The Widow of Larkspur Inn (47 page)

“Wake up, Mr. Burrell!”

This time the man opened both bloodshot eyes, blinked several times, then raised his head to squint at Andrew. “Who are you?” he demanded.

Andrew returned his scowl threefold. “I’m Andrew Phelps, the new vicar. Now, get out of that bed and put on a shirt. I want to talk to you.”

But Mr. Burrell’s eyes glazed over, and his head fell back to the pillow. Andrew watched in stunned fury as the mouth gaped open and snoring sounds resumed. He seized the bare shoulder again, this time allowing his fingers to dig into the flesh.

“Get out of bed, Mr. Burrell.”

“Go ’way,” the man grumbled.

“You will abandon that bed immediately, Mr. Burrell, or I shall thrash you on the spot.”

“Father!” Elizabeth exclaimed, now standing wide-eyed in the gap of the curtain.

In his anger he had forgotten that she was in the cottage, and the shock in her expression sobered him.
You’re a minister of God!
he reminded himself. But then Andrew looked down at the child still attached to his daughter’s hand. There was no surprise on that round face, only the acceptance of one who has seen all too many rows in that little cottage. Seized by anger again, Andrew waved them both away.

“Wait outside until Mr. Burrell is dressed, Elizabeth. Then I want you to see what a piece of human trash looks like.”

“Wha?” came from the man in the bed, now roused enough to lift himself to a sitting position. Fixing Andrew with a menacing look, he growled, “Get out o’ my house!”

Andrew glanced down at the fists Mr. Burrell had balled at his sides and wished the man would get up and swing at him. He couldn’t recall ever being possessed by such raw fury, not even when he’d confronted Jonathan Raleigh. He could picture the whole scenario now—the child in the box had cried upon awakening, and Mr. Burrell, not ready to greet the light of day, had dragged himself from his bed long enough to administer a dose or two of gin and sugar. Probably the reason the older sister hadn’t received the same treatment was that she played quietly and did not wake her father. He felt the cords in his neck tighten as he glared at the man through narrowed eyelids. “How dare you drug a child like that!”

“Huh?”

“You gave that baby gin … didn’t you!”

“What’s it ter you?” Mr. Burrell glared back. “Ain’t yours.”

“And it’s a pity that he’s yours, Mr. Burrell. Is sleep so precious to you that you’re willing to turn your children into drunkards like yourself?” Taking a step closer to the mattress, he said, “Now … you will get up and dress, or so help me, I’ll tie you up in that blanket and toss you in the Bryce!”

It was shock that gaped Mr. Burrell’s mouth this time. But after a second or two he swung his legs—swathed in an incredibly wrinkled pair of brown trousers—over the side of the bed. Not taking his eyes off of Andrew, he pointed to a stained shirt hanging from the back of a chair. Andrew handed it to him.

“You’re the
vicar
?” the man asked warily while fumbling with buttons.

“I am. And I must tell you … people like you make me ashamed to be a man.”

“Where’s Vicar Wilson?”

“Gone. And I’m glad he doesn’t have to see this.”

The last button was giving Mr. Burrell some difficulty, and he lowered his head to concentrate on it. “Vicar Wilson ne’er talked ter me like thet. He were a gentleman.”

“Well, I’m not.”

When Mr. Burrell was finally decently covered, Andrew motioned for him to go through the curtain to the front part of the cottage. He was surprised when the big man obeyed so meekly, but then the sway to his steps gave evidence that the effects of the gin in his system hadn’t worn away.
He likely took a nip from the bottle himself while he was drugging the child
.

Andrew bent down to scoop up the sleeping child and realized the napkin was sodden. To Mr. Burrell, who had planted himself at the table and now sat there with hands cradling his head, Andrew said, “Where are the child’s nappies?” A shrug was the only reply he received. He looked around the cottage, noting the clothes hanging from pegs on the walls. The cupboard was the only piece of furniture capable of storage. He went over to it and pulled out one of the deep bottom drawers. Stockings, flannels, and other cloth items were in surprisingly neat stacks. Among them he found a stack of eight cotton napkins, rough and gray but clean. There were a couple of small garments that obviously belonged to the baby. Andrew took them as well.

