“I could help.”
After sending a curious glance to Dora, who was rolling out a pie crust, the cook said, “There’s naught that we can’t handle, miss. But thank you kindly.”
Elizabeth walked from room to empty room. In the parlor, Laurel sat draped sideways over a chair with Jane Austen’s Emma, too absorbed to be drawn into conversation that required more than an absent “uh-huh.” I should have gone with Papa, Elizabeth thought. There were too many reminders of little Molly and David here. Animals in Rhyme still lay on an end table. She wished she had thought to send it with them. She could almost hear Molly’s soft little laugh as Papa produced a high-pitched voice when reading the part of Frederick The Fearful Field Mouse.
She realized then that Laurel had spoken to her. “What?” she asked.
Her sister gave her a sympathetic smile. “We can visit them sometime. They haven’t moved to Mars, you know.”
It won’t be the same. But it was something, and it had been kind of Laurel to mention it. Forcing enthusiasm into her voice, Elizabeth responded, “Wouldn’t that be fun?”
The unmistakable sound of guineas being tormented drifted to Mercy’s ears as she prepared supper. She hastened to the front, wiping her hands with her apron. Sure enough, Jack was chasing the birds around the yard as if he hadn’t been scolded twice this week for doing the very same thing.
“Jack!” Mercy shouted from the doorway. “Stop that!”
He obeyed reluctantly, panting like a piston as he leaned down to rest his hands upon his knees. “I—was—just—running,” he said between breaths. The guineas took off in the direction of the barn, making indignant little clucks along the way.
“I’m going to have to tell Papa this time,” Mercy said, frowning. It was a threat without teeth, she realized, because unless a matter directly inconvenienced their father, he seldom wanted to be bothered with administering discipline.
Jack realized it, too, because when he had caught his breath, he thrust his tongue out at her and began running down the same path the guineas had taken.
“No blackberry cobbler for you tonight if you bother them again!” Mercy called after him. Her threat seemed to work. He turned to give her a cherub smile.
“I weren’t gonter chase them.”
“Then go find something useful to do.”
She was about to go back to her cooking when the rattles and grinding squeaks of a wagon met her ears. She cocked her head to listen and could soon hear dull hoofbeats upon the dirt lane. It was inconceivable that someone should be calling on them, and equally inconceivable that someone would be calling at Mrs. Brent’s, so she waited, curious. All she could see was the dust of the lane rising above the hedgerows, but two seconds later Mrs. Brent’s wagon and horses came into view beyond the drive. It moved out of sight behind the hedgerows again before Mercy could even discern the two faces on the bench.
They weren’t Janet and Elliott. Had they lent the horse and wagon so that someone could move into the cottage? Surely not this soon, she thought with a fair amount of bitterness. Was there no respect for the dead? Of course she couldn’t expect the cottage to sit empty forever, but she was still used to thinking of it as Mrs. Brent’s. Just yesterday she had walked the half mile simply to gaze at it for a little while.
It was only after the tins and assorted supplies from Trumbles were stacked in a heap on the front parlor floor that Seth realized his mistake. The supper hour was upon them, and he hadn’t planned for it. We should have gotten something at the inn or bakery, he thought. Thomas was thin enough already—he couldn’t afford to miss too many meals—and Seth himself was feeling some hunger pangs. Small wonder! he thought. In all of the activity of the day—buying the cottage and supplies—he had forgotten about lunch, and bashful Thomas would starve to death before reminding him. At least we’ve food. He took a tin of beef and the can opener into the kitchen. An apple crate of kindling sat on the stone floor next to the stove, and he stashed a handful in the opening.
“Thomas, I need matches!” he called to the boy whom he had already put to work looking for soap among the supplies. While he waited he went outside the kitchen door to the wood stack and took up a log—surely one log would be enough just to warm the beef. Then he remembered tomorrow morning’s porridge and took up another larger one to set inside the door to keep it dry just in case of rain during the night. Thomas caught the door for him on his way inside and handed him the tin of matches when he was ready for them. The boy leaned closer, watching Seth take one out of the box.
