The Widow of Larkspur Inn

by Lawana Blackwell

  Philip blinked. “Beg pardon?”

  “You know—my grandmother says it all the time. ‘The fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree’. I always wondered why she would say that, and always after discussing with my mother something awful that somebody did. She’d have that ‘look’ about her too, and I had a feeling she wasn’t just talking about apples or pears. But when I’d ask, she or mother would send me off to play.”

  “What look?” Jeremiah asked, clearly puzzled.

  “I’ll show you,” Ben replied. First, he pursed up his lips primly, then arched an eyebrow while giving a slow nod. Philip burst out laughing.

  “You’ve got it, all right. You’ll make a fine grandmother, Ben.”

  “Grandmother!”

  They traded cuffs for a minute, and then Philip patiently explained the old adage about the fruit and tree to Jeremiah. As the early afternoon approached and the fish seemed to be less inclined to bite, the boys packed up to go. Their patience had been rewarded and all three of their tables would boast fish tonight. Philip had the least to show for his efforts, but the three decent-size bream and large trout would be ample supply for one of Mrs. Herrick’s savory chowders.

  On his way around back to the gardening cottage to put away his pole and tackle, he automatically lifted a hand to wave to the Worthy sisters off to his left. He did not even have to wonder if they’d seen him. Their keen eyes never missed any movement within seeing distance. How they managed to spin lace at the same time was still a mystery to him. As usual, the two elderly women weren’t about to allow him to enter their range of sight without comment.

  “Ye’ve a guest inside, Philip,” Jewel called out in her raspy voice.

  Philip paused and nodded. “Mrs. Kingston. She’s boarding with us now.”

  “Not Mrs. Kingston.” Iris shook her head. “She came last Saturday. Ye’ve another guest today.”

  “A gentleman,” Jewel said. “And he sent his coach away, so he’s likely planning to stay. Had two trunks ye could ha’ buried horses in.”

  “Now, why would a gentleman need two trunks of that size?” asked Iris.

  With a fair touch of resentment in her voice, Jewel said, “He ain’t the friendly sort, if ye ask me. I asked him his name, and he wouldn’t even look my way.”

  “And your mother and sisters aren’t home,” Iris said. “They left for a walk about an hour ago with your housekeeper and that Mrs. Kingston.”

  Jewel nodded, her fingers still moving with their usual swiftness. “And your sister, Aleda, left earlier. Said she were going to play at a friend’s house. We’ve decided it must be Josiah Johnson’s girl, Helen, over at the bakery. They spend a lot o’ time together. Sweet child, that Helen.”

  After all of this information had been reported, the sisters silenced themselves and watched Philip expectantly. All he knew to do was to hold up the string of fish in his hand. “Well, I should put away my things now. Have a pleasant afternoon.”

  They bade him the same, and he could feel both sets of eyes upon him as he neared the gardening cottage. Inside, Karl Herrick’s quick brown eyes looked up from the shovel he was sharpening with a file. He was short like Mrs. Herrick, but with a long torso and powerful-looking arms. “You haff caught some fish, ja?”

  “Four.” Philip held them out for him to admire.

  “You’re a fine lad, Master Philip.” He nodded toward the direction of the Worthy sisters’ cottage. “They tell you all about the visitor?”

  “More than I wanted to know,” Philip answered. “But I didn’t think any more lodgers were expected until next week. Who is he?”

  “My Audrey says he is not one for speaking. She and the others are in … how you say? A tumult … wondering what to do with him.”

  “Is that why you’re hiding out here?”

  “Hiding?” The brown eyes blinked over a spreading grin. “Why, Mrs. Hollis has asked me to plant a vegetable garden. My first duty is to my employer, verstehen?”

  “I understand,” Philip smiled back.

  Mrs. Herrick was standing on her stool at the worktable preparing a tray when he walked into the kitchen. “Oh, I was hoping you was your mother!” the cook blurted out.

  Philip opened his mouth to give a joking reply but stifled it upon noticing the worry in her expression. “Shall I go look for her?”

  “Don’t know how long that would take. You’d do better to entertain Mr. Clay in the hall. He’s been waitin’ in there by himself for a good quarter of an hour now.”

