Andrew spent almost an hour with Mrs. Ramsey and Mrs. Cobbe, then returned to Market Lane and headed north. While passing the Larkspur, he set the basket down over the wall to be collected on his way home. His next visit would be with Mrs. Perkins, who was recovering from an attack of ague. He paid attention only to the lane directly in front of his steps, grateful that no passersby were out with whom he would have to stop and make small talk. Why didn’t you simply tell her where the bread came from? he asked himself. Lies told by omission were just as sinful as those spoken aloud.
He had just raised a lethargic fist to knock upon Mrs. Perkins’ cottage door when his left ear caught a series of dull raps and a male voice shouting something that sounded suspiciously like an oath. Andrew stepped back into the lane and peered toward the stone bridge over the River Bryce. The Sanders wagon sat motionless, still hitched to the pair of speckled drays, and listing to the left where a familiar figure was bent over a wheel, banging at it with a hammer.
“Thank you, Father!” Andrew muttered as he hurried up the lane with fists balled at his sides. At least he would have the opportunity to give Harold Sanders the rough side of his tongue for all the trouble he had caused! But that righteous indignation began to fade with every step. One of the consequences of spending hours each week in Bible study was that scriptures having to do with returning good for evil and turning the other cheek now nudged themselves into his mind uninvited. He unclenched his hands, and when he was within hearing distance, he called out, “Broke again, did it?”
Harold twisted his body only long enough to send a scowl over his shoulder, then raised the hammer again. “It’s a piece of rubbish, this old wagon!”
Stepping closer, Andrew could see the problem. The wheel had apparently hit a rock, which caused the seam in the iron rim to separate, breaking the wood felly and two spokes. “Couldn’t have happened in a better place, you know.” When Harold looked at him again, Andrew motioned toward a stone cottage and wheelwright’s shop at the entrance to Worton Lane. “Mr. Mayhew’s. I don’t see how you can fix it yourself without the proper tools.”
Harold’s scowl grew even more sour. “Can’t take it there.”
“Why not?”
“My papa—” he began, then shrugged.
It was easy for Andrew to supply the rest in his imagination, for it seemed that either Willet Sanders or one of his older sons had feuded with every man in Gresham. Even easygoing Mr. Trumble had banned Harold’s brother, Dale, from his shop for several months for insulting one of his customers.
“Well, if you’d like to unhitch one of the horses and go home for help, I’ll stay with the other one.”
“Can’t. My papa and Dale are in Grinshill lookin’ at some cattle. Won’t be back ’til afternoon milking. And Fernie and Oram are as useless as Jack and Edgar.”
Why don’t we try being a little more negative? Andrew thought. “What if I spoke with Mr. Mayhew? I’m sure he would allow your father to pay him later.”
The man got to his feet and turned around to face him. One eyebrow lifted over a deep-lidded moss green eye. “You would do that, Vicar?” He motioned toward the bed of the wagon and at least had the decency to blush. “You know I stole your cake.”
And I’ve half a mind to bring you to Mrs. Paget and let her deal with you! Andrew thought. “It’s fig bread. And yes, I would do that, Harold.”
Both eyes narrowing with suspicion, the man asked, “How did you know my name?”
“The same way you know mine, I expect. Small village.”
“You ain’t gonter make me promise to go to church, are you?”
“I can’t make you promise anything,” Andrew replied. “But I confess it would please me if you did.”
He shifted his feet. “Well, I’m Wesleyan.”
Andrew did not contradict the man by pointing out that having a sister and two younger brothers in the Wesleyan faith did not make one a Wesleyan any more than having a brother in the Royal Navy made one a sailor. “You can find God at the Wesleyan church, too, Harold. Or I can tell you about Him now, if—”
“We’d best get on over there if you’re gonter talk with Mr. Mayhew,” Harold cut in. “But it won’t do no good.”
With a quiet sigh, Andrew replied, “Well, you never know until you ask.”
As it turned out, Mr. Mayhew declared he could get to the job within the hour and didn’t seem to mind that it was a Sanders wheel he would be repairing. He even offered to allow Harold to leave one of the horses in his paddock so he could go home on the back of the other one and tend to some chores. After thanking Mr. Mayhew, Andrew walked with Harold back to his wagon and helped him unhitch the horses.