“You’ve never lit a match?” Seth asked him.
“No, sir,” he replied. “But I’ve seen it done.”
“Would you like to?” Just as the words left Seth’s mouth, he remembered that it had been fire that had robbed the boy of his parents. Perhaps he shouldn’t have offered. But Thomas, who likely had no memories of that fateful night, responded with an eager nod. Seth put his big hands over the boy’s small ones and showed him how to hold the match and strike it against the side of the box. With Seth still guiding his hand, he lit one of the kindling splinters and then another before having to blow out the match.
The log took longer to catch, and by the time the beef was warm enough to eat—or at least warmer than room temperature—Seth’s stomach was sending up rumblings. Thomas, having dispatched their belongings to two bedrooms, had assembled the remaining tins at the end of the table. “Hungry?” Seth asked while spooning beef onto two plates.
“Yes, sir,” Thomas replied, pulling out two chairs. The meat was stringy and the gravy clotted with grease, but surely it would be tastier than any meal he had received at Newgate or that the boy had received at the orphanage. Remembering the pears—he had bought two dozen tins because he was particularly fond of them—he opened a tin and dished them up too.
At the table, Seth lowered his head for silent prayer, as was his habit, but raised it again and considered the bowed head across from him. He had heard or read—he couldn’t recall which—of fathers who said grace aloud before meals. Now that he actually owned his own cottage, it seemed fitting that he should establish that custom.
“Father, thank you for this food and for our home,” he said, wishing he could be more eloquent. “In Christ’s name, amen.”
When he had tasted a bite of the beef, Seth thought it a good thing that mealtime prayers were said before and not after eating, for he would have had a harder time being sincere. The stringy, mushy texture was not as disappointing as the strange aftertaste it left on the palate. I suppose it just takes some getting used to, he thought. At least he couldn’t complain about the convenience. He certainly didn’t have time to learn how to cook with all the patching and repairing that needed doing.
The pears, though also mushy, helped temper the aftertaste of the beef. “Well, what do you think?” he asked Thomas.
“It’s very good, sir.”
Seth smiled to himself. He imagined that he could serve dirt and earthworms and the boy would not find fault with it. While he heated up some water and washed the few dishes and kettle, Thomas stacked tins in a cupboard. He had to use a chair for a step stool and could only carry two tins at a time. When chores were finished in the kitchen, Seth lit a lamp, as the light coming in from the windows had almost completely faded. They headed upstairs next to arrange bedding in the two rooms across the landing from each other.
“When will you buy more horses?” the boy asked as they tucked the sides of a sheet into the mattress that would be his.
“Not until next summer,” Seth replied. “The haying season is past, and the horses would need food over the winter.”
“Won’t they eat oats?” he asked almost apologetically.
“Oats are good for them now and then, but too rich for every day. Besides, we’ll need the time to make repairs.”
“I can help you?”
Seth smiled while slipping a pillowcase over the pillow. “I’m counting on it.” The bed finished, he looked around.
“Will you be afraid in here by yourself?” He was surprised when the boy, who had yet to complain, gave a hesitant nod.
“I’ve never slept in a room by myself, sir.”
“Would it help if we kept both doors open?”
“Oh yes, sir,” he replied, but with uncertainty in his eyes.
“Of course, I’ll be sitting up with you for a while,” Seth added, as if he had simply forgotten to mention that part of the plan.
Relief eased across the boy’s face. “You will, sir?”
Later, when Thomas had washed up, cleaned his teeth, and changed into the nightshirt purchased in Shrewsbury along with some other new clothing, Seth brought the chair from the room that was to be his and placed it near the bedside. The air drifting in through the window was pleasant but would likely become chilly before morning, so he tucked the sheet and quilt about the boy’s shoulders. He sat in the chair, leaving the lamp burning on the bedside table. The boy looked so small in the big bed that Seth found himself saying impulsively, “Would you like me to listen to your prayers?”