  “Wouldn’t you like me to clean the fish?” He held up the string, his pride a little injured that she hadn’t noticed.

  “I’ll ask Karl to do that in a bit.” A twinkle finally lit the hazel eyes. “I suppose you’ll be wantin’ chowder for supper?”

  “I can already taste it.” Looking down at his soiled blue muslin shirt, Philip asked if he should first change.

  “No time for that, Master Philip,” Mrs. Herrick answered but clucked her tongue at the state of his clothes. “But here … pop into the scullery and let Gertie help you wash those hands. You’ve mud on your chin as well. Now remember, his name is Mr. Clay.”

  Philip did as instructed, then, leaving the fish in the basin, he walked down the corridor to the hall. At first he thought that Mrs. Herrick was mistaken, that the gentleman had left for some other part of the house. A second later his eyes found the visitor on the sofa closest to the empty fireplace and farthest away from any lamp. Philip’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of the thick, dark brown hair, but then the man turned his face toward him and all resemblance to his father vanished.

  “Mr. Clay?” Philip asked. He could not recall ever being called upon to entertain an adult visitor alone and wondered what he could possibly say that would be of any interest to him.

  “Yes?” Mr. Clay had a handsome face with well-defined, aristocratic features, but his posture seemed that of a person who had been wrung out by life. His shoulders, neither broad nor slim, sagged slightly, and both hands rested motionless on the cushions at each side.

  Philip advanced reluctantly, wishing he’d paid closer attention back when Mr. Hunter read a daily page from Etiquette for Good Boys and Girls. Was the younger supposed to offer a hand, or wait until his elder did so? He decided upon a quick bow and said, “I’m Philip Hollis. My mother owns the Larkspur.”

  Mr. Clay solved his dilemma by stretching out his right hand. A cultured voice said, “Ambrose Clay.”

  They shook hands, and Philip recalled some bits of information Mother had given about the query letters she’d received. “You’re an actor, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Philip shifted his feet and looked about the great room, wishing that by doing so he could cause his mother to materialize in some corner. “Well, I suppose you’ve been told my mother isn’t here now. She wouldn’t have left had she known you were to arrive today.”

  That sounded like an accusation, he realized with horror after the words left his mouth, and he tried to correct himself. “I meant to say … Mother will be happy to find you here, just surprised.” He cleared his throat. “Pleasantly so, of course.”

  “Thank you.”

  Should I offer to show him his room? Philip wondered, for surely the two trunks had already been delivered upstairs by the coachman.

  A footstep sounded from behind him and Philip turned, awash with relief. But instead of Mother, it was Georgette who stood in the doorway with a tray, and he could now understand the disappointment Mrs. Herrick had felt when he’d walked into the kitchen earlier. The maid searched the long room from side to side with her short-sighted eyes squinted.

  “Over here,” Philip told her.

  She advanced with a wide smile but stopped halfway across the room and seemed confused. Two blinks later, the short-sighted eyes seemed to focus upon the figure seated upon the sofa. “We’ve all kinds of little cakes and sandwiches,” she said cheerily as Philip pushed forward one of the tea tables.


  “Just tea, please,” Mr. Clay told her, as if the effort of speaking were almost too much for him.

  “Milk or lemon?”

  “Plain. But do thank your cook for the tray.”

  When she was gone, Mr. Clay looked up at Philip as if noticing him for the first time. “You don’t have to wait here with me.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” Philip said, wincing inside at the lie. Vicar Wilson’s sermon last Sunday evening had been about how a person’s yea should mean yea, and his nay mean nay. A poor man who possessed integrity of speech, the vicar had said, had something that all the gold in the world couldn’t purchase. Inspired by those lofty words, Philip had determined he would never again allow a falsehood to pass his lips. He was glad the vicar couldn’t hear him right now, but the unsettling thought crossed his mind that God could.

  “Aren’t you having anything?” the man asked with a nod toward the tray.

  “No, thank you.” Actually, Philip thought a couple of seed cakes would be a fine finish to his early lunch of ham sandwiches, but he was too nervous to gobble them down in front of this visitor.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” Mr. Clay said presently.

