“You think I’m unreasonable, don’t you?” her father asked, pushing his unfinished tart away.
“No.” She gave him a sad smile. “You’re afraid I’ll be hurt again.”
“The thought of that frightens me more than I can tell you, Beth.”
“But the only way to ensure my not getting hurt again would be to never allow me to leave the house.” He opened his mouth to reply, but Elizabeth shook her head. “We’ll wait, Papa.”
It was with great reluctance that Andrew joined the students Mr. Raleigh assembled for after-school archery practice on Thursday so that Luke could attend a cousin’s funeral in Nonely. After Monday evening’s heart-to-heart talk with Elizabeth, he was unsure how he was supposed to feel in Jonathan Raleigh’s presence. It was difficult to keep the old resentment bottled up now that he was positive his daughter loved the man.
Fortunately, there was enough to do to keep such thoughts at bay. While his main sports activity at college had been the rowing team, he had dabbled in archery and fencing enough to remember the basic form. From somewhere Mr. Raleigh had procured a cheval mirror mounted upon a frame for shadow drills. Andrew’s responsibility, while Mr. Raleigh monitored activity at the target, was to stand one child at a time in front of it with a bow and have the student draw an imaginary arrow to practice proper stance.
It was not too long into practice that he noticed a face was missing. “Where is Cyril Towly?” he asked Aleda after reminding her to move her string elbow straight back at shoulder level.
She took her eyes off her reflection only long enough to reply with lowered voice, “He told Ruthie Derby she was stupid for missing most of her arithmetic answers. Mr. Raleigh made him apologize and stay away from practice today.”
“He did?” Andrew looked over at Jonathan Raleigh, who was reminding one of the Sanders brothers to straddle the shooting line with his feet. The young man was likely as eager as Andrew was to win the competition, albeit for different reasons. To force his star marksman to sit out a practice must have taken some willpower. And character, Andrew realized.
When practice was over and the children dismissed to head for their homes, Andrew helped the schoolmaster gather equipment. “That was a good practice,” Mr. Raleigh told him. “I believe they’re developing some confidence.”
“Yes.” With a nod toward the cheval mirror, Andrew said, “Shall I deliver that somewhere?”
The young man grinned, raking his dark hair from his forehead with his fingers. “I’ll have to slip it through the back door of the Bow and Fiddle. Mr. Pool lent it to me, but he’s fearful of Mrs. Pool finding out.”
“I can understand that.” Andrew cleared his throat. “Would you care to join my family for supper this Saturday?”
“You mean me?” asked Mr. Raleigh after a short hesitation, as though uncertain his ears had functioned properly.
“Yes, of course.”
“Why, I would be honored. Thank you, sir!”
Such happiness had filled the young man’s expression that Andrew feared for a second he would bound over to him for an embrace, which would have been too much.
Brusquely he said, “We dine at seven.”
Seth and Thomas sat down Saturday to a delicious meal of dumplings with thick beef gravy, smothered turnips, and almond pudding for dessert. As Seth watched the affection with which his son and Miss Sanders regarded each other, he felt like the most selfish scoundrel who ever lived. He had made feeble protests against her wasting her time by cooking for them, but had he really been serious he would have barred the door. Or even left the place with Thomas as soon as she insisted her way into his cottage. He could have packed sandwiches for them to picnic on somewhere—perhaps atop the Anwyl—until she became discouraged and left. It would have been cruel, yes, but not as cruel as allowing her to keep false hopes.
His conscience would not be assuaged by the reminder that he had told her flatly from the start that they could have no future together. Not while his plate was piled high with food from her hand. God forgive me. Why can’t I love her? It would be wonderful having someone with her sweet nature to grace his cottage, and of course Thomas would benefit in many ways. But it was the years ahead that he had to consider, when bitterness would surely set in as she grew to realize his heart still belonged to a ghost.
It was too late to put an end to her visits when next week’s would be the last. But for her own sake, he would have to treat her from now on with polite coolness. Then she would finally come to realize that her efforts had been wasted and would best be directed toward some other man.
