The Widow of Larkspur Inn (38 page)

“Well, it’s a small matter to fetch the constable right away!” Mr. Durwin huffed indignantly. “Malicious mischief is still against the law in this country.”

Fiona shook her head. “Please don’t, sir. I offered to go with them to see Constable Reed, but the Keegans insisted that they’re afraid of angering whoever is doing this.”

“It can’t be just one person,” said Gertie. “Would take at least two to push over a shed.”

“Do they know who it is?” Mother asked.

“I’ve a feeling they suspect someone, ma’am. But they wouldn’t share it with me.”

“Afraid to
anger
vandals?” Mr. Durwin sputtered. “And who gives a tinker’s curse if they become angry? Spending a few weeks in the lockup would cool some tempers.”

But Philip understood. If indeed some of the Sanders boys were up to this, it was still apparently in the prank stage. If they saw that their nocturnal activities were causing no stirs, after a while they would probably give them up and move on to greener pastures. But allow the law to become involved, and the whole clan would consider it a matter of family honor to exact revenge in as many sneaky ways as possible.

He’d once read something about elephants, how those majestic looking creatures were really quite petty and could nurse grudges for years and years. That description seemed to fit the Sanders perfectly.

“Please.” Finally assuming her usual composure, Fiona said to Mr. Durwin, “That is so kind of you to offer, sir, but we must consider the Keegans’ wishes.”

“Well, I don’t know how it was in Ireland, but here in England people have the right to expect the law to protect their property.”

“But it’s a small matter to set the shed upright every week, compared with having to replace broken windows or worse. Besides, they’ve no
proof
of who’s doing this.”

She pushed her chair out again and rose from the table. First giving Mother and Mr. Clay an appreciative look, she apologized to everyone for becoming upset. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see to that marketing list now.”

A thoughtful silence settled over the group for a second or two after Fiona left the kitchen. It was broken when the kitchen door swung open. “What smells so good?” Aleda exclaimed, flanked by Grace and Helen. Deciding it a perfect time to leave, Philip motioned to Ben, thanked Mrs. Herrick for the strudel, and asked Mother to be excused. Permission was granted, and Philip and his friend went out the back door as the chattering girls found places at the table.

“Do you still want to go to
Trumbles
?” Philip asked half-heartedly as they ambled across the courtyard.

Ben patted his stomach and belched. “May we tomorrow instead? Besides, I’ve chores waiting, so I’ll have to leave soon.”

“All right.” He kicked a loose stone. “What do you think of what Fiona said in there?”

“I think the same thing you do. Should we have told?”

“I don’t know. Mr. Durwin sounded ready to jump up and fetch the constable.” Philip sighed and kicked another stone. “Surely they’ll tire of their little game one day.” Changing the subject, he said, “Have you time for a game of horseshoes?”

“Just one.”

The spike was set in the ground just outside the courtyard. Ben had just tossed the first shoe, a miss, when the courtyard door opened and Mr. Clay came outside and strolled over to them with both hands in his pockets.

“Would you like a turn?” Philip asked.

Mr. Clay smiled, but his slate gray eyes studied both of them. “Some other time, thank you.” He nodded back toward the benches under the giant oak tree. “Why don’t we sit and have a chat?”

“A chat?”

“Just for a bit. I’ve a feeling you two have an interesting tale to share.”

Philip did not need much coaxing to tell everything he knew about the Sanders brothers once they were settled upon the benches. Indeed, it was a relief to get the matter off his chest, and Ben appeared to feel likewise. “But Fiona … Miss O’Shea … doesn’t want us to go to the constable, so what can we do about it?”

Mr. Clay nodded, tapping the cleft of his chin absently with a finger. “Surely there’s a way to right this wrong.”

“You mean, you want to do something about it?” Philip asked, surprised. Even in his best moods, Mr. Clay had few dealings with people not attached to the
Larkspur.
But then he remembered the way the actor looked at Fiona and understood.

“I wouldn’t mind. It would require some creative thought, though.”

“We could hide behind a tree or in the bushes one Saturday night and catch them,” Ben offered.

“And then do what with them once we’ve caught them?” Philip asked.

“Threaten to tell Constable Reed. They can’t hold it against the Keegans if we’re the ones who report them.”

“But they can hold it against
us
. And I don’t care to have to hide from the Sanders for the rest of my life.”

Ben frowned. “That’s something to think about, sir,” he told Mr. Clay. “They give us enough grief as it is, and they’re not even
angry
at us.”

“I don’t want to put either of you in jeopardy,” the actor said. Seconds later, his lips curved into a half smile. “But perhaps there is another way.”

Chapter 22

The vicarage was a snug two-story cottage of the same red sandstone as Saint Jude’s. It roosted on a grassy knoll a stone’s throw from the church, and its wooden gate opened up to a neat little flower garden. Cheery multicolored woven rugs softened the oak plank flooring, and odd pieces of furniture, though none of it matching, appeared polished and well cared for.

The servants, Luke, Dora, and Mrs. Paget, had greeted Andrew and his family the previous evening with some uncertainty showing through their smiles. Andrew could understand this—he’d been informed by Bishop Myers that the vicar he was replacing, Reverend Wilson, had been much loved by the community. No doubt the servants felt the loss even more keenly than did the villagers. Their reserve melted a bit when Andrew warmly expressed his gratitude for the kettle of chicken and leek soup Mrs. Paget had kept simmering for them and indicated his appreciation of the garden and tidy rooms.