“Here, this is for you,” the man said, avoiding Andrew’s eyes as he scooped a towel-swathed bundle from the bed of the wagon and thrust it at him. He shrugged again. “I just wanted to see if I could get away with it anyway.”
It was on the tip of Andrew’s tongue to tell Harold to keep the loaf, but then it didn’t seem right that thievery should be rewarded—even when the thief offered to return his bounty. So he tucked it under his arm and caught up the reins of the horse that he would be walking over to Mr. Mayhew’s.
“Think about church, now. Reverend Seaton would be happy to see you.”
Harold mumbled something in reply that could have been either affirmative or negative—or perhaps simply a grunt—as he hoisted himself onto the bare back of the other horse. He took up the reins, lifted a hand in farewell, and rode off across the bridge.
Just as Andrew was leaving the wheelwright’s shop, it dawned upon him that he could now right the wrong he had perpetrated earlier. He would have to confess all to Mrs. Ramsey, of course, but it would be better than living with the guilt that had returned in full force to nag at him. And how could Mrs. Paget hold it against him if the proper loaf of bread had eventually found its way to the Ramsey cottage?
He took the back way down Walnut Tree Lane, eager to have it done with before making the rest of his calls. Recrimination no longer clouded his senses, enabling him to appreciate the coolness of the tree-shaded lane and the varied colors of newly blooming gardens in front of half-timbered and stone cottages. Within minutes his spirits were fairly soaring.
And then his eyes caught motion in the distance ahead. Mrs. Ramsey, wearing a bonnet and carrying a shopping basket, was walking briskly toward Market Lane. Must be going to Trumbles, he thought, hurrying to narrow the distance between them so he could call out to her. But then an idea insinuated itself into his mind, causing him to return to a slower pace.
She only leaves when her mother is napping. And their kitchen was located in front of the cottage. He had never actually mentioned to Mrs. Ramsey what kind of bread he had brought her. What if he slipped inside and switched the loaves? It would be such a relief not to have to worry about this whole affair becoming fodder for gossip.
Shame! he told himself. No decent Christian would even consider such a thing, much less a man of the cloth. But then another thought nudged the first one aside. Is it so wrong to want to undo what I’ve done? True, it would require a certain unpalatable stealth, but hadn’t Joseph once surreptitiously hidden a silver cup in his brother Benjamin’s sack? Who would argue that Joseph was not a righteous man!
And what about Harold Sanders? Now that was something to consider. If word reached the young man’s ears that the vicar had spread tales of his misdeed, he might never darken the door of a church!
“Good mornin’ to you, Vicar!”
Andrew fairly jumped at the booming voice of Doctor Rhodes’ gardener, who raised his clay pipe in greeting. “Good morning, Mr. Blake,” Andrew returned when his pulse slowed to normal again. “A fine day for gardening, isn’t it?”
“Ah, but it is at that!” The gardener’s grin stretched wide above a red beard. “And a fine day to be out walkin’. Men are gettin’ too soft these days, forgetting what the Almighty made feet for!”
“Yes, that’s true,” Andr
ew agreed, but with much less enthusiasm than Mr. Blake’s, seeing as how he would be riding in his trap if Julia hadn’t needed it. He passed six more cottages and then turned onto Thatcher Lane, all the while almost hoping someone would be in the lane or out in a garden to stop him. When he reached the Ramsey cottage, shaded by the meandering branches of a sentinel oak, he stopped and sent a look in all directions. There was no one in sight. I’m simply correcting myself, he rationalized. If he had accidentally walked away with Mrs. Ramsey’s umbrella instead of his own, there would be nothing wrong with switching them in her absence.
With heart pounding he opened the front door—he would not ease it open as a thief. You’re not a thief, he reminded himself. If Mrs. Cobbe woke, he would just have to explain his actions. He could see a white, familiar shape upon the table and drew closer. Incredulously, Mrs. Ramsey had wrapped the loaf in a towel identical to the one Mrs. Paget used—white cotton with yellow binding. And so the task was easier than he had imagined, a simple matter of switching bundles and heading out the door again.
