———
“Did you hear what everybody’s saying?” Philip asked Ben and Jeremiah in the school yard Monday morning as soon as he was out of earshot of his sisters.
Jeremiah looked over his shoulder and broke out into a grin. “Jake Pitt.”
“It’s not funny, Jeremiah. My mother asked me if I knew anything about it.”
“She did?” asked Ben, his blue eyes growing wide. “What did you tell her?”
“I had to lie.” Philip mashed down on a clod of dirt with the toe of his shoe and wondered if his conscience could hurt any worse than it had for the past twenty-four hours. Lying to one’s mother was especially wrong, in his opinion, because it combined two major sins … lying, and dishonoring a parent. He didn’t even blame God for being displeased with him at the moment, but in an effort to ease his aching conscience, he added, “Partially, I mean.”
“How do you tell part of a lie?”
“I told her that I didn’t know anything about three boys walking around with a ghost Saturday night.”
“But we did walk around with—” Jeremiah began until his brown eyes lit with understanding. “Oh, but Mr. Clay wasn’t a real ghost. So you told the truth, then.”
Philip shook his head. “The truth doesn’t upset your stomach. I almost told her the whole thing this morning.”
“You can’t do that!” Ben exclaimed, then glanced at the boys playing marbles just a few feet away and lowered his voice. “Fernie Sanders’ foot is broken. Did you know that?”
“No—how did you find out?”
“Dr. Rhodes’ cook has a brother who works for my father. She told him that one of the Sanders boys broke two bones in his foot.”
“They’re going to kill us,” Jeremiah said, peering fearfully out toward the green, as if he expected to see an army of Sanders materialize as he spoke.
“Not if they never find out,” Ben reassured him. To Philip, he said, “You can’t ever tell your mother, because then she’ll feel obliged to let our parents know. I don’t mind getting a strapping from my father, but the more people who hear about it, the greater chance it has of reaching the Sanders’ ears.”
“We can’t tell anybody,” Jeremiah agreed. “Ever.”
Miss Hillock came to the steps to ring the school bell, bringing an end to the conversation. Later, Philip was in the middle of penning neat rows of It is better to light one candle than to curse the darkness in his copybook when he remembered Mr. Clay. The actor had felt wretched about causing the shed to drop on Fernie’s foot. If he found out that the foot was broken, who knew what he would do? Perhaps even march over to the Sanders and apologize! Even if Mr. Clay claimed sole responsibility for the act—which would likely be the case—word was all over Gresham that three boys were involved as well. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out the identity of the three.
But Mr. Clay seldom left the house save his morning walks with Mrs. Kingston. And everyone who knew him tended to shield him from unpleasant news, so there was still a chance. Oh, Lord, please don’t let him find out, Philip prayed, then shuddered at his nerve for trying to involve God in his own misdeeds.
As the school day moved on with leaden feet, Philip didn’t even think of his academic rivalry with Laurel Phelps. When lightning could possibly come out of the sky and strike him on his way home, the matter of a trophy seemed small indeed.
“I don’t know. Maybe they just don’t like the water around the bridge anymore,” Jeremiah said that Saturday as the three boys carried their rods and tackle along the Bryce toward their second-favorite fishing spot in the north edge of Gipsy Woods.
“It’s the same water,” Philip told him. “Why would that matter?”
“Well, we breathe the same air,” said Ben. “But we like some places more than others.”
There was no arguing that logic, so Philip switched his fishing pole to his other shoulder and said, “All I know is … I told Mrs. Herrick I’d try for a string of perch today.” And he hoped that by bringing home a string of fish and thereby saving his mother some money he could lessen the guilt he’d carried around all week. Perhaps God would even look down from heaven and form the opinion that a boy who provided food for his family should be absolved just this once.
“What are you looking at?” Ben asked Jeremiah, nudging Philip out of his reverie.
Jeremiah pointed past the steeple of Saint Jude’s to a place up the river just north of the vicarage. “Isn’t that the vicar?”
Philip could only see willow trees along the bank. “How can you tell?”
