She noticed the unusual quiet a little later when she went outside to toss out the pan of dishwater. Sunday was another workday to her father and brothers, yet she could neither see nor hear any sign of them.
Just then her ears picked up a recognizable sound—her guineas in a state of agitation. Propping her dishpan against the base of a young plum tree, she hurried around the side of the cottage. Jack and Edgar had stationed themselves at opposite ends of the yard and were chasing them back and forth, flapping their arms and roaring like wild animals. There’ll be no eggs tomorrow! Mercy thought.
“Edgar! Jack!” she called above the din. She was forced to call twice again before they noticed her and ceased. She did not ask them why they delighted in causing such torment, for what reason could they give? At least she had given the birds a chance to escape in the direction of their coop, where no doubt they would huddle for the next couple of hours.
Her brothers, both red-faced and panting, only looked annoyed at having their sport interrupted. This infuriated Mercy even more. “You just remember how spiteful you were when you’re eating porridge at breakfast in the morning!” she scolded.
“Aw, Mercy,” Edgar whined between puffs of breath. “I don’t like—”
“Then it’ll be a good lesson for you. Why should you get eggs when you mistreat the guineas?” Before either could protest further, she looked around and asked, “Where is Papa?”
Pulling a sour face, Jack replied, “He said we had to stay here. That weren’t fair!”
“The others got to go,” Edgar grumbled.
“Go where?” asked Mercy as foreboding began to chill her skin.
“We ain’t supposed to tell you,” he replied, but the glance he sent to the east, in the direction of the Brent cottage, told the whole story.
“But I do like tinned beef, sir,” Thomas insisted as Seth handed him a pewter tumbler to dry. “We had it every Sunday at the Home.”
“And you’re not tired of it by now?” Seth asked. He rather liked sloshing the dishes from breakfast and lunch around in hot sudsy water and the exchange of conversation the task provided as they worked together. For some reason he was in an especially cheerful mood today. “Be honest, now.”
The boy looked up at him while waiting for another dish. Though his face had filled out a bit and he had acquired some color, it still wore traces of the waif he had been. “Not at all, sir. Especially with that … red gravy.”
“Ketchup,” Seth corrected, smiling as he handed over a fork. Thank God for Mr. Trumble’s pointing out the jars of red sauce upon one of his shelves—six pence each with the buyer’s word that the jar would be returned. A dairyman’s wife had started her own enterprise, allowing Mr. Trumble to sell her excess canning on consignment, and he had said it was catching on because the recipe was so time consuming. It did mask some of the tinny flavor of the beef and pork. “Well, now that we know we like it, we’ll stock up—”
His words were cut short by a pounding on the front door that rattled the windowpanes even in the kitchen. Giving Thomas a curious look, Seth took the towel and dried his hands. “You’d best stay in here,” he ordered on his way through the door leading into the parlor. The pounding did not abate until he swung open the door and found the Sanders clan scowling on the opposite side.
Or at least most of them. “Well, what is it?” he demanded. Such pounding and sour faces couldn’t expect to be met with any warmer hospitality.
Mr. Sanders, with a scowl that would curdle milk, placed a foot upon the threshold. “You’ll stay away from my daughter!” As if to provide emphasis to their father’s words, the four sons narrowed their eyes and bobbed their heads behind him.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Seth replied. “If you’re referring to my offering her a ride home from chapel—”
“There’ll be naught of thet.” The old man’s fists raised just enough to deliver their threatening message. “You’re a big feller all right, but there’s more of us. Me and my boys’ll make you sorry.”
I already am sorry, Seth thought. His cheerful mood of just a few minutes ago was left behind in the kitchen. “Fine, then.”
The old man blinked. “What?”
“I won’t offer her a ride.”
“Well, good,” he huffed, lowering his fists. He seemed disappointed that there had been no altercation. “See thet you don’t forget it.”
“Will there be anything else?” Seth asked impatiently. This crew had worn out their welcome long ago.
“The guineas,” the oldest-looking boy mumbled to his father.