He had to retrace his steps up Walnut Tree Lane, in case Mrs. Ramsey should be on her way home. If only the hard knot in the center of his chest would go away! With everything put to rights again, surely he should be feeling as cheerful as he had this morning when he left the vicarage. It’s this loaf! he thought, glancing down distastefully at the blackberry bundle under his arm. Like Achan’s gold, it was a symbol of what happens when one takes that first step on the downward path of deception. He had to be rid of it as soon as possible!
Turning onto Church Lane, he could see the Worthy sisters across from the Larkspur’s carriage drive, sitting in a patch of sunlight in their garden between a pear and yew tree. The lap cushions upon which the white-haired women pinned their lace-spinning patterns were so much a part of their frames that it always seemed unusual to Andrew to see the two seated in church without them. As he moved closer, the two bade him good day in unison. Andrew returned the greetings. His steps finally felt a little lighter.
“How are you keeping this morning?” he asked the two, who were actually sisters-in-law, not siblings by birth.
Jewel, the more outspoken of the two, nodded as her gnarled fingers continued to weave threads through the pins on her cushion. “Got more orders than we know what to do with, Vicar.”
“But we’re making a tablecloth now,” Iris told him in her soothing voice. “To send to the queen. Her birthday is next month, you know.”
“And ye may as well nail us in our coffins with our cushions and pins when the time comes for us to go,” Jewel added. Her voice resembled metal grating against a file. “Because our old fingers ain’t going to know how to stop spinnin’.”
Giving her sister-in-law a stern look, Iris reproved, “You shouldn’t be talking about our coffins like that, Jewel.”
“And why not?”
“Because it’s inviting trouble. Remember old Mr. Summers who lived on Short Lane? He was forever telling folks that—”
“He lived on Thatcher Lane,” Jewel interrupted as Andrew waited for a pause in which to remind them gently that he had delivered a forceful sermon against superstition just last month. “In that old stone cottage with the dirty windows. It were before the lanes was cobbled, and folks was always havin’ to clean dust from the windows so’s they could see out. But his wife, Mrs. Summers, she didn’t—”
Iris, whose lips had drawn together tightly during Jewel’s narrative, finally cut in. “But that wasn’t the old Summers place, Jewel. That was their son Rowan’s. Old Mrs. Summers used to give us pears from her tree, and her windows were as clear as well water.”
In an effort to change the subject, Andrew leaned closer to inspect the band of lace trailing from Iris’s pillow and quipped, “Isn’t it narrow for a tablecloth?”
The tactic worked, for they stopped arguing and stared up at him as if he had lost all his faculties. “We sews ’em together, Vicar,” Jewel explained in the tone one would use to tell a child why he mustn’t eat peas with a knife.
“Yes, of course.” He drew the loaf from under his arm. “Would you care for some blackberry bread?”
Both wrinkled faces wreathed in smiles. He was clearly forgiven for his attempt at humor. “Why, how good of you, Vicar!” Iris exclaimed. “And Mrs. Paget, too, of course.”
“Oh, but this came from the bakery just a couple of hours ago,” Andrew was quick to make clear. “I’ll just need to take the towel with me.”
“We’re right fond of bakery bread too,” Jewel reassured him. But then she looked helplessly at her spinning fingers, as if not quite sure how to command them to stop.
“We’ll have it with our tea later,” said Iris.
But when she also seemed hesitant to take the loaf from him, Andrew nodded understanding. “Shall I bring it inside for you?”
Relief washed across both aged faces. “Would you, Vicar?” Iris asked. “We shouldn’t want to get any crumbs on the queen’s lace.”
“I don’t mind at all,” Andrew replied. He felt so much better as he crossed the garden that he found himself whistling one of his favorite hymns, “Blest Be the Tie.” The wattle-and-daub cottage consisted of two rooms, the front serving as a parlor, dining room, and kitchen. Andrew went straight to the bread box sitting on a dresser and opened its lid.
“Blest be the tie that binds…” he sang softly while unwrapping the towel. And then he froze. A slice had been cut from one end of the loaf.
“No!” he groaned. How would he explain that? When did the day begin to unravel for him? If only he could start it over again! With clenched teeth, he took a knife from a crock of cutlery.
