For a brief, cynical second, Julia thought that it was a good thing that the chimneypiece hadn’t been dusty earlier. Again feeling ashamed for her hardened attitude, she waited for the woman to continue.
“I wish to apologize for the way I conducted myself earlier.”
“I beg your pardon?” Julia couldn’t imagine those words coming from the woman in front of her, who only hours earlier had been so pompous and demanding.
“My behavior was inexcusable.” Mrs. Kingston dabbed at her eyes again. “And I don’t blame you one whit for feeling anger toward me.”
Feeling a sudden unexpected surge of pity, Julia replied, “As I recall, I was a bit sharp myself.”
“You had every right to be,” the older woman sniffed. She looked away for a minute, then went on. “When I left here, I had the coachman take me to the other inn in town for tea. You know, the …”
“The Bow and Fiddle,” Julia offered, and Mrs. Kingston nodded.
“After I had my tea, I asked to see a room. The proprietor’s wife led me down an empty corridor to a room that wasn’t nearly as nice as the one you showed me upstairs and told me I would be the only guest so far today.”
“That’s typical,” Julia said. She opened her mouth to explain what the railways had done to the coaching inn business but then decided that the “why” really didn’t matter to Mrs. Kingston at the moment.
“Anyway, I immediately told her that I’d changed my mind about the room,” Mrs. Kingston went on. “It was quite unsettling, the thought of myself being the only person on the whole chamber floor, and for no telling how long.”
“Then why didn’t you go back to Shrewsbury, if I may ask?”
“Because I would have to find a place to stay there as well. I have lived in the country all of my life, Mrs. Hollis, and the cities frighten an old woman alone like me.” She looked down at the gloved hands folded in her lap.
“Alone?” Julia recalled the correspondence she’d had with Mr. Kingston concerning arrangements for his mother. “But you were living with—”
“My son, Norwood, and his family,” the woman nodded, the splotches on her cheeks deepening. “But I was asked to leave once Norwood received your response to his query. Ordered to leave, actually.”
“Ordered? By your son?”
Mrs. Kingston raised her chin and pressed her lips together. “He offered to escort me, but I told him to stay with his precious Lucille. It’s her fault, you see. My daughter-in-law doesn’t even try to get along with me. She says I’m critical and interfering and …”
The words were left hanging in the air as she paused to draw in a shuddering breath. For several long seconds the woman’s face assumed a look of painful introspection, and when she finally spoke again, her voice came out barely above a whisper. “And I’m afraid she is correct.”
Compassion moved Julia across to the other sofa. She sat down beside the woman and put a hand on her shoulder. “There, there now. Surely it’s not too late to apologize.”
Mrs. Kingston mopped her whole face with the handkerchief this time. “It is to my son’s family. I would have destroyed his marriage had he not finally gathered the courage to order me to leave.”
Gently, Julia asked, “Have you no other children?”
Again she shook her head. “None that lived past the age of three.”
No wonder she’s so bitter, Julia thought. “I’m so sorry.”
“When Norwood …” She looked at Julia again. “My husband, Norwood. My son was named after him. When my husband died, my son asked me to live with him.” A ghost of a smile touched Mrs. Kingston’s lips, but then it faded as the sadness in her eyes deepened. “Norwood has three precious young children. My grandchildren.”
It was the way Mrs. Kingston’s voice caressed the words my grandchildren that brought a lump to Julia’s throat. She was groping for some words of comfort when Mrs. Kingston spoke again.
“I dare not ask them to take me back, Mrs. Hollis, at least not now. My son’s marriage must have time to heal.”
Julia had never met the son and daughter-in-law involved, of course, but she had the fresh memory of the way Mrs. Kingston had acted upstairs. Very likely they’d had no other choice. It was so tempting to offer the room again, but she had to consider her own children, her servants, and the other lodgers that would be forced to keep company with her. “I don’t quite know what to say,” she told the woman frankly.
Mrs. Kingston’s bottom lip trembled again. “I can’t fault you for that, Mrs. Hollis. But if I keep myself out of everyone’s sight, will you allow me to stay until I find another place? I’ll pay double.”