  “Yes, thank you.” Philip backed into a chair. He watched Mr. Clay finish his tea and then felt compelled to break the silence again.

  “Do you enjoy acting?”

  Mr. Clay looked at him again. “Acting? Why, yes.”

  “Where have you performed?”

  “Oh, Oxford when I was a student. London, for the past fifteen years, with a tour of the States before the war.”

  Then why are you here? Philip thought, but said instead, “Have you performed any Shakespeare?”

  “Quite a lot, actually.”

  While it seemed that Mr. Clay didn’t resent being questioned in such a manner, it became obvious to Philip that he was too weary to volunteer any information. In spite of the refreshment he’d just taken, the man looked as if he’d walked from Shrewsbury, trunks and all. Philip decided that, as the man of the house, he was just going to have to plan a course of action in the absence of his mother.

  “Mr. Clay?” He cleared his throat again. “Would you like to go upstairs and rest?”

  “Do you think that would be all right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Relief washed across the man’s face. “I would like that very much, thank you.”

  Chapter 14

  “I would like to purchase a carriage and team before winter,” Julia said apologetically to Mrs. Kingston as the party of four made their way down Walnut Tree Lane, the farthest north-south road to the west of Gresham. Mrs. Kingston had expressed a desire to see the village that would be her new home and said she didn’t mind if Julia asked Grace and Fiona along. A May breeze eddied about them, full of promise and sweet scents from the cottage gardens that they passed.

  “Humph!” Mrs. Kingston snorted while keeping the lead she’d enjoyed for the past half hour. “God gave us legs for a purpose. Horses and carriages are going to be the ruin of England. And the trains as well.”

  Julia sent a wave to Dr. Rhodes’ gardener, who was weeding a patch of hollyhock. She wondered if Mrs. Rhodes were out on a call or in the stable tending the colt, Gabriel, recently named by Fiona because of the white circle adorning his forehead. “Surely you’ll agree that they make life a lot more convenient,” she reasoned to the back of Mrs. Kingston’s black bonnet.

  “Sometimes, but everyone has gone soft because of it. I’ve walked three miles daily for the past twenty years … weather permitting. Haven’t had an aching joint or even the sniffles since I don’t remember when. Convenient indeed!”

  Grace apparently mistook the gruffness in the new lodger’s tone as anger, for the tender-hearted girl took a couple of quick steps to catch up and slipped a hand in Mrs. Kingston’s. “Do you like hills? I’ll ask Philip to show you the best paths to take up the Anwyl if you’d like.”

  Taken off guard, the elderly woman peered down at her and softened her tone. “Why, that’s very kind of you.”

  “Blessed are the peacemakers,” Fiona murmured from Julia’s side.

  As they turned left on Church Lane and headed back toward the Larkspur, Julia could see Karl Herrick clearing away shrubbery from the patch of ground behind the courtyard which was to become the kitchen garden.

  Mrs. Kingston had obviously seen him, too, for she suddenly released Grace’s hand, quickened her steps, and advanced toward him, returning the Worthy sisters’ greetings with a cursory nod. The two managed to wave Julia to a halt, though.

  “You’ve a visitor, Mrs. Hollis,” Iris said. “A gentleman.”

  “Not a friendly sort, if ye ask me,” Jewel added, nodding in the direction of the kitchen garden. She peered up at Julia with a critical eye. “Just like yer Mrs. Kingston there. Do ye intend to fill the Larkspur up with unsociable people, Mrs. Hollis?”

  “Of course not,” Julia told them, avoiding glancing over at Fiona, lest she give way to the smile she was struggling to keep inside. “And once Mrs. Kingston becomes better acquainted with you, I’m sure you’ll get along famously.”

  “I don’t know about that, dear,” Iris sighed. “We had a chat with her yesterday, and she mentioned that we ought to mind our own business.”

  Jewel drew her lips together. “All we did was ask her why she moved to Gresham. Never once did we say she wasn’t welcome here!”

  This time Julia sent a pleading look to Fiona, who took a step closer and came to the rescue. In her most soothing brogue, she said, “We all have days when we feel out of sorts. And some people are more sensitive to questions than others.” She nodded down at the strips of lace upon the women’s cushions. “My, my! Isn’t it amazing that something so lovely can come from simple threads.”

