“Now, Mr. Burrell. God can change any man.”
“That’s what Vicar Wilson used t’say. But just look at me.”
“Vicar Wilson was right. And don’t your children deserve—?”
“My children!” Mr. Burrell sobbed. He was working himself up into such a state that Andrew thought it best they leave so he could calm himself.
“Mr. Burrell?” he said, leaning down to return David to the man’s arms. “We have to go now. But I’ll be back in the morning with some breakfast to help you start the day.”
Mr. Burrell blinked up at him. “You’re goin’ away?”
“Just until morning. And we’ll talk some more then.”
“Ain’t gonter drink no more, vicar.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Burrell.” Leaning forward again, Andrew patted the man’s shoulder. “Now, you take good care of those babies.”
“No more gin. You’ll see.”
When Rusty had pulled the carriage out of earshot, Elizabeth turned a somber face to Andrew again.
“Do you think he means it?”
“We can only pray so,” Andrew answered, but his heart felt heavy.
Elizabeth was reflectively quiet for the rest of the evening—not any more so than she had been since moving to Gresham, but there was something different about her. This time, instead of acting annoyed when Laurel attempted to involve her in a conversation, Elizabeth gave her an absent nod and participated to some degree. Andrew could tell the Burrell children occupied many of her thoughts and expressed no surprise when she asked to come along with him the next morning.
They were both dismayed upon reaching the Burrell cottage to find the two children in the care of their older brother Mark, a nine-year-old. He was admirably a more competent caretaker than was his father—the children had been changed from their nightclothes, and David’s nappie appeared to be dry. However, feeding time seemed to have been more than the lad could handle, for both children held chunks of brown bread in their hands as they played on the floor of the cottage.
“He went away last night,” Mark answered when queried about his father.
“Where did he go?” Andrew asked and received a shrug of the shoulders in reply. “Well, do you know when he’ll return?”
“Don’t know, sir. He didn’t tell us he was goin’.” There was acceptance in the boy’s expression, and Andrew suspected this wasn’t the first time Mr. Burrell had disappeared.
“Has he done this before?”
“Yes, sir.”
Andrew shook his head and half wished he’d thrashed Mr. Burrell while he’d had the opportunity.
“Father?” Elizabeth said from the corner.
He turned and found her seated on a stool by the fireplace with both children in her lap. “Yes, Beth?”
“It’s a pity that Mark has to miss school. Why don’t we take the children home with us again?”
It was a good idea, but Andrew had to make sure she understood the implications of what she was suggesting. “I can’t neglect my calls, Beth,” he told her. “And we can’t expect the servants to shoulder the extra responsibility.”
“I’ll take care of them. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Mine, do you?” Molly echoed from his daughter’s lap, tilting her little head inquisitively at him and bringing a smile to his lips.
“Of course not.”
They gathered the children’s things while Mark ate two of the Scotch eggs and an apple tart that Mrs. Paget had sent. Andrew stashed the rest of the food in the cupboard, explaining to Elizabeth that since the little ones took much longer to eat, she could feed them something at home if they were still hungry. He wanted to make sure the boy was present at school for at least some of the morning lessons.
Mr. Sykes was at the vicarage when they alighted from the trap. The churchwarden gave a curious look at the children in Andrew’s and Elizabeth’s arms but did not voice the question in his eyes. “It’s the Sheltons over on Walnut Tree Lane. The grandmother passed on in her sleep last night.”
“I’ll leave at once,” Andrew told him, handing David over to the startled man. As he went back around to his side of the chaise, he said over Rusty’s back, “Would you mind helping Elizabeth take the children inside?”
The churchwarden apparently could stand it no longer. Peering down at the boy in his arms, who studied his face with rapt concentration, he asked, “Who are they?”
Andrew swung himself into the seat and picked up the reins. “The Burrells’ youngest.”
“He’s took off again?”
There was no use denying the truth. “I was too rough on him yesterday, Mr. Sykes. I should have tried harder to help him.”
