“I … I think so.”
“How did he take it?”
She told him of the initial hurt in his expression and then his parting shot. “It was as if he was more angry than hurt.”
“That’s to be expected,” he nodded. “His pride was wounded.”
“Should I write him a letter? Apologize for hurting him?”
“Do you want him back?”
She did not even have to think about it. “No.”
“Then let’s not rub salt into his wounds,” he said gently.
“My father is very ill,” Jonathan practiced under his breath the next afternoon while slumped at his desk, drained of every ounce of strength. He was grateful none of those little heathens had brought a snake to school today! But as usual, he had had to stay constantly on his toes to maintain even a semblance of order.
His conscience forced him to discard the excuse that involved his father. First, it was a lie, and secondly, it seemed to be tempting fate. “How about … my parents miss me?” But they didn’t. In fact, his mother’s last letter, after several paragraphs questioning his sanity, had made mention of an iminent holiday in Brighton.
“My health is beginning to fail me.” That one had a ring of truth, but not enough to keep it out of the “falsehood” category.
“Why not the truth?” he muttered, staring down at fingernails chewed to the quick. “I’m sending my resignation because I’m a failure.”
He had conversed in such a manner with himself almost every day lately and knew deep inside that he would stick it out another day. Each day was one more closer to when Miss Clark would be well enough to take over the reins. When she did, he decided he would send her the largest bouquet of hothouse roses ever seen in Gresham. But then what excuse will I have for staying?
With the sigh of someone weary beyond his years, he got to his feet and went to a window. Some children still lingered in the school yard, mostly to play upon the merry-go-round. It wasn’t that they were all unruly, but the handful that were caused an atmosphere of disrespect in the classroom that was becoming unbearable. How can I get them to respect me, Lord?
If he approached the school board with the threat to leave unless certain students were expelled, no doubt they were desperate enough to give him his way. But then he would be admitting to the whole village that he couldn’t manage children. Pride was a sin, he well knew, and he was finding it a far more difficult one to overcome than his past debaucheries.
Even in his despondent state, he found himself smiling at the sight of two young boys engaged in a pretend battle with invisible arrows and bows of sticks. He could recall the excitement he felt when presented with a real archery set on his eleventh birthday. By the time he made it to Cambridge, shooting arrows was second nature to him, and he was voted captain of the archery team at the start of his second term—the youngest ever to hold that position. It was a shame, he thought, that the school did not have an archery team. It would teach the older children a whole lot more about important things, such as self-discipline and setting goals, than a merry-go-round did.
The idea seemed to seize him from nowhere. Or at least it seemed like nowhere for the first few seconds, until Jonathan realized it could have only come from God. Why could Gresham School not have an archery team? True, he would not be schoolmaster for the whole year, but if he got one started, by the time Miss Clark took over, surely there would be enough excitement that someone in the village would volunteer to take his place. There must be at least one person in the whole of Gresham who knew enough about archery to keep a team going. If not, he could train someone willing to learn. Perhaps that would even take several weeks, thereby giving him an excuse to stay in the village longer.
And only the students who could discipline themselves in the classroom would be allowed to join. It would be an honor society, a reward for those students like Aleda Hollis and Ira Johnson, who actually came to school to learn. And hopefully, it would provide motivation for the troublemakers to mend their ways.
He grabbed his hat from a hook on the wall near the chalkboard, brushed off the inevitable chalk dust, and headed for the door. As he walked toward Trumbles with his hands in his pockets, he heard whistling and realized a fraction of a second later that it was coming from his own lips.
There were three school children purchasing candy in the shop. They mumbled shy greetings to Jonathan as they turned from the counter to leave. “What might I do for you today, Mr. Raleigh?” Mr. Trumble’s voice greeted him above the tinkle of the bell.
Jonathan smiled. He had become fairly well acquainted with Mr. Trumble during his three weeks in Gresham. The shopkeeper was always ready for a chat when the loneliness of living at the inn became overwhelming. “How would I go about getting some archery equipment?”
