The Widow of Larkspur Inn

by Lawana Blackwell

  “And what is wrong with saying that?”

  A corner of her mouth flicked in an awkward manner. “I am not an educated person, Mr. Clay. It is not my place to critique novels.”

  “And yet you read Thackeray. Not all knowledge is hoarded by the universities, you know.” He started to explain further but could see in her expression that she understood his meaning. “Is it very difficult for you?” he found himself asking instead.

  “Difficult, sir?”

  “Being in service.” Quickly, he added, “I hope that question doesn’t offend you.”

  “It does not offend me,” she replied with soft frankness. “And while being in service can be difficult in some households, I’ve been blessed in my station. Mrs. Hollis treats me very well.”

  “Then you are happy with your life just as it is?” Ambrose was aware that his questions were too personal, but he could not stop himself from voicing them. With happiness so elusive during his dark moods, he had to figure out how others managed to achieve it. The secret was out there, barely out of his grasp, and he just had to keep reaching for it.

  After fixing her magnificent eyes upon something past his shoulder for several seconds, Miss O’Shea answered, “There are circumstances I would change if I could, sir, but I’m content.”

  There was a finality in her answer that did not invite questions, and he nodded understanding. A lengthier silence stretched between them until she turned her face in his direction again.

  “You were having trouble sleeping, Mr. Clay?”

  He shrugged and replied self-consciously, for his condition shamed him greatly, “It seems the only time I can sleep is when I’m supposed to be awake.”

  “Perhaps some hot chocolate?”

  Ambrose was about to thank her anyway but then realized that if he turned down her offer, he would have to allow her to leave presently. He could not bear the thought of being alone again and so, while chiding himself for his selfishness—for she was likely growing sleepy—he replied that perhaps that would help.

  She got to her feet and asked to borrow his candle. “I’ll bring it to you here,” she said, but Ambrose got to his feet as well.

  “I may as well go with you.”

  From the kitchen worktable in the amber light of a single lamp, Ambrose watched the housekeeper carry a small copper pot of milk to the stove. “Have you worked as a cook before?”

  “I have, sir.” She sent him a brief smile while opening a tin of Cadbury’s Cocoa Essence. “But for only a day.”

  It was the first time he could recall noticing her smile, and he found himself smiling back. “Why only one day?”

  “I had no talent for it.”

  “Then, how do you propose to manage hot chocolate?”

  “I’ve watched Mrs. Herrick a number of times. But I cannot guarantee that it will be as palatable as hers.”

  “Aye, that’s a fact,” came a voice from Ambrose’s left. The cook’s flannel-swathed little figure stood framed by the doorway, Buff the house cat staring at them from her arms.

  “Oh, Mrs. Herrick,” the housekeeper said, turning in her direction. “Did we wake you?”

  “It’s my fault,” Ambrose said gallantly. “I couldn’t sleep, so—”

  “Just leave the kitchen as you found it. Tha’s all I ask.” The cat stretched up to lick her cheek, and Mrs. Herrick grinned. “She knows who butters her bread, don’t she?”

  The cook was gone, and they traded smiles again. Ambrose said in a lower voice, “I’ll help you tidy up afterward, Miss O’Shea.”

  “Thank you, but it’ll take me only a minute.” She brought a steaming crockery mug to the table. “The mug’s not fancy, but it holds more than the china cups.”

  “Aren’t you having any?” He saw the hesitation in her face and wondered if it was because servants and non-servants generally did not share tables. “Please, don’t make me drink alone.” When she had seated herself across from him with a mug of her own, he took a sip.

  “Just the way I like it. Not tongue-scalding hot.” He chose to ignore the fact that it was rather heavy on the sugar and could use a pinch of salt.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Miss O’Shea asked him how he chose the stage for a career, and Ambrose found himself telling her all about his earlier years. “I was determined not to be an actor. I saw what the instability of a touring life did to my family. Most of the time we children were sent to my mother’s parents in Cornwall. Father couldn’t manage without my mother, you see.”

  “Your father was an actor?”

  “A quite successful one, actually.”