“The board I advertised is satisfactory, Mrs. Kingston, and I don’t wish for anyone here to have to ‘keep out of everyone’s sight.’ As I said earlier, this is a home, not just a place of business. But if you were to stay here, how would you find another place to live?”
“There were other advertisements in The Illustrated Times, along with yours. I can have some letters of inquiry posted by morning.”
Julia considered this, and then felt compelled to ask, “And what will happen when you visit these other lodging houses?”
“You mean, will I behave the way I did here?”
“Well …?”
Giving a somber nod, Mrs. Kingston replied, “I would surely hope not, Mrs. Hollis. Just a short while ago, when I was having tea at …”
“The Bow and Fiddle? ”
“Yes, that place.” Mrs. Kingston’s face clouded up again. “I’ve never felt so alone in all my life. And now I realize that I’m the cause of it.” She blew her hawkish nose into her handkerchief. “Even when Norwood—my husband, that is—was alive, he spent most of his time in his study, or out with his horses. Why didn’t I realize what a shrew I was?”
Just a couple hours ago, Julia would have thought it impossible to feel pity for the woman who had been so obnoxious upstairs. Everyone should be given the opportunity to change, she told herself now. And hadn’t she prayed just days ago for God to use her to bless others’ lives?
“Mrs. Kingston …” she began tentatively.
A faint glimmer of hope appeared in the woman’s eyes. “Yes?”
“Why don’t we go over policy again?”
The hopeful expression turned incredulous, and then Mrs. Kingston seized Julia’s hand and held it against her wrinkled cheek. “Bless you, dear! You’ll not be sorry.”
Julia wasn’t quite sure about that, but then, faith would not be necessary if one could be sure about everything.
Chapter 13
“Now go fetch me a nice fat one,” Philip commanded the grub he’d just impaled upon his fishing hook. Philip, Jeremiah, and Ben had gotten up early to dash through their chores and take advantage of every minute of daylight they could wring out of a May Saturday. Fishing from the stone bridge over the River Bryce in the late morning and an afternoon cricket match on the green were the main events on their itinerary, with a hurried lunch wedged in between.
The Bryce stretched out before them like a blue ribbon. Waterbugs darted through overhanging willow branches stirring lazily with the current. In the shallow waters off the north bank, the familiar lilting cadence of Irish voices floated to Philip’s ears as a half-dozen young children pulled osier reeds from willows for their father, Alan Keegan, to weave into baskets. Philip took a deep breath of the fresh morning air and wondered how he’d ever been content living in the city.
“Hey, Philip, if my mother or papa comes by this way, don’t look like you’re enjoyin’ it so much,” Ben warned good-naturedly from his right while threading his line through the end of a hook. “I’ve got them believing that fishing is just like my other chores.” His red curls made Philip’s auburn and copper mixture look almost muted, and his face wore ten freckles for every one of Aleda’s.
Philip shook his head. “I believe the way you flew out of the house with your pole gave you away, Ben. I’ll wager you don’t run to your other chor
es like that.”
“Well, it puts food on the platter, doesn’t it? It’s not our fault if it’s fun.”
“Great fun,” Jeremiah agreed. “In fact, I think the catching is more fun than the eating.”
Philip agreed. But then he thought of the way Mrs. Herrick prepared river trout—seasoned with pepper and Worcestershire sauce and baked with slices of lemon and onion—and almost changed his mind. Almost, for the activity gave him a sense of satisfaction that went beyond merely having a good time.
He would always savor the memory of the first time he carried home a string of bream. Even though Betty Moser had fried them for so long that the meat was dry, Philip had thought it the most delicious meal he’d ever tasted. As the man of the house, he had provided food for the table—had fed his family with the fruits of his own labor. And even now, with more lodgers on their way and money not so dreadfully tight, he still experienced a sense of well-being when his fishing was successful.
“Hey, Jeremiah.” Ben’s voice cut through his thoughts. “How did you get away from your brothers this time?”