“Same as you get anything else that ain’t right before your eyes. I send down to Shrewsbury for it—for a small commission, you understand.”
“I understand. How long would it take?”
“Not more than two days.” Mr. Trumble leaned upon his counter. “Plan to do a little hobbying?”
Shaking his head, Jonathan was grateful for the opportunity to get a reaction to his idea. “I’d like to organize an archery team at school. For ages ten and up, I should think.”
“Do tell? Sounds intruding.”
Does he mean intriguing? Jonathan wondered. “If I give you a list of equipment, will you order it for me?”
“I’ll send an order down with one of the cheese wagons in the morning.” Mr. Trumble angled his head thoughtfully. “Pardon my acquisitiveness, but don’t you have to get the board’s approval before you spend that much money?”
“It’s my own money.” Jonathan shrugged self-consciously. “My family is wealthy.”
“Do tell? Then why are you teachin’ school, if you’ll pardon me again?”
“Sorry, my friend, but that’s a long story.”
And the principal character in that long story, it turned out, was coming down Market Lane toward the shop when Jonathan walked outside. Though he saw her every Sunday from his back pew at church, this was the closest he had been to her physically since his first day in Gresham. His senses immediately took leave of him, for he stood rooted to the spot as he watched her approach. Her steps faltered, as if she were deciding whether to make a retreat. But then she lifted her chin slightly and continued.
“Hello, Elizabeth,” he said when she was some six feet away.
“Good day, Mr. Raleigh.” She did not even look at him while giving the cool reply but had fixed her eyes upon the door to Trumbles as if it were Mecca and she a pilgriming Arab.
Jonathan’s heart became a burning coal in the pit of his chest. “Can’t you even talk with me for a moment, Elizabeth? Do you despise me that much?”
Elizabeth halted in her steps, and a second later, met his eyes. “I just can’t. There can be nothing between us, Jonathan.”
“Not ever?”
Her brown eyes became liquid. “I don’t know. Please don’t ask me that now.”
The reply should have devastated him, but since it was not a definite rejection, he felt a small measure of hope. “I won’t then,” he told her. “I don’t want to say anything that makes you uncomfortable.”
“Thank you.” She glanced at the door to Trumbles and seemed about to continue on her way but then turned to him again. “Why do you stay at the school, Jonathan? You must be miserable.”
“I can’t answer that, Elizabeth.” He gave her a wry little smile. “I just made a promise not to say things that would make you uncomfortable.”
“Oh.” Whether that meant she understood or not, he couldn’t tell. She studied his face for the fraction of a second, then gave a little nod. “Good day, Jonathan.”
“Good day, Elizabeth,” he replied, when what he really wanted to say would have sent her fleeing through the door of the shop. I love you, Elizabeth. I always will.
Wednesday dawned with a warmth that fe
lt more like mid-June than late September. A perfect day for puttering about in the garden, Mrs. Kingston had told the squire during their morning walk, for he still occasionally managed to find her. She had decided it was time to make herself just a little more accessible, but she had declined his invitation to lunch later at the manor. Relatives of Mrs. Hyatt and Mr. Durwin were pouring into town in increasing number, filling up the Bow and Fiddle. Some were even staying in the Clays’ apartment over the stables. Mrs. Hyatt had asked permission before the actor and Fiona left for London.
Among these family members were a dozen or so children. While Mrs. Kingston adored children, they tended to be hazardous to well-kept gardens with their games of tag and hide-and-seek. She thought it best to maintain a presence in the garden just to remind children—and parents—that while pleasant strolls along the footpaths through the greenery were expected and even encouraged, it was not a park. Besides, there was mulching to do in preparation for the coming winter.
But the foremost reason she chose to devote her day to the garden was that there were certain days when one just had to get one’s hands dirty. And this was one of them.