“Elizabeth,” he called. She came through the door right away. The older child, now carried in Elizabeth’s arms, rested her head against his daughter’s neck in a touching manner.

“Yes, Father?” After one curious glance toward Mr. Burrell slumped at the table, Elizabeth avoided looking at him.
This is what happens to a woman’s children when she marries a scoundrel!
Andrew was tempted to say to her, but when she looked straight at him, he could see tears on her face. She had absorbed the lesson, all right.

“Look on those pegs and see if you can find something clean for that child.”

“What are you doin’?” the man at the table mumbled.

Andrew didn’t answer until he’d gone over to the cupboard, picked up the bottle of gin, and emptied it outside. Back in the cottage, he set the empty bottle on the table in front of Mr. Burrell. “We are taking your two children home with us today. We’ll bring them back when your other children are here to watch them.”

Mr. Burrell fixed doleful eyes upon the empty bottle and raked a hand through his greasy hair. “But I don’t know …”

“And you will stay here and sober up so you can watch them decently tomorrow. A drunkard is a danger to his children, Mr. Burrell. The older one was playing with an ax while you were sleeping.”

“Vicar Wilson ne’er poured out—”

“I am talking about your children, Mr. Burrell,” Andrew cut in, then shook his head. He’d forgotten that it was useless to reason with a drunk.

“Did you find some clothing?” he asked Elizabeth.

“Yes. Some little cloth slippers too.”

“Good.” He bent down over the box again, a clean napkin in hand. It suddenly occurred to him that he had never changed a nappie before—had never even witnessed such a duty being performed.

“Mr. Burrell,” he said over his shoulder. “Have you any pins in the house?” Receiving no answer, he turned and saw that the man was asleep again, his head resting upon the tabletop.

“He’s asleep, Father,” Elizabeth said, coming to peer down at the box.

“I know.” Andrew sighed, then sent her up a pleading look. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever changed a nappie … have you?”

She took a step backwards. “Never.”

He imagined as much. “Well, will you look about for some pins? I didn’t see any in the drawer.”

“Won’t there be pins in the one he’s wearing?”

Of course!
Andrew thought. Gently he rolled the child onto his back. The boy whimpered and opened his eyes. He appeared older than Andrew had initially thought, perhaps even a year old. “Hey, little fellow,” Andrew soothed.

The boy stared up at him while Andrew studied the way the napkin was fastened at each side with a pin. Then realizing he was stalling the inevitable, he unfastened the pins and pulled the sodden cloth away with two fingers. He set it on the floor next to the box—surely one of the older children would know what to do with it. Arranging the clean napkin on the baby was much more difficult than he had imagined it would be, but finally he managed to accomplish the task in a slipshod way.

“Aren’t the other children going to wonder where they are?” Elizabeth asked.

Andrew listened to the snores coming from the table and wondered if Mr. Burrell would even remember that he’d had company. Lifting the boy up against his shoulder, he said, “We’ll make sure to return before school is over.”

They gathered the clothes and went back outside to the trap. The older child smiled while being lifted into Elizabeth’s arms and pointed to Rusty. “Tha’s horse.”

“Yes, that’s a horse,” she cooed back while Andrew went around to his side. Elizabeth had offered to hold both children, but he thought he could hold the boy and manage the reins at the same time. His daughter sat wrapped in a thoughtful silence until they were halfway home, and then she turned to him.

“I’ve never seen you so angry as you were back there.”

Andrew knew that he would eventually apologize for his display of temper, but the rage inside him had not cooled enough for him to do so quite yet. He glanced down at the baby leaning against his chest and clutching the lapel of his coat. “I can’t stomach men who won’t take care of their families, Elizabeth. The Bible calls them worse than infidels, and I wholeheartedly agree.”

“Aren’t there women who are just as bad?”

“There are.” He’d seen more than he cared to recall during the twenty years of his ministry. But he took the case of men more personally—in his eyes, their failings tainted the institution of fatherhood, reflecting even upon himself.