The man turned. “What?”
“There’s three of ’em.”
Mr. Sanders turned back to face Seth, his face crimson with new indignation. “We just now seen three guineas runnin’ about in your yard. Seems sort of queer, the same number disappearing from our place the week you moved in.”
Folding his arms and narrowing his eyes, Seth replied, “Why don’t you ask the two behind you? They’re the ones who sold them to me.”
“What?”
“For four shillings. Didn’t they tell you?”
“He made us sell ’em, Papa!” one boy yelled after his brother had been cuffed over the ear. His attempt at feigning innocence didn’t spare him and, in fact, caused him to receive two cuffs—one on each side. It seemed even Mr. Sanders recognized a He when it was thrown at him.
The boy who had initiated the transaction with Seth, holding his sore ear, attempted to redeem himself by blurting, “But, Papa, they was all roosters!”
“Roosters?” the man asked after a moment of perplexed silence. “He didn’t know the difference.”.
This brought a snicker from one of the two older sons. “All three?”
The boy nodded, pride creeping into his expression.
Now snickers rippled through the group. The other older son cuffed the boy playfully on the shoulder. “You sold ’im roosters!” Forgetting about Seth, who stood with cheeks burning in the doorway, the five turned and began walking toward the gate. Unfortunately, the guineas chose that moment to flutter across the footpath in front of them. The last sight Seth saw, before slamming the door, was of the Sanderses slapping their knees and guffawing with laughter.
And I had to settle next to them! Seth thought on his way to the kitchen. If his cottage and land were paradise, they were the serpent. He reassured Thomas, who had finished the dishes and stood at the door with an anxious expression, by saying, “It’s just the neighbors.”
Fortunately, other than having to pass by their cottage to go anywhere, he was able to avoid them for the most part. He truly felt sorry for Miss Sanders, who seemed to be several cuts above her kin and would again have to depend upon the pastor for transportation to church. But he had learned his lesson. Getting involved with the Sanders family in any capacity would only bring more aggravation.
Chapter 31
The next morning, Mercy moved woodenly through the motions of preparing breakfast. She had barely slept last night, but the weariness that slogged through her limbs had more to do with the hopelessness of her situation than her physical condition. A dreadful mental scene of her father and brothers descending upon Mr. Langford and raising the kind of commotion she had seen all too frequently over the years repeatedly assailed her mind. How could she ever face him again?
She spoke in monosyllables only when necessary as she served the seven Sanders males their breakfast, but no one noticed. If she would have scorched the porridge or burned the bacon, that would have brought immediate attention. But they munched contentedly—except for Edgar, who whined that he hated porridge—pleased that the minor threat to the continuance of their routine had been quelled.
After breakfast she cleared the dishes from the table and poured a pot of boiling water over them in the dishpan. “Come on!” she heard Fernie shout from outside to her youngest brothers, who could have been anywhere, since she had not even the will to hurry them along in their preparat
ions for school. She looked at the dishpan of soiled dishes and sighed.
And then a notion seized her. Untying her apron, she went to the door and opened it. “Fernie?” she called to the boy, who waited at the reins of the wagon in the drive.
“Where’s Jack and Edgar?” he called back.
“I don’t know. But wait for me.”
“What?”
She held up a palm. “Wait.” Turning, she raced up the stairs, meeting her brothers on the way down. “Don’t let Fernie leave without me,” she told them.
“Aw, Mercy,” said Edgar. “We want to ride the merry—”
“Wait for me or it’s porridge again in the morning.” She did not turn to see if her threat was being taken seriously but went into her room and shrugged out of her faded green house dress and into the more presentable blue gingham. There was no time to do anything about her hair, so she wound it into a chignon that would probably shake partly loose on the way to town.
Her brothers were waiting in the wagon. Jack and Edgar called to her to hurry, but she motioned for them to wait. There was one more thing she had to do.
