The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter

by Lawana Blackwell

  He was a strange traveling companion. While this Mr. Burrell had bad teeth and a face that hinted at a past partnership with the bottle, he was clean and well-groomed. Even his suit of clothing was pressed and clean. It was by accident that they happened to share a wagon. Upon learning from the innkeeper of the Lion Hotel that no railway went up to Gresham, Seth had been directed to the livery stables near the railway station where they could rent a coach and driver. He took scant notice of several red-and-white wagons passing on their way to the station, stacked with barrels.

  “What’s a grissem?” Thomas had asked timidly.

  “A what?” was Seth’s reply.

  The boy had pointed to the side of one of the wagons. Anwyl Mountain Savory Cheeses was stenciled in bold letters on the side—under which was written T. Bartley esq., owner, Gresham, Shropshire.

  This brought a smile to Seth’s face, for wagons leaving from Gresham obviously had to return to Gresham. Surely they wouldn’t mind taking on paying passengers, at a fare much cheaper than what a coach would be.

  “Might I ask the nature of your visit ter Gresham?” their traveling companion said, bringing Seth back to the present.

  “We’d just like to see it,” Seth replied guardedly. “Is there an inn?”

  Mr. Burrell nodded. “Th’ Bow and Fiddle. There used to be two afore the railway took coachin’ business away. But there’s still a good living in dairy farmin’, if yer lookin’ to settle.”

  Dairy farming? Seth restrained himself from smiling. He had seen cows only occasionally during his lifetime, and always from a distance. How a person went about extracting milk from such a creature was a mystery. “Is that what you do?”

  “Me? Oh no, sir. I’m a carpenter. Been workin’ steady for a Mister Green for near four months now.” He stared at Seth, his eyes clouding over. “Wanted to see if I could stay off the bottle afore seeing if my family would move down there with me. Got a nice little cottage on Bridgeway and decent wages.”

  Seth nodded for lack of any other response. All too well he could recall his father’s bouts with gin. He did not underestimate the holding power of strong drink, which was why he never touched it.

  “It were Mister Green that taught me how to stay sober,” Mr. Burrell went on. “Do you know Mister Hunter Green?”

  “No.”

  “Good Christian man, he is. Prays with his workers every mornin’. Most are just like me, but Mister Green used to crave the bottle, too, so he knows how it is.” He smiled apologetically at Seth. “Vicar Wilson and Vicar Phelps … well, they was good men. But they never knowed how it is to want a drink so bad you’d kill yer own mother fer it.”

  In spite of his determination not to get involved in anyone else’s affairs, Seth found himself interested. “What did he do to help you stop?”

  Mr. Burrell nodded. “First, he tells me that some people hated Jesus because he sat down at the table wi’ drunkards. That made me get ter thinking that maybe Jesus don’t despise the likes of me after all.” He wiped an eye with the cuff of his sleeve. “And Mister Green, he says to me, ‘Now Randy, every day that you show up fer work clean and sober, I adds a shilling to your wages for that day. A man can get hisself into a neat little cottage fer his family if he stays sober long enough.’ ”

  Stopping his narrative, Mr. Burrell peered searchingly at Seth. “I sees you wi’ yer boy, how you helped him in the wagon. I never treated my children that good, not one day. Are you a believer, Mr. Langford?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you pray that my family will take me back? Come live wi’ me in Shrewsbury? I know I can stay sober wi’ Mr. Green and the rest of the workers. We helps each other along, see?”

  “Yes … all right.” He found himself hoping the family would mend, even though he would likely never meet the wife and children.

  “Thank you kindly, sir,” Mr. Burrell said, forcing air through his teeth. “I’m gettin’ nervous the closer we get.”

  “You’ll do fine,” Seth felt compelled to say. “Does that mean we’re almost there?” The man smiled and turned to point to something behind them.

  “You see that hill yonder?”

  “Yes,” Seth replied. Thomas shifted around to look as well. It was almost a small mountain, about five hundred feet high, that had sneaked up upon them while their backs were turned.

  “Is that Gresham?” Seth asked.

