”
This time he actually articulated words from the recesses of the loft. “What for?”
Mercy sighed. Why did everything in her family have to be so difficult? “There’s a Mrs. Kingston here to see you.”
“Who?”
Before Mercy could reply, she felt a touch on her shoulder. “Allow me, dear. We can’t have you damaging that lovely singing voice.” Then raising her chin, the woman called out shrilly, “Octavia Kingston, Mr. Sanders! Would you be so kind as to allow me a word with you?”
The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter Page 5