A series of frantic moos led her behind the milking barn, where her father, with the assistance of Dale, Harold, and Oram, was attempting to put some of Doctor Rhodes’ salve upon the nose of an unwilling heifer who had gashed herself on a bramble bush. “Papa,” Mercy said, not stalling lest her courage fail her.
He turned an impatient eye toward her. “What, Mercy?”
“I’ve an errand in town. I’m riding in with the boys.”
“Well, go about it then,” he barked, waving her away while turning his attention back to the heifer. For a fraction of a second Mercy could only gape at his back. It had been that simple? Then she turned and hurried to the wagon before he could realize what he had said and change his mind. She would have to endure a tongue-lashing later, to be sure, but she would worry about that when the time came. She sat resolutely in the wagon, hands folded in her lap, not even bothering to admonish Jack and Edgar for mooing at the tops of their lungs at the cattle as they passed.
Near the end of Nettle Lane, Mr. Langford and Thomas passed the wagon on their horse and pony. Mercy only glanced at them long enough to return Thomas’s friendly wave and to ascertain that the boy’s father had no intention of looking in their direction. “Stop here,” she told Fernie minutes later as the wagon drew abreast of the Larkspur.
“Here?” he asked, confusion filling his face. “But—”
“Stop now.”
He pulled the reins to a halt. “Where you going, Mercy?” Jack asked from the back.
“I want to talk with Mrs. Kingston.” To Fernie, she said, “You go on home after you drop the boys off. I’ll walk back.” It was worth the long walk, for if she didn’t receive some kind counsel, her soul would shrivel up and die.
A maid in black alpaca, white apron, and cap answered her determined tug of the bell. She appeared to be Mercy’s age, and the smile she presented made the huge house seem a little less intimidating. “Yes, miss?”
Hearing a noise behind her, Mercy looked over her shoulder. Her three brothers still gaped at her from the wagon. Go away! she motioned, then turned back to the young woman. “Is it possible that I could see Mrs. Kingston?”
“Why, yes, miss. Might I ask who’s calling?”
“Mercy Sanders.”
If the maid recognized the surname, thankfully she showed no sign of revulsion. “Mrs. Kingston is just finishing up breakfast, miss. Would you care to wait in the hall?”
“Please.”
She was led to a brown horsehair sofa in the cavernous front room. A good-sized fire, which would have overheated a more modest room, kept the morning chill at bay. The maid offered tea or coffee, which Mercy was too awed by her surroundings to accept. “I don’t mind waiting here alone,” she answered timidly. Ever mindful of chores that must be done from sunup to sundown, she worried that she was keeping the young woman from hers.
“Very well, miss,” the maid said with a smile. “There’s bell cords against the far wall. Ring if you’ll be needing anything.”
Mercy was grateful for the time alone. She had left in such a rush that she had not actually planned on what to say to Mrs. Kingston. Don’t let me sound like a featherbrain, Lord, she prayed. Some ten minutes later, Mrs. Kingston appeared in the doorway, a figure of feminine strength and formidability.
“Why, Mercy!” she said, hurrying on into the room. “Sarah was waiting for me outside the dining room with the news you were here. How wonderful to see you!”
Mercy stood as the woman rushed into the room and found herself smothered in a rosewater-scented bosomy embrace. “H-how was your trip?” she asked when she could breathe again.
“Oh, delightful! Will you have a seat, dear? Some tea?”
“No, thank you.” Hearing voices in the corridor from which Mrs. Kingston had entered, she felt a rising panic. “Will other people be coming in here?”
“Why, yes.” Before Mercy had to explain, a knowing look came into the woman’s expression. “You wish to speak with me alone?”
Mercy shifted her weight. “If you don’t mind?”
“Of course not.” Mrs. Kingston seized her hand and led her to the library, a room lined with shelves of books and giving off the pleasant odor of leather bindings and beeswax candles. When she had closed the door behind them and waved Mercy into a chair, she sat down herself. Studying her with penetrating blue eyes, Mrs. Kingston said, “Now tell me what’s happened.”