“I saw him walk from the vicarage.”
They indeed came upon the sight of Vicar Phelps among the willows of the bank, staring out upon the water with both hands in his pockets. He appeared to be deep in thought but turned to greet them as they drew closer.
“Good morning, young men.”
“Good mornin’,” they chorused in return. Ben, the only one wearing a cap, reached up for it, but the vicar shook his head.
“That isn’t necessary, thank you. Going fishing, eh?”
Before anyone could reply to this obvious question, the vicar’s smile broadened. “But of course you are, aren’t you? You aren’t exactly outfitted for cricket.”
Philip, unable to resist the opportunity for a quip, darted a hand into his tackle basket and brought out the jar of chirping insects he’d caught behind the stables just this morning. “We’re outfitted with cricket, sir.”
The effect upon the minister was immediate, for he gave a great laugh that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. Caught up in the moment, the three boys joined in.
“That’s a good one,” Vicar Phelps said, wiping his eyes when the laughter had subsided into grins.
In spite of his wish that Laurel Phelps had never enrolled at Gresham School, Philip’s opinion of her father increased threefold during that exchange of levity. He had learned that some adults appreciated humor more than others. Miss Rawlins, as pleasant as she was, always seemed to assume a blank expression whenever Mr. Clay said something witty that left everyone else laughing.
“Forgive me for asking, because your faces do look familiar to me from Sunday, but what are your names?” Vicar Phelps was saying, and it seemed from the expression in his hazel eyes that he wasn’t just being polite. After Ben made introductions, the man nodded. “And I’m keeping you from your fishing, aren’t I? No doubt your families will be pleased to have fish on the platter this evening.”
“We hope so, sir,” said Jeremiah.
Ben nodded. “But we’ve spent an hour at the bridge with barely a nibble.”
“We’re especially hoping for some perch today,” was Philip’s comment.
“And with crickets, you say? Do you catch many perch with them, ordinarily?”
“Sometimes.” Ben cocked his head at the vicar, but respectfully so. “You know how to fish, Vicar Phelps?”
“Not when I was young like yourselves. But one of my parishioners in Cambridge taught me to fish the backs—the River Cam. It flows behind the colleges, you see. We had trouble bringing in perch as well, until someone lent me a very helpful book.”
“A book?” Jeremiah blinked, looking a bit crestfallen. “There’s a book about fishing?”
The vicar smiled again. “The Compleat Angler, by Isaak Walton. It’s actually quite popular, I’ve since discovered. I wish I had a copy to show you.”
“What does it say about perch?” Philip asked, intrigued.
“Minnows.”
“Minnows?” Ben and Jeremiah said at the same time.
“They work like a charm, most of the time. Keep your crickets for the graylings, and trout, mind you … but why don’t you catch up some minnows as well?”
They thanked him, assuring him that they would heed his advice. He waved farewell and started for the vicarage. When he was out of earshot, Ben said, “Do you think we should have asked him to come along?”
Philip looked at him askew. “Ask the
vicar?”
“Well, why not? You could tell he’s fond of fishing.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure he’s terribly busy.” He had other thoughts on the matter too but did not care to share them. As likable as the vicar appeared to be, he was still Laurel Phelps’s father. Let Laurel find out, as she would, that he’d fished with her father, and she would assume that her attempts to usurp his position as head of the class were just a trivial matter. Perhaps that would be so if he hadn’t already imagined a certain trophy occupying a place of honor on the chimneypiece in the Larkspur’s hall.
Chapter 27
“Want t’see the pig, vicar?” Mr. Towly asked around the clay pipe stuck in the center of his stubbled cheeks. He owned a small dairy farm to the far east of Gresham, past the manor house and along the edge of Gipsy Woods. Like the other dairy farmers in the village, he sold most of his herd’s output to the cheese factory.