  First taking a sip of her chocolate, she said, “Then what were you intending to be?”

  “An engineer,” he answered with a little laugh. “One term of heavy mathematics at Oxford killed that notion.”

  “But don’t you enjoy acting?”

  He wrapped both hands around his mug, absorbing the warmth it produced. “Actually, I love it. I suppose it’s in my blood.”

  Her eyes became grave. “If I may ask you, sir …”

  “Why am I not acting?”

  “Yes.”

  Raising an eyebrow, he said, “Don’t you know? I assumed my … affliction was common knowledge in the house.”

  “But you’re still capable of walking about, and you can still speak …”

  “Ah,” he said, nodding. “So why can’t I do those same things on the stage?”

  No doubt she mistook the irony in his voice for mockery, for she lowered her eyes and said, “I must ask you to forgive my naiveté, sir. I’ve never been to the theatre.”

  “No, that’s quite all right,” he hastened to assure her. “That was a very sensible question. But you see, acting requires more than the ability to memorize lines and deliver them. One must put one’s whole identity into a role if it is to be portrayed with any credibility. That requires a tremendous amount of energy and emotion.”

  He shrugged then, absently tracing the handle of his mug with a forefinger. “And that’s the trouble, Miss O’Shea. I spend half my life with barely enough energy to groom myself. And as far as emotion goes, well …”

  “I’m so sorry, sir,” she said after a lengthy silence. “I wish I knew what to say.”

  “Just keeping me company now is more help than you can know,” he said with a grateful little smile. “But you should go on and get some rest.”

  “I’m fine, Mr. Clay. Please tell me more.”

  “Are you sure you want to hear it?”

  She nodded, and it was obvious from the compassion in her eyes that she was not just humoring him. “How long have you suffered with this?”

  “Since I was a young man, barely twenty. You know, I was determined not to end up with the emotional sickness my father suffered, but determination is sometimes not enough. Not only has this affected my career, but I can never think about having a family for fear of passing down my father’s fragile nature to my children.”

  “But you can’t be sure of that happening.”

  “But I can’t be sure of it not happening either. Besides, no child deserves to have a father who can barely function on some days.” Giving a shrug, he said, “I’ve accepted that as a necessary fact of life, Miss O’Shea. And I have imposed upon your kindness long enough. Thank you for sitting up with me.”

  “I didn’t mind, sir.” She started to push out her chair but grimaced and stopped when the legs scraped loudly against the flagstone floor. Both sets of eyes darted immediately toward the doorway.

  “I’d hate to be put to work in the scullery tomorrow for waking her a second time,” Ambrose whispered after several seconds when the cook had not appeared.

  Miss O’Shea smiled. “I don’t think she would do that.”

  “Well, I’d like to stay on her good side, just the same. I know who butters my bread as well.” When both chairs were pushed out as silently as possible, he said, “Won’t you allow me to help you tidy up?”

 
“No, thank you. And please … take your candle. There are more in the cupboard.”

  “Thank you.” He shifted his weight on his feet, wishing for an excuse to stay longer. “Well, good night, Miss O’Shea. Again, thank you for sitting up with me.”

  “May you have pleasant dreams, sir,” she replied.

  The compassion in her voice accompanied him all the way back along the corridor. Ambrose had no respect for people who broad-casted their troubles in the hopes of receiving pity—which was why he rarely spoke of his condition. But just for an hour or so, someone else had shared his burden. While sympathy could not alter the facts, it did make them more bearable.

  Chapter 17

  Julia wrote one month later in early July:

  Dear Mr. Jensen,

  Enclosed you will find a cheque in the amount of twenty-five pounds, the first payment for the loan you so graciously extended to me. I shudder to think how my family would be faring now, were it not for your generosity, and I want you to know that you are in my prayers daily.

  I must confess that the first sight of the Larkspur caused me to doubt the feasibility of a boardinghouse, but I wish you could see it now! By the way, we have turned a linen room on the north side into a bedchamber, in the eventuality that you would ever wish to holiday or even take up permanent residence with us. The room is small but comfortably furnished, and from the window you can see dozens of quaint stone cottages and the lovely River Bryce in the background. You will find the rent extremely reasonable, for I would not dream of charging our dear benefactor one farthing.

