The Widow of Larkspur Inn by Lawana Blackwell

Author:Lawana Blackwell
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780764202674
Publisher: Bethany House Publishers
Published: 1997-01-02T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

The vicarage was a snug two-story cottage of the same red sandstone as Saint Jude’s. It roosted on a grassy knoll a stone’s throw from the church, and its wooden gate opened up to a neat little flower garden. Cheery multicolored woven rugs softened the oak plank flooring, and odd pieces of furniture, though none of it matching, appeared polished and well cared for.

The servants, Luke, Dora, and Mrs. Paget, had greeted Andrew and his family the previous evening with some uncertainty showing through their smiles. Andrew could understand this—he’d been informed by Bishop Myers that the vicar he was replacing, Reverend Wilson, had been much loved by the community. No doubt the servants felt the loss even more keenly than did the villagers. Their reserve melted a bit when Andrew warmly expressed his gratitude for the kettle of chicken and leek soup Mrs. Paget had kept simmering for them and indicated his appreciation of the garden and tidy rooms.

He had been pleased to discover that a river, the Bryce, flowed just north of the vicarage. Perhaps there would be a little time for fishing once a routine was established. Even more pleasing was the little book-lined study just off the parlor. Andrew had spent his first full afternoon in Gresham—after inspecting Saint Jude’s and lunching with Elizabeth at the home of the churchwarden, Mr. Sykes—thumbing through a clothbound notebook that Vicar Wilson had left upon the desk with a letter of welcome. You may find this helpful, his predecessor had accurately written, for within its pages were thoughtful descriptions of every family in the parish—occupations, births and names of children, conversions and baptisms, deaths, and even facts that would aid a pastor in serving, such as:

Mrs. Ramsey (a seamstress living on Thatcher Lane, so the notebook said) tends to her ailing mother and cannot attend church. They both look forward to Monday morning visits for prayer and hearing details of the previous day’s service.

Another entry told of a Mr. Kerns, a cheese factory worker: He is a decent man, but occasionally struggles with the temptation of the bottle. If Mr. Kerns should be spotted entering or leaving the Bow and Fiddle at any time, it would be beneficial to deliver a stern lecture against allowing his nine children to live in want while he wastes money on strong drink. The effects of such admonition will last three months, perhaps even four, before needing to be repeated.

“Bless you, Vicar Wilson,” Andrew said aloud, for how long would it have taken him to learn such things on his own? He made a mental note to write a letter of appreciation to the good reverend and turned his attention to the notebook again. Next came a warning that while patronizing Mr. McFarley, the barber, conversation should be gently steered away from politics lest an uneven haircut result.

And if anyone even mentions the phrase “Scottish Reform Bill,” it would behoove you to remove yourself from the premises immediately. Andrew smiled and glanced up at the chimneypiece clock—then winced at the time.

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