  The man chuckled. “No, but if you was to stand at the top, you could count the spots on the cows in Gresham.”

  There was not much time for farewells on the platform at the Shrewsbury station. Outside the Clays’ first-class compartment, Julia and Andrew attempted to keep the mood lighthearted. All that could be said about their forthcoming prolonged separation had been said, and it was not forever. Julia knew instinctively that they would return again and again to Gresham, as they both considered it their home.

  “I’ll send you a playbill and tell you all about the opening,” Fiona promised as she and Julia pressed cheeks.

  Mr. Clay had been a little quieter all morning. His eyes were shining as he faced Andrew and Julia and said simply, “Thank you for being our friends.”

  The last boarding whistle sounded, and five minutes later the train was moving east toward London. Not until the train was out of sight did Julia realize she was still waving. She turned to Andrew and shrugged. “Well, that’s it then.”

  “You’re crying,” he said tenderly, touching her cheek with a finger.

  “Am I?” A salty taste came to the back of her mouth. “Silly, aren’t I?”

  “In the nicest possible way,” he teased, then made an abrupt change of subject. “Are you that keen on visiting Wales on our honeymoon?”

  “Wales is supposed to be beautiful. Why?”

  Andrew glanced in the direction of the tracks, as if he could still see the moving train. “I hear there are good hotels in London. Fine theatre too. We could do some Christmas shopping. And I’ve always wanted to see all those rooks fluttering around King Charles’ statue in Trafalgar Square.”

  “Pigeons,” Julia corrected, smiling. “As if you didn’t know.” He raised an eyebrow. “Indeed? Well, what do you think?” “What do I think?” Taking his arm, she replied, “I think I’m going to love being your wife.”

  Chapter 12

  As Seth walked the shaded lanes with Thomas in hand, he was pleased to discover that while Gresham was certainly rural, all the ingredients necessary for civilized living were here. They had passed a school, churches, the smithy, a doctor’s surgery, bakery and general store, greengrocery—even a lending library. If he couldn’t find a position as a groomsman, perhaps he could hire on at the wheelwright’s or joiner’s or even the cheese factory. He had a strong back and was willing to learn.

  “Don’t know of anybody hiring, unless you’ve a mind to work at th’ cheese factory,” Mr. Pool, the innkeeper at the Bow and Fiddle, informed him as his wife served Seth and Thomas shepherd’s pies. A heavyset man he was, with a fringe of gray whiskers extending from ear to ear below the jaw, while she was thin as a rail and anxious-looking. There was little activity in the dining room, and as a serving girl tended the other occupied tables, both husband and wife seemed eager to linger.

  “But the squire won’t allow the boy to come to the factory, even when he ain’t in school,” Mrs. Pool said. “He says children get in the way.”

  Seth masked his disappointment with a casual shrug. He would not consider leaving Thomas alone while he worked long hours anywhere. The boy had suffered enough loneliness in his life. But in the three hours since their arrival in Gresham, he had found the tranquillity of the village much to his liking. He had not known so many trees could grow in one place. Their aromas mingled with those of flowers from cottage gardens, lulling strollers with a sense of well-being. He had never known that river water could smell so clean, unlike that of the Thames. Even the odors that wafted in occasionally from the north pasturelands were not unpleasant. How fortuna
te were the people who lived here!

  “You know,” the innkeeper went on thoughtfully, “a young fellow like you could make a go of dairying. Th’ squire’s got a farm available now—he don’t like them to sit empty. Got more than enough pasture for a decent-sized herd.”

  “Thank you, but I’ve no experience with cows.”

  “Just as well. It’s practically at th’ end of the world.”

  “The end of the world?”

  “Well, th’ end of Nettle Lane. Same thing. Nearest neighbor is a half mile away, and they ain’t too sociable, if you know what I mean.”

  “A wife wouldn’t be too happy about being stuck out there away from everybody,” Mrs. Pool added with an arched eyebrow that invited him to explain why there was no one accompanying him and the boy.

  Seth refused to take the bait, but the description touched something inside him. He found himself wanting to see the farm, if only to assure himself that there were places where one could live without the company of others. “Is it close enough to walk?”