“Careful. Don’t burn your fingers,” Elizabeth cautioned as her sister unwound a strand of her blond fringe from the curling iron.
“And don’t burn my hair either, please.”
Laurel nodded absently. “Yes, the color becomes you.”
“Did you hear a word I said?”
“Mmm. Something about your gown?”
“You’re still dwelling on the new school, aren’t you?”
With a shrug that belied her serious expression, her sister replied, “Well, I think the vicar’s family ought to show support—don’t you?”
“I didn’t realized you disliked the academy so much. You never complained before.”
“I don’t dislike the academy.” Again the shrug. “But I never had another option until now. I like it here much better. It’s so much more serene.”
“Serene?”
Laurel rolled her brown eyes. “Girls in large groups tend to become either hysterical, maudlin, or spiteful. Would you talk with Papa about it this week?”
“Well …”
“Mention the seven months’ tuition he would be saving. And that there’s a waiting list, so the academy wouldn’t lose any money.”
“Very well,” Elizabeth sighed. “Are you finished?”
Tapping her cheek thoughtfully, Laurel added, “Well … you could tell him that the breakfast porridge is almost always lumpy.”
“I mean, with my hair, scatterbrain!”
“Oh. See for yourself.”
Elizabeth stood and turned to look in the wall mirror over her chest of drawers. Angling her face to study the mass of tendrils curling well above her eyebrows, she said, “You don’t think it’s too youthful?”
“It frames your face nicely,” her sister assured her, reaching up to make sure the tortoise-shell comb was fastened securely upon the back of her crown. Laurel had talked her into wearing a style she had seen several times on the streets of Shrewsbury. The sides of her long blond hair were drawn up loosely into the comb, while the back, rolled smooth over a frizette, hung just below the ruffled collar of her navy calico gown.
“Yes?” Elizabeth slipped an arm across her sister’s shoulders for a quick embrace. She was aware that the lavender poplin Laurel wore was her favorite dress-up gown. How heartening it was to know that she was not the only one looking forward to Jonathan’s visit. “You look very nice yourself.”
Laurel made a face at her reflection, for while she loved to be praised for her academic endeavors, any references to her beauty seemed to cause her embarrassment. “Thank you. But don’t worry. I wouldn’t dream of stealing your beau.”
“He’s not my beau, remember.”
“But he would like to be.” Laurel stepped up to the chest of drawers and picked up a brush. “How did you get Papa to invite him?”
“You know, I’m not sure. All I know is that he came home from archery practice Thursday and announced that Jonathan would be at supper on Saturday. He didn’t seem open to interrogation, so I simply nodded and thanked him.”
“Miss Phelps?” Both heads turned toward the doorway, where Dora stood in white apron and cap over a black gown.
“Yes, Dora?” Elizabeth said.
“That Mr. Raleigh is here.”
“Did you invite him in?”
“He’s in the parlor with the vicar.”
Elizabeth thanked the maid and, after another gla
nce at the mirror, left her room for the landing with Laurel on her heels. “Can’t you move faster?” her sister whispered when they were halfway down the staircase.
“I don’t want him to think I’m desperate for his attention,” Elizabeth turned to whisper back. She had forgiven him for what happened in Cambridge, yes, and truly believed he had changed. But she would never allow him or any other man to assume he was her sole purpose in living. Mrs. Hollis had taught her only last year that it was nothing short of idol worship to put any other person up on a pedestal.
She paused just outside the parlor doorway to listen and was met with silence. “They’re not even speaking,” she whispered to Laurel.
“Well, go on in,” her sister urged with a nudge. Sure enough, her father sat at the end of the sofa with his hands clasped upon his knees, and Jonathan sat in the same position in her father’s favorite chair. It was not her father’s generosity that had placed him there, Elizabeth knew at once, but his desire to avoid the possibility of her sitting next to Mr. Raleigh.
