Later that morning, after the older children had set out to play with friends and Grace was occupied with “helping” Mrs. Herrick and Mildred roll out pear tarts, Julia picked some blue forget-me-nots she and Fiona had managed to coax out of the soil in front. She was just putting the finishing touches to an arrangement in the first bedroom past the landing when Fiona appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. Kingston is downstairs, missus.”
“Already? I didn’t even hear a coach.” Julia smiled. She still wasn’t quite used to seeing Fiona perform her duties in regular dress instead of uniform, with only an apron to signify that she was a servant. Today she wore a becoming plum-colored calico. Julia suffered a twinge of envy. She was so weary of dressing like a chimney sweep. She then had to remind herself that there were people with worse problems than being obligated to wear black for twelve months.
It was not so much that she cared about looking attractive—in fact, that was the least of her concerns at present. But every morning for over three months she had clothed herself with a garment of mourning, a reminder that her husband was dead. And remembering that he was dead only caused her to remember how he had failed them. She wanted to forget. For the sake of the children and propriety, however, she knew she would continue to wear the banner of widowhood until the year had passed.
She stepped back from the bedside table and gave the room a quick going-over with her eyes. Surely even the fussiest potential lodger would approve of such a cheerful room, with its warm oak furniture, William Morris wall covering, and colorful Brussels carpet. Turning to Fiona again, she pressed her hands together and asked, “What is she like?”
“The new lodger?” There was a slight hesitation. “To be truthful, a bit on the imperious side.”
“Imperious?” In spite of her anxiety about the visitor downstairs, Julia had to smile. “And what novel have you gotten yourself absorbed in now?”
“I’m muddlin’ my way through The Arabian Nights,” Fiona answered, covering a yawn.
Since moving into the Larkspur, it was not unusual for her to lose track of time and stay up half the night lost in the pages of a novel. It seemed she was determined to make up for the time when books were a rarity to her. Her household responsibilities did not suffer, and Julia was happy to see Fiona get some enjoyment out of life. She felt even closer to the housekeeper since hearing about her wretched past.
“Well, putting her imperiousness aside,” Julia persisted, “do you think Mrs. Kingston will be impressed with the room?”
Fiona’s eyes moved from the freshly arranged flowers to the fireplace, where a wood fire spread its warmth over the morning chill of an open window. Through the opening in the dimity curtains, the dignified Anwyl could be seen, crisscrossed with footpaths and bridleways and frosted by blue, pink, and white milkwort. “ ’Tis a fine room. Most anyone would be impressed with it.”
Catching the slight evasive tone of Fiona’s voice, Julia folded her arms and leveled a stare at her. “I know you, Fiona. What’s wrong?”
“Well …”
“You don’t think she’s going to like it, do you.”
“I hope I’m mistaken, but she just seems a mite hard to please.”
“Oh dear. Perhaps she’s weary from the trip from Shrewsbury?”
Another slight pause, then, “That could be it.”
“Then I shouldn’t keep her waiting.” Julia took a quick peek in the wall mirror to tuck some stray strands back into her chignon. “Would you ask Mrs. Herrick to send a tray?”
“I’ve already done so, missus.”
In spite of Fiona’s misgivings, Julia’s steps on the staircase were as light as her spirit had been lately. How could Mrs. Kingston, or anyone else for that matter, be anything but smitten with the Larkspur Inn?
It’s likely she’ll want to move in right away, Julia thought, hurrying down the staircase to the hall. And Mrs. Kingston was only the tip of the iceberg. Five other potential lodgers would be arriving within the next four weeks.
Not wishing to startle her visitor by barging into the room, she paused in the doorway leading into the hall. She had surmised by Norwood Kingston’s letter that his mother was on in years, so Julia expected to find the woman settled in a sofa or in one of the chairs. Julia was surprised to find a woman dressed entirely in black standing at the fireplace with her back to the stairs. Julia blinked as a flash of white handkerchief swept across the chimneypiece. Why, she’s checking for dust!
