The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter by Lawana Blackwell Read Free Book Online Page A

latest Parisian fashions were something she took for granted. The richness of her clothing had been important to her then, for there was little else in her life over which she had any control. But before temptation could take too great a hold upon her, she removed the hat. “Thank you, Fiona, but I can’t.”
    “If you’re worried that Ambrose might object …”
    “No, it’s not that.” Julia sighed and tried to explain. “Most women here in Gresham can’t afford anything so fine. I don’t want to set myself apart from them.”
    She had given much thought on how she should conduct herself now that she was betrothed to a minister. There was no sin in being fashionable, and she had no intention of dressing dowdy. But how could she help her husband minister to people like Mrs. Burrell if she were bedecked out in Parisian finery, when the poor woman couldn’t clothe herself or her children without parish assistance?
    “I understand,” Fiona said, which of course came as no surprise to Julia. Taking the hat and handing over another, this time a muslin morning cap, her friend said, “Then we’ll just have our own Easter parade right here. Try this one on, please.”
    Julia did as she was told. After every hat had been modeled and every gown admired, they sat on a small settee in front of the empty fireplace and propped their feet on the fender. Mr. Trumble had sent the Clays a tin of Belgium chocolate bonbons last week, and the two managed to find room for two or three each in spite of Mrs. Herrick’s torte. Fiona entertained Julia with tidbits she’d learned about the theatre, and Julia told Fiona about her wedding plans.
    And then abruptly Fiona asked, “You don’t think I’m prideful, do you?”
    Stifling a smile, Julia replied, “Are you referring to your wardrobe?”
    “It’s not that I require all that finery to be happy. Ambrose insists upon buying them for me.”
    “Fiona, there’s not a prideful bone in your body.”
    “I’m afraid I’m capable of any emotion,” she sighed. “In London we’re often approached by people who recognize my husband. I must admit it’s rather flattering being at his side. During my quiet times with God, I often have to remind myself from whence I came.”
    Julia nodded, understanding. Fiona’s origins had indeed been humble, beginning with servitude in Ireland as soon as she was old enough to labor, then marriage to a brutal man at fourteen. She ran away from her husband, now dead, four years later to emigrate to London and was hired into Julia’s household as a chambermaid. Fiona rose in position to become housekeeper of the Larkspur , but when she was twenty-six years old, her servitude became a thing of the past with her marriage to Mr. Clay.
    “You know, I have to remind myself of that as well,” Julia told her. “Or rather, where the children and I could have ended up had God not taken care of us. He’s brought us both a long way, hasn’t He?”
    “Aye, missus,” Fiona replied.
    “Missus?”
    The former housekeeper smiled at her slip of the tongue. “Old habits die hard. But yes, He has brought us far. And just think … our journeys aren’t over yet.”
    Presently they joined the others in the hall. Both archeologists were absent, but that was not unusual, since they spent some evenings after supper cataloging the day’s findings. Julia imagined that Philip was with them—they were patient about allowing him to watch. Mrs. Dearing and Mrs. Hyatt sat on one of the sofas with needlework on their laps. On the facing sofa, Miss Rawlins read passages from a recently finished manuscript to Mrs. Kingston. And on the carpet, Aleda helped Grace cut paper dolls from a book. While Fiona watched the remainder of the draughts match, Julia moved an ottoman over to her daughters to admire their work.
    “Let’s clean our teeth and wash our faces,” she told the two when the grandfather clock chimed eight times. Grace looked up from her paper dolls with