  She wrote on to inquire about his health, told him more about some of the improvements that had been made in the inn, how the children and Fiona were faring, and the names and positions of the new servants. Next came a brief description of each new lodger.

  Mrs. Kingston, a widow, was our first. She can be too frank at times but has a tender heart, and I have come to enjoy her company.Our flower garden has benefitted from her residence here. She cannot bear to be idle and has a knack for coaxing blooms from the most hopeless looking of plants.

  Perhaps you have heard of the actor Mr. Ambrose Clay. He has temporarily absented himself from the stresses of the stage, but when his constitution permits, he can be persuaded to deliver a soliloquy from Macbeth or a modern ballad at the piano. The children adore him, and Mrs. Kingston treats him as a son.

  Miss Rawlins from Staffordshire was the next to arrive. She and Mr. Clay are the only lodgers who are not elderly. A former schoolmistress, Miss Rawlins now composes penny novelettes under the name of Robert St. Claire and so must sequester herself away when inspiration strikes, only coming downstairs for meals. Aleda has become her greatest admirer, even though she is not allowed to read Miss Rawlins’ works. Please do not misunderstand—the books are not indecent, but I do believe eleven years old is too tender an age for romance stories.

  Mrs. Dearing is also a widow. She has led a most interesting life, having accompanied her husband to the gold fields of California twenty years ago. They discovered very little gold but ended up founding a restaurant in Sacramento that became a profitable business. When her husband passed away two years ago, Mrs. Dearing decided to return to England. Her appearance is most interesting, by the way. Her white hair falls down her back in a long braid, Indian-style, and she has a beautiful collection of turquoise beads and bracelets.

  Julia stopped writing to re-ink her pen, then scanned the two pages already written. How odd that for the years she’d had daily contact with Jensen, they might as well have been strangers. Now here she was pouring her heart out to him, as if he were a benevolent old uncle. And she knew instinctively that the butler would read every word and be happy to hear from her. She felt a pang for the wasted years they could have been friends but reminded herself that at least she’d not left London without seeing the softer side of the man.

  Mr. Durwin’s name may be familiar to you. He is the founder of Durwin Stoves, which he recently passed down to his sons. A widower, he appears far younger than his seventy years and credits herbal teas and a semi-vegetarian diet for his longevity. On most fair weather mornings he takes a basket up the Anwyl to search for herbs among the Roman ruins, and indeed, recently cured our cook’s fever with some white mustard tea. Mrs. Herrick was very grateful.

  Mrs. Hyatt, another widow, was the last lodger to arrive. She is quiet and unobtrusive but bold enough to give an encouraging word to everyone she meets. Her late husband was in the shipping business in Liverpool, and after his death, Mrs. Hyatt could no longer bear to live by the sea. She and Mrs. Dearing are quite talented with needlepoint. They recently started a joint project that they alternate turns constructing—an ambitious three-foot-squared wall tapestry of Noah’s ark!

  And so you see, my friend, that we are thriving here in Gresham.And if you will forgive my redundancy, we owe it all to your kind benevolence and God’s tender provision. May His mercy and grace accompany you all the days of your life.

  With highest esteem,

  Julia Hollis

  The hall, with its centrality to the rest of the house, was the usual gathering place for Julia’s lodgers whenever they weren’t occupied with other activities such as writing, in Miss Rawlins’ case, and collecting herbs, as in Mr. Durwin’s. And the after-supper hours seemed to be when everyone felt most sociable.

  Julia was on her way down the family corridor one night in mid-July, after tucking in her children, when she caught the sound of Mr. Clay’s animated voice. She always felt relieved, for his sake, whenever the actor’s despondency loosened its grip.