“And isn’t there hope for redemption?” his daughter probed.

“Yes, Beth … of course there is.” How could he explain his feelings to her without sounding like the biggest hypocrite who ever lived? He preached faith every Sunday, and yet his faith in humankind was at times terribly weak.

I can’t explain it,
he thought. In order for her to understand, she would have had to accompany him on calls for two decades and watch him try to stretch parish assistance to the victims of the likes of Mr. Burrell as far as it could go. She would have needed to see his attempts to claim for Christ the erring fathers or mothers … to pray with them, lead them to an understanding of the Gospel from the Scriptures, clean the vomit from their faces, use his own funds to purchase clean clothes, and find them jobs. In almost every case, the person he’d poured his heart into would joyously accept Christ and the family would be restored. A row of new faces would beam up at him from a pew in church, and it would warm his heart to pay a call at a dwelling and find family harmony therein.

But then—perhaps in as many as half of the cases—a face would begin to turn up missing from the Sunday pew, and later, the whole family. Slowly, or sometimes quite rapidly, the erring parent would return to his old ways. And children would suffer again.
Always the children,
he thought, absently rubbing the back of the little one in his lap.

Many times lately he’d confessed his cynical lack of faith … but still found himself wondering, on the occasion of leading someone to faith in Christ, if the person had truly committed his life or if he would fall by the wayside.
The half who keep the faith are worth not giving up,
he thought. And of course, so was Mr. Burrell.

“Father?”

He looked at Elizabeth again. Mercifully, she did not pursue the subject that so troubled his thoughts but said instead, “We don’t even know their names.”

“Know dare names,” the girl in her arms echoed, matching Elizabeth’s serious tone. Andrew couldn’t help but smile.

“Why, I didn’t think to ask.” The child in his lap watched the landscape move by with wide-eyed wonder.
I doubt if they’ve ever ridden in a carriage before
.

“He Dabid.”

Andrew and Elizabeth both looked at the girl, who was pointing now at her younger brother.

“His name is David?” asked Elizabeth.

“He name Dabid. Dabid.”

“Well, what is your name?” Andrew asked her, smiling again. He’d forgotten how pleasantly whimsical small children could be. He didn’t really expect her to answer, but she did.

“Mol-yee.”

Mol-yee?
he mouthed to Elizabeth, who looked puzzled but then nodded.

“She’s saying Molly.”

“Name Mol-yee,” the child nodded back. She pointed to her brother again. “He name Dabid.”

Chapter 28

They brought the children into the vicarage, where Dora clucked over them and Mrs. Paget dished out bowls of vegetable soup. She soaked pieces of soft bread into the liquid to give it body and make it easier to spoon into the small mouths. Molly was able to sit at the table with the aid of an upside-down kettle in her chair, and Elizabeth held David in her lap for the feeding. The children ate hungrily, opening their mouths like robin nestlings, and Andrew couldn’t help but wonder if Mr. Burrell would have prepared any food at all for them.

“You can go ahead and make your afternoon calls,” Elizabeth told him after he’d had his own lunch. “I’ll stay and watch the children.”

“I’m sure Dora won’t mind watchin’ them,” Mrs. Paget said from the stove, but Elizabeth shook her head.

“She has enough to do. And they’re used to me now.” She gave Andrew a worried look. “You don’t mind going alone, do you, Papa?”

“Of course not,” Andrew replied, then warned, “But you won’t have me here to change nappies.” They exchanged smiles at that, for as soon as they brought the children into the vicarage, Dora had had to undo his handiwork and reapply little David’s napkin. “I’ll be back in time to carry them home.”

He made three calls and returned to find the children in the parlor with Elizabeth, Dora, and Luke. The children had been bathed, and now with clean clothes and hair and shining faces, they’d lost some of their waifish looks. It did Andrew’s heart good to see Elizabeth read to Molly from one of Laurel’s old picture books, and to watch little David chuckle until he hiccuped at the faces Luke would mug for him. But the afternoon was drawing to a close, and he didn’t want the other Burrell children to be concerned about their sister and brother.