“Well, at least this room is clean,” the woman muttered to herself. “But I intend to inspect the mattress for bugs at first opportunity.”
Julia stepped inside the room. “Mrs. Kingston?”
The woman turned around with no trace of chagrin upon her face. She was, as Julia had suspected, elderly, with steel-gray hair peeking from her bonnet. Her shoulders were surprisingly broad, her tall figure as erect as that of a much younger person. Commanding blue eyes, the sort that must have reduced many a parlormaid to tears, peered down a hawkish nose. “You are Mrs. Hollis, I trust?”
“I am,” Julia answered, assuming her most welcoming smile as she motioned toward the chairs. “Tea will be here shortly. Would you care to—?”
“I wish to inspect the room first.”
Julia’s smile did not waver at this interruption. “Of course. I’ll show you the way.”
They walked to the staircase together, with Julia stepping back to offer the woman the lead. “I had pictured a more modern facility,” Mrs. Kingston muttered after one look at the worn oak of the banister railing. Karl Herrick had varnished it to a high sheen, but there was no hiding the nicks that gave away its antiquity.
“You’ll find that the Larkspur is as well built as any modern home,” Julia replied. “All the conveniences are here as well. Each floor has a water closet and lavatory with running water.”
Just then, the step under Mrs. Kingston’s foot let out a squeak. The woman froze, shifted her weight to produce another squeak, then turned to raise an eyebrow at Julia. “Well built, you say?”
Again Julia smiled, though her lips were beginning to feel some wear at the corners. “The wood was recently replaced on that step, but unfortunately, it didn’t stop the squeak.” A sudden memory took the effort from her smile.
“The house I lived in when I was a child,” Julia told her, “had a stair that squeaked too. My father would tell me that a mouse napped underneath it and was startled awake at the sound of footsteps on ‘his’ step. So it was the mouse that squeaked, you see? I always made it a point to skip over that particular step, out of courtesy to the little creature. Why, even now in this house, I sometimes find myself automatically doing the same thing.”
The effect this recollection had upon Mrs. Kingston was hard to tell, for the elderly woman simply leveled a bemused stare at her before continuing up the staircase. Giving a quiet sigh, Julia followed. She ran her hand lightly upon the banister that her visitor had looked upon with obvious scorn, appreciating the richness of the wood beneath her fingers. How many thousands of hands had run along that same banister?
Though Jensen’s loan had been enough to make any structural improvements that the house warranted, Julia had asked Karl to only take care of the repairs necessary for convenience and safety. The banister had just needed a sturdying nail or two and a fresh coat of varnish. In Julia’s opinion, the signs of the house’s two centuries of existence added character and were to be respected, like the wrinkles on an aged person’s brow. Take away the nicks and flaws, and the atmosphere would be as sterile as any modern hotel.
Having reached the landing, Mrs. Kingston paused to catch her breath. Julia waited at her side.
“How long have you been a widow?” the woman asked suddenly, eyeing Julia’s black cashmere gown.
“Three months, Mrs. Kingston.”
“Does that mean you oversee the operation of this establishment alone?”
“This is my home as well as a business establishment,” Julia answered, forcing her
carriage up into a more confident posture. “And we’ve an extremely competent housekeeper.”
“And what about a gardener? I must say that I was not in the least impressed with that flower garden in front.”
“I apologize for that. Our caretaker, Karl Herrick, has had to spend most of his time on repairs and refurbishing. When we’ve established a routine, I’m certain he’ll have time to devote to gardening.” She then changed the subject. “Would you care to see the room now?”
“Very well.”
As they advanced upon the first chamber to their left, Julia could already feel the fresh breath of spring wafting through the open doorway. “We opened a window this morning to—”
“And why was it necessary to air the room out?” Mrs. Kingston interrupted. “I will not stay in a place that reeks of pipe tobacco.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Kingston.” Julia walked in behind her and pointed to the wall on her right, papered in shades of rose, hunter green, and gold. “This morning I detected the faint odor of paste in the air. You see, the wallpaper was hung just last week.”
