The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter
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Authors: Lawana Blackwell
The Courtship of
the Vicar’s Daughter
Books by
Lawana Blackwell
The Jewel of Gresham Green
T
HE
G
RESHAM
C
HRONICLES
The Widow of Larkspur Inn
The Courtship of the Vicar’s Daughter
The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark
The Courtship of the Vicar’s Daughter
Copyright © 1998
Lawana Blackwell
Cover design by Jennifer Parker
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Ebook edition created 2011
ISBN 978-1-5855-8407-9
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
This book is lovingly dedicated
to my father,
Earl Chandler,
who taught me the value of integrity.
LAWANA BLACKWELL has eleven published novels to her credit including the bestselling G
RESHAM
C
HRONICLES
series. She and her husband have three grown sons and live in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
Contents
July, 1870
“And now with your kind indulgence, my lovely and talented daughter, Ernestine, will sing for us,” Vicar Nippert announced after tea had been poured in the parlor of the vicarage behind Saint Stephen’s. “She will be accompanied on the pianoforte by my equally lovely and talented wife, Aurea.”
Andrew Phelps, balancing a plate of little watercress sandwiches on one knee and a cup and saucer on the other, winced inwardly. Not because Ernestine’s talent had been exaggerated—on the contrary, as the girl began the first notes of “Ye Servants of God,” it became quite obvious that she possessed a pleasant singing voice. But since his arrival in Prescott this morning for the quarterly regional meeting, he and a dozen other country vicars had been subjected to their host’s incessant boasting.
Oh, he could understand the man’s pride. The most beautiful stained-glass windows in Shropshire graced Prescott’s three-hundredyear-old Gothic cathedral. The parishioners were such enthusiastic givers, according to Vicar Nippert, that they practically pounded upon the church doors at the first of each month, demanding to be allowed to tithe immediately. And, of course, as he had mentioned more than once, his wife and daughter were musical virtuosos, worthy of leading angel choirs.
It was just that Andrew had assumed that, as was the case with past diocese meetings hosted by other vicars, most of the time would be devoted to discussing
church
issues.
“Well, what do you think?” came a low voice from Andrew’s right. He turned to find Vicar Nippert leaning over his chair, his proud grin exposing a row of teeth as white and prominent as the piano keys upon which Mrs. Nippert’s nimble fingers glided effortlessly. “Sings like an angel, eh?”
“Very talented,” Andrew agreed reluctantly, not because he had aught against the girl, but because he suspected the door was being opened for more boasting. His suspicion was confirmed right away, for Vicar Nippert immediately launched into a litany of his daughter’s other talents. Andrew assumed an attentive expression and consoled himself with the thought that at least when this meeting was over, he wouldn’t have to endure Vicar Nippert’s company for another three months.
And then a certain name snapped him out of his reverie.
“Did you say Saint Julien’s Academy at Shrewsbury?” Andrew asked as Ernestine began the fourth stanza.
“This will be her second year,” Vicar Nippert replied after sending a nod of approval across to his daughter. “Outstanding institution, and of course she was at the head of her class last term.” His expression suddenly brightened. “Say, you’ve a daughter about Ernestine’s age, eh? Are you considering enrolling her? Because I feel compelled to warn you that a waiting list begins to accumulate this time every year.”
Andrew swallowed. “I already have enrolled her.”
“Well, capital!” The vicar clapped him on the back, the toothy smile even wider. “You’ll be fetching her on weekends, yes? No doubt we’ll be seeing a lot of each other come September, eh?”
“Y-yes,” Andrew nodded.
“Capital!” Vicar Nippert clapped him on the back again and moved on to converse with other clergy across the room.
While Ernestine sang the first few words to a second hymn, “Come, Thou Long Expected Jesus,” Andrew added under his breath, “And could you possibly come before September, Lord?” But then he thought about his upcoming marriage to Julia Hollis and amended his prayer. “With all due respect, Lord, could you please wait until after December?”
The four high-backed willow benches Julia had commissioned the Keegans, the Irish basket weavers, to make for the
Larkspur Inn
’s garden looked quite rustic among the flower beds and shrubbery. She was pleased with the effect. A two-hundred-year-old building of weathered red sandstone would look a little silly looming behind lawn furniture made of the dainty-looking wrought-iron lace that was so popular in London.
Or at least it was popular sixteen months ago, when her late husband’s gambling debts caused Julia to lose her home and almost everything else she had in the world, save the
Larkspur
, an old abandoned coaching inn that the London bankers had deemed too worthless to claim. With a courage born out of desperation and a loan from her former butler, Julia had moved to Gresham with her three children and loyal chambermaid, Fiona O’Shea. By God’s grace and plenty of hard work, they had transformed the
Larkspur
into a lodging house, successful beyond even their most optimistic dreams.
It was upon one of these willow benches that Julia and Andrew met every weekday morning before Andrew paid calls to his parishioners. Over cups of tea the two shared news from the
Shrewsbury Chronicle
, tidbits of the goings-on in their separate households, and plans for the life they would begin together in December. For propriety’s sake, the tea tray occupied the space between them upon the bench—an arrangement the vicar understood and conceded was necessary, but disliked immensely.
“But you know what happened the last time you tried to speak to the Sanderses,” Julia said on Monday morning as she handed her fiancé the cup of tea she had just poured. She was a little miffed that Andrew had charmed her into a jovial mood by relating the events of Saturday’s diocese meeting in Prescott before mentioning in passing that he would be making a certain call today.
“Yes, but this time there will be four of us.” He took an appreciative sip from his cup. “Please compliment Mrs. Herrick on her most excellent tea, as usual.”
“Please don’t change the subject, Andrew. You’ll only be providing him with more targets. And who’s to say the next cracked forehead won’t be yours?”
This warning had the opposite effect from the one Julia had intended, for the corners of his hazel eyes crinkled. “So you’re worried about me, are you, Julia Hollis?”
Julia refused to return his smile. “I’m in no mood to be teased.” During the three weeks since she had accepted his proposal of marriage, she found that he was growing more and more dear to her. And the thought of Mr. Sanders crowning him with a rock, as he had poor Mr. Clay, frightened her immensely.