Vicar's Daughter: Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Sunday morning. I stared irritably back at my image in the mirror. My hair- in utter disarray, frizzing from all the rain and not cooperating in the least. My favorite red turkey colored gown, I noticed with displeasure, was becoming shabby. Originally it had been cut in a severe style, devoid of any ruffles or trimmings whatsoever, in accordance with Mama's stoic tastes. My straw hat too had only a simple white ribbon- anything more would be ostentatious. In fact, Mama had insisted on only the most unstylish of clothing for me, as she thought fashion a heathen pursuit, liable to, in the word's of the holy apostle, puff one up with pride. I longed for one- just one- beautiful gown.

Mama's voice came shrieking up the stairs that it was time to leave for the service and I hurriedly obeyed, donning my brown pelisse and slippers and snatching my sheet music off the piano-forte. It was I who accompanied the choir on the organ during Morning Prayer. Early on, Mama and Papa had decided that I take lessons for that specific purpose, and I had never protested, beyond perhaps some complaining about practicing when I was very young. Music had always mesmerized me and to be able to play it was my fondest dream. (Besides becoming a princess or a pirate or some other exciting personage, that is.) By the time I was ten I could play sufficiently and my lessons had stopped. I hadn't.

In playing I found such joy, release, freedom. I could forget my troubles. And I did it well- everyone who heard me said so. Mother was always telling people to stop admiring it, that all the praise would make me head so big I couldn't see the ground. (Those were her exact words. I don't think anyway knew what they were supposed to mean.) But it was one of those things that no one ever pays any mind to. And, in truth, it was the one thing I did that Mother herself could not find fault in. Perhaps it was because she knew absolutely nothing of music, and so could not have told even if I was an utterly pathetic player, but I still basked in having this one area in which I was not lacking.

I loved the way it felt when my fingers flew over the keys in a difficult passage or played with the softest rose-petal touch to execute that trill just right. I made the music mine own, delving into my innermost self for true emotion, and letting it come pouring out in each and every phrase. At present I was learning the second movement to the Sonata Pathetique by Beethoven, lent to me by Mrs. Whitaker, and enjoying it immensely- the piece was passionate, but subdued. But today I would play nothing so interesting- all of the Morning Prayer music I had long since committed to memory.

I joined the steady stream of parishioners entering the church and knelt quietly at our pew . The service was a usual one.

Exactly on time, Papa opened with a reading from some doleful passage, urging the worshippers to repentance, then building to a frenzy decrying the sinfulness of our day, the depravity of man, the wrath of God, etc. etc. (Everyone was always grateful when it came time to pray the Preces.) I went to the organ for the singing of the psalms, canticles, Te Deum, and anthem, and the service was over.

Immediately the church was buzzing with conversations. All the (respectable) community was here and they greeted and gossiped and generally acted with an exorbitant amount of cheerfulness. Everyone had known everyone forever- we all cared about one another.

In a bright and animated cluster in the churchyard were the Miss Dashwoods, Miss Meriwethers, Miss Whitaker and Miss Arabella and a few others- the young ladies of Quality in the parish. They were all very intimate; they attended the same balls and card parties and picnics and made trips to Brighton and, most importantly, went to Town for the season, all of which I took little part in. I was not at all close to any of them, save perhaps Arabella and Salina- but only because of Mrs. Whitakers attentions to me- so I found others to talk to.

In this way I had become acquainted with many I would not have otherwise. Mrs. Gibbs was a dear elderly woman who told the most interesting stories of the days when she was a girl. Miss Clara Cummings was ten and irrepressibly cheerful- she never failed to greet me if she saw me. And of course Mrs. Ellison- there she was- Levi pulling at her skirt while she scolded another and Chloe the baby whimpered in her arms. A conversation with her was guaranteed to be interrupted every other sentence by inquiries from one of her five children (actually only four could inquire- Chloe could not- but her crying could certainly qualify as an interruption!), and was sure to make me laugh. She had the shrewdest sense of humor- she made the mundane and drudgerous events of her week- those things which I would complain about- into stories that were both riveting and utterly hilarious to me. She always let me hold Chloe and I think she liked me too.

"Good day, Miss Whimple," Mrs. Gibbs voice drew me out of my thoughts. She was a petite woman, whose voice had taken on the distinct quality of the elderly. The voluminous bonnet she was wearing over her ruffled mob cap made her seem even more smaller.

"Oh, thank you! The same to you!" I said, a bit flustered.

"Oh, my! Am I so alarming as that?" She chuckled, and asked, "So how are you, dear? Are you learning anything new on your piano-forte?"

"Yes indeed- something by Beethoven. Have you heard of him?" I asked.

"Ah, I do believe so," she said thoughtfully, "he's one of those new-fangled composers, is he not?"

I laughed, "Yes, yes exactly. It is part of one of his sonatas- a slow and thoughtful kind of song- I'd like for you to hear it. I think you'd like it."

Now she laughed, "Well, I daresay so, if you play it!"

"Oh, you do me too much-"

"Not at all, not at all," she said firmly, "You play so anyone would be glad to listen to you."

I smiled but said nothing; I was always unsure of how to respond to such praise.

Then she said, "Now I must be going, for I believe the Dashwoods have asked me to dinner, but you see you have a pleasant week, dear," and she leaned over and patted my hand.

I clasped her hand, "Thank you. You as well," and we were done. I began to prepare to leave, gathering up my music, donning my hat, when Mrs. Whitaker came bustling up. She looked like the kind of woman that people listened to; strongly built, with generous curves, and a voice that carried through any amount of cacophony.

"Humility! Good day! Now, you wouldn't be leaving without talking to me, would you?" she pretended to chide me, "Listen- I have some news for you. On Thursday Eve some of the young people are coming over- the Miss Dashwoods, Mr. Brookes- for cards, and you simply must come as well! Are you engaged that evening?"

"Oh, thank you Mrs. Whitaker! I believe I am free- but I must ask Mama for permission- you know."

"Indeed! Very wise." we shared a knowing look, "But I must be on my way and I'm sure you must as well, so until next time! I do hope you can come!"

"I do too, for sure! Good day!" But as she was already hustling along, I don't believe she heard all of what I said. I left pondering when Mama would be most likely to grant me permission to go, as it was by no means guaranteed.