The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter

by Lawana Blackwell

  Please give me a chance to have my say before he slams the door, Father, Jonathan prayed silently. And please … if I could at least see Elizabeth’s face today.

  He turned up a lane and a pleasant cottage came into his sight, settled on a knoll behind a wooden fence and garden shaded by a couple of giant oaks. With his stomach in knots, he crossed the garden to the porch and knocked on the door. It was answered by a young maid wearing a brown dress, white apron, and frilled cap. “Yes, sir?” she said with a welcoming smile that reassured him a little.

  Jonathan cleared his throat and fought the temptation not to give his name. “My name is Jonathan Raleigh. May I speak with the vicar and Miss Phelps?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but the vicar is out making calls. But he shouldn’t be away too long on account of Miss Phelps being ill.”

  His heart lurched in his chest. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, just a head cold, sir. Mr. Raleigh, is it?”

  “Yes,” he said after a sigh of both relief that her illness was not serious and disappointment that he would have to wait still longer to see her. “But of course I’ll call again when Miss Phelps is well.”

  “Is there any message you’d like me to give her?”

  “No, thank you. Just that I called.”

  The maid disappeared from his sight, leaving the door partly open. Jonathan stood there wondering if she had misunderstood him. He was just about to turn to leave when the space was filled with Elizabeth’s form.

  “Donathan?” she called in a clogged nasal voice. Her nose was red, her eyes puffy, but she could have smeared her face with mud and looked beautiful to him. Jonathan’s knees turned to butter, while his voice betrayed him and would not function.

  Elizabeth seemed to be battling some emotion herself, for she stared for several seconds before speaking. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to tell you how sorry, how much I wish I had never—”

  “You hab to go.”

  “Elizabeth, please …”

  “My father will be home any minute. Go back to Kensington, Mr. Raleigh.”

  “I live in Cambridge again. My uncle’s law firm—”

  “Cambridge, then.” Her brown eyes filled with recrimination. “You should nebber hab come here. Go away now.”

  It was no different than what he’d expected, but disappointment still surged through him like a fever. Raising a hand in the hopes that she wouldn’t close the door until he’d had at least enough time to plead his case, he said, “I’ll leave if that’s what you really want, Elizabeth. Just tell me … is that what you want?”

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation.

  The word was like a knife through his heart. What are you doing here? he asked himself, suddenly aware that he must be the most foolish man in England. “Very well,” he replied in a thick voice. He had traveled so far and still possessed just enough feeble hope to add, “But your name has been in my prayers every day for the past seven months, Elizabeth. If you could see my heart, you would know how truly sorry I am … and how much love I have for you.”

  He became aware sometime during the course of his impassioned words that his eyes were wet. He did not move to wipe them for fear that she would think he was attempting to manipulate her with theatrics. But amazingly, he could see tears quivering upon her bottom eyelashes.

  “Elizabeth?”

  She looked away for the briefest of seconds. “My father would die before allowing me to see you. Go away, Jonathan.”

  When Jonathan found himself facing a closed door, he stared at it until he realized it wasn’t going to open again. With a heavy heart he turned. It was as he walked across the garden that he found a small measure of encouragement. “My father would die before allowing me to see you,” she had said. The focus had shifted away from her not wishing to see him to her father’s wishes. Did that mean she still felt something for him?

  Please, God, let it be so. Even if she did still care and could see her way to forgive him, there still remained a formidable obstacle in the form of her protective father.

  “Are you all right, miss?”

  Elizabeth opened her eyes and focused them upon Dora, then moved away from the door upon which she had been leaning. “Yes, I think so.”

  The maid stared skeptically. “That man—he upset you? Shall I send Luke to find Vicar?”

  “No. Please.” She blew her nose into the handkerchief. “I just need to lie down for a while.”

  With Dora’s assistance Elizabeth went upstairs to her room. She lay on her side on top of her bed, insisting that she did not need cover. Seconds later, though, she felt a quilt being smoothed over her. Elizabeth curled up under it and tried to forget that her first instinct had been to fly into Jonathan’s arms. Paul is a decent man, and I love him. It’s the future that I have to think about, and he can provide a stable one for me.

  Just a short while later she heard footsteps bounding up the stairs. “Elizabeth!” came Laurel’s voice from the doorway. Elizabeth opened her eyes reluctantly.

  “Yes?”

  Her sister hurried to the bedside. “I just saw Jonathan Raleigh outside the Bow and Fiddle!” Leaning closer, she said, “You’ve been crying?”

  “Miss Laurel!” Now Mrs. Paget stood in the doorway, her arms folded across her ample chest and Dora looking over her shoulder. “Let your sister rest. She’s not feeling well.”

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Paget … Dora,” Elizabeth told them, raising her head and smiling weakly to show her gratitude at their concern.

  “Shall we bring you up some broth, miss?”

  “No, thank you. Really, I’m fine now.”

  Laurel watched this exchange with mouth gaping, and when the two servants were gone, she said, “You mean he came here?”

  “Yes.” After blowing her nose again, Elizabeth moved the quilt aside and swung her feet over the side of the bed. “I sent him away.”

