The Widow of Larkspur Inn (49 page)

As it was, Mrs. Paget grumbled because he was an hour late, but her humor was quickly restored when Andrew complimented her new apron. And she didn’t give so much as a frown when he asked if he might take his supper to the parlor on a tray. He chatted with Laurel as he ate his supper and was finishing up his blackberry cobbler when Elizabeth returned. She went straight to Andrew and knelt down at his side, resting her arms upon the arm of his chair.

“I met Mrs. Burrell this evening,” she said, her cheeks flushed with the night air. “That poor woman works so hard to keep her family from starving.”

“It’s a sad case,” said Andrew.

“Has her husband returned?” Laurel asked from her chair.

Elizabeth turned to shake her head and answer, “Not yet. Mrs. Burrell said sometimes he’s gone for days.” When she turned back to Andrew, the flush upon her face had deepened.

“Please don’t be angry, Father, but I offered to keep Molly and David on school days in the meantime. Then none of the older children would have to miss their lessons.” She was rushing her words, as if fearful that he would interrupt with a negative reply. “They’re all quite bright, the older children, and it would be a shame to have their education suffer. And they could bring the babies here before school and fetch them afterward, so you wouldn’t have to worry about being away in the carriage. They walk both ways anyway, and it would just be a little farther.”

Finally she paused for breath, giving Laurel an imploring look at the same time, as though trying to enlist her particular negotiating skills. Laurel came through immediately, declaring, “They
were
awfully sweet babies, Father.”

“Terribly sweet,” Elizabeth agreed, sending her sister a grateful smile.

This encouraged Laurel to add, “And you know what Jesus said about doing for the least of our brethren.”

Now both daughters watched him, waiting for his answer. Andrew ran a hand through his hair and recalled other projects that Elizabeth had taken up with gusto, only to abandon them when the excitement wore off. And far more was at stake here than watercoloring and archery lessons.

He sighed and wondered why no one had ever warned him how hard parenting would become as the girls grew older. Not that he could have done anything to change that, but at least he wouldn’t have been blindsided.

“That’s quite a responsibility,” he felt compelled to warn her. “What if Mr. Burrell stays away for weeks this time? It would be cruel to encourage the family to become dependent upon you if you don’t plan to carry through for that long.”

To her credit, Elizabeth did not argue but appeared to think his words over. “Yes,” she said at length, quite calmly. “That would be cruel. And those children have had enough cruelty in their lives.”

“More than enough,” Andrew agreed.

“I know I’ve been flighty in the past, Father. But what if I gave you my word that I’ll tend to those children through the rest of the school year, if it comes to that. And without complaining.”

He admired her willingness to help the Burrells but had to make certain it wasn’t just a passing fancy. “Why do you want to do this, Elizabeth?”

Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. “It’s been nice to feel … well, needed, these past few days. Oh, I know you appreciated my making calls with you, but you’re quite capable of making them just as well without me. But those children … they’re so little and helpless. I can make a difference in their lives.”

Touched by her compassion, Andrew felt compelled to go along with the plan. He feigned a stern face, though, and said, “I suppose I shall have to make a stop at Mr. Trumble’s tomorrow.”

His daughters exchanged glances, and then Laurel asked, “Mr. Trumble’s?”

“We should keep our own supply of nappies here.”

Elizabeth jumped up to wrap her arms around his neck and plant kisses in his beard. Later, as he read
The Shrewsbury Chronicle
and Laurel continued to study, Elizabeth sat in a semireclining position on the sofa and pored over a book she’d found in the vicarage library,
The Care and Feeding of Infants
by Mrs. Wright. And occasionally Andrew looked up from his newspaper, savoring the welcome peace that permeated the room.
It’s been a long time,
he thought.

Chapter 29

“Wonderful sermon you preached Sunday, Vicar,” the tall elderly woman said from the garden in front of the
Larkspur
Wednesday morning. Beaming, she brushed her right hand against the skirt of her ebony gown and then thrust it at him. “I must admit that I wasn’t prepared to like you, what with Vicar Wilson being so special and all.”

