KATHRYN VICARS SAT at the dining table half-listening to her father and wholly feeling sorry for herself. She sat with slightly hunched posture in an armless wooden chair, her arms crossed and folded tightly under her bosom, her legs together, ankles crossed and tucked beneath her seat. She rocked rhythmically, as if trying to soothe herself to the melody of some silent lullaby. What her father was asking of her was unfair. More than that, it was a horrible, cruel, eternal penance. A lifetime’s subservience to Ethan Cromwell was more than anyone should have to bear. The thought of his hands on her made her skin crawl, worse than if a thousand millipedes were swarming all over her with their hundred million tiny pincer feet. If her mother were still alive, she would never have supported such a union. If her mother were alive, her father would still possess the courage to stand up to men like Ethan Cromwell. She decided to send a stinging barb flying in her father’s direction; one she knew would draw blood.
“If mother were alive, she would be ashamed of you, Papa! She would tell you that you are being selfish and weak, and that just because a man is rich in the pocketbook does not mean he is rich in the soul.” She had barely articulated the last word before she burst into tears. “Why would you do this to me, Papa? Why? Why!” she added between choking sobs.
Vicars stood frozen—staring down at his weeping child—bereft of words. The funny thing was, he had rehearsed this play a thousand times in his head. In his version of the script, this scene did not exist. In his version, Kathryn listened quietly to his fine phrases and fatherly wisdom. She recognized that marrying Cromwell was in her best interest, and while she didn’t understand it now, she knew it was the right decision because she trusted her Papa. She smiled and blushed when he called her feelings for Paul Foster a meaningless schoolgirl crush. She nodded approvingly when he promised her that she would learn to love Ethan Cromwell, despite the twenty-three-year difference in age. His script, however, was disintegrating before his eyes, like an inked papyrus in the pouring rain.
He walked over to his writing desk and pulled open its only drawer. From within, he took a small, leather-bound book. He shut the drawer and walked back to the dining table with the book raised so Kathryn could see it clearly. He tried again, this time saying, “Now sweetheart, I know you think you have feelings for the Foster boy, but we both know there is no future in—”
“MY DIARY!”
Kathryn shot up from her chair as if the seat had suddenly burst into flames. She closed the distance between them and snatched the diary out of his hand before he had time to blink.
“I cannot believe you read my diary!” she shouted.
He tried to lay a conciliatory hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off and turned her back on him.
“I’m sorry about that, Kathryn, but I meant to know how you feel about the boy. I can tell from what you’ve written that Paul Foster is nothing more than a summertime romance. You are suffering from infatuation, is all.”
“Infatuation?” she retorted. “At least I can take satisfaction in knowing that while you may have read my diary, you paid no attention to the words. What Paul and I have is not infatuation. I love him, Papa. And he loves me.”
“Even if that were true, you must accept that there’s no future in marrying a boy like that.”
“A boy like what? A farmer? Is that so much worse than a tailor, Papa? I love him. To say there is no future in marrying Paul is to say that there is no future in love itself.”
“That’s not what I meant, Kathryn. What you need to understand is that love is part of marriage. You will grow to love the man who you marry, whoever he may be, regardless of your feelings before the wedding. You will grow to love Mr. Cromwell,” he said, with less conviction in his voice than he had hoped for.
Kathryn was ready for this jab, ducked it, and punched back. “Oh, is that so? Did you have to grow to love mother? Did she have to grow to love you? The answer is no. Mother told me a hundred times the story of how the two of you met, fell in love, and got married. You asked for her hand because you loved her. She said yes because she loved you. Your marriage was neither arranged, nor forbidden, by either of your parents.”
“That’s different. Both our families were poor. We didn’t have an opportunity like you have.”
“How would you have felt if Mother’s father had ordered her to marry someone else just because he was rich?”
“I would not have liked it, but I would have accepted it. I would have been happy knowing she was getting an opportunity to live a life better than the one I could have provided for her.”
“That’s a lie and you know it, Papa.”
She stood, ran up the wooden stairs to her attic bedroom, and slammed the door. The window that faced the church was open. Of the two windows in her room, this window could be accessed from the sloping roof at the rear of the cottage. Paul Foster had figured that out all by himself, and had taken to regularly sneaking in to see her. She did a quick survey of the room, hoping her beau was hiding in the corner waiting to envelop her in his arms, but the room was empty. Then she saw it. A single daisy weighed down a hand-scrawled note on her pillow. She picked up the note and read it.
Cucklett Delf at Sundown. Yours Forever. P
She held the daisy to her lips and kissed each of the ivory colored petals. Paul had plucked it from the grassy meadow basin of Cucklett Delf, their secret meeting place on the outskirts of town. No matter what her father said, she refused to marry Ethan Cromwell. She would run away with Paul if she had to. In all her seventeen years, she had never traveled further than the outskirts of Eyam, and she did not own a valet or a knapsack. Improvising, she selected a very particular dress from her standing wardrobe and knotted it at the waist. She opened the skirt bottom to form a compartment and started packing those items she estimated to be essential for travel—a change of undergarments, socks, a heavy woolen sweater, her hair brush, a necklace given to her by her mother, her favorite dress, her diary—and threw them all inside. She then cut the ribbon that was sewn into loops along the bottom of the dress and pulled both ends. The ribbon worked like a drawstring and cinched the skirt part of the dress closed, forming a pouch. She then knotted the ribbon, and flung the loose arms of the dress over her shoulders and around her neck. She tied the ends of the sleeves together and walked around her tiny room with the impromptu knapsack bouncing between her shoulder blades.
She surveyed her bedroom one final time, climbed out the open back window, and as quietly as she could, crept down the sloping shingled roof. She lowered herself down carefully from the eave onto the lawn and set off at a brisk pace toward Cucklett Delf.
• • •
IN THE TAILOR shop below, Vicars paced. He made two approaches toward the attic stairs, but aborted both times before his foot connected with the first step. He chastised himself for being such a coward. A coward for not standing up to Cromwell. A coward for not marching up those stairs and comforting his daughter. Kathryn had been right about one thing. If Mary Vicars were still alive, she would not permit her daughter to marry Ethan Cromwell, not for all the wealth of England. His wife had been a believer in what she called the five principles of life: Love, Honor, Truth, Courage, and Faith. The most important of these principles was Love, she said. Nowhere on her list were Ethan Cromwell’s defining attributes: Wealth, Title, and Power. What attributes young Paul Foster possessed, he did not know, for he had never given the boy a chance. Since the day Ethan Cromwell had informed him he intended to take his daughter’s hand in marriage, Vicars had paid little mind to anything other than Ethan Cromwell.
He put on some water for tea.
After a nice cup of tea, he would talk with Kathryn. With a clear head, he was certain she would come to see the merits of marrying Cromwell.
And so, George Vicars sat alone.
Waiting.
Incubating.