“Let me guess,” Mrs. Dearing said. “The ne’er-do-well cousin decides to frighten Penelope into leaving before the year is up. So he secretly moves into the house before she does.”
“But what would that have to do with a real ghost?” asked Mrs. Kingston.
Miss Rawlins absently twisted a short strand of her hair around a finger. “Well, let’s just assume there is a real ghost in the house. He could have even been a knife sharpener in his former life. And after he toys with the evil cousin for several chapters, the ghost murders him with an ax.”
“You could have Angus cut eye holes in a portrait on the staircase so that he can stare at Penelope as she passes by,” the unassuming Mrs. Hyatt offered in a hushed voice. “Only, have the ghost later pull the same stunt on Angus.”
From the draughts match, Mr. Durwin asked, “But surely the young woman would be in danger as well. If he’s the killing sort, why would the ghost spare her?”
“Because the ghost knows that she’s good,” Mrs. Hyatt suggested, then darted an anxious glance over to Miss Rawlins to see if she approved. Her face relaxed into a smile when the writer nodded.
“But where is the romance in that story?” asked Mr. Clay. “Surely you can’t have a ghost fall in love with a flesh-and-blood woman.”
The twisting of the lock of Miss Rawlins’ hair intensified. “Well, suppose the evil cousin’s twin brother comes searching for him? Before his brother—Angus—left, he made him promise not to tell anyone his plans, but now the twin’s conscience won’t allow him to sleep.”
“John is a good Christian name for a hero,” Mrs. Kingston advised. “Or Richard.”
“Wait a minute!” Mr. Durwin said in an annoyed tone. “If this John or Richard is Angus’ twin brother, how come he wasn’t also left a share of the estate, providing the girl leaves before the year is up?”
“He … Angus, I mean, could have discredited his brother years ago,” Miss Rawlins replied. “That would be the genius in having them twins, you see? Angus could have done something terribly wicked or illegal in the past and blamed it on John.”
“You should make them identical twins, in that case, dear,” Mrs. Hyatt suggested. “I’m sure you’re aware that not all twins look alike.”
Mrs. Kingston, not to be outdone, said, “It would add a nice touch to your story to give Penelope a beautiful singing voice. That is how the good twin discovers he loves her, you see? He could be a pharmacist—you know, someone who is devoted to music.”
“I believe you mean a philharmonic,” Mr. Clay corrected tactfully. “A pharmacist is someone who dispenses medicines. Of course I’m not implying that a pharmacist cannot also be devoted to music.”
“Well, what are you going to do with the ghost?” asked Mrs.
Dearing.
“The ghost,” Miss Rawlins sighed. “I would need to resolve that part of the plot somehow, wouldn’t I?”
A contemplative silence settled about everyone, until Mr. Clay snapped a finger. “Have an attractive, eligible female ghost move into the house—” He stopped himself when Mrs. Kingston turned to him and frowned.
“Would you please be serious, Mr. Clay?”
“My apologies,” he said, but Julia noticed the amused look that he and Mr. Durwin exchanged.
“What do you think, Mrs. Hollis?” Miss Rawlins asked. “We haven’t heard your opinion.”
It was so tempting to answer with an evasive and appeasing, “I wouldn’t know how to begin to plot a novel.” After all, the people assembled in this room provided her livelihood, and they were all obviously caught up in this story. But she had a definite thought on the matter, so why shouldn’t she tactfully express it? If she began stifling her opinion when it was asked for, she was in danger of turning into one of those landladies who hover about with perpetual ingratiating smiles. There was a difference between being tactful and sniveling, and surely her lodgers would prefer the former. And she could not live with herself as the latter.
“Having the evil cousin attempt to frighten away the niece is quite suspenseful,” Julia answered in all honesty. “But I must confess that I’m not fond of ghost stories.”
“But why?” asked Miss Rawlins. “Didn’t you love a good scare when you were a young woman? Don’t tell me you haven’t read Poe.”