“I can understand that,” Andrew smiled back at her while shaking her hand and mentally making a frantic search through his list of parishioners.
Mrs. Princeton, was it?
Why hadn’t he reviewed Vicar Wilson’s notebook before setting out this morning?

The blue eyes that studied him were sharp, yet there was an odd amusement in her expression. “You’re trying to remember who I am, aren’t you?”

“Ah … I’m afraid so. Will you forgive me?”

“Of course, Vicar. I wouldn’t expect you to memorize everyone’s name so soon. It’s Mrs. Kingston.”

“Kingston!” Andrew said, snapping his fingers. “I
knew
it had something to do with royalty.”

She chuckled at this, and he relaxed a bit. Glancing at the short spade in her left hand, he asked, “Are you planting more flowers?”

“Oh, heavens no. Preparing the ground for next spring is more like it. I wasn’t here to do it last winter, and the garden wasn’t nearly as splendid as it could have been. But you just wait ’til spring, Reverend. And be prepared to preach a good strong message on coveting, because that’s what all of Gresham will be doing when I win the ribbon for roses at the flower show this June.”

“You know what the Scripture says about pride, now, Mrs. Kingston,” he teased. “Besides, I hear Squire Bartley’s garden is a sight to behold.”

He’d never seen it himself, because his introductory call at the manor last week had been so unpleasant that he’d been in no mood to dally around the premises. The squire had subjected him to a litany of Vicar Wilson’s faults, which all seemed to boil down to the notion that the vicar hadn’t given him the respect he was due.

“My great-great-grandfather founded this town!” the old man had snorted. After listening to some ranting and ravings, Andrew concluded that this bitterness had developed when Vicar Wilson refused to recommend the squire’s nephew to Saint John’s college. “One of the finest boys who ever walked the earth!” the squire had declared. “And it discouraged poor Donald so much that he gave up all hopes of going into the ministry!”

“But if the boy was truly called by God, he wouldn’t allow something like that to alter his life’s plans,” Andrew had said as tactfully as possible. The squire’s eyes had seemed to bulge then, so much that Andrew feared an imminent stroke. That was when he bade his host good-day and left the manor.

“Ah, but the squire will have no chance this year.” Mrs. Kingston interrupted his thoughts, speaking in a conspiratorial voice after sending a glance down each side of the lane and to the door of the
Larkspur
.

“Do tell?”

“If I ask you to keep something to yourself, you’re obligated do so … isn’t that correct?”

“That is correct, Mrs. Kingston. Unless you’ve gone and buried the squire in your garden, that is.”

“Now, there’s a thought,” she chuckled. “But come see what we discovered behind the inn this spring.” Dropping the spade, she led him over to a bush about two feet high. The leaves were sparse and darkening with the season, and it appeared to be more twigs and thorns than anything else. Yet she had mulched around the base with oak leaves and what appeared to be rabbit pellets.

“Is it a rose?” Andrew asked, though he could only see the reddishbrown remains of five or six flowers.

The blue eyes were sparkling. “Not just any rose, Vicar. It’s the rare
Rosa Allea
, the oldest rose on record in Great Britain.”

“This bush?”

“No, of course not
this
particular bush. But this one began as a cutting from an older bush, which began as a cutting … and so on back through the ages. Would you care to hear more of its history?”

Andrew had never been particularly interested in flowers except to admire their colors and scents, but he had a fondness for history. While manners would have dictated that he answer in the affirmative anyway, he found himself genuinely wishing to know the story. “Do tell me, Mrs. Kingston.”

She smiled indulgently down upon the bush, as a mother would her sleeping child. “The
Rosa Allea
was chosen by the House of York as its emblem in the fifteenth century, Vicar. If you remember your schooling, Henry VII was struggling for the throne of England.”

“The War of the Roses,” Andrew nodded. He studied the rather pitiful-looking plant again. The trappings of royalty were surely missing. “Forgive me for asking, but how can anyone be absolutely certain that it was this particular kind? Are you an expert on roses?”

