Free The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter by Lawana Blackwell

eyes. “Very well then, Mr. Fletcher. I’ll tell no one, but only if you can give me a good reason.”
    “Thank you.” He dropped her hand and let out a heavy sigh. “You’re correct. I do play for my cows.”
    “Indeed?” It had been an exhilarating feeling, knowing she’d guessed correctly. “Now would you care to tell me why it’s not so simple to share such a method?”
    Mr. Fletcher nodded. “I am not a selfish man, Mrs. Kingston. How many times have you heard Vicar Phelps announce that I would be giving free violin lessons in the Village Hall on Saturday afternoons?”
    “Well, several,” she admitted. “But what does that have to do with—”
    “Everything! Because though that announcement has been made many times, do you know how many people have come to take advantage of them?”
    “No, I don’t.”
    “Two! The Casper boy and Mrs. Moore. They are progressing well, but neither is in the business of dairying. I realize that there are few wealthy people in Gresham, but most make good livings. And a decent German violin can be ordered through Mr. Trumble for little more than a half-sovereign.”
    Mrs. Kingston felt sorry for him then, for there was nothing so disheartening as being enthused about something in which others had no interest. “But surely if you told everyone your secret, you could fill your class.”
    “That’s exactly why I cannot do so … don’t you see? If a person wishes to learn the violin for any reason other than a love of music, he will never master the instrument. Yet I would be obliged to give lessons to those who are simply eager for more profit, for how could I refuse a fellow villager?” A shudder seized him. “I can think of no greater agony than attempting to teach music to a room filled with people with wooden ears. And the poor cows, Mrs. Kingston—they’re such helpless creatures and a captive audience in their milking barns. The violin in the hands of a novice can produce sounds that are simply torturous.”
    Again Mrs. Kingston could see his point but had to ask, “But what will you do if a dairy farmer asks you for lessons? Simply because he loves the music, I mean.”
    For the first time during their exchange Mr. Fletcher produced a smile. “Should that wonderful event ever happen, Mrs. Kingston, I would feel privileged to include such person in on our secret.”
    “Our” secret , Mrs. Kingston thought as the Sanders wagon continued up Nettle Lane. A clever way of reminding her that she had given her word. “People are interesting, aren’t they?” she said to the boy beside her.
    “Yes’m,” he mumbled, with his eyes still straight ahead, and no apparent curiosity as to why she would make such an observation out of the blue.
    Probably any observation she could make, such as hares have long ears , would have gotten the same response. She didn’t know what was taxing the boy’s brain so, for it wasn’t driving. Clearly in no hurry to return to his chores, he was allowing the two horses to meander along at a snail’s pace.
    “Interesting, indeed,” she said.

     
    “You should have seen the way she talked to Papa,” Mercy said to Mrs. Brent after easing another spoonful of potato soup into the ailing woman’s mouth.
    Propped up on her pillows, Mrs. Brent swallowed, then smiled weakly. “So your father changed his mind about the schooling?”
    “He did, indeed.” Mercy chuckled at the memory.
    “What did she give Mr. Fletcher for the cow? Did she tell you?”
    Mercy wiped her friend’s lips with an edge of the napkin she had tucked under her chin. “A bicycle.”
    “A what, dear?”
    “It looks something like a dogcart, but with the two wheels frontto-back instead of on each side. It has handles to hold on to in front, and you must pedal it with your feet.”
    “Do tell? But how does a body keep from toppling over?”
    “I’m not quite sure about that part,” Mercy admitted. “Let’s have another bite, shall we?”
    Mrs. Brent