He had been pleased to discover that a river, the Bryce, flowed just north of the vicarage. Perhaps there would be a little time for fishing once a routine was established. Even more pleasing was the little book-lined study just off the parlor. Andrew had spent his first full afternoon in Gresham—after inspecting Saint Jude’s and lunching with Elizabeth at the home of the churchwarden, Mr. Sykes—thumbing through a clothbound notebook that Vicar Wilson had left upon the desk with a letter of welcome.
You may find this helpful,
his predecessor had accurately written, for within its pages were thoughtful descriptions of every family in the parish—occupations, births and names of children, conversions and baptisms, deaths, and even facts that would aid a pastor in serving, such as:

Mrs. Ramsey
(a seamstress living on Thatcher Lane, so the notebook said)
tends to her ailing mother and cannot attend church. They both look forward to Monday morning visits for prayer and hearing details of the previous day’s service
.

Another entry told of a Mr. Kerns, a cheese factory worker:
He is a decent man, but occasionally struggles with the temptation of the bottle. If Mr. Kerns should be spotted entering or leaving the Bow and Fiddle at any time, it would be beneficial to deliver a stern lecture against allowing his nine children to live in want while he wastes money on strong drink. The effects of such admonition will last three months, perhaps even four, before needing to be repeated
.

“Bless you, Vicar Wilson,” Andrew said aloud, for how long would it have taken him to learn such things on his own? He made a mental note to write a letter of appreciation to the good reverend and turned his attention to the notebook again. Next came a warning that while patronizing Mr. McFarley, the barber, conversation should be gently steered away from politics lest an uneven haircut result.

And if anyone even mentions the phrase “Scottish Reform Bill,” it would behoove you to remove yourself from the premises immediately.
Andrew smiled and glanced up at the chimneypiece clock—then winced at the time.
Half past four.
He hadn’t intended to cloister himself away for so long. Laurel had likely returned from school by now, and Elizabeth, who’d gone upstairs after lunch with a book, would need to be encouraged to spend some time with the family.

He wondered as he placed a folded sheet of writing paper inside the notebook to mark his stopping place if he should have been patient and waited for a city assignment. Perhaps he could have persuaded her to attend a women’s college as a day student. It wasn’t good for her to have so much time to brood.

But was more education the answer? Had he encouraged his daughters to fill their heads with knowledge to the neglect of their character development? He had always been so secure and just a little proud of the fact that he’d led them both to faith in Christ at early ages, but shouldn’t he have encouraged them upon a journey of spiritual growth, just as he would have done for any of his other parishioners?

The painful realization hit him that, because his daughters were raised in a minister’s home, he had assumed they would automatically absorb the spiritual principle that had taken him decades to glean. But, as Bishop Myers was fond of saying,
God has no grandchildren
.

Forgive me for being a stumbling block to my own children,
he prayed, sighing.
And please give each a stronger sense of purpose for their lives … especially Elizabeth now
.

The search for his daughters ended in the kitchen. It was a pleasant room, with a clean flagstone floor and savory aromas. A black-leaded range shone beneath a fringe of utensils hanging from the chimneypiece, where Mrs. Paget stood tending a kettle. Both girls were seated at a well-scrubbed oak worktable over cups and biscuits and looked up when he entered the room.

Andrew pulled out the chair at the head of the table, adjacent to both girls. “Good afternoon, my two favorite daughters.”

Six or seven years ago, this greeting never failed to elicit either a giggle or at least a correction of his context, but it had become a little worn with time. Now all he received were indulgent smiles. Elizabeth’s half-hearted attempt did not match Laurel’s in intensity, but he was nonetheless encouraged that it wasn’t a frown.

“Hello, Papa,” they said, almost in unison.

“Would you be wantin’ some tea now, vicar?” asked Mrs. Paget from the stove. She appeared at least fifty years of age, with graying blond hair and fine wrinkles webbing her eyes. She carried her thick figure with a grace that any dancer would envy. The cook had been in service at the vicarage for thirty-two years, she’d told Andrew yesterday evening, and her husband, Daniel Paget, had held Luke’s position until his passing on ten years ago.

“Tea would be nice, thank you,” Andrew replied. After the cook poured, he asked Laurel about her day at school.

“It went very well,” she said, her brown eyes sparkling. “I scored the highest mark in the class on a history examination.”

“Wonderful! And how did you get on with your classmates?”

“They were quite friendly.”

“I trust you didn’t gloat about the exam, Laurel,” Elizabeth said in a tone filled with elder-sister-admonition. “You have a tendency to do that, you know, but the others won’t like you if they think you’re conceited.”

“I didn’t gloat,” Laurel assured her. “And some of the girls even congratulated me over it.” She excused herself then, saying she had a composition assignment that was due the next day.

After the sound of her footsteps had faded away, Elizabeth gave Andrew a wry smile and remarked, “She’ll be ordering the headmaster about before too long.”

He sipped his tea and smiled back at her, pleased at this glimmer of her old sense of humor. If only that faint shadow of reproach would leave her eyes. He could see it lurking there every time she spoke to him. “She’s just a bit competitive, that’s all.”

“A bit? And from where did she inherit that, I wonder?”

Andrew put a hand up to his chest. “You aren’t implying that
I …”

“All I’m saying is, I noticed you managed to find time to hang your old rowing paddle in your study less than twenty-four hours after our arrival here. And what did your teammates nickname you at Trinity College?”

“Clipper,” he mumbled, unable to offer any argument in his own defense. And he
had
felt a flush of pride when Laurel announced her victory at school. But women did not have the same aggressive tendencies as men—the need to prove themselves against others. He felt quite certain that Laurel had been happy about the score on her examination for its own sake, not because it put her ahead of her fellow classmates for the day.

Changing the subject, he asked Elizabeth if she would care to accompany him on a walk. “Just to the river,” he added when she appeared about to decline. It hurt him that she showed no interest in learning anything about Gresham or its people. He’d had to practically order her to accompany him for lunch at the home of the churchwarden’s today. She’d sat mute at the table, unless to respond to a question from Mr. or Mrs. Sykes.