“Andrew Phelps, Mr. Raleigh!”
“Reverend Phelps?” It appeared as if Jonathan was trying to detach himself from the woman, but she clung to him and they both stumbled. When the young man found his feet again, the shock seemed to have sobered him a little. “I can explain, sir,” came out in a slightly more stable voice.
“And I’m listening, Mr. Raleigh.”
“Tell him I’m yer sister,” the woman whispered loudly, then burst into another spate of giggles.
Jonathan gave her a murderous look. “Shut up!”
Having seen all that was necessary, Andrew had no desire to witness any more of this spectacle. “Stay away from my daughter, Mr. Raleigh!”
The young man’s jaw fell, and for a second it looked as if he would step toward him. But then resignation seemed to set in. Jonathan Raleigh touched the brim of his bowler hat in a mock salute. “And good evening to you, Reverend Phelps! I’ll not darken your door again.”
Two weeks later, the young man once again proved himself to be lacking in integrity, for he did not keep the vow he’d made on that dark street. Claire, the parlormaid in the vicarage, knocked on the door to Andrew’s study as he was preparing to pay calls to the sick of the parish. “That Mr. Raleigh asks to see you, sir.”
The name issued from her lips as if she’d said, “Napoleon,” or “Mary, Queen of Scots,” and Andrew could see the scorn in her eyes. There was no keeping secrets from the servants, especially with Elizabeth moving aimlessly about the house as if someone dear to her had died. You had no other choice, Andrew reminded himself, but the memory of how her face had crumpled when he gave her the news would haunt him forever.
“Please tell Mr. Raleigh I am unavailable,” Andrew said to the maid, but then shook his head. “Never mind. I have a feeling he’ll only come back if I don’t see him.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, sir,” Claire said, her lips forming a tight line. “If you’ll allow me to give him a piece of my mind, he’ll make tracks. Or Mrs. Orson would be happy to take her rolling pin to him!”
“Indeed?” Andrew had to smile. “If I need reinforcements, I’ll be sure to call the both of you.”
“Well, he’s out there on the portico, then. I wasn’t about to ask him in.”
Jonathan Raleigh was indeed waiting out front, hat in hand, and looked up when the door was opened. Unmoved by the misery across the young face, Andrew fought the urge to reach out and grab him by the throat. “What do you want, Mr. Raleigh?”
The chin quivered. “I came to apologize, sir.”
“Elizabeth is at school. And I wouldn’t allow you to speak with her anyway.”
“I know that. That’s why I’m here now.”
Andrew raised an eyebrow. “So … you’ve added truancy to your list of vices?”
“Don’t say that, sir!” Jonathan winced painfully. “I wanted you to know that I haven’t seen … haven’t been to Locke Street since that night.”
“That is good to know, for your sake. But again, you may not see my daughter.”
Fretfully the young man wrung the brim of his hat with both hands. “I’ve wronged her. I should be allowed to beg her forgiveness.”
“No, you should not,” Andrew replied. “And the best thing you can do for yourself is to forget about Elizabeth.”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried!” Jonathan’s dark eyes brimmed with tears. “You preach about forgiveness, don’t you? Well, why won’t you—”
“There is a difference between forgiveness and foolishness, young man. I bear you no ill will and pray your waywardness has taught you to stay upon the straight and narrow. But my sainted wife didn’t suffer through the valley of the shadow to bear this child just to have her ruined by the likes of you. Good day, Mr. Raleigh.”
Ignoring the sob that tore from the young throat, Andrew stepped back and closed the door with a final click.
Five minutes later, the parlormaid’s voice broke into his thoughts.
“Reverend?”
“What?” Andrew blinked, surprised to find himself still standing in the foyer by the hall tree. He straightened and asked, “What is it, Claire?”
The maid eyed him with a worried frown. “May I fetch you a cup of tea?”
“Tea would be nice,” he answered but then shook his head and reached up for his hat. “Wait … no, thank you. I’ll be back by supper.”