  If only he could know you, Jesus, she prayed silently. She was not so naive as to think that every problem troubling Mr. Clay would vanish the instant he became a believer. Surely miraculous things like that did happen. But as she’d grown closer and closer to God these past few months, she’d come to believe that most conversions resulted in a taking on of heavenly grace to help cope with life’s burdens, not a complete erasure of them. Even so, the promise of a brighter eternity would surely be a comfort to someone whose present seemed so dark.

  But the time she’d broached the subject, he’d cut her off politely. “I’m grateful for your concern, Mrs. Hollis,” he’d said with a little smile, “but dear Mrs. Kingston has already presented me with a Bible in an attempt to save my soul. I would appreciate the courtesy of being left alone as far as my spiritual life is concerned.”

  She was compelled to respect Mr. Clay’s request. He lived under her roof, true, but as long as he paid his rent, the man was due the privacy he’d come here seeking. Yet he could not stop her from praying that someone would reach him with the Gospel.

  “Mrs. Hollis.” Miss Rawlins beamed when Julia walked into the hall. With little time or concern for primping, the thirty-three-year old writer wore her coffee-brown hair unstylishly trimmed just above the collar. The face behind her round spectacles was too angular to be called pretty, but nonetheless Aleda thought her quite exotic looking. “You’re just in time to hear my idea.”

  Julia smiled and sat in one of the empty chairs. She glanced around the room, appreciating the homey scene. Georgette or Sarah had been in earlier to pass out mugs of hot chocolate, and every boarder save Mr. Durwin sipped from one. He and Mr. Clay were now positioned at opposite ends of the draughts table; Miss Rawlins lounged at the end of a sofa with her feet tucked up under her gown; Mrs. Dearing and Mrs. Hyatt sat on the facing sofa, with an oval needlework hoop across Mrs. Hyatt’s lap. And in an overstuffed wing chair, Mrs. Kingston was reading from one of the gardening books she’d ordered from London.

  “You’ve thought up another plot?” Julia asked the writer.

  “Miss Rawlins is constantly spinning plots,” said Mrs. Dearing. “I’m trying to persuade her to write a story about the gold rush in California. She would have scant research to do, what with my having been there.”

  “You can’t do better than firsthand experience,” Mrs. Kingston advised, not looking up from her g
ardening text.

  “I know,” Miss Rawlins sighed. “But I just don’t find that a romantic setting. Castles are what young women want to read about, and mysterious old houses on the moors.”

  “Romance can be anywhere you look for it,” Mr. Durwin said from the draughts table. He was a tall man with a full head of white hair and carried himself with a sureness that belied his seventy years. “I met Mrs. Durwin at Billingsgate when I was only sixteen, and it was love at first sight. Yet who would imagine a fish market to be a romantic place?”

  Mr. Clay tilted his head thoughtfully. “There you have it, Miss Rawlins! Your next novel could be titled Salmon d’Amour or The Codfish Brought Them Together.”

  “Mock if you will, young man,” Mr. Durwin snorted. “But since you haven’t forty years of wedded bliss behind you, it would serve you well to learn from your elders’ experiences.”

  “And I believe you’re right,” Mr. Clay offered in an humbler tone.

  Deciding this would be a good place to change the subject, Julia turned to Miss Rawlins again. “And what is your idea, Miss Rawlins?”

  The writer smiled. “Well, I’m intrigued with the story of that poor knife sharpener who died here, Jack Pitt.”

  “I believe it’s Jake, dear,” Mrs. Hyatt corrected gently, pulling a length of cobalt thread through the canvas. “Isn’t it, Mrs. Hollis?”

  Julia smiled through clinched teeth. “Yes.”

  “Thank you.” Miss Rawlins nodded to the older woman, then stared into space with a dreamy expression. “Just suppose an eccentric old duke leaves his estate—let’s see, the Vale of York would set an ethereal tone—to a penniless but proud niece, on the condition that she occupy the place herself for a year. And if she doesn’t, the estate goes to his next heir, a ne’er-do-well distant cousin.”

  “Penelope St. John would be a good name for the niece,” Mrs. Kingston suggested. “And you could name the cousin something ominous, like Angus Saxon. I wouldn’t trust anyone named Angus.”