The churchwarden snorted. “Don’t blame yourself, Reverend. Vicar Wilson tried for years, and you see how much good it did. Well, let’s just hope he stays gone this time and gives that poor woman some relief.”
In spite of his low opinion of Mr. Burrell’s actions, Andrew felt the shock that was now registering on Elizabeth’s face. “How can you say that?”
The man did not back down. “They’re better off without his dipping into her wages for gin and slappin’ her about when the money’s gone. Some people make the world a better place by leavin’ it.”
———
Andrew spent the rest of the day with the Sheltons, consoling the grieving family, thanking on their behalf the neighbors who brought food, and listening when one or the other spoke about the life she’d lived. He’d only met the elderly Mrs. Shelton once—not counting greetings at the church door. There was something cold-hearted about speaking words over the coffin of a virtual stranger, so he wanted to know as much as possible about her before he performed the burial ceremony. He found that family members were almost always willing to relate tales about their deceased loved ones. Perhaps it helped their grief—he wasn’t sure. He wondered if he would have healed more quickly after Kathleen’s death if he’d allowed himself to talk about her.
The sun was setting behind the Anwyl’s crest as he drove Rusty down Church Lane back to the vicarage. Passing the Larkspur, this time from the south side, he remembered again his intention to call upon Mrs. Hollis. The funeral was to be on Thursday, so he decided to call tomorrow if possible.
He knew why he’d put off the call, though admitting it to himself was difficult. He’d found the young widow immensely attractive upon their first meeting just outside the vicarage lane. The day had been blustery, bringing roses to her cheeks. The scattering of freckles across her nose conflicted with the maturity in her face in an interesting way, and the auburn hair beneath the brim of her hat was as warm as a sunset. But it was her voice that had impressed him the most, filled with a grace that would be impossible to feign by someone who did not possess that quality.
It wasn’t until he arrived back at the vicarage that he realized he hadn’t compared Mrs. Hollis to Kathleen, as he did other women. The thought was unsettling, for what must Mrs. Hollis think of him? Had he stared at her like some infatuated schoolboy? There he was, the new vicar on his second day in Gresham and trying to charm the ladies like some slick Don Juan?
I’ll ask Elizabeth along, he thought. Surely Mr. Burrell would have returned by then, and his daughter would be free to accompany him. And he would be as cordial as was befitting a minister—but not so much as to be considered flirtatious.
Laurel was alone in the parlor when he walked into the vicarage. His youngest daughter had discovered that the most comfortable place to study was in a high-backed, old leather chair with a soft padded footstool. On the wall overhead hung a portrait of Kathleen as a young bride. Though she had yet to bear two daughters, there was a maternal warmth to her expression that the artist had captured perfectly.
“Hello, Papa,” she greeted, looking up from her homework. “Did you have a good day?”
He went over to kiss the top of her head. “Good … and long, Pet.”
“Mrs. Paget has some supper for you in the kitc
hen. And Elizabeth left with Luke just a little while ago to bring the babies back home.”
“How could they? I had the carriage.”
“Luke borrowed Mr. Sykes’s horse and trap.”
“Then I shouldn’t keep Mrs. Paget waiting.” He paused at the parlor door, though, realizing that he hadn’t asked Laurel about her day. He was aware that he’d spent more time with Elizabeth than with her lately—and that couldn’t be helped, what with her sister being home all day while she was at school. But equally aware was he that he’d spent an inordinate amount of time concerned about his older daughter’s emotional state, neglecting Laurel in the process.
Turning back to face her, he said, “I’m sorry, Pet. I didn’t even ask about your day.”
She brightened and smiled, making him glad he’d asked. “I made a perfect mark on a geography assignment. We had to draw a map of Canada, with the rivers and lakes and mountain ranges.”
“Outstanding! And I didn’t even know you were interested in maps.”
“I still find them boring, to be truthful,” Laurel shrugged. “But I like scoring high marks.”