“I pray you don’t mind…” Andrew said on his return to the sisters. Showing them the thin slice of bread resting upon the folded towel in his hand, he added sheepishly, “I took the liberty of helping myself.”
Of course they assured him that they didn’t mind. He felt shamed by their graciousness and took a bite because he knew it would please them. “Very tasty,” Andrew said after swallowing. Ordinarily he was fond of blackberries, and this bread was heavy with the moist fruit. But guilt made it as palatable as sawdust. “And now I must finish my calls.”
He didn’t have the heart to reprove them for the coffin comment. After his actions for the past two hours, a little superstition seemed a mild thing. It was only after Mrs. Perkins had welcomed him into her cottage that the thought struck Andrew of how Mrs. Ramsey would soon be unwrapping the loaf in her kitchen.
Chapter 3
As Rusty pulled the trap at a spanking pace down Bartley Lane, Julia realized that she was still smiling. A grandchild! Jonathan would be so delighted to find out he was going to be a father! He was so good with children in the classroom, and now there would be a little one at home as well. And Andrew! He would be beside himself with joy! It was going to be difficult to keep the secret, but Elizabeth was right—she and Jonathan should be the ones to tell the new grandfather-to-be.
She rode past the new red brick building that housed the Octavia Bartley School for Advanced Learning and scanned the four front windows, though she knew Aleda, Laurel, and Philip would be busy at their desks. A stab of memory found her heart of how her first husband had swung her up into his arms and laughed when she shyly told him she was carrying their first child.
At only seventeen, Julia had still been a child herself during the pregnancy. Little did she know that in addition to his long days as a surgeon at London’s Saint Thomas Hospital, Dr. Philip Hollis was already finding another outlet for his time—the gaming halls. When he died of a heart attack fourteen years later, he left a wife and three children who barely knew him, as well as debts that cost them everything they owned. Except the Larkspur, Julia thought. A loan and some wise advice from her butler, Mr. Jensen—now the Larkspur’s manager—combined with hard work and the grace of God had enabled her to turn the abandoned coaching inn into a successful lodging house.
And God had been faithful to
send many people along the way, whose generosity of spirit and encouragement fortified her when she needed it most. Former housemaid, Fiona O’Shea, now Mrs. Ambrose Clay, who insisted on moving to Gresham with her, working at first without wages. Mr. and Mrs. Herrick, whose caretaking and cooking freed Julia to learn the business aspects of running the inn. Even her first lodger, Mrs. Kingston, now Mrs. Bartley, taught her not to rush to judgment of other people. And of course, Andrew, Julia thought. Dear Andrew. He had given her a love based upon friendship and respect—as well as romance—and was a caring father for her children.
The manor house loomed in sight, a high-gabled, red sandstone building set in a framework of pine and deciduous trees on manicured lawns. It was owned, along with a good deal of the farmland in Gresham, by Squire Bartley, founder of Anwyl Mountain Savory Cheeses. The old squire was showing increasing signs of mellowing since his marriage last year. He actually smiled whenever people greeted him and Mrs. Bartley in the course of their daily walk. It was he who had constructed the secondary school in honor of his wife.
Empty carriages in the gravel drive stood as evidence to Elizabeth’s prediction that Julia would be late. Gratefully she turned her reins over to a young groomsman, Silas Reed, lingering only long enough to compliment his clear tenor voice, heard every Sunday in the chancel choir at Saint Jude’s. A maid ushered her into the house and to the drawing room, where twenty or so women sat upon velvet-upholstered Queen Anne furniture and were thankfully still occupied with socializing. Near one oak-paneled wall a table boasted a silver tea service and dishes of sponge cakes covered with chocolate sauce.
Julia spotted Fiona right away and they exchanged smiles. Her dear friend shared a sofa with Mrs. Durwin and Mrs. Latrell, the Larkspur’s newest lodger. Fiona had expressed an interest in becoming involved with the community while in residence but confided to Julia at church yesterday that her husband was suffering another dark mood. Knowing Ambrose’s gallant nature, Julia was certain that he had urged her to attend today’s meeting anyway.
The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark Page 3