Tears gathered immediately on Mercy’s bottom lashes. “Oh, Mrs. Kingston. Forgive me for troubling you, but I’ve no one else. Mrs. Brent is in heaven, and Mrs. Seaton has all she can do to tend her children. If I don’t—”
She choked off her words at the sight of Mrs. Kingston’s palm, raised as if to restrain her torrent. “Mercy,” she said flatly, though her expression was filled with compassion. With her other hand she held out a handkerchief she had withdrawn from her sleeve.
Mercy took the handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “Yes, ma’am?”
“I want you to take three deep breaths.”
“Breaths?”
“Fill your lungs until you feel they’ll surely burst and then slowly allow the air to escape. Thrice.” She folded her arms. “Now, dear.”
Under the gaze of those commanding eyes, there was nothing she could do but obey. When she was finished, Mrs. Kingston smiled and nodded.
“Do you feel calmer?”
Actually, Mercy did. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Now, what is it that has brought so much sadness to such a lovely face?”
Blushing at the compliment, Mercy still managed to answer, though she couldn’t quite meet Mrs. Kingston’s eyes. “I’m in love with Mr. Langford.”
“Indeed? You mean the man who’s going to raise horses?”
Mercy nodded as new tears stung her eyes, and the calm abandoned her. “But Papa says I can’t even ride to chapel with him” came out in a torrent of words. “He says it’s because Mr. Langford is likely a murderer or a convict, but I know it’s because he can’t abide the thought of having to hire someone to do the cooking and cleaning. He wants me to stay there and take care of them until I’m old, Mrs. Kingston. I’ll never have a husband or home or children of my own.”
Raising a hand to her generous chest, Mrs. Kingston “tsked” and shook her head. “You poor, poor dear. But surely Mr. Langford’s love for you will be strong enough to overcome your father’s objections.”
Mercy looked away again miserably. “Mr. Langford doesn’t love me. We’ve only spoken once.”
“Indeed?” Mrs. Kingston said again.
“But I do love him, Mrs. Kingston. He’s so kind to his son, and he sent Mrs. Kerns a bolt of cloth. He comes to chapel too.” She swallowed. “And God told Mrs. Brent that He would send a husband for me. But if it’s really supposed to be Mr. Langford, my father is determined to chase him away.”
“I see.”
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“Please forgive me for going on like this, but I didn’t know where else to turn.”
“My dear, you did exactly the right thing.” Leaning forward briefly in her chair, Mrs. Kingston patted her hand. Then she sat back and pursed her lips thoughtfully. After a space of several seconds, she continued. “But a monumental situation such as this is going to require some thought and much prayer. Will you be attending to your shopping this Friday?”
“Yes.” A second thought squashed the bit of hope that had begun to rise in Mercy’s chest. “If Papa allows me to leave the house after this. He’ll be furious.”
“Hmm. Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Mrs. Kingston pulled herself to her feet. “Well, come along, child.”
“Ma’am?” Mercy said, rising.
“We must get you on home and appease your father or there’s no sense in our making any further plans. You’ll be needing a ride, won’t you?”
Mercy hung her head. “I planned to walk back.”
“Ah, but we can’t have that. Mr. Herrick is a lamb. I’ve saved him hours of gardening labor, so he’s always quite willing to return the favor.” She led her through the huge house, down one long corridor, and then turned left through a short one. They exited into a flagstone courtyard and passed under the wide branches of a towering oak to a gravel carriage drive flanked by outbuildings. Mr. Herrick, amiable and courteous, indeed agreed with no hesitation to the favor. He hitched two horses to a landau with considerable speed for someone hampered by a lack of height, and minutes later Mercy was being assisted into the seat directly behind the driver’s bench. She turned to thank Mrs. Kingston, but the woman had held out her hand to Mr. Herrick and was soon seated beside her.
“You didn’t think I would allow you to face your father alone, did you?”
“But your walk—”
“Will have to be postponed until this afternoon, won’t it? No doubt the earth will continue to revolve around the sun, my dear.”
The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter Page 35