  “You did? Does Papa know?”

  She rubbed an eye with the heel of her hand. “He’s out making calls.”

  Taking a seat beside her, Laurel said, “Why did Jonathan come here? Is he in love with you again?”

  “Laurel …”

  “Well, is he?”

  “I don’t know.” Elizabeth tried to recall what he had said. “He claims to be.”

  “Well, do you love him?”

  “No.”

  “Then why were you crying?”

  “I just didn’t expect him to show up at our door. Even if I did care about him, too much has happened.”

  “But if he’s sorry …”

  “ ‘Sorry’ isn’t enough sometimes, Laurel.”

  “What did he do that was so terrible?” Laurel went on before Elizabeth could answer. “And please don’t tell me that I’m too young to know. I’m old enough to go off to school, so I’m old enough to not be treated like a child.”

  “Yes, you are, aren’t you?” Elizabeth touched her sister’s dimpled cheek. Just four more days and she would be gone.

  “What did Jonathan do?” Laurel insisted.

  Before she could reply, Elizabeth had to swallow over the lump that had welled up in her throat. “Another woman—a married one. Papa saw them together.”

  This was met with silence, until her sister said, “Maybe they were just friends. You know … and happened to be walking together?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “They were in love?”

  “It wasn’t like that either.”

  “Oh,” Laurel said, her cheeks flushing with understanding. “I liked him. He was funny, not stuffy like Mr. Treves.”

  “Don’t say that, Laurel. Paul is a good man.”

  She didn’t argue, nor did she take back the statement. “Will Papa be angry?”

  “Oh, I’ve no doubt about that.” After all, Elizabeth had never believed that her father gave up his prestigious position in Cambridge because he longed for a more simple life.
Perhaps that was what he had convinced himself, but she had never doubted that it was to lessen any chance of her and Jonathan happening to cross paths again. And now it’s happened. “But hopefully he’s on his way back home by now.”

  Suddenly she felt drained of strength. “I think I’ll lie down a while longer,” she said, sinking sideways back onto her pillow.

  Laurel moved to make room for her feet. “Would you like me to stay with you?”

  “No, thank you.”

  The expression on Jonathan’s face, the way he had raised his hand pleadingly, came back to Elizabeth. Why did he have to come now? Just a few more weeks—just a little while longer—and she was positive she could have forgotten him entirely.

  “I’ll miss you too,” Philip said, caught up in his mother’s embrace as the last boarding whistle sounded. And he meant it, even as excited as he was about going away to school. Which was why he had requested that only his mother and sisters see him off at the Shrewsbury station. The memory he wanted to carry with him to Worcester was of the three people who meant more to him than anyone else. They had come through some unsure times when his father passed away, and he was learning that adversity caused people who truly loved each other to grow closer.

  Yesterday had been his time for farewells to the people outside his family. Ben had been a good sport about it, handing over a new cricket bat. “In case you get to play at school,” he said. There was affection mixed with envy in his eyes, and Philip had had to restrain himself from embracing his friend instead of shaking his hand.

  Jeremiah had presented a gift as well in his own practical manner. “Candy for the trip,” he had said of the tin of chocolates he presented. “I ate three to make sure they wasn’t spoiled.”

  From Vicar Phelps and his daughters he received a handsome Bible of his own, bound in fine kid leather with gilded pages. The lodgers and servants had presented little gifts as well. Mrs. Kingston and Mrs. Herrick had wept copiously, which caused him some sadness until he reasoned with himself that while it was true they would miss him, they had other loved ones in their lives and would settle back into their routines when he was gone.

  It had come as a relief, the realization that he wasn’t the center of anyone’s universe, not even his mother’s. Though she, too, would miss him far more than would anyone else, she had two daughters to tend, and of course would be gaining two more, as well as a husband soon. She would carry on without him, just as she had carried on without Father when he passed away.

  It was still a comfort to know that he would be missed. After embracing his sisters and reminding them to study hard in school, he took from his mother’s arms the heavy parcel Mrs. Herrick had packed, bade them all farewell again, and boarded his day coach. A conductor came by, took tickets, and shut the door. He found a place overhead for his basket and satchel, then went to the window and waved at his mother and sisters until the train started moving and they were out of sight. It was only then that he settled back into his seat and thought to notice his fellow passengers.

  Across from him sat two women—probably mother and daughter, considering the similar structure of their faces. An elderly man with a thick red beard and balding head shared Philip’s seat. He was reading from a book he held about six inches from his eyes.

  “Leaving home for the first time, are you?” asked the older of the two women when Philip gave them a shy smile.

  “I’m going to school in Worcester.”

  “My son left for Eton yesterday. Been there two years now.”

  Finally the man looked up from his page. “You ever read any of Pope’s writings, young man?”

  “Yes, sir,” Philip replied. Mr. Hunter, his tutor back in London, had been fond of Alexander Pope and had occasionally read to him and his sisters from The Dunciad.

  The elderly man moved the book away and closed his eyes. In a surprisingly crisp voice, he quoted:

  “Happy the man whose wish and care

  A few paternal acres bound

  Content to breathe his native air

  In his own ground.”