“Oh, ye of little faith!” she chided, but with good humor. “A botanist by the name of Mr. MacQuarrie stayed at the
Bow and Fiddle
for a week or so back in late July—he was traveling about Shropshire, cataloguing the flora and fauna, you see. When I found out about the young man, I asked him to look at the garden and give me some advice regarding some spotting on the begonia leaves. He was so startled to find what appeared to be a
Rosa Allea
here, that when he returned to the University of Edinburgh, he looked up records and sent me verification that it was indeed so.”

“Amazing. Part of history growing right here in your garden.”

Mrs. Kingston beamed at his interest, her high opinion of him obviously having gone up a notch. “But you must keep it to yourself, Vicar. I’ve only told one other person—Karl Herrick—the caretaker here. Even Mrs. Hollis isn’t yet aware of the significance of this particular bush. The squire is going to receive the shock of his life!”

“Undoubtedly!” Andrew looked at the bush with new respect, then remembered the reason for his call. Warmly, he said, “Thank you for allowing me into your confidence, Mrs. Kingston. Rest assured, your secret is safe with me.”

“Thank you, Vicar Phelps. And now would you like me to show you into the house?”

When she ushered him into the hall, Andrew was glad he’d not delayed his visit until later in the day, for it became apparent that he would be spending some time here. Three other familiar faces from his congregation offered greetings, and Mrs. Kingston kindly introduced them as Mrs. Hyatt and Mr. Durwin. Miss O’Shea he remembered from his meeting with Mrs. Hollis and her on the vicarage lane, and a Mrs. Dearing was introduced as being a Baptist. Miss Rawlins, he was told, another member of Saint Jude’s, was upstairs penning a novel, and there was a lodger named Mr. Clay, an actor, who was resting in his bedchamber.

Mrs. Hollis, he was told, was in her office. He was glad of this, for he couldn’t very well tell her of the recent changes in Elizabeth’s attitude in front of an audience. “Please don’t disturb her now,” he told Miss O’Shea as he handed over his hat. “But perhaps you could show me the way there after I’ve had a chance to visit in here for a little while?”

The housekeeper smiled and asked if he would care for some tea. He accepted gratefully, then spent some time becoming better acquainted with the people gathered in the hall. Mr. Durwin asked if he could divulge the subject of this Sunday’s coming sermon. Always happy to talk about his ministry, Andrew replied that he would like to contrast Nehemiah’s rebuilding the wall around Jerusalem with personal holiness in a Christian’s life. They seemed to find this intriguing and spent some twenty minutes discussing biblical themes related to the subject. Mrs. Dearing, though not Church of England, had an impressive command of Scripture, and even brought out a point that he made a mental note to include in his sermon.

When he had decided that he could politely take his leave, he stood and asked Miss O’Shea, standing silently in the background, if she would mind showing him to Mrs. Hollis’s office. “I’ve enjoyed the stimulating conversation,” he smiled at the group.

“You come visit us again, Reverend,” Mr. Durwin said to a chorus of agreement.

As the Irish housekeeper led him down a corridor, Andrew complimented her on the two cups of tea he’d consumed in the hall. “Delightful blend. Was it purchased here in Gresham?”

“I’m afraid not, sir,” she replied. “Mrs. Herrick orders a special blend through a company in London. She wouldn’t dream of serving anything else. Would you like me to ask for the address?”

“That would be very kind—” he told her, but a second thought brought him pause. “Do you think Mrs. Paget would take offense? She rather prides herself on the tea she serves.”

Miss O’Shea bit her lip. “Well, sir, I’m not well acquainted with her. But cooks do seem to take any suggestion for change a bit personally.”

“That’s been my experience as well. Perhaps it’s better to have a happy cook than the best tea, don’t you think?”

“I agree, sir,” she said, smiling, and Andrew liked the calm manner in which she conversed with him—respectful, but not subservient.