Jeremiah rolled his eyes. “Same way.” To go fishing or do anything fun, Jeremiah had to slip away when David and Seth, ages seven and nine, were occupied with other activities. His usual exit was through an upstairs window and down a beech tree with branches sturdy enough to accommodate him.
A rumble of wheels and a ring of hoofbeats against the cobblestones grew louder and louder from the south. The bridge was wide enough for both the boys and the red-and-white carrier wagons that traveled incessantly back and forth from the cheese factory to Shrewsbury, so Philip took little notice of the sound. It was only when Jeremiah snatched off his cap and said, “The squire!” that Philip looked up over his shoulder.
He was met with a pair of eyes glaring so viciously that it gave him a start.
Of course he recognized Squire Bartley’s barouche and driver and footman in full livery. But he had never seen the squire up close before and surely couldn’t understand the anger in his gaze. The man hadn’t even given the other boys a glance as the carriage passed behind them.
“Whatever did you do to him?” Ben asked, his cap in hand as well.
“Don’t know,” Philip answered. He leaned back to get a clear view of the carriage moving on toward the cheese factory. “I’ve never even met him.”
“It’s because yer mum stole his cook and gardener,” said Jeremiah.
Philip turned to Jeremiah and defended his mother. “The Herricks gave him fair notice. Besides, they worked at the Larkspur before they worked for him.”
His cork bobbed below the surface of the water, and he gave the line a quick jerk, then frowned at the sight of his bare hook glistening in the sunlight. While his attention was diverted by Squire Bartley, some plump trout had nibbled away his bait. At least we’re not beholden to the old grouch.
Which made his family a decided minority in Gresham. From the factory workers to the dairy farmers to the smithy, joiner, carrier and wheelwright, to even the greengrocer and baker, most livelihoods were linked either directly or indirectly to Anwyl Mountain Savory Cheeses.
“Hey! Lookit the Micks playin’ in the mud!”
Philip looked to his left, from where the sound had come, and saw two Irish children standing frozen like statues. On the bank stood Oram and Fernie Sanders, boys of about thirteen and fourteen years old. They had tanned, smug faces and strapping physiques, and Philip had learned his first week in Gresham that most village boys gave the Sanders brothers wide berth. Fortunately, their father, Willet Sanders, considered it foolish to send his daughter and six sons to school when they could be put to work on his dairy farm, so the boys had little free time to devote to bullying.
“Why are they always so disagreeable?” Philip asked Ben.
“Something to do, I reckon,” Ben muttered, shaking his head with disgust.
“Hey, Micks! You too good to go to church with everyone else?”
“They’re papists, the Keegans are,” Jeremiah whispered. “They go off to Shrewsbury for church most weekends.”
“Well, where do the Sanders go?” Philip had never seen them at Saint Jude’s, but there was a Baptist chapel on Short Lane that the Herricks attended. He didn’t know much about Baptist theology but didn’t think they were the Sanders’ type. In fact, he doubted that any denomination would suit the Sanders. Chapel of the Philistines, perhaps?
“Sanders? Church?” Jeremiah snorted. “They don’t go nowhere, the lot of them, except for their sister Mercy. She’s Wesleyan.”
“Then why does it matter to them?”
“It doesn’t,” said Ben. “If it weren’t that, they’d find another reason.”
On the bank, Philip watched the Sanders brothers hoot away, slapping each other on the back in congratulations for particularly barbing insults. His eyes moved to the children. Four were back at work again, obviously trying to ignore the barbarians. But the youngest, a boy about Grace’s age, had broken into tears and was being comforted by an older sister. Pulse racing and cheeks burning fire, he opened his mouth to challenge the two bullies, but Ben beat him to the draw and shouted, “Hey! Why don’t you two push off!”
The effect upon Oram and Fernie was immediate, for the two stopped hooting and glared in their direction.
“Get ready, gents, I believe we’re about to die,” Ben whispered.
Philip nodded, watching the two advance down the bank. “It appears so.”
“Think we should run?” asked Jeremiah.
“Not on your nelly. We’d have to leave our poles and tackle. And you know what they’d do to them.”
“Just ignore them and maybe they’ll go away,” Ben advised.