The woman stepped over to the wall and squinted her eyes at the floral design. “William Morris?”
“It is.” The approval in her eyes made Julia feel less uneasy about the squeak on the staircase. William Morris was the most revered designer of tapestries and wall coverings in Great Britain. Deciding it was now time to settle the bedbug question, she walked over to the foot of the bed and pulled back the covers. “As you can see, the mattress is new as well. And we change linens every Monday.”
Mrs. Kingston came over to give the mattress the same scrutiny that she had given the wallpaper. She then seated herself on the side of the bed and gave a little bounce. “Bedsprings, Mrs. Hollis?”
“Of course,” Julia answered as she tugged the covers at the corner back in place. “Would you care to lie down and see how comfortable it is?”
“I would indeed.” Still clutching her reticule in both hands, Mrs. Kingston eased her full height upon the bed, straightening out the folds of her black skirt. After a moment, something resembling satisfaction spread across her sharp features. “All right,” she said, hoisting her feet back to the floor. “I shall give this establishment a try.”
Julia swallowed, amazed that at the age of thirty-one she could still find herself so intimidated. “Of course we will need to discuss the policy of the house first.”
“Policy?”
“As I mentioned in my letter, I have three children, and—”
“Just keep them quiet and out of my way and we’ll have no problem.” Mrs. Kingston pulled a note from the bag in her lap and held it out to Julia. “Give this to the coachman and have him deliver my trunk up here right away. I wish to change from these traveling clothes.”
Julia took the half-sovereign from the woman’s hand and stared blankly down at it. For the fraction of a second the face upon the note, King Charles I, changed shape and blurred into Mrs. Kingston, peering at something ahead with a disdainful expression. Giving a quiet sigh, Julia wondered again if turning the Larkspur into a lodging house had been the actions of a sane woman. How could she bear it if the other lodgers turned out to be as overbearing as Mrs. Kingston? How can I live with even one like this? Why, it would be like living at the London house again. The vision she’d had, however naively, of a happy extended family under one roof faded like breath upon a mirror.
“Mrs. Hollis?”
The voice interrupted her thoughts. Again Julia blinked. “Yes?”
Mrs. Kingston still sat there, blue eyes regarding her. A hand raised in a gesture of dismissal. “The coachman? He’ll likely charge double if he’s kept waiting too long.”
“I’m sorry, I …” Midway through her apology, Julia clamped her mouth shut. She handed the money back to the woman and shook her head. “It’s imperative that we first discuss policy, Mrs. Kingston.”
“Oh, very well,” Mrs. Kingston said, expelling a martyred sigh. “What is it you wish to say, Mrs. Hollis?”
“Regarding my children … they’re well behaved and courteous and will certainly not be allowed to intrude upon the guests’ lives.
But this is their home. I will never demand that they stay out of sight and stop being children.”
“And what about my privacy?”
“Your chamber will, of course, be off-limits to them, as well as the sitting room on this floor. They will join us for meals, but since I believe children should be silent at the table unless spoken to, you’ll have no cause to resent their presence.”
The woman waved a hand again. “I suppose I can live with that.” She got to her feet and pressed the half-sovereign back into Julia’s hand. “Now, my driver, Mrs. Hollis …?”
Fiona appeared herself with a tray. Julia wondered if the housekeeper were attempting to shield the maids in her charge from this fractious woman.
“I’m sorry this took so long. I upset the creamer on my first trip up the stairs.”
Before Julia could speak, Mrs. Kingston turned to Fiona and motioned toward the writing table against the wall. “You may set it there and pour. And I will require your help with unpacking when my trunk arrives.”
Julia could stand it no longer. I still have those dozen letters, she reminded herself. Even if I didn’t, it would be better to take in washing than to allow someone like this to rule over the household. Again she gathered up her nerve and handed the money back to the woman. “I’ll pay your driver myself, Mrs. Kingston.”
