Read Online The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter by Lawana Blackwell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lawana Blackwell
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you traded Mr. Fletcher for the cow?”
Mrs. Kingston smiled down at her. “Certainly you may, Miss Sanders. It was a bicycle.”
“You have a bicycle?”
“You’ve heard of them, haven’t you?”
Mercy nodded. She had seen an advertisement for one in an issue of The Sunday Visitor at the lending library. But she had never seen one on the lanes of Gresham.
“I haven’t actually taken possession of it yet,” Mrs. Kingston went on to explain. “Mr. Fletcher is well aware of that and knows I’m good for it. You see, my son, Norwood, has written that he’s sending one for my birthday next week.”
“Happy birthday,” Mercy said, and Mrs. Kingston smiled.
“Thank you, dear.” She shook her head. “Now, no doubt you’re wondering why someone would send a sixty-four-year-old woman a bicycle. Norwood is obviously under the impression that, as much as I enjoy my morning walks, I would enjoy peddling along at breakneck speed even more so. I dare not send back his gift for fear of injuring his feelings, but I shan’t go gadding about on a contraption that looks like something out of a medieval torture chamber. And if I were to keep it at the Larkspur , the Hollis children would no doubt ask to ride it, thereby risking their lives and limbs.”
Mercy smiled. “Then it was good that Mr. Fletcher wanted a bicycle.”
“Isn’t it, dear?” Mrs. Kingston smiled again. “And I find people much more agreeable when there is something they want.”
As easy as stealing a drunk man’s purse , thought Mrs. Kingston, who would of course never actually do such a thing. And her conscience was quite clear about it all, for she had made no promises regarding Mr. Fletcher’s heifer producing more milk than any other cow in Mr. Sanders’ herd.
She smiled to herself and waved away a curious bee with a slow motion of her hand. It was odd that she, who had no experience with dairying, would have figured out what the rest of Gresham considered a big mystery. She had simply put two and two together one Sunday morning in church, or rather added one incident with another to form a theory.
The first incident had been Mr. Fletcher’s rendition of “Come, Thou Almighty King” in the choir gallery. There was nothing unusual about that, as the self-educated Mr. Fletcher often played his violin before the church. Clearly he loved the instrument, for his eyes closed and rapture filled his expression as the bow swept across the strings. Even the children ceased to fidget when the sweet strains of his music floated out among the congregation.
It was the following message Vicar Phelps delivered about young David in the palace of his nemesis King Saul that set Mrs. Kingston to thinking. Just as the chords of David’s harp had refreshed Saul’s troubled spirit, couldn’t music also lull animals into a relaxed state? Even she knew that agitated cows produced less milk—didn’t it stand to reason that relaxed cows would produce more?
She had the opportunity to voice her theory to Mr. Fletcher during her walk the following Thursday. His reaction had stunned her. Redness stole up from his collar over his clean-shaven face before he practically tore his gate off the hinges in his lunge through it and seized her hand.
“I don’t know how you came up with such a notion, Mrs. Kingston,” he protested.
“Are you saying it’s not true?” She had him there, for a man who stood up in church and played hymns on the violin could not in good conscience stand on the side of Arnold Lane and perjure himself.
“If I tell you, will you promise to keep it a secret?”
“But I should think if you have a technique that will boost milk production, you would be happy to share it with everyone,” she told him in the same tone she’d used when lecturing her son when he was a boy. “It seems rather selfish to keep it to yourself.”
“It’s not so simple, Mrs. Kingston. Please?”
In the end she had yielded to the pleading in his
Mrs. Kingston smiled down at her. “Certainly you may, Miss Sanders. It was a bicycle.”
“You have a bicycle?”
“You’ve heard of them, haven’t you?”
Mercy nodded. She had seen an advertisement for one in an issue of The Sunday Visitor at the lending library. But she had never seen one on the lanes of Gresham.
“I haven’t actually taken possession of it yet,” Mrs. Kingston went on to explain. “Mr. Fletcher is well aware of that and knows I’m good for it. You see, my son, Norwood, has written that he’s sending one for my birthday next week.”
“Happy birthday,” Mercy said, and Mrs. Kingston smiled.
“Thank you, dear.” She shook her head. “Now, no doubt you’re wondering why someone would send a sixty-four-year-old woman a bicycle. Norwood is obviously under the impression that, as much as I enjoy my morning walks, I would enjoy peddling along at breakneck speed even more so. I dare not send back his gift for fear of injuring his feelings, but I shan’t go gadding about on a contraption that looks like something out of a medieval torture chamber. And if I were to keep it at the Larkspur , the Hollis children would no doubt ask to ride it, thereby risking their lives and limbs.”
Mercy smiled. “Then it was good that Mr. Fletcher wanted a bicycle.”
“Isn’t it, dear?” Mrs. Kingston smiled again. “And I find people much more agreeable when there is something they want.”
As easy as stealing a drunk man’s purse , thought Mrs. Kingston, who would of course never actually do such a thing. And her conscience was quite clear about it all, for she had made no promises regarding Mr. Fletcher’s heifer producing more milk than any other cow in Mr. Sanders’ herd.
She smiled to herself and waved away a curious bee with a slow motion of her hand. It was odd that she, who had no experience with dairying, would have figured out what the rest of Gresham considered a big mystery. She had simply put two and two together one Sunday morning in church, or rather added one incident with another to form a theory.
The first incident had been Mr. Fletcher’s rendition of “Come, Thou Almighty King” in the choir gallery. There was nothing unusual about that, as the self-educated Mr. Fletcher often played his violin before the church. Clearly he loved the instrument, for his eyes closed and rapture filled his expression as the bow swept across the strings. Even the children ceased to fidget when the sweet strains of his music floated out among the congregation.
It was the following message Vicar Phelps delivered about young David in the palace of his nemesis King Saul that set Mrs. Kingston to thinking. Just as the chords of David’s harp had refreshed Saul’s troubled spirit, couldn’t music also lull animals into a relaxed state? Even she knew that agitated cows produced less milk—didn’t it stand to reason that relaxed cows would produce more?
She had the opportunity to voice her theory to Mr. Fletcher during her walk the following Thursday. His reaction had stunned her. Redness stole up from his collar over his clean-shaven face before he practically tore his gate off the hinges in his lunge through it and seized her hand.
“I don’t know how you came up with such a notion, Mrs. Kingston,” he protested.
“Are you saying it’s not true?” She had him there, for a man who stood up in church and played hymns on the violin could not in good conscience stand on the side of Arnold Lane and perjure himself.
“If I tell you, will you promise to keep it a secret?”
“But I should think if you have a technique that will boost milk production, you would be happy to share it with everyone,” she told him in the same tone she’d used when lecturing her son when he was a boy. “It seems rather selfish to keep it to yourself.”
“It’s not so simple, Mrs. Kingston. Please?”
In the end she had yielded to the pleading in his
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