The brothers did not go away but fortunately stopped where the bridge met the bank, and Philip wondered if it was because the bridge was in plain sight of the cottages lining the west end of the village green—particularly Constable Reed’s. From what he had gathered about the behavior of bullies, they preferred practicing their craft with few witnesses about.
But they certainly didn’t mind verbal sparring. “Well, well!” Oram called out. “Lookit ’em tryin’ to catch minnows wi’ poles!”
A loud pul-ump accompanied his taunt, followed by a spray of water that reached as high as Philip’s chin. He glared over at the two and saw that they were holding rocks as big as croquet balls.
“Whatsa matter? Fish got away?” Fernie aimed and fired his weapon. The rock fell short by a good five feet, but the boy strutted about as if he’d scored a bull’s-eye.
“Why don’t you go bother somebody else!” Ben shouted. “Like Constable Reed!”
“Oo-eee! The constable! Maybe you oughter go tell ’em that some bad old boys is throwin’ rocks in the river and got a little water on your aprons!”
This came from Fernie, obviously the more eloquent of the two. “Hey, Mr. Hollis, sir!” came another jeering cry. “Do you sleep with a blanket over yer head so’s you won’t be scared of old Jake?”
Philip was just opening his mouth to send back the suggestion that the Sanders brothers should wear blankets over their heads during the day so that other people wouldn’t be frightened, when Jeremiah cautioned, “Don’t say anything. They’re hoping one of us’ll set out after them.”
Another pul-ump! showered the three with water, causing Philip to pull in his line. “Guess fishing’s over for the day.”
“Guess so,” Ben said, but then did a curious thing. Ignoring the third pul-ump! he turned and sent a quick furtive motion toward the Anwyl.
“Look over at the hill for a second,” he whispered through his teeth. “Not too long, Jeremiah!”
“What was that abou—” Philip started but was silenced by a warning look.
“Now let’s go.” Ben stood and then said in a loud, but not too loud, voice, “Well, I’ve chores to finish anyway.”
Jeremiah’s mouth opened. “But you already did—” He stopped himself short, knowledge dawning in hi
s eyes. “Me too. Guess I’ll be workin’ at home the rest of the day.”
Now Philip understood the plan. “Gipsy Woods?” he whispered to Ben as he packed up his fishing equipment.
“Half an hour.”
Philip stole a glance at the Sanders brothers. Their heads were together as if puzzling over something, but he noticed that Fernie sent a quick nod in the direction of the Anwyl. Then, in what was supposedly some brilliant tactical maneuver, Oram slammed his rock to the ground. “Aw, there’s more to do at home,” he said in a voice so loud that the Worthy sisters were likely nodding agreement as they spinned their lace.
“Boring is what this is, watchin’ these girls try to catch a fish.” The Sanders boys turned and shuffled off north in the direction of their farm, while Philip and his friends separated and walked on to their homes.
Forty-five minutes later, the three sat on a bank in the south bend of the River Bryce. The northern edge of Gipsy Woods shielded them from sight of the Anwyl—which was likely being explored that very moment by the Sanders boys. It was a fine picture, Philip thought, to imagine blond heads peering behind shrubbery and between rocks. And pulling off a successful subterfuge made the fishing even more fun.
Ben and Jeremiah had already pulled in a trout apiece, between bites of the ham sandwiches that Mrs. Herrick had packed up for the three to share. Philip, however, waited to finish his sandwich before tending to his line. While he had no qualms about baiting a hook with some wriggling slug or cricket, it was not the most appetiteinducing sight.
“Have they always been like that?” he asked presently, wiping his hands upon his trousers and picking up his line. He did not have to say to whom he was referring, for straightway Jeremiah gave a nod.
“Even the two oldest, Harold and Dale, were bullies in their day, accordin’ to Thomas.” Thomas was Jeremiah’s older brother, who also worked in the squire’s stables alongside his father. “And they still pick fights at the Bow and Fiddle when they’re in their cups.”
“And their papa as well,” said Ben. He was reflectively quiet for a minute, then tapped his forehead. “Now I know what that saying means.”
The Widow of Larkspur Inn Page 15