“Why, yes … thank you,” Andrew replied, aware of the honor being bestowed upon him. He’d learned much about the rural folk of his parish during the three weeks since he’d moved his family here. Even the poorest cottage usually had a sty in the backyard, and the enclosed animal was treated as an important member of the family. Children on their way home from school filled their lunch pails with sow thistle and dandelions to supplement the pig’s diet of kitchen scraps, and they often roamed along the hedgerows on wet evenings collecting snails for the animal’s supper. In late autumn, the creature repaid such solicitous treatment by providing his keepers with bacon, hams, sausages, lard, and other parts…” nothing wasted except the squeal” was a saying Andrew had heard more than once.
He got up from his rush-bottomed chair and followed the man from the cottage, leaving Elizabeth listening intently as Mrs. Towly explained how to braid a rag rug. The pig, brown like its owner’s thatched roof, was one of the largest he’d seen yet. Andrew made sure to comment on his great size, which brought a flush of pleasure to his host’s stubbled cheeks.
“The little ones—they lets him run loose in the woods every so often.” A faint look of alarm crossed the man’s face. “Ye ain’t gonter tell the squire, are ye?”
“Why, no,” Andrew replied. He had become aware that Squire Bartley owned most of the land in Gresham, including Gipsy Woods, but surely he would have no objection to a pig rooting about in the shrubs for sloes and snails.
And if he did, well, Andrew was a guest in the Towlys’ home, bound under the same constraints of civility as any other guest. And he’d learned years ago to save most of his spiritual ammunition for the deadly sins that dishonored God and destroyed lives. But in that Mr. Towly’s confession had involved him in the matter, Andrew did feel compelled by conscience to add, “Just remember, Mr. Towly, there are no secrets from God.”
Later, as Rusty, the blue roan from the vicarage stable, pulled the trap bearing Andrew and his daughter down the tree-shaded Church Lane, he thought about how Elizabeth had kept her word about accompanying him on his calls. What made him especially grateful was that he was aware the visits bored her, no matter how adept she was at pretending interest in such things as rag rugs.
Immerse yourself in something else, Mrs. Hollis, the owner of the lodging house, had advised her. Good counsel it was, for Elizabeth had a greater chance of finding something that interested her while out making calls than by sitting at home absorbed in memories.
The Larkspur happened to come into view on his right. Had he ever thanked Mrs. Hollis, he wondered? He certainly had intended to, but it was hard to recall what he said to people at the door of the church. And he’d not yet made a call at the lodging house.
Tomorrow, he told himself. “I appreciate you coming with me, Elizabeth,” he said to his daughter. “I find it much less intimidating to have someone at my side when I knock on a door.”
His daughter drew her wool shawl closer about her shoulders, then looked askew at him. It was good to see a trace of her old humor returning, even though the haunted expression in her eyes still cropped up often.
“I never knew making calls intimidated you.”
“They never have before. Well, not counting my earlier days in the ministry. But I still feel a bit out of place here.”
“Like a fish out of water?”
“Yes,” Andrew said, smiling. “Or like a piano in the pantry.”
She thought for a second. “Like a mouse in the soup.”
“Good one.” Now he had to think. “Like a cabbage in a rose garden.”
“How about like a deck of cards in a church pew?” Elizabeth offered, but then put a quick hand up to her mouth. “Was that sacrilegious?”
“Why, I don’t think so,” Andrew told her. “Don’t you think God has a sense of humor?”
“I never thought about that.”
“Well, He made me, didn’t He?”
“Papa!” she exclaimed, giving him an indulgent smile while at the same time shaking her head in a reproving manner. “You’re quite handsome.”
“Now you’re going to make me vain.”
They rode in silence for a while, Andrew greatly encouraged by the lightness of their exchange. Why, in another week or so she won’t even remember his name.
“Do you regret moving us here?”
Andrew’s shoulders fell slightly at the flatness of her voice. “Moving us,” she had said, not even looking at him. Was there accusation in her tone, or was he just extra sensitive to her moods lately?
“No regrets, Beth,” he said in answer to her question. Her face was still turned toward the lane ahead, but he caught the tremble of her lip. How can she be laughing one minute and ready to weep the next?
“I’m trying, Father.”