“My prayers?”
“Yes.” In whatever way he’d discovered that good families prayed over meals, he’d also learned that good parents listened to children’s prayers at bedside. Though he still had difficulty thinking of himself as a father, that did not excuse him from the duties of one. “Didn’t you say prayers at the orphanage?”
“Oh yes, sir. We recited the Lord’s Prayer before meals, and the Twenty-third Psalm at bedtime.”
“Well, you could do that now if you like. Or you could just pray.”
“Like you did at supper?”
“Yes. But you might want to leave out the part about the food, since that was already mentioned.”
“What should I say then?”
Seth thought for a minute. “You could thank God for our house, and ask Him to watch over us during the night.”
“Yes, sir.” He closed his eyes and pushed his fingertips together under his chin. “Thank you, God, for this house. Please watch over me and …” There was a long pause while the muscles of the boy’s face worked. He finally finished with, “ … Mister Langford. Amen.”
The formality didn’t offend Seth. How could it, when the notion of being a father still seemed to fit him like an ill-cut suit of clothes? He couldn’t help but wonder what the village people would think if they had overheard Thomas’s prayer. They both had a fresh new start here in Gresham, and even though they had settled down in a secluded spot, they could not totally isolate themselves. For one thing, he should send Thomas to school. And he could imagine what the other children would say if they learned he had been raised in an orphanage and now lived with a former convict.
“Thomas?”
“Yes, sir?” Thomas turned on his side to watch him.
“I think it best if we not tell people that you’re from The Whitechapel Home.”
“Yes, sir” was the predictable reply, though again with uncertainty in the young voice.
Seth wished he could explain, but how could he expect a child to understand that some might assume he’d been in an orphanage because he was ill born? “There is nothing to be ashamed of being raised in an orphanage,” he reassured the boy. “But I don’t want to encourage people to ask too many questions. If anyone asks about our pasts, we’ll simply tell them that we lived in London.” Which was the truth, of course, though they hadn’t lived there together.
“Yes, sir.”
He felt compelled to go on to a more difficult subject. “And if you’re asked why you haven’t a mother, do you know what you should say?”
Thomas shook his head upon the pillow.
Swallowing around the lump that had suddenly risen in his throat, Seth said, “You should say the truth—that she passed away.”
“Passed away?”
“That means she died, Thomas. They told you that in the orphanage, didn’t they?”
“Yes, sir,” he murmured. “My father too.”
“Yes. He was a brave man and saved your life.” He meant those words. The anger he had felt upon first hearing that another man had married Elaine was gone, for how could he blame anyone for loving her? “But now I’m your father, Thomas. So if you tell people that your father died, they’ll be confused and start asking questions.”
“We don’t want people to ask questions?”
Seth blew out his cheeks. Forgive me, Elaine, but I just want to protect him. “We don’t, Thomas, or rather we don’t want them asking questions about how we came to be here together. When you’re a bit older, I’ll explain it all to you.”
“I think it’s rude, moving into a house so soon after someone has died,” Mercy said the next morning to Violet, one of Mrs. Brent’s cows.
The cattle were in the pasture, the morning milking having been finished, and Mercy wanted to escape the heat of the kitchen for a little while. Violet’s gentle brown eyes looked understandingly into hers for a few seconds, then the cow bent her head to pull up another mouthful of grass. Mercy sighed. The most sympathetic pair of ears on the whole farm happened to be bovine. Getting to her feet again, she brushed loose grass from her skirt and started back for the house.
Even though breakfast had only been finished two hours ago, it was time to begin preparations for lunch. Potato-and-leek soup, she decided, with sausages. She went to the pantry and opened the crock in which she stored dried apples from the six trees flanking Ward Creek, which ran behind their pasture and caught up with the Bryce to the east. I should really use these up before the new ones are ripe, she thought. It would be nice to have cake after lunch. Mrs. Brent had loved her apple cake, declaring it the best she had ever tasted.
