The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter (18 page)

“Sir?”

He looked again at the boy beside him. “Yes?”

“I’m not so tired anymore, if you want to move on.”

“Then let’s try the house you pointed out,” Seth told him.
And if there’s no position to be had there, we’ll push on for Gresham early Monday
. He recalled again what the woman at the inn had said: “
No crowds pushing this way and that
.”

On Monday morning, the first of August, every resident of the
Larkspur
from lodger to servant, along with Andrew and his daughters, assembled in the courtyard to bid the Clays farewell. Julia and Andrew hung back and allowed the others to say their good-byes, for the two would be accompanying them in the landau to see them off at the railway station in Shrewsbury.

“Some lunch for you,” a watery-eyed Mrs. Herrick said, handing over a basket to be put into the boot of the landau. “Those station meals would make a body ill.”

Miss Rawlins pressed a copy of her latest novella,
Lord Elton’s Niece
, into Fiona’s hands. “I miss our discussions about my books. Insight such as yours is so rare.”

“Sugared dried figs from Florence,” Mrs. Kingston declared after clutching both husband and then wife to her ample bosom. “I was saving them for such an occasion.”

Julia’s children even presented gifts—Philip, three Roman marbles from the collection he’d gathered atop the Anwyl last year; Aleda, a fairly accurate watercoloring she’d painted yesterday of the
Larkspur
; and Grace, one of her paper dolls. The Worthy sisters even crossed the lane to give Fiona a card of fine ecru lace.

While Mr. Herrick sat at the reins behind Donny and Pete, the two Welsh cobs, Julia and Fiona occupied the front seat and Andrew and Mr. Clay the rear. Julia was painfully aware that every mile that drew them closer to Shrewsbury represented less time she’d have with her friends. It was likely that
The Barrister
could run at the Prince of Wales Theatre for years. Of course she hoped the production would be successful for Mr. Clay’s sake, but a selfish side of her was reluctant to agree.

The landau was halfway to Shrewsbury when red-and-white
Anwyl Mountain Savory Cheeses’
wagons began passing on their way back from delivering their barrels to the railway station. Mr. Herrick returned the waves of one driver after another, many whose faces were known to Julia. The last wagon was passing when she turned her face to the right and met a familiar set of eyes.

“Fiona,” she said, gently elbowing her friend. “Did you see that man?”

“What man?”

“In the bed of that wagon.”

Fiona craned her neck to see, for the wagon was lumbering on past them. Julia now noticed that there were three riders in the bed of the wagon—two men and a young boy. “What’s wrong, Julia?” Andrew asked from behind.

“It’s nothing, really—just that I believe I saw that man when we were in Shrewsbury last Saturday.” Andrew and Mr. Clay turned around to peer over their shoulders while Julia said to Fiona, “You remember. He sat near us at lunch.”

“I don’t recall seeing anyone there I would recognize now,” Fiona responded doubtfully.

“That’s right. Your back was to him.”

“Was that Mr. Burrell?” Andrew asked. Julia looked back at her fiancé. He was twisted around in his seat, peering at the road behind them, but the wagon was too far away now to discern the faces.

“Mr. Burrell?” She had never met the man who had left his wife and seven children. Was he the one who had sat behind them at the Lion Hotel? But why would he have a boy with him?
Must have been the other man
, she thought, remembering there had been two in the wagon.

“Who is Mr. Burrell?” Mr. Clay asked.

“Molly and David’s father,” Andrew replied as they both returned to their original sitting positions. “A slacker with a soul as black as his fingernails.”

Julia couldn’t recall ever having heard such anger in her fiancé’s voice, but she knew he had a soft spot for the Burrell children. “Why would he come back to Gresham?” she asked.

“To cause trouble, I’m afraid. And that poor family has suffered enough.”

“ … and of course he owns most o’ the land,” the man sharing the wagon bed with Seth and Thomas was saying.

“I beg your pardon?” Seth said. He had allowed his attention to stray to a passing carriage just a minute ago. The two women inside had looked vaguely familiar.

“Squire Bartley,” the man went on. “Most dairymen lease from him.”

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.”