“Going to make your calls now, sir?”
“Yes.” Andrew opened the door again. Making his way up King’s Parade, he eyed the under- and upperclassmen scurrying across the grounds of Trinity College with books under their arms and wind in their Norfolk jackets. It was a classic picture of academia; students absorbed with the quest for knowledge. Yet he knew that for every young man who had come to the university seeking to be educated, there were three of Jonathan Raleigh’s ilk—sons of wealthy peers and businessmen, enjoying more unsupervised freedom than ever before in their lives. Their numbers filled the pubs and gin palaces most evenings. Why did I ever think Cambridge would be a good place to raise daughters?
His steps slowed until he came to a complete halt on the walkway in front of Bromley’s Baked Goods. Ignoring the passersby on both sides and the street sweeper’s curious looks, Andrew rubbed his beard absently while mulling over his family’s situation. He moved on after several seconds, but instead of proceeding as before, he made an abrupt turn in the opposite direction and headed toward Saint Mary Street. He would indeed make his calls to the sick, as was his duty. But his very first call would be to Bishop Myers. He needed some advice about the future.
Chapter 16
It seemed that all of Gresham had turned out in front of the vicarage to bid farewell to Vicar Wilson and Henrietta on the morning of June fourth. Even Squire Bartley, whom Julia had still not met personally—and was in no hurry to do so—was there, keeping himself at a distance from the assemblage. He was a tall man for his elderly years, bald as a Druid with thick white eyebrows that seemed to be formed into a perpetual scowl. Why someone with his disposition even attended church was a mystery to Julia. He seemed to get no pleasure from it as he sat alone in his pew, one row ahead of his servants.
There were more than a few teary eyes present as the good reverend and his daughter exchanged embraces with the well-wishers. Luke, who was to drive them to the railway station in Shrewsbury, sat somberfaced at the reins of a borrowed landau, while housemaid Dora and the cook, Mrs. Paget, sobbed openly. Finally the landau moved away, with several boys chasing it down the vicarage lane. Behind, people called out final farewells, raising handkerchiefs. And then the sound of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves faded away, and people turned back toward their houses to tend to the duties of the day.
“I’m going to miss them so much,” Fiona said as she and Julia walked back home, accompanied by Aleda, Grace, Mildred, and Mrs. Herrick. A gentle breeze, fragrant with the scent of hay drying in the fields, blew around them.
“They’ll be missed by us all,” Audrey Herrick agreed. Though the Herricks were members of the Baptist chapel on Short Lane, the cook had become closely acquainted with the vicar during his visits with Ethan Banning over the years.
“When’s the curate coming?” Mildred asked.
“I believe Luke is to bring him back here this evening,” Julia replied. The congregation had been told last Sunday that a curate from Saint Margaret’s in Shrewsbury would handle church duties until a new vicar could be assigned.
The kitchen maid’s lips drew together bitterly. “Well, won’t either of ’em—the curate or the new vicar—be able to hold a candle to Vicar Wilson.”
There were general murmurs of agreement. Julia made one herself, even though she was aware that she wasn’t being quite fair. It wasn’t either minister’s fault that their beloved Vicar Wilson could no longer cope with the weather here. But she was afraid there would be some resentment toward the two, particularly the new vicar.
Fiona was obviously of the same mind, for as t
hey ambled pass the empty schoolhouse, she commented, “Perhaps it’s for the best, sending a curate first. Then it won’t seem so much that the new vicar is taking Vicar Wilson’s place.”
That sounded reasonable to Julia, and she said so. She then caught sight of Ophelia Rhodes walking up ahead of them. Mrs. Rhodes was kept so busy with her veterinary duties that Julia hadn’t had opportunity to tell her how much they were enjoying the use of the silver cutlery. “I’ll see you at home later,” she told the group and walked quickly to catch up with her friend.
The walk home together turned into coffee and biscuits at the Rhodes’ cottage. When Julia finally stepped back through the Larkspur’s courtyard door, she was met by the strains of a piano and a male baritone voice with perfect pitch.