  “Maybe for you, but not the boy,” the innkeeper said. He was silent for several seconds as his wife leaned close to whisper something in his ear, then nodded and added, “But if you’ll agree to stay another night, I can lend you my horse and wagon.”

  Having to stay two nights in this village wasn’t the worse deal he’d ever been offered. Besides, there was still the possibility of a job becoming available if he looked hard enough. “I’d appreciate that,” he replied. Less than an hour later he and Thomas stood in front of a two-story stone cottage at the end of a winding dirt road. It was in need of some repairs, as were about half a dozen outbuildings clustered some distance from a drystone wall. Had the landlord not volunteered that the former resident had passed away recently, Seth would have guessed the place to have been uninhabited for a year or so.

  The cottage door was unlocked, which struck Seth as odd, for when he and Thomas walked into the front parlor, they discovered it to be furnished, as if the owner were just on holiday. Obviously thieves were not as prolific here as in London. Old but serviceable furniture sat on faded rugs, and a needlework basket still filled with yarn rested beside a rocking chair near the fireplace. In the kitchen, pockmarked copper pans glinted from sunlight slanting through a gap between the curtains.

  He had never lived in a cottage or house. Assorted tenements during his childhood became rooms over stables, and then of course there was the cell at Newgate. What must it be like to wake in the morning and draw one’s own fire? To sit in the rocking chair at night and read, or perhaps just prop one’s feet on the fender and daydream?

  “Does it look cozy enough to you?” he asked the boy, catching him staring into one of the three bedrooms upstairs. Thomas turned to him with round eyes.

  “Only one bed in a room, sir?”

  Seth had to chuckle. The poor mite’s only known rows of beds. “One person, one bed,” he said to the boy. “And your own washstand.” He spoke as if he already had signed a lease, and in his heart he had. The place was as welcoming as it was remote. A man could live at peace here.

  But how would a man support himself? While Seth had enough money to last for years if he were frugal enough, he had to assume that it would run out, if not in his lifetime, certainly in Thomas’s. It hadn’t occurred to him until last night that he was responsible for more than just the boy’s immediate needs. He had the boy’s future to plan for now while he was still alive to do so.

  With Thomas again silent at his side, he went around to the back of the cottage and peered over the wall at acres of browning grass spread out like an apron before him. I could grow crops. Of course he would have to acquire the skill somehow, but he had watched the gardeners at Lord Hamilton’s estate, and their chores hadn’t seemed overwhelmingly impossible. And certainly easier to learn than tending cows! Impulsively he picked up the boy and set him on top of the wall. “Well, what do you think?”

  “It’s so big, sir,” he replied with awe in his young voice.

  He realized Thomas was referring to the land. “Bigger than any place either of us has ever lived, that’s for sure.” Something such as farming was the wise thing to do, he thought, whether here in Gresham or anywhere else. Instead of looking for a position, he should invest some of the money and allow it to provide them with an income and a trade. The idea of being his own taskmaster was strange and yet compelling. Not having to bow to any man …

  Seth looked at the boy. “Are you ready to go back to the inn?”

  “Yes, sir.” After some hesitation, as if he thought he had overstepped his bounds, Thomas added, “If you are, sir.”

  It pained Seth to see the boy still unable to relax totally in his presence. Shyness he could understand, for he himself sometimes suffered from the same affliction. But he was beginning to worry that it was homesickness for the orphanage that was the cause. If only he had some idea of how Thomas felt about being adopted by him! He wished he had the words to ask, but he couldn’t bring himself to broach the subject for fear of what the answer might be.

  “Farm that land?” Mr. Pool slapped his thigh that evening at supper. “And what would you grow, Mister Langford?”

  Seth could feel his cheeks reddening. The joke that was lost to him had apparently been caught by the three elderly gentlemen at a nearby table, for their faces were creased in smiles. And just in case they hadn’t caught on, the innkeeper turned to them and repeated Seth’s question.

  “What about farming that pastureland at the end of Nettle Lane, gents? Do you reckon there are enough folk in Gresham to eat sixty acres of cabbages?”