Her mind was just as busy as her hands, for Mercy Sanders’ dilemma had often consumed her thoughts these past two days. She would have dismissed a less mature girl’s declaration of love to a virtual stranger as foolish infatuation. But Mercy had obviously been forced to grow up quickly, with little time for fanciful daydreams. If the dear girl believed Mr. Langford to be the man God intended to be her husband, then that was good enough for Mrs. Kingston.
There has to be a way for them to be together, Lord, she prayed while raking dried and crushed oak leaves around the base of an azalea. Surely if God had told Mercy’s friend, Mrs. Brent, that He would send a husband, then He wouldn’t abandon the plan because of any overbearing Sanders men. “Where God guides, He provides,” she had heard Vicar Phelps say from the pulpit.
But did that mean all that was required was to sit back and wait for it to happen? Did not God often use people to carry out His plans? This was something to ponder, for she did not want to step out ahead of God.
Some time later, while taking a rest upon one of the willow benches in the shade of a young dogwood tree, her thoughts inexplicably drifted to the occasion of Jesus Christ’s triumphant return to Jerusalem in the hours before His crucifixion. He had not only sent disciples into the city to acquire a donkey when He could have created one on the spot, but He moved upon the heart of the owner of the animal to release it to the disciples.
And just as that owner, not even mentioned by name in the Scriptures, had felt God’s stirring in his heart, Mrs. Kingston felt her heart was also being stirred to help bring Mercy Sanders and Mr. Langford together. “I’ll do it, Lord,” she murmured. “Now if you’ll just show me how. …”
She found her answer that night in the pages of the book of Ruth.
Dale wore a particularly forbidding scowl as he drove the wagon up Market Lane after dropping off Jack and Edgar at school and helping Mercy purchase supplies. He had ventured into the Bow and Fiddle long enough to realize the tables were full of people at breakfast and that he would have to wait too long to get his pint. This also meant that Mary would have scant time to notice him.
So when in the near distance Mrs. Kingston waved at Dale and Mercy from the Larkspur’s garden gate, Mercy could have expected his muttered, “Balmy old woman.”
“Please, Dale,” Mercy implored, her hand upon his sleeve.
“No.”
“Very well.” She began bunching up her skirt so it would not fly up immodestly, for she intended to see Mrs. Kingston today no matter what. Her brother’s eyes widened.
“You ain’t gonter jump!”
“I am, unless you stop.”
Growling an oath that was loud enough for Mrs. Kingston and even the lace spinners at the crossroads to hear, he pulled the reins brusquely. “Now what?” he demanded, but before Mercy could reply, Mrs. Kingston was at his side of the wagon.
“I’m so glad to see you, young man!”
“What?”
“I would like to have the dead plants trimmed from my marigold bed. Mr. Herrick assists when he has time, but the poor man is quite busy with the wedding going on tomorrow. Would you be interested in earning a little pocket money?”
“I got to get back with the wagon.”
“It wouldn’t take more than twenty minutes.”
That eased some of the scowl from his face. “How much?”
“Oh … three shillings?”
“Four?”
“Three and sixpence,” Mrs. Kingston replied with finality. Within seconds, Dale had tied off the reins and jumped from the wagon. By the time Mercy caught up with them, Mrs. Kingston was standing over a flower bed and showing her brother what to do.
“Mrs. Kingston.” Mercy tugged at the end of her sleeve.
“Yes, dear?”
She beckoned the woman away from Dale, who had already begun to pull up decaying plants among the bright orange ones. “Papa is strict about how I spend the household money,” she whispered. “I can’t repay you for this.”
Mrs. Kingston smiled. “Mercy, I don’t intend for you to repay me.”
“But—”
The elderly woman raised a finger to Mercy’s lips. “We have only twenty minutes or so to make plans, dear.” Sending a glance at the speed with which Dale worked, she raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps less. Now come along and let me tell you what you’re to do.”