Julia smiled. Of course she’d read Poe. Every English female who went to finishing school had participated in at least one clandestine post-bedtime reading of the American writer’s short stories. One of the girls who shared her room had become so discomposed while listening to The Cask of Amontillado that she’d cried out, upset the candle, and burned a hole in the bed curtains.
“It just can’t be healthy to be obsessed with the macabre,” she finally replied.
“Would a certain Jake Pitt have anything to do with that?” Mr. Clay asked.
“He would,” Julia admitted. “I’ve grown weary of hearing about the man, to be truthful. I’ll be happy when the villagers forget all about him.” She got to her feet then and smiled again at the faces turned in her direction. “And if you’ll excuse me, I’m rather tired, so I must bid you all good night.”
They all protested, offering to change to a different subject, but she thanked them anyway and took up a candle from the chimneypiece. The lodgers took daily naps and could bear sitting up until eleven or so, but she found herself stifling yawns by nine every evening. Nonetheless, for a couple of weeks after they’d all arrived, she’d made herself sit up with them, for what kind of hostess went to bed when her guests were still awake?
Fiona had finally taken her aside and suggested with her typical gentle frankness that if she truly wanted the lodgers to feel that the Larkspur was their home, she should stop hovering over them. It was such a relief to hear those words. That very night Julia forced herself to go to her room at ten. When no one reproached her about it the next day or even mentioned that she’d gone to bed early, she had walked to Trumbles and ordered Fiona a new hat. And turned in by nine o’clock that night.
Come, let us join our cheerful songs
With angels round the throne,
Fiona sang, the rug beater in her hand, as she swatted the Brussells carpet in time with the lively rhyme of the hymn. The large carpet overlapped a frame Mr. Herrick had erected between the stable and gardening shed.
Ten thousand are their tongues,
But all their joys are one!
She took a deep breath and was just about to plunge into the second stanza when a male voice said from behind her, “That was a fine song. Will you sing it again?”
Swallowing the breath she’d just inhaled, Fiona spun on her heel and gaped at a smiling Mr. Clay. “Mr. Clay! How long—”
“Only for a second or two. I give you my word. Why, I had no idea you could sing so well, Miss O’Shea.”
Fiona had to smile, even though embarrassed at being caught. “Thank you, sir. It’s the Irish in me.”
“Are you saying that all Irishmen can carry a tune?”
“If one can’t, he doesn’t admit to it.”
The actor chuckled, hooking both hands under his arms. “Then that means you’ll be happy to deliver an encore?”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t mean that, sir.”
“Oh well, I’ll just have to sneak up on you again the next time you’re beating a rug,” he drawled. “The maids must love you, Miss O’Shea. I didn’t think that was a housekeeper’s chore.”
She pulled the cotton scarf she was wearing to keep dust out of her hair down a little lower on her forehead—it tended to slip as she worked. “Sometimes I get caught up on my duties and help them with theirs. And it’s not as hard as it looks.”
“Truly? It looks terribly difficult to me.”
Fiona’s lips tightened at what seemed to be mild condescension in his voice. While she was aware that being in service was not one of the more scholarly occupations, it did not deserve scorn from those in the more genteel classes. Quietly, she said, “Now you’re maki
ng fun of me, sir.”
Mr. Clay’s face fell, a hand going up to his chest. “I do apologize, Miss O’Shea. My word, do I sound that condescending?”
Now Fiona felt embarrassed at overreacting, when Mr. Clay had been nothing but kind to her. “No, sir. I’m sure you meant no harm.”
“I meant exactly what I said, Miss O’Shea. Being brought up on the stage, I’ve never done manual labor of any kind. I came out here and saw the size of this carpet versus the size of that instrument in your hand, and my first thought was that it looked difficult.”
“I must beg your forgiveness, Mr. Clay,” Fiona told him, her cheeks warm.
“No, it is I who must beg forgiveness for coming out here and talking like an idiot. And I’m ready to pay my penance.”
“Sir?”