He didn’t want to leave her company but also didn’t care to endure another lecture from Mrs. Paget about how having meals at irregular hours would impede his digestion and put him at risk for gout. “My grandpappa lived to be ninety-five,” the cook had told him, waving a wooden spoon at him when he attempted to skip breakfast last Sunday morning. “And folk could set their watches by his mealtimes, if they’d a mind to.”
As it was, Mrs. Paget grumbled because he was an hour late, but her humor was quickly restored when Andrew complimented her new apron. And she didn’t give so much as a frown when he asked if he might take his supper to the parlor on a tray. He chatted with Laurel as he ate his supper and was finishing up his blackberry cobbler when Elizabeth returned. She went straight to Andrew and knelt down at his side, resting her arms upon the arm of his chair.
“I met Mrs. Burrell this evening,” she said, her cheeks flushed with the night air. “That poor woman works so hard to keep her family from starving.”
“It’s a sad case,” said Andrew.
“Has her husband returned?” Laurel asked from her chair.
Elizabeth turned to shake her head and answer, “Not yet. Mrs. Burrell said sometimes he’s gone for days.” When she turned back to Andrew, the flush upon her face had deepened.
“Please don’t be angry, Father, but I offered to keep Molly and David on school days in the meantime. Then none of the older children would have to miss their lessons.” She was rushing her words, as if fearful that he would interrupt with a negative reply. “They’re all quite bright, the older children, and it would be a shame to have their education suffer. And they could bring the babies here before school and fetch them afterward, so you wouldn’t have to worry about being away in the carriage. They walk both ways anyway, and it would just be a little farther.”
Finally she paused for breath, giving Laurel an imploring look at the same time, as though trying to enlist her particular negotiating skills. Laurel came through immediately, declaring, “They were awfully sweet babies, Father.”
“Terribly sweet,” Elizabeth agreed, sending her sister a grateful smile.
This encouraged Laurel to add, “And you know what Jesus said about doing for the least of our brethren.”
Now both daughters watched him, waiting for his answer. Andrew ran a hand through his hair and recalled other projects that Elizabeth had taken up with gusto, only to abandon them when the excitement wore off. And far more was at stake here than watercoloring and archery lessons.
He sighed and wondered why no one had ever warned him how hard parenting would become as the girls grew older. Not that he could have done anything to change that, but at least he wouldn’t have been blindsided.
“That’s quite a responsibility,” he felt compelled to warn her. “What if Mr. Burrell stays away for weeks this time? It would be cruel to encourage the family to become dependent upon you if you don’t plan to carry through for that long.”
To her credit, Elizabeth did not argue but appeared to think his words over. “Yes,” she said at length, quite calmly. “That would be cruel. And those children have had enough cruelty in their lives.”
“More than enough,” Andrew agreed.
“I know I’ve been flighty in the past, Father. But what if I gave you my word that I’ll tend to those children through the rest of the school year, if it comes to that. And without complaining.”
He admired her willingness to help the Burrells but had to make certain it wasn’t just a passing fancy. “Why do you want to do this, Elizabeth?”
Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. “It’s been nice to feel … well, needed, these past few days. Oh, I know you appreciated my making calls with you, but you’re quite capable of making them just as well without me. But those children … they’re so little and helpless. I can make a difference in their lives.”
Touched by her compassion, Andrew felt compelled to go along with the plan. He feigned a stern face, though, and said, “I suppose I shall have to make a stop at Mr. Trumble’s tomorrow.”
His daughters exchanged glances, and then Laurel asked, “Mr. Trumble’s?”
“We should keep our own supply of nappies here.”
Elizabeth jumped up to wrap her arms around his neck and plant kisses in his beard. Later, as he read The Shrewsbury Chronicle and Laurel continued to study, Elizabeth sat in a semireclining position on the sofa and pored over a book she’d found in the vicarage library, The Care and Feeding of Infants by Mrs. Wright. And occasionally Andrew looked up from his newspaper, savoring the welcome peace that permeated the room. It’s been a long time, he thought.