  As the Worthy sisters brightened and pointed out the intricacies of their patterns, Julia suddenly recalled that they had mentioned a visitor. She wasn’t expecting her second lodger, a Mr. Clay, until three days from now but wondered if he’d come early. She didn’t want to ask the Worthy sisters for details, or she would be delayed for another ten minutes.

  “Have a pleasant afternoon,” she told them, even though they were too busy discussing their lace with Fiona to notice. Taking Grace’s hand, she hurried up the carriage drive. She felt guilty for leaving Fiona at their mercy but knew the housekeeper would be able to extricate herself tactfully after another minute or so.

  Oh dear! Is she giving orders to the servants again? Julia wondered, approaching Karl and Mrs. Kingston at the garden site. But when both heads turned to her, their expressions seemed pleasant enough.

  “So you’ve gotten yourself away from them,” Mrs. Kingston said. “I hope you don’t mind my asking Mr. Herrick here to move this rose bush.”

  “Rose bush?” Julia stepped forward to peer down at the straggled bit of thorns and reluctant buds growing near the stones of the gardening cottage. “Why, I’ve never even noticed it.”

  “You don’t happen to know which variety of rose it is, do you?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t. My gardening skills are lacking, as you’ve already noticed.”

  Mrs. Kingston nodded agreement to that point. “Well, it’s not the proper time to transplant anything green. But the poor plant needs the morning sun most desperately, so Mr. Herrick is kindly moving it to the front. I shall just have to nurse it along and try to keep it alive.” To Karl, she said, “Careful now—a good wide circle. You don’t want to shock the roots.” Mrs. Kingston looked at Julia again and nodded toward the Alcorn’s cottage, next door to the Worthy sisters.

  “I wonder if that family would let me have some rabbit droppings to use as fertilizer?”

  “I’m sure they would. But how did you know …?”

  “That they raise rabbits? Why, those two lace spinners told me just yesterday. Excellent work they do, by the way. I plan to purchase some lace to send to my grandchildren come Christmas.”

  Julia thought about the ghost story
and wondered if rabbits were all that had been discussed. “So, you had a chat with them?”

  “A good long one.” Mrs. Kingston’s blue eyes shone with just a bit of mischief. “And I can assure you of this, Mrs. Hollis. If I come across Jake Pitt in some dark corridor, I shall give him what-for.”

  And I’ll cheer you on, Julia thought. When she finally hurried through the kitchen doorway, Mrs. Herrick sent a mild reproachful look from atop her stool. “So you’ve finally decided to come home.”

  “Is it Mr. Clay who’s here?”

  “Aye. And he’s been waitin’ for over an hour now.”

  “He’s the actor,” Mildred volunteered as she paused from chopping up turnips. She was a tall and broad woman with a warm nature that belied her perpetually anxious expression. Her hair was covered with a frilled cap, except for two reddish-brown curls that bobbed over each ear. “A most handsome fellow too. Georgette is black and blue from runnin’ into tables and doors.”

  “But he wasn’t due until Tuesday. Where is he now? In the hall?”

  “Up in his room,” the cook answered. “Master Philip said the man looked like he needed to rest. He sure didn’t touch a thing on my tray.”

  Julia found Philip pacing the hall with his hands gathered behind his back. He looked greatly relieved at her presence, and after repeating what Mrs. Herrick had already told her, he asked if he could leave to play cricket with his friends. She thanked the boy for taking care of matters and allowed him to go. “Just be back by suppertime.”

  Philip did indeed return as ordered, but as the evening wore on, Mr. Clay had yet to put in an appearance. After contemplating the matter, Julia finally went upstairs and knocked softly upon his door. Normally she would not have dreamed of visiting a gentleman’s room, but she reminded herself that she was the landlady of this establishment and had a duty to know what was going on.

  Besides, Mr. Clay’s actions, as described by Philip, were not those of a well man. If he were carrying some sort of contagious disease, she had to think of the welfare of her children, the servants, and Mrs. Kingston. Perhaps a coach would even have to be hired to take him to the hospital in Shrewsbury.