Patience, Andrew reminded himself. “I know that. And I do appreciate it.” Taking a hand from the rein, he touched her cheek lightly. “You’re going to discover one day that you’re stronger than you think, Elizabeth Phelps.” At least he prayed that would happen.
Their last morning call would be to the Burrell cottage, south of the village on Short Lane. Mr. Burrell had been a skilled carpenter at one time, so said Reverend Wilson’s helpful notebook. But the bottle had ruined him, and now he kept himself supplied with drink by taking on odd jobs here and there. By poaching too, it was rumored. His poor wife kept their seven children clothed and fed by working at the cheese factory and shame-facedly accepting parish assistance when the rent could not be met.
Andrew had paid a call one evening last week, when Mrs. Burrell was home and her husband out, to reassure the overworked woman that he would continue to see about her family, as his predecessor had done. He now wanted to meet the man face-to-face. With the memory of Mrs. Burrell crying on his shoulder still fresh in his mind, he felt compelled to admonish the man for abandoning his role as provider and nurturer of his family. Likely it would bring no change. Vicar Wilson had made heroic attempts at the same for years … but he had to try.
He had almost decided to make this call at a time when Elizabeth wasn’t along. Drunkards were not pretty sights. But during his morning prayers, a strong impression came over him that she should be with him.
It was obvious that Jonathan Raleigh still occupied a great deal of her thoughts. She’d led too sheltered a life and could not grasp the severity of what happens to a wife when a husband hands his life over to the devil. Oh, he’d cited examples to her—keeping the names private—of sad cases he’d seen during his years in the ministry, but the lessons that made the deepest impressions were those that could be experienced firsthand.
He pulled Rusty to a halt in front of the Burrell cottage—a hovel, actually, of wattle and daub, showing numerous chinks and cracks. The first thing that caught Andrew’s eye was a small child of about three trying to lift the end of a large stick.
“Dear me, no!” Elizabeth exclaimed, quickly moving herself out of the trap. Andrew’s heart skipped a beat with the realization that the stick was an ax. He dropped the reins and jumped out on his side, but his
daughter reached the child first.
“Here now, you mustn’t play with that,” she was saying, prying the little fingers away from the handle. The child gaped up at her with eyes that seemed extraordinarily blue in a small face begrimed with dirt. Her light brown curls were matted and uncombed, her gown—likely a sleeping garment—dirty, and there were no shoes on her feet despite the briskness of the early October air.
“Tha’s ack,” the child said and pointed to the ax that now lay on the ground.
“Yes, but it’s dangerous.” Elizabeth shook her head. “It’ll hurt you.”
“Is hot?”
“Yes, hot.”
The child nodded somberly. “Hot.”
Elizabeth looked up at Andrew, her eyes tearing. “How can a mother …?”
Giving her a sad smile, he said, “The mother leaves for work before the sun comes up.”
Now his daughter’s eyes shot to the cottage. “Who watches the child?”
Andrew recalled what had been written in Vicar Wilson’s notebook and what he had seen for himself last week. “One or another of the older children stays home from school when the father’s not around,” he replied. His lips tightened at the sight of the door hanging crookedly on its hinges. “But I suppose he’s here today.”
The inside was as desperate as the outside—a packed earth floor and mismatched pieces of furniture that had apparently been castoffs. Still, there were heart-rending attempts at beauty—hand-sewn curtains of cheap but colorful gingham in the windows and some blue mist flowers in a jar at the center of the crude trestle table. A partially open curtain sagging from a rope formed the only other room. The foot of a rusty iron bedstead was visible, and a grating sound came from that direction. It was snoring, Andrew realized. At eleven in the morning!
He was on his way across the room when movement caught his eye. In a wooden box on the floor, obviously a makeshift crib, a child lay on a folded blanket. Andrew walked over to it and crouched down. The child appeared to be a boy, quite younger than his sister, and was so still that Andrew worried that he might not be breathing. Gently, he touched a soft cheek and let out a relieved breath when he stirred slightly.
The Widow of Larkspur Inn Page 31