  He gave Philip a meaningful look. “Food for thought, eh, young man?”

  “Yes, sir,” Philip said uneasily. The women across from him smiled and nodded agreement, then exchanged puzzled glances when the man had returned to his reading. Philip felt relieved when no further comment was directed his way. Something to write home about, he told himself. He had promised to write his mother weekly and could imagine her sharing his written adventures with his sisters around the breakfast table. That he would not be there with them caused just the tiniest pang, but he ignored it and it went away. He was almost a man now, and let Alexander Pope say what he will—men were supposed to go out and conquer the world.

  Chapter 19

  The guineas Seth bought had yet to produce an egg. “You got to build ’em a coop,” one of the Sanders boys had instructed when he came across them on another trip to church. “They won’t lay unless they’ve got a coop. Didn’t you know that?”

  He had begun to suspect that the boys had cheated him, especially after finding out that he had paid them four times as much as Mr. Trumble charged for a gallon of corn. But the animals were his responsibility now, so the next time he drove his wagon to the lumber mill, he bought extra lumber for the project. Chores elsewhere on the place, however, had kept his hands busy. Meanwhile, the guineas roamed the yard clucking pot-rack! and feasted upon the corn without a trace of guilt over not earning their supper.

  At least Florence, the cow he had purchased from a Mr. Putnam, was doing her part. The dairy farmer had kindly given Seth a milking lesson, so now he and Thomas had something to supplement the tinned meals. He imagined that the boy was looking just a bit healthier—at least there was some sun on his cheeks. Every morning Thomas had asked, “Will we build the coop today?” Finally Seth figured out the reason for his eagerness. All of the work they had done on the place had been repairs—they had never built anything from scratch, and the boy was becoming quite a craftsman for his size. Besides wanting to provide a home for the guineas, which he practically regarded as pets, Thomas most likely wanted the satisfaction of seeing their labor transform a stack of lumber and nails into something useful.

  Seth had chosen to begin the project today while Thomas still had a week before school would begin. They chose a spot outside the barnyard—near the gardening shed—and measured out a square of eight-foot boards. Seth measured and hammered while Thomas sawed. Sweat bathed both their faces as they erected a six-foot-tall frame.

  “Hand me that hammer, son,” Seth said around a nail between his teeth while holding a roofing board. He froze. Never had he addressed Thomas that way. He was almost embarrassed to see what the boy’s reaction was, yet he couldn’t bring himself not to look. And when he did, taking the hammer from the small hands, he observed an expression of such affection and gratitude that it caused his eyes to sting.

  I’m going to miss him while he’s at school, Seth realized. How strange and wonderful that a good deed he’d performed grudgingly at best, taking Elaine’s child from the orphanage, had turned out this way. Seth was beginning to believe that he himself benefited more from the arrangement than did Thomas.

  As content as he was to occupy a world that included only the two of them, he knew that Thomas needed the companionship of other children. It was too bad that the Sanders boys had proved to be so irascible. He had been forced to reprimand a couple of them, who looked younger than the two who had sold him the guineas, for aiming slingshots threateningly at his horses from their gate as he drove by on his wagon just last week. Then from out of nowhere a man he rightly assumed to be Mr. Sanders appeared, ranting and railing that Seth had best go on his way and leave his sons alone.

  “I got enough boys here ter whip you good!” the man had shouted, with some expletives thrown in for good measure.

  Recalling that incident, Seth wondered how it was that the cottage that housed such characters could also produce
someone kind enough to bring cake to new neighbors. He hoped that the woman’s sons had relayed his gratitude to her.

  “They’re going to like their new house, aren’t they?”

  Seth turned his attention back to Thomas. “The guineas?”

  “Maybe they’ll start laying eggs in the morning.”

  Slowly and with just a bit of bashfulness, he reached out a hand to tousle the boy’s ash-colored hair. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

  Thomas grinned. “Yes, sir, we wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

  Jonathan jumped at the sound of a knock. He rose hurriedly from his chair, from which he’d been staring out of the window for the better part of an hour. It was only when his hand touched the knob that he hesitated. “Please give me the chance to prove to you that I’ve changed, sir,” he rehearsed under his breath.

  As much as he wanted to get the confrontation with Vicar Phelps over with, he couldn’t help but feel some relief when it was only Mr. Pool on the other side.

  “Wouldn’t you be wantin’ some lunch, sir?” he asked. “It’s half-past twelve.”

  “No, thank you,” Jonathan replied. He’d only had toast and tea at the railway station this morning, but he couldn’t have eaten had his life depended upon it. When the door was closed again, he took off his shoes and lay across the bed. If he could just make himself rest for a little while, perhaps he wouldn’t be so jumpy. But that proved worse, for he worried about accidentally falling asleep and facing the vicar with his wits in a fog.

  So he returned to his chair and resumed his watch out of the window, reminding himself that Elizabeth Phelps was worth putting himself through this torment.

  “ ‘ … and Cornelius said, four days ago I was fasting until this hour; and at the ninth hour I prayed in my house, and behold, a man stood before me in bright clothing,’ ” Andrew read loudly into the silver-haired woman’s ear horn as she sat propped upon her pillows.