“Why, there is no need to do that.” Mrs. Kingston said, and for the fraction of a second her features actually seemed to soften.
Steeling herself, Julia continued in a polite but decisive tone. “I will reimburse you for your railway ticket as well, because your trip out here has been in vain. I cannot accept you as a lodger.” She could hear Fiona give a short gasp behind her, and some color sprang into Mrs. Kingston’s cheeks.
“Accept me?” the woman sputtered. “Why, I never—”
“You would be happier somewhere else,” Julia said, although she couldn’t imagine where that place might be. The Taj Mahal?
“Indeed I would!” Raising her chin, Mrs. Kingston gathered the shawl tight around her stout shoulders. “Keep your money—for now. I’ve a good mind to take you to court for false advertising!”
“Do whatever suits you, Mrs. Kingston.”
“Oh, you haven’t heard the last of me!” the woman huffed on her way across the room. She paused at the door long enough to give the walls a contentious scowl. “I’ll wager that wallpaper isn’t William Morris’ at all. And it’s just a matter of time before someone falls through that rotten staircase!”
“Then, I would advise you to tread lightly on your way down.” As soon as the words left Julia’s mouth, she felt ashamed for their sharpness … and for the brief feeling of satisfaction they’d given her.
When Mrs. Kingston’s formidable figure had disappeared through the doorway, Fiona recovered enough to set the tray down on the writing table. “Are you all right, missus?”
“I’m not quite sure.” Julia held up a hand and stared curiously at it. “Why, my hands are shaking. That was quite a scene.”
“Perhaps I should see her out.”
Julia nodded and sank into a chair. “Thank you.”
Two hours later she sat in her favorite overstuffed chair in the library reading The Dwellers of Clover’s Forest to Grace, who sat in her lap.
… and Mister Hare, jumping high
will lead us to his warren nigh …
“Mrs. Hollis?”
Julia looked up from the book. This time it was Georgette, one of the two parlormaids, who stood in the doorway peering owlishly through thick spectacles. She was Mildred the kitchen maid’s second cousin, a girl of about nineteen who had a practice of slipping her spectacles into an apron pocket whenever an eligible male was about. Those times had been few and far between so far, limited to the Duncan brothers who had come up from Shrewsbury
to deliver and hang the wallpaper.
“Yes, Georgette?”
“You’ve got a visitor in th’ hall,” the girl announced. “It’s that Mrs. Kingston again.”
Julia gave a deep sigh. “Did she happen to say why she’s come again?”
“No, ma’am. Do you want me to ask her?”
It was tempting, but Julia shook her head. “Tell her I’ll be there shortly.” When the maid was gone, Julia closed the book and pulled Grace closer. “Why don’t you play with your dolls for a little while? If I’m not back soon, we’ll finish the book at bedtime.”
“But we’re only supposed to read the fairy tale book at bedtime.”
Julia turned the girl around to face her and smiled. For a happy child who was loved by family and servants alike, Grace could wear the most serious expressions. Julia knew that the thoughtful look on her face now was because the normal bedtime routine would be altered. Grace was the only one of her children who had inherited Philip’s love of order. Even her dolls had to be arranged a certain way in their crib before she would close her eyes to sleep.
“Then why don’t you find Fiona and ask her to finish reading this to you?” Julia suggested.
The green eyes brightened. “May I?”
“Of course you may,” Julia answered, giving her another squeeze. “Just don’t ask her to read the fairy tales.”
Finally a smile turned the corners of Grace’s mouth upward, though her eyes were serious again. Pressing small hands upon Julia’s cheeks, the child brought her face closer and said, “Only you are supposed to read fairy tales.”
This time Mrs. Kingston was seated on a sofa when Julia walked into the hall, her bonnet slightly askew and her face haggard. Julia noticed that her eyes looked an even sharper blue and realized it was because they were rimmed with red. Has she been crying?
Lowering herself into the facing sofa, Julia said as cordially as possible, “I didn’t expect to see you again.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Kingston said, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief.
The Widow of Larkspur Inn Page 14