He stepped over to take the carpet beater from her hand. “I’m going to beat every speak of dust out of this carpet, Miss O’Shea.”
“Mr. Clay, that’s not—”
“Oh, but it is. And what else have I to do?” His gray eyes narrowed. “But I draw the line at wearing that scarf, because frankly, Miss O’Shea, it even looks a little silly on you. And now, will you please stand back?”
She could do nothing but obey, grateful that the stables blocked the two of them from the Worthy sisters’ line of vision. The actor tackled the carpet with a relish, facing her and grinning like a butcher’s dog while pounding it with backhand strokes that produced loud whomps.
Presently he began to sing, with no self-consciousness to his manner:
In coming down to Manchester, to gain my liberty …
I saw one of the prettiest girls that ever my eyes did see;
I saw one of the prettiest girls that ever my eyes did see,
At the Angel Inn in Manchester there lives the girl for me!
When one side finally ceased to produce clouds of dust, he went to the other side and continued. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but he continued to work until Fiona insisted that the chore was finished.
“Did I do a good job?” He looked so much like an anxious little boy that she had to smile again.
“An excellent job.”
“May I help you carry it inside?”
“No, thank you. Mr. Herrick will do it when Sarah’s finished polishing the dining room floor.”
“Polishing the floor? Seems like a waste if you’re just going to cover most of it with a carpet, doesn’t it?”
“Clean has to go all the way through, Mr. Clay.”
“I see,” he said, handing the beater over. “Well, I shouldn’t take any more of your time.”
“Thank you again, sir.” Impulsively she added, “It’s good to see that you’re having a good day.”
Her comment seemed to startle him, for he cocked an eyebrow at her. “A good day? Actually, it has been a wretched one. I only came outside so my room could be cleaned and heard you here at work. I guess for a little while I seemed to forget it was a bad day. Thank you for that, Miss O’Shea.”
“Why … you’re welcome, sir.”
Giving her another smile, he turned and ambled back across the courtyard with hands pocketed. After a few steps he began whistling the tune of the hymn she’d been singing.
Fiona realized she was staring when the actor turned to wink at her before disappearing through the courtyard door. She found herself thinking that for all Mr. Clay’s dark moods, he surely had a knack for producing smiles from others.
You shouldn’t enjoy his company so much, an inner voice warned.
Chapter 18
The willow peeling season ran from the end of April to June, but the riverbank chores of the Irish children continued on through July, for now the rushes were ready to be harvested. Philip twisted around to watch the Bryce behind him. A hundred feet west of where he sat on the bridge, Tom and Jack Keegan waded barefoot through the shallow water with short, curved sickles. Each boy gathered together with one arm as many long green blades as possible, then after a low, swinging motion of the sickle, tossed the bunch to a younger sibling on the bank. They chatted, bantered, and sometimes even sang as they worked.
When his neck began to ache, Philip lowered his legs back over the side of the bridge and turned his attention to his fishing cork. “They don’t seem to mind working so hard, do they,” he said to Ben, who lived up Worton Lane from the Keegan family.
“I expect they’re glad to get out of their cottage. They help their mother and papa weave baskets when there’s nothing to harvest.”
“I wouldn’t mind weavin’ baskets if I could stay home from school all the time,” Jeremiah muttered from Philip’s other side. Jeremiah often let it be known that the pursuit of education was low on his list of priorities.
“It’s a shame the boys never join our cricket matches.” Philip raised his stringer to make sure the trout and two pike were still attached. “Those oldest two look hardy. Maybe we should ask them.”
Ben shrugged his shoulders, the sunlight tinting his hair the color of fire. “You can ask if you like, but it won’t do you any good. They don’t seem to want to call attention to themselves—they know folks aren’t quite used to them yet.”
“You mean because they’re Irish or Catholic?”
“Both. But one or the other would be enough to most folks.”
“How long have they lived here?”
Chewing on his lower lip for a second, Ben finally answered, “About four years.”