  “If they does, I’m moving away!” one man with a long gray beard snorted, causing his friends to chortle until they wiped tears from their eyes.

  Only the presence of the child prevented Seth from growling his opinion of innkeepers who encouraged people to mock their patrons. But then something unusual struck him. While the four men were enjoying a hearty laugh at his expense, there was no malice involved. With his own tongue he had shown himself to be completely naïve about farming ways. Why shouldn’t they laugh?

  “I confess I don’t understand,” he finally admitted in an affable manner. “What did I say that amused you?”

  The trio at the table smiled indulgently at him while Mr. Pool leaned his hip against a chair and explained. “Most of Shropshire is what you call rural, see? And rural folk grow their own vegetables. The greengrocer here—Mr. Sway is his name—does a fair amount of trade for those without the land or time. He imports things we can’t grow, like Spanish oranges. So if you grew vegetables, you’d likely find yourself without a market.”

  “What about wheat?” Seth asked, fully aware that he was risking more mockery. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought wryly.

  “Too much rain,” one of the old men replied around the stem of a clay pipe, causing the others to bob heads in agreement. “Needs drier weather, wheat does.”

  Seth nodded as well. “Then you’re saying that the only thing that land is practical for is raising cows?”

  “Raising cattle,” the landlord answered. His eyes glinted with humor, so Seth realized he had asked another foolish question. But for the life of him, he couldn’t fathom what it was. Weren’t cows the same thing as cattle?

  The bearded elder gent took pity on him. “Only the females is cows, son. Males is bulls.”

  “I see,” Seth gratefully responded.

  “He would ha’ found out sooner or later,” added the man with the pipe.

  “Thet’s what I were afraid of.”

  This set off another round of chortles, and this time Seth caught on and smiled sheepishly. As the laughter trailed off, a sudden inspiration hit him. True, this was a dairying village, but he had yet to see a cow pull a wagon or carriage. “What about horses?” he asked.

  The third elderly man, who had so far contributed only guffaws to the discussion, rubbed his bristled chin. “Horses come from Wolverhampton.”


  “Why?”

  “Because that’s where they’re bred and raised, that’s why,” he shrugged. “No one wants to take up pastureland to raise ’em here, when we’ve a sure market for milk.”

  “Besides, the place already has a milking barn,” Mr. Pool advised.

  “Couldn’t it be converted into horse stalls?”

  “Well … yes,” the innkeeper conceded. “ ’Course there’s the hay barn too. Likely needs a nail or two—the place went to seed when Mrs. Brent got to feeling poorly and had to sell off most of her cattle.”

  “Mrs. Brent?”

  Now all four faces assumed expressions of somber respect. “Woman who lived there was buried Friday past,” said the man with the pipe. “Died upstairs in the cottage, she did.”

  Seth glanced at Thomas, who was listening intently to the conversation. He could remember how his own childhood imagination could torment him in the dark of night. Would the fact that a woman had recently died in that cottage give the boy nightmares?

  You’re seriously considering this? he asked himself as the four other men moved on to speculating about the likelihood of an early autumn. What do you know about operating your own business? But hadn’t everyone who operated his own business had to learn as well? It’s not as if you left your brains behind at Newgate.

  He was tempted right then and there to ask directions to the manor house. But then reason prevailed. A man couldn’t go through the rest of his life making decisions as impulsively as he had when he adopted Thomas. He didn’t regret it, for he was coming to realize he would be terribly lonesome without the boy’s quiet company. But what if Thomas had turned out to be a whiny child or a sneaky one, like young Lord Hamilton had once been? There had been that possibility.

  The cottage wasn’t going anywhere. He would spend some time in thought and prayer over the matter. And besides … we’re committed to two nights here anyway.

  Thomas was looking a bit peaked from all the activities of the day, so Seth took him upstairs after their supper was finished. While the boy slept, Seth sat in a chair by the window, where evening light still seeped into the room, and read from a two-year-old issue of The Cornhill Magazine he had found in the hall. It was all new to him, so the date didn’t matter. Across the room he could hear faint snoring sounds. He finished the magazine, then leaned back his head and listened for a while.