“Jonathan,” Elizabeth said, smiling, as both men rose to their feet. She extended her hand, and he wisely shook it instead of pressing it to his lips. “How good of you to come.”
“Good evening, Elizabeth,” he replied with gray-green eyes shining. He then took Laurel’s hand and kissed it quickly, causing her to flash Elizabeth a startled grin. “It was good of your father to invite me.”
They seated themselves and settled into small talk devoted mainly to the weather—her father joining in only rarely—until Dora announced that supper was ready. Over Mrs. Paget’s steak-and-kidney pie the polite chatter became strained, until Laurel asked Jonathan about the archery team. “Do you ever worry about someone losing an eye?”
He had just taken a sip of water and set his glass back down upon the cloth. “It’s a perfectly safe sport as long as the safety rules are never compromised,” he replied, smiling. “We keep the other children and spectators well behind the person shooting.”
From the head of the table her father nodded agreement. “And once the shooter has drawn his arrow, if he turns his face away from the target for even a second, he must surrender his turn.”
“That seems rather severe,” Elizabeth commented. Actually, she understood the reason for that rule, but now that her father and Jonathan had found common ground, she wanted to encourage the conversation. It almost worked too well, for after each man took a turn explaining in his own words the wisdom of erring on the side of safety, conversation was dominated by talk of the archery team. They discussed the skills or need for improvement of every member, their relief that today’s rain shower had come after this morning’s practice, and the good news that the squire had donated a barn for use during the tournament in case the day should prove forbiddingly windy or frigid.
Judging by the amicableness of the conversation, Elizabeth was tempted to believe the past had been totally forgiven and forgotten. Only later, when Jonathan thanked them and took his leave, did she realize there was still some distance to go. She had assumed the ten minutes granted her to walk Paul to his horse would be allowed tonight as well, but the gentle though firm grip of her father’s hand upon her elbow told her otherwise.
She nodded as she and Laurel passed Jonathan’s church pew the next morning, and he smiled back warmly. At the end of the service, she walked out onto the green and was not surprised to see him standing at the fringe of those worshipers occupied with socializing. He was staring across at her, and even in the distance she could see that his expression was filled with as much adoration as any sonnet. Still, she ambled along, pausing to exchange pleasantries with Mrs. Hollis, who asked in a low voice, “Did the supper go well last night?”
“Very well. Papa and Jonathan discussed archery most of the time.”
“But at least they’re speaking, yes?”
“Oh, I’m most grateful for that.”
Mrs. Hollis glanced over to where Jonathan was standing and arched an amused brow. “It appears he’s waiting to speak with you.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth replied, smiling. “And I suppose I’ve kept him waiting long enough.”
“Elizabeth,” Jonathan said when she reached him, taking her proffered hand but wisely letting it go again after a gentle squeeze. “You don’t know how overjoyed I was to receive your father’s invitation Thursday. I barely slept the next two nights.”
Elizabeth reckoned her own insomnia had been just as severe but merely gave him a serene smile. “It was good of you to come, Jonathan.”
“Good of me to come?” Hurt was evident in his gray-green eyes. “Were you not at least a little happy to have me there?”
While she did not want to appear overeager, neither could she bring herself to be cruel to him. She was opening her mouth to assure him that his company had indeed been welcome, when a child’s voice from nearby called, “Here he is!”
Within seconds he was surrounded by no less than eight schoolboys, each attempting at the same time to report that he had either finished his weekend homework last night, or been practicing his stance at home, or both.
He responded to them warmly, sending Elizabeth helpless looks while attempting to spread his attention out to each of them. She took a step back out of the way and smiled to herself. I wonder if Jonathan will ever practice law?
Laurel appeared then at her elbow, saying that their father was ready for them to return to the vicarage. Elizabeth lifted a hand in farewell to Jonathan, who appeared crestfallen as he responded with the same but was still in the clutches of his young captors. She shared his disappointment, for they had had scant opportunity to speak alone for any length of time since his move to Gresham. But one thing she had gleaned as a result of working for Mr. Ellis and Mr. Pitney was that Rome was not built in a day.
