The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter (22 page)

The boy blinked. “Sir?”

“Have I lied to you so far?”

“No, sir.”

“So why are you lying to me right now?”

Another blink, and the bottom lip began trembling. “I didn’t lie, sir.”

“You did when you said nothing was wrong.” Seth touched the boy’s shoulder. “Now, why don’t you tell me what made you sit here and cry?”

The trembling intensified in between vain efforts to stretch his lips into another grimacelike smile. Finally the child gave in and broke into sobs. After a minute of wondering what to do, Seth draped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close.

“There, there now,” he said gently. Apparently the cry had been coming on for quite some time now, and he reckoned the best thing to do was to allow the tears to run their course. When the shoulders had stopped heaving and the sniffing lessened, he pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and raised the boy’s head.

“What a mess you’ve made of yourself,” he said, wiping the small pinched face.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Thomas mumbled and blew his nose.

“Ah well, I’m sure it did some good. Now, I want to know what’s been troubling you.” He took a deep breath. “Is it the orphanage?”

The boy was quiet for a spell but then mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

Even though Seth had already assumed as much, his heart gave a disappointed lurch. “I can’t take you back there, Thomas.”

“You can’t?”

“No, I can’t.” Seth wondered if he was imagining the relief that washed over the young face, the tension that seemed to leave the narrow shoulders. “Don’t you know that you’ve been adopted?” he asked cautiously.

“Adopted?”

“Why, yes. Why did you think we’ve been traipsing all over England together?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Seth searched his memory, trying to recall the brief span of time between his being introduced to Thomas and then the boy being hurried upstairs to fetch his belongings. Had anyone actually mentioned the word “adoption”? He supposed that everyone, himself included, had taken for granted that the little fellow understood what was happening. But obviously he hadn’t, and the poor lad had lived under a cloud of uncertainty for the past five days.
Forgive me, Elaine
, he thought.
I’ll do better
.

“Thomas?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You’re never going back to the orphanage. Never.” He actually heard the boy swallow. “You believe me, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” Timidly he asked, “Does that mean you’re my father?”

Now it was Seth who swallowed. Yes, he had adopted Elaine’s child and had begun to care for him more than he would have imagined possible, but he had not yet thought of himself as a father. Even now the whole idea seemed staggering.

However, this boy’s need to feel that he belonged to someone was more important than his own misgivings over the title. “Yes. Is that all right with you?”

He could again feel the tension leaving the seven-year-old’s shoulders. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, good.” Seth was ready to move on to other things, because so much emotion had nearly drained him. “Now that that’s settled, do you feel up to another walk?” He patted the shirt pocket that held his money. “We’ve a cottage to buy, Thomas Langford.”

Late that same morning Andrew arrived at the Burrell cottage as Mr. Burrell and his two oldest boys were packing their meager belongings in Mr. Jowett’s wagon. The thatcher had kindly offered one of his sons to drive the family to Shrewsbury. He had some tools to pick up in the city, so the team of four dray horses he would be bringing by to harness up shortly would have been making the journey anyway—or so he had said. Whether that was exactly the case or not was hard to tell. The people of Gresham had gotten into a habit of seeing about the Burrells in the father’s absence. Now it almost seemed they held their collective breaths, hoping the family would really mend this time.

“Why, good day to you, Vicar!” Mr. Burrell called down from the bed of the wagon, where he was presently tying down a chair with Mark’s aid. If he seemed a bit surprised it was with good reason, for the good-byes had been said yesterday afternoon. That was when Mr. and Mrs. Burrell had shown up at the vicarage to thank Elizabeth for tending to Molly and David and to announce with radiant faces that they were moving. They’d brought the two youngest of their brood so that they could bid Elizabeth farewell. She had governed her emotions admirably, reading to the two on her lap while Andrew was given the details of Mr. Burrell’s new position and of their new little cottage that even had a patch of land for a decent vegetable garden.

It was later that his daughter had sobbed against his shoulder. Even Laurel, who had not been entrusted with their care but had managed to spend a good bit of time with them, had shed a copious amount of tears. And after an evening of having to be strong for his daughters’ sakes, he had gone to bed with an ache in his own heart.

“Mrs. Paget sent some sandwiches,” Andrew explained, indicating the large brown paper parcel under his arm that would likely sustain the Burrells for the next two days. The man raised himself and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. It was of some comfort to see that besides the honest sweat of carrying and loading, he was still as well-groomed as he had been yesterday. No reek of gin drifted Andrew’s way, and after over two decades in the ministry, he had a nose for it.

“How good of her to do so … and you to deliver them, Vicar.”

“I’ll pass along your thanks to her.”

Mrs. Burrell came out of the cottage, holding little David. She smiled at Andrew and they exchanged the contents of their arms—her taking Mrs. Paget’s parcel and him taking the boy. He went into the cottage and said farewells to the remaining children, accepting another kiss on the cheek from Molly. Yet not this, nor the delivery of the sandwiches, was the primary purpose of his call.

He put David to his toddling feet and helped Mr. Burrell and Mark heft up the biggest piece of shabby furniture, a cupboard. When all that was left were small parcels that the children could manage, Andrew drew Mr. Burrell aside. “I realize you have to get on your way, but would you spare me five minutes alone?”