Chapter 29
“Wonderful sermon you preached Sunday, Vicar,” the tall elderly woman said from the garden in front of the Larkspur Wednesday morning. Beaming, she brushed her right hand against the skirt of her ebony gown and then thrust it at him. “I must admit that I wasn’t prepared to like you, what with Vicar Wilson being so special and all.”
“I can understand that,” Andrew smiled back at her while shaking her hand and mentally making a frantic search through his list of parishioners. Mrs. Princeton, was it? Why hadn’t he reviewed Vicar Wilson’s notebook before setting out this morning?
The blue eyes that studied him were sharp, yet there was an odd amusement in her expression. “You’re trying to remember who I am, aren’t you?”
“Ah … I’m afraid so. Will you forgive me?”
“Of course, Vicar. I wouldn’t expect you to memorize everyone’s name so soon. It’s Mrs. Kingston.”
“Kingston!” Andrew said, snapping his fingers. “I knew it had something to do with royalty.”
She chuckled at this, and he relaxed a bit. Glancing at the short spade in her left hand, he asked, “Are you planting more flowers?”
“Oh, heavens no. Preparing the ground for next spring is more like it. I wasn’t here to do it last winter, and the garden wasn’t nearly as splendid as it could have been. But you just wait ’til spring, Reverend. And be prepared to preach a good strong message on coveting, because that’s what all of Gresham will be doing when I win the ribbon for roses at the flower show this June.”
“You know what the Scripture says about pride, now, Mrs. Kingston,” he teased. “Besides, I hear Squire Bartley’s garden is a sight to behold.”
He’d never seen it himself, because his introductory call at the manor last week had been so unpleasant that he’d been in no mood to dally around the premises. The squire had subjected him to a litany of Vicar Wilson’s faults, which all seemed to boil down to the notion that the vicar hadn’t given him the respect he was due.
“My great-great-grandfather founded this town!” the old man had snorted. After listening to some ranting and ravings, Andrew concluded that this bitterness had developed when Vicar Wilson refused to recommend the squire’s nephew to Saint John’s
college. “One of the finest boys who ever walked the earth!” the squire had declared. “And it discouraged poor Donald so much that he gave up all hopes of going into the ministry!”
“But if the boy was truly called by God, he wouldn’t allow something like that to alter his life’s plans,” Andrew had said as tactfully as possible. The squire’s eyes had seemed to bulge then, so much that Andrew feared an imminent stroke. That was when he bade his host good-day and left the manor.
“Ah, but the squire will have no chance this year.” Mrs. Kingston interrupted his thoughts, speaking in a conspiratorial voice after sending a glance down each side of the lane and to the door of the Larkspur.
“Do tell?”
“If I ask you to keep something to yourself, you’re obligated do so … isn’t that correct?”
“That is correct, Mrs. Kingston. Unless you’ve gone and buried the squire in your garden, that is.”
“Now, there’s a thought,” she chuckled. “But come see what we discovered behind the inn this spring.” Dropping the spade, she led him over to a bush about two feet high. The leaves were sparse and darkening with the season, and it appeared to be more twigs and thorns than anything else. Yet she had mulched around the base with oak leaves and what appeared to be rabbit pellets.
“Is it a rose?” Andrew asked, though he could only see the reddishbrown remains of five or six flowers.
The blue eyes were sparkling. “Not just any rose, Vicar. It’s the rare Rosa Allea, the oldest rose on record in Great Britain.”
“This bush?”
“No, of course not this particular bush. But this one began as a cutting from an older bush, which began as a cutting … and so on back through the ages. Would you care to hear more of its history?”
Andrew had never been particularly interested in flowers except to admire their colors and scents, but he had a fondness for history. While manners would have dictated that he answer in the affirmative anyway, he found himself genuinely wishing to know the story. “Do tell me, Mrs. Kingston.”
The Widow of Larkspur Inn Page 33