She thought of the new neighbors again and could almost hear Mrs. Brent saying, It’s not being disloyal to make them feel welcome, dear. Actually, there were more than enough apples for two cakes. And as long as she had to heat the oven anyway … I’ll bake them one, she thought grudgingly. Whoever they were. It was the least she could do as a Christian. But she would have one of her brothers deliver it, as she wasn’t up to seeing someone else answer Mrs. Brent’s door just yet.
“Would you take this to the new family down the lane?” she asked Fernie later, indicating the basket in her hands as her father and brothers left the lunch table.
“Aw …” Fernie whined. “It’s too far.”
“It’s not. I used to walk there all the time. But take the wagon if you don’t feel up to walking.” She caught Oram by the arm as he attempted to pass. “You’ll need to go and hold it for him. It’ll be dashed to crumbs in the wagon bed.”
“I don’t want to,” Oram protested, shrugging his arm away. “I was gonter ask Papa if we could go bathing in the creek.”
Fernie’s mouth was opened to protest too, but then comprehension filled his green eyes. “Dashed to crumbs? You mean there’s another cake in there?”
“You had three slices at lunch. This one’s for the new family.”
“Why do you have to give away a whole …” Oram began, but Fernie silenced him with a punch to the arm.
“Stop yer blubberin’ and let’s get the wagon hitched. Like Mercy said, it won’t take long.”
Oram looked at his brother as if he’d lost his mind, but then some silent communication seemed to pass between them, and he nodded. It was the little lift to the corner of his mouth that made Mercy suspicious.
“Never mind,” she said, pulling the basket away from Fernie’s outstretched arms. “I’ll take it over there myself.”
“We weren’t gonter eat it!” Oram said in a panicked voice. “Was we, Fernie?”
“Shut up!” his brother whispered through clenched teeth, then he smiled at Mercy, as if to say, Isn’t he just the silliest fellow? Patting his stomach, he said, “I had so much after lunch I couldn’t eat another bite. That’s a nice thing to do, sendin’ a treat to the neighbors.”
The pleasantness of his voice was even more suspicious than Oram’s little smile had b
een. “Just go away,” she told them. She took off her apron and, taking no chances, brought the basket upstairs with her while she brushed her hair.
She could hear the sounds of hammering long before the Brent cottage was in sight. At least it seemed that whoever had moved there was taking some initiative about making repairs. She could tell as she opened the gate that the sounds were coming from the milking barn. But the woman of the house would likely be inside, so she went to the front door and knocked. When there was no answer, she waited a few more seconds and knocked again, just in case whoever was inside had been upstairs. Again, no answer.
I’ll just leave it on the table, she thought, reaching for the doorknob. She could send one of her brothers for the basket in a few days, and she certainly wasn’t going to go trudging out to the barnyard. Movement attracted her attention at the corner of her eye. Mercy turned her head to see a small boy had rounded the corner of the cottage and was walking toward her. He was so slight that he almost looked fragile, and he wore a brown cap too big for his head.
“Hello, miss,” he said softly.
“Oh, hello.” Embarrassed that her hand was on the knob, Mercy allowed it to drop to her side. “I was just going to leave this inside. It’s an apple cake.”
He gave a timid smile. “Thank you, miss. Would you like to speak to my father?”
Mercy noticed a curious hesitation before the words “my father.” She glanced in the direction of the milking barn. “Why, no thank you. Isn’t your mother inside?”
“My mother passed away.”
“Oh!” Guilt came over her, replacing her earlier bitterness toward these people twofold. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.” While his little face was somber, he didn’t look stricken, as if the death had occurred recently. “Would you want to put that inside?”
Mercy glanced down at the basket in her hand. “All right. Then I could take my basket back home and not trouble you about it later.”
He opened the door and then led her through the front parlor to the kitchen, as if she hadn’t been in the cottage a hundred times already. She took the cake out of the basket and put it in the pie safe. “There’s no hurry for the plate,” she told the boy. “What is your name?”
The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter Page 16