“You?” The man looked as if that were the most foolish question imaginable. “After all you’ve done for my family?”

They walked together past a little stand of fir trees behind the cottage. When Andrew was sure they were out of hearing range of the rest of the family, he said, “I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t tell you my fears concerning your family.” Had he more time, he would not have been so blunt. “I should have mentioned them yesterday evening, but your announcement about leaving took me by surprise.”

Mr. Burrell nodded gravely. “You’re worried I’ll start drinkin’ again, ain’t you?”

“In a word, yes.”

“Can’t says I blame you. To tell the truth, Vicar, I can’t promise that I won’t—no matter how much I hate what it did to my family.”

“I don’t understand,” Andrew said. “Why can’t you promise to give it up?”

The man seemed to search his limited vocabulary. “Mr. Green—he’s the man I work for down to Shrewsbury—says grand promises like that just tempt us to break ’em.” His eyes began to water. “Don’t you think I’ve made those sort of promises in the past, Vicar? No man cares to see his children wantin’.”

His explanation struck a chord with Andrew. He had indeed witnessed many a vow to “turn over a new leaf” from drunks, opium addicts, and the like. Most were made with the purest of intentions, and sadly, most did not last. “So how can you give your family any assurance that this time will be different?”

Mr. Burrell ran his hand through his mop of hair. Andrew had been surprised yesterday to notice that the man’s hair was actually a light brown color, but then, that had been the first time he had seen it clean. “I can assure ’em of that
today
, Vicar. Because this mornin’ I asked Jesus to give me the strength to stay away from the bottle, but only to give me enough for this day. That ways I know I’ll have to ask again tomorrow, and the next day. It’s kept Mr. Green sober for thirty years now, Vicar.”

It seemed too dangerous a way to approach such a serious problem, and Andrew opened his mouth to argue. But his mind could produce no logical words to refute this philosophy. In fact, he found himself reluctantly agreeing. Did not the Scriptures say,
Give us this day our daily bread?
Then how could it be wrong to ask for daily sobriety?

“Just assure me of one thing, Mr. Burrell,” he said finally.

“Yes, Vicar?” There was extraordinary strength in the man’s expression.

“If this Mr. Green should ever fail you—and I pray he does not—remember for whom you’re doing this. Remember the legacy you’ll leave to your children, Mr. Burrell. The memories that will come to their minds when they visit your grave.”

Mr. Burrell’s eyes watered. “Pray for me, Vicar?” he asked huskily. “For all of us?”

Clasping the man’s hand in his own, Andrew replied, “Every day, Mr. Burrell.”

Chapter 14

The first thing Seth reckoned he needed to do was get a team and wagon. Fortunately, Mr. Pool knew of a cheese factory worker who had both for sale. It just so happened that he and his wife had been servants of the woman who had lived in the cottage on Nettle Lane, and she had left them an aged but sturdy wagon and two black dray horses dubbed Bonny and Soot. The couple apparently decided they had no need for either, preferring instead to have the money. It was the factory worker’s wife who struck the bargain with Seth. Her eyes teared when she described Mrs. Brent’s goodness to her and her husband—
“She were an angel, she were.”
—and those same eyes lit up brightly when Seth counted five pounds into her hand.

Fortunately, he had noticed upon his initial inspection that Mrs. Brent’s furnishings still remained in the cottage, but he would need such necessities as candles, lamp oil, matches and such, so with Thomas at his side he drove his new team of horses to
Trumbles
.

The shopkeeper filled his order quickly, then asked, “Won’t you be needing some food?”

Seth blinked. “Food?”

Mercifully, the shopkeeper did not chuckle. Spreading his hands upon the counter, he said, “The garden’s likely gone to seed. Unless you plan on taking all your meals at the
Bow and Fiddle
…”

“What kind of food have you?”

“Tinned and dried. Fresh foods you’ll have to get from Mr. Sway or Mr. Shelton or Mr. Johnson. They’re the greengrocer, butcher, and baker.”

Tinned seemed his only option. He did not know how to cook, or even store, anything fresh. “You have oats for porridge?”

Mr. Trumble nodded toward a barrel next to one of the supporting posts. “Scottish oats, my friend. How many pounds?”

Seth gave him a blank look.

“Let’s start you out with ten.” The shopkeeper took a folded white cloth sack from a shelf. Then he diplomatically mentioned while scooping up the oats, “Now remember, you’ll want to have your kettle boilin’ before you put in about four fistfuls of oats. Use a spoon, too, or you’ll have a mess on your hands.”

“Thank you.” Seth bought a dozen tins each of beef, pork, and lamb. Having never prepared a meal in his life, he found modern technology quite amazing! Wherein his ancestors had had to take to the woods with bow and arrow for their meat, he would simply have to take it down from a shelf. “But how does it come out?” he asked, holding up a tin of
Sergeant-at-Arms
beef to inspect it.

Mr. Trumble smiled and produced a hinged metal tool with a device resembling a key attached. “Tin opener—just patented this year. Was a time not too long ago we had to use knives.” He held up his hand and wiggled a finger. “Got this here scar from tryin’ to open a tin of pears.”

After an appropriate sympathetic look, Seth said, “You have tinned pears too?”