“It’s that Mr. Clay and Miss Aleda,” Mrs. Herrick said from the kitchen doorway, her face beaming.
Mildred and Gertie nodded from behind each shoulder, their faces likewise enraptured. “Who would ha’ thought it?” said Mildred.
Who indeed? thought Julia. “Well, shall we go see?”
She hurried down the corridor, with the three servants following close behind. Julia stopped just inside the hall and blinked at the scene before her eyes. Aleda sat at the pianoforte, her slender fingers prancing over the keys like circus ponies, while Mr. Clay stood at the piano’s side. Their audience consisted of Mrs. Kingston, who smiled over her needlework, one foot actually tapping, and Grace, next to her on the sofa with Buff curled up in her lap. Across the room, Fiona stood at the empty fireplace and watched with a bemused expression.
Upon seeing that his audience had more than doubled, Mr. Clay did not appear abashed but winked at the four newcomers and continued to sing:
A good sword and a trusty hand!
A merry heart and true!
King James’ men shall understand
What Cornish lads can do.
Out spoke their captain brave and bold,
A merry sight was he
If London Tower were Michael’s hold,
We’ll set Trelawny free!
When the song was finished, he accepted the applause with grace but politely turned down requests for more songs. “And I must compliment young Miss Hollis here for her most excellent accompaniment.”
The kitchen servants returned to their duties, still smiling, and Julia approached the piano with wonder. “Where did you get the music for that song?” she asked her daughter. “Do you sing it at school?”
Her face flushed with pleasure, Aleda looked up at the actor. “It’s Mr. Clay’s.”
“A souvenir from Trelawny, a little comedy that ran a year or two in the Strand Theatre.” Mr. Clay picked up the score from the pianoforte. “I’m afraid I’m a bit of a pack rat concerning mementos from the stage.”
“Quite wonderful, if you ask me,” came Mrs. Kingston’s voice from behind.
“You were both wonderful,” Julia agreed. To Mr. Clay, she added, “And I must say I’m delighted to see you’re feeling better.”
“Thank you.” His smile did not waver, but a touch of sadness came into his slate gray eyes. “If only I knew how to hold on to it somehow, Mrs. Hollis.”
Mrs. Kingston drew Julia aside in the library after supper, a strange glow to her face. “Mrs. Hollis, are you aware that there is to be a flower show on the green this coming Saturday?”
“Why, I believe it’s posted in the vestibule at church,” Julia replied. With so many duties to attend to lately, she had given the notice little more than a cursory glance but happened to recall that some members of the Shrewsbury Floral Society would be in attendance as judges. “But I must confess I paid it little mind. Are you interested in attending?”
“Oh, Mrs. Hollis!” Mrs. Kingston clasped both hands together over her heart. “We had them annually in Sheffield, but I was afraid a village this size would not. I won the ‘geranium’ ribbon three years running.”
She seized Julia’s arm, her blue eyes intense. “Mrs. Hollis, Karl Herrick is a most capable man, but it’s obvious that he has overwhelming responsibilities. Why don’t you allow me to assume the cultivation of the flower garden? It would make me very happy.”
“But, Mrs. Kingston, you pay for your lodgings here. You shouldn’t feel obligated to—”
“How can one feel obligated to do something one enjoys? Please,
Mrs. Hollis. Why, it would free Mr. Herrick to tend the vegetable garden and his other duties. And didn’t you say yourself that you plan to buy a carriage and horses? Unless you plan to hire a groomsman, he’ll have that to do as well.”
In the face of such determination, Julia could do nothing but acquiesce, adding, “But I’m sorry you’ll have nothing to show at the competition this year.”
Mrs. Kingston didn’t appear sorry at all. In fact, a content smile appeared on her face. “Ah, but there is always next year now, isn’t there?”
Three nights later, Ambrose Clay lay on his side and drew his knees up to his chest, more wide-awake than when he had climbed into his bed two hours ago. That was the most perplexing and discouraging thing about the condition that had all but ruined his career. When despondency had him in its grip, he felt so weary that he would gladly stay in bed for days at a time. If he could sleep, that is, for insomnia went hand-in-hand with the fatigue to form an incongruous partnership.
He often wondered why it had been his lot in life to suffer such madness. He had no doubt that he was as mad as a dervish. How else could he explain the extremes in his moods? There were days at a time when he felt he could conquer the world, when energy suffused his limbs and creativity his mind. If only he could cling to those glorious days, as a child clings to his mother, refusing to allow them to slip away! But no effort of his will could keep the despondency from returning—he knew, for he had tried many times.
Sometimes the temptation was strong to put an end to the suffering once and for all, as his father had done, yet he could not bring himself to take that drastic step. What if he succeeded in only injuring himself, to the point where he became like one of those poor wretches who hovel in doorways, begging alms of passersby?
And so he looked upon the remainder of his days as a cruel life sentence to endure. He could not go back and undo the event of his birth. Were such a thing possible, yes, but it served no good to dwell upon fantasies. With a sigh, he threw aside the bedclothes and got to his feet. Reading late at night often distracted his mind enough to allow a natural sleepiness to come over him. He slipped a flannel dressing gown over his pajamas, pushed his feet into corduroy slippers, and picked up the copy of Trollope’s Barchester Towers from his night table. He’d finished it late last night during another bout with insomnia and would save the chambermaid the trouble of returning it to the library.
As he held a candle in front of him on his way down the dark staircase, the stillness of the house only served to increase his melancholia. With envy he could imagine the others upon their pillows, caught up in the slumber that so eluded him. That was another paradox of his condition. While the despondency caused him to closet himself away from the company of other people, he felt at the same time overwhelmed by loneliness. I’d welcome even Jake Pitt’s company right now, he thought, a bitter smile twisting one corner of his mouth.
The library door was closed, as usual, but with a thread of light visible underneath. Surely someone hasn’t left the lamp burning. A room filled with books, some of them quite old, would be a certain fire hazard. He turned the knob to open the door and saw the startled face of Miss O’Shea.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the housekeeper said, averting her eyes as she rose from her chair.
Her apology annoyed him a little, and her aversion to look at him much more. “Sorry for what?”
“For disturbing you,” she answered in a soft Irish brogue. “I’ll leave now.”
He shook his head, still annoyed. “But how could you have disturbed me, when you were here first?”
“I just—”
“And please—I’m as fully clothed as you.”
“Yes, of course you are,” she nodded and turned her eyes to him.
He realized then that she was waiting for him to move from the doorway so she could quit the room. As annoyed as she had made him, she was the only other conscious person in the whole house, and he suddenly felt loathe to let her go.
“Would you mind keeping me company for just a little while?” he asked in a more gentle tone.
She hesitated but then lowered herself back into her chair. Ambrose took a chair about five feet away—a safe distance, so she would see that conversation was his only motive. He had never really noticed her as a person before, he realized, ashamed of his own elitism. Like the other servants, she had only been someone in the background—a calm little apron-clad figure who moved unobtrusively in and out of rooms to oversee the functions of the house.
Now she wore a simple housedress of a light rose color, and ravencolored hair fell about her shoulders with a healthy shine. The eyes, as purple as orchids, showed a keen intelligence that he admired in a woman and a modesty that he found charming. She could be beautiful, he thought. If only someone would tell her so.
“What were you reading?” he finally asked her.
She glanced down at the book in her hands. “The Newcomes. Have you read it?”
“Ah, Thackeray. Yes, I have.” Actually, he’d acted the role of Clive Newcome in a student production at Oxford and could still quote entire paragraphs. “Are you enjoying it?”
“Quite so, sir.” She appeared ready to add something to that, but then her expression veiled and she lowered her eyes to the book again.
“What were you going to say?” he felt compelled to ask.
“Just that I enjoyed Henry Esmond more.”
The Widow of Larkspur Inn Page 19
