The Widow of Larkspur Inn (48 page)

“Will you help me return them?” he asked Elizabeth. She looked up at him as if surprised that he would have to ask.

“Of course, Father. And Mrs. Paget made a shepherd’s pie to bring to the Burrells.”

Luke and Dora handed Molly and David up to them once they were in the trap and put the towel-wrapped shepherd’s pie in the boot—along with a dozen apples Mrs. Paget had added as an afterthought.

“Do you think their father will be there?” Elizabeth asked once the carriage turned from the vicarage lane onto Church Lane.

“I hope so,” Andrew replied and was indeed relieved to find Mr. Burrell sitting on the stoop when the trap came to a halt outside the cottage. Elbows propped upon knees and hands cradling his chin, he appeared to have been crying.

Andrew climbed down from the seat with the boy in his arms. “Mr. Burrell?”

“My babies,” the man whimpered. “You took my babies?”

A begrudging compassion found its way to Andrew’s heart as he walked closer and caught sight of the reddened eyes and the lip trembling under the mustache. “Considering the state they were in this morning, Mr. Burrell, we dared not leave them here.”

Mr. Burrell wiped his nose with his sleeve. “I loves my babies, mister.”

Andrew did not argue with that, having learned a long time ago that there were different levels of love. Why, even a stable rat was capable of loving her brood … until they were replaced by another litter. Handing the boy over into his father’s arms, he turned back and helped Elizabeth and little Molly from the carriage.

“Do you remember who I am?” he asked back at the stoop again.

The man clutched both children against his chest as if they’d been gone for days. “New vicar, ain’t you?”

“I’m glad you remembered. My name is Andrew Phelps.”

Unaccountably, Mr. Burrell burst into a fresh spate of tears, causing little David to open his mouth and cry as well. Andrew lifted him from his father’s arms and lightly bounced the boy until the weeping stopped.

“I ain’t no good a’tall,” the man on the stoop blubbered, resting his chin on top of Molly’s freshly washed curls. “Just no good.”

“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 kitchen. 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.”