“Fine. Come by the manor and my bailiff will draw you up an agreement.”
Mr. Langford nodded, but it appeared from his expression that the matter was a bit more complicated. Sure enough, he went on. “I would like to buy the place, Squire Bartley. Would you consider selling it to me?”
“Out of the question,” the squire snorted.
“I can pay with cash.”
“You can offer me the Kohinoor diamond and I would not be interested, young man. I do not sell land.”
Disappointment filled the stranger’s brown eyes, and to Mrs. Kingston he looked like a man who had had more than his share of disappointments. Her heart went out to him. “Why do you insist upon buying, Mr. Langford?” she asked gently.
He gave her a grateful look. “I’ve never owned a place of my own. And I have to consider the future of my boy.”
“How old is your boy?”
“Seven.”
By then Mrs. Kingston wanted to tell him he could just keep the land, free and clear, but of course it wasn’t hers to give. She rather liked this young man who had the nerve to approach the squire with so brash an offer. She especially admired that while he was obviously quite eager to acquire the cottage and pastures, he did not grovel and scrape to the only person who could grant such a wish.
“Oh, why don’t you go ahead and sell him the place,” she said to Squire Bartley. “You’ve more land than you know what to do with, and no one to leave it to but a nephew who hardly ever visits.” He had conveyed his disappointment over the sad state of his remaining family to her in the garden the day she had visited the manor. Mrs. Kingston was aware that she was taking unfair advantage by reminding him of such, but it apparently worked, for he didn’t look quite so adamant anymore.
“I’m not keen on the idea of the land going to strangers. …” he said, a note of unsureness in his voice.
“I’ll give you one hundred pounds for it.”
The squire’s eyes grew sharp again. “Two hundred.”
“One twenty-five.”
“One fifty. With the agreement that if you ever sell, you must first offer it to me for the same price.” His lips tightened. “That doesn’t extend to my nephew when I’ve passed on.”
Mr. Langford nodded and reached out his hand. “Agreed, sir. I thank you.”
“Then you can show your gratitude by leaving,” the squire said testily after they had shook on the agreement. “Again, see my bailiff, and he’ll attend to the details.”
“Yes, of course. And good day to you.” After another grateful glance to Mrs. Kingston, Seth turned and strode quickly out of their morning walk.
“That was very good of you, Squire,” she said, taking his arm when he again offered it. “Again, you’ve proved that you aren’t as irascible as people say you are.”
He actually blushed. “You seem to bring out the good in me, Octavia. May I address you as such?”
She pretended to think it over. “Very well, Squire.”
“Thurmond?”
“Thurmond.” But she drew the line at accepting his invitation to supper, figuring that she had allowed their relationship to progress far enough for the moment. When he expressed his acute disappointment, she did take pity upon him and give his arm a pat. “This is too overwhelming to take in all at once, Thurmond. A lady needs time to think over such things.”
“Next week, then?”
“Very well,” she replied after allowing another hesitation.
It seemed he had been holding his breath, for he expelled a long one. “I’ll have cook prepare Foie de Veau Gratiné.” He glanced at her. “You do like calf’s liver, don’t you?”
“I’m terribly fond of it, but I was of the understanding that your digestion forbade such delicacies.”
Gallantly he replied, “It doesn’t forbid me from watching you enjoy them.” He knitted his brow. “Some Pommes de Terre aux Cèpes would go nicely with the liver.”
“Quite nicely. Potatoes are most nourishing, according to Mr. Durwin.”
He eyed her for a second, a faint suspicion in his expression. “Mr. Durwin …”
“Is all set to marry Mrs. Hyatt next month, and I’m overjoyed for both of them.”
The roadway turned into the cobbled stones of Market Lane. They lapsed into a companionable silence, with Squire Bartley adding items to next week’s menu, and Mrs. Kingston wondering if a lace collar would look too “youngish” on a wedding gown for a woman of her advanced years.
Thomas’s slight form looked swallowed up by the stone bench in the Bow and Fiddle’s courtyard. Both narrow shoulders were hunched forward, and his hands clasped together upon his knees. As Seth drew closer, he suspected the boy had been weeping. He hastened his steps.
“Thomas?”
“Yes, sir?” the boy answered in a small voice.
Seth squatted in front of the bench. Sure enough, the blue eyes were rimmed with red. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing, sir,” Thomas replied, and then to prove his words, the boy stretched the corners of his mouth.
It was the first time Seth could recall seeing him smile, but this was more of a grimace than an expression of happiness.
Giving a sigh, Seth moved himself to sit beside the boy. Raising a child had seemed so easy from the outside. One just told the child what to do, and hopefully the child obeyed. Of course there were measures that must be taken when the child chose not to obey, but he had never thought those through and certainly didn’t anticipate needing them with Thomas. Why, the boy had such a submissive nature that he would probably lie down in the lane and allow a carriage to roll over him if ordered to do so.
“Thomas,” he began wearily.
“Yes, sir?”
“Have I ever been less than honest with you?”
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 ob
viously 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?”
M
ercifully, 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?”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Elizabeth asked Mrs. Paget and Dora from the kitchen doorway.
Mrs. Paget looked up from the bowl of apples she was peeling. “Eh, miss?”
The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter Page 15