There was no arguing with Mrs. Kingston, who now steered her by the elbow through the gate and up Market Lane. “When you unpack your purchases, you’ll find four cans of tinned beef, as well as two jars of spiced plums. Combined with boiled cabbage, which Mrs. Herrick tells me takes hardly any time at all, you’ll have a decent meal for your family. Teach the brother who helped you in the kitchen tomorrow how to warm it up. It won’t be a feast fit for Solomon, mind you, but we’ll buy a nice chocolate cake, and they’ll forgive the tinned food.”
“But I didn’t buy any—”
“My dear, this is going to take a lot longer if you don’t stop interrupting. I purchased the tins yesterday and instructed Mr. Trumble to box them along with your supplies.”
This was happening all too fast for Mercy to absorb. And where were they walking to now?
“We’re going to the bakery for the cake I mentioned,” Mrs. Kingston said, as if reading Mercy’s muddled thoughts. “And I’ve ordered a joint of beef from the butcher’s, which his son Henry will deliver to Mr. Langford tomorrow at ten o’clock. The cart will stop outside your gate to collect you on the way.”
“To collect me? But why?”
“So that you can go to Mr. Langford’s and cook the joint of beef. Bring some vegetables from your garden. I should think some new potatoes and carrots would be tasty on the side, cooked in butter. And while we’re at the bakery, we may as well get a pie of some sort to bring with you. Men are so fond of pies—particularly apple.”
“Mrs. Kingston.” It was hard resisting the force that propelled her by the arm, but Mercy ground her steps to a halt. She pulled in a deep breath and faced the elderly woman, forcing her natural timidity below the surface lest she be bullied any further, however kindly her friend’s intentions. “I do appreciate all of this, Mrs. Kingston, but I can’t allow you to spend so much money on me. And cook for Mr. Langford?” Shaking her head, she said, “For one thing, my father would never allow it. And what would Mr. Langford think if I appeared at his door inviting myself inside?”
Mrs. Kingston’s blue eyes strayed impatiently toward the bakery, but she did not attempt to push Mercy onward. “Very well, Mercy,” she sighed. “I’ll explain it in as concise terms as possible if you will promise to listen attentively, because I haven’t time to repeat myself.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“First, I have money. More than I’ll need in this lifetime. My son is wealthy, too, so he isn’t pacing the floor waiting f
or an inheritance from me.” She gave a wicked little smile. “At least I hope not, for I plan to live a while longer. One of the many uses of money is to bring its owner pleasure. That is why people buy art and jewelry, take holidays and such. And it will bring me great pleasure to have a hand in your winning the heart of Mr. Langford. Would you rob me of that pleasure, Mercy Sanders?”
Such kindness rendered Mercy temporarily speechless. Mrs. Kingston took advantage of the silence by taking her elbow again. “Now, if we’ll just hurry—”
But Mercy pulled to another halt. “Mrs. Kingston, even if I could allow you to spend money on me, what about my father? And again, what would Mr. Langford think?”
Mrs. Kingston sighed, released Mercy’s elbow, and stood facing her. The blue eyes regarded her with both frankness and affection. “Mercy Sanders, do you trust me?”
A thickness came to Mercy’s throat in the face of such caring. “Of course I do, Mrs. Kingston.”
“Then would you just trust that I’m merely acting according to the answer God has given me concerning your problem?”
This request was a little harder, but she had no choice but to be honest. “But why wouldn’t He tell me that same solution, Mrs. Kingston?”
The older woman gave her a beatific smile. “He has given us both the solution, dear Mercy. Only He divided it up, just as the head cook might put one maid to rolling out a pie crust and the other to chopping apples. He gave you the first part of the solution, which was to seek my counsel this past Monday. Now I am acting upon the part of the solution He has given me. He chose me to set this part in motion, because frankly, I have the money with which to carry it out.”
The thought of God and Mrs. Kingston putting their heads together on her behalf was staggering, to say the least, after twenty-three years of feeling like the most insignificant person on the planet. Mercy could not refrain herself from asking, “Are you sure about this, Mrs. Kingston?”
The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter Page 37