On Monday, November seventh, the new secondary school opened its doors. It was unnamed as yet, because while Mrs. Kingston had agreed to marry the squire, they both had their hearts set upon having the wedding in the manor garden when it was in full bloom, which would mean mid-May.
Both having had a hand in the reality of the school, Julia and Mrs. Kingston could not resist walking across the green early that morning to see how the village would respond. Miss Clark stood on the wide stoop, looking out across the green expectantly. As the distance closed between them, Julia noticed that she appeared somewhat healthier and infinitely happier than she had three weeks ago.
“Why, I daresay there is a glow to your cheeks,” Mrs. Kingston said when the schoolmistress had hurried down the steps to greet them.
Miss Clark squeezed the elderly woman’s hand, then Julia’s. “I’m like a child on Christmas eve. I just hope we have students.”
“Laurel Phelps will be here,” Julia reassured her. Even as the words left her mouth, she could see Andrew and his daughter approaching from the direction of the vicarage. She lifted a hand to wave, and both returned the gesture. “And I spoke with Ben Mayhew’s and Bessie Worthy’s mothers at Trumbles just last week. Both are eager to study for university scholarships but hadn’t the means to attend secondary school.”
Mrs. Kingston nodded. “And Mrs. Casper—she’s in my charity sewing group—mentioned a grandson who will be attending. Billy is his name. She claims that he’s extremely bright, which may or may not be so.” She shrugged. “We grandmothers are somewhat prejudiced toward our own grandchildren.”
With a farewell and parting smile, Miss Clark turned and hurried over to greet Laurel at the bottom of the steps. Andrew joined Julia and Mrs. Kingston only for a moment before leaving for chapel at the grammar school. “We’re a little early,” he reassured them. “I’m sure more will come.”
“But of course they will,” Mrs. Kingston agreed as Julia nodded the same sentiment. Still, they sent hopeful glances here and there while attempting light conversation. As it turned out, five more children appeared in the following ten minutes—those Julia and Mrs. Kingston had already mentioned, as well as two factory w
orkers’ children from across the Bryce. It was a good beginning, considering most villagers still were of the opinion that grammar school was more than enough education for dairy farming and factory working. But as the idea of secondary education caught on, surely the school would grow.
And Aleda and Philip will be here next year too, Julia thought contentedly. It was as it should be. There would be time enough for the children to grow up and leave the nest. But at their tender ages, the wings they would need someday to carry them to their dreams could best be developed and strengthened within the confines of a loving family.
After seeing the new school off to a good start, Mrs. Kingston parted company with Mrs. Hollis to resume her walk. She strode west toward Worton Lane as a brisk northwestern breeze tugged insistently at her bonnet. There is something I should do today, she told herself—something which had nothing to do with the wedding plans that had preoccupied her thoughts lately.
And then it dawned upon her that Saturday past had been Mercy’s last day to cook for Mr. Langford. They had not even discussed the significance of that on Friday, but then, their meeting had lasted only long enough for her to inform Mercy that the butcher would be sending mutton the next day. Dale Sanders had been the reason for the brevity of their meeting. His cross mood, Mercy had whispered, was because she had refused to give him some household money to spend on a bottle of gin at the Bow and Fiddle.
She would be speaking with Mercy again in four more days, but surely the child was wondering what to do next, and that was such a long time to wait. So when she returned to the Larkspur, she sought out Mr. Herrick. He was obliging, as usual, and agreed to deliver her in the landau to Nettle Lane.
Sanders men were visible in the barnyard, she saw with relief as the carriage slowed to a stop in the lane. She was still uneasy about subjecting Mr. Herrick to waiting in the drive, where he would be within shouting distance of Mercy’s brothers and possibly ridiculed for his lack of height. “I shan’t be long,” she assured him, walking through the gate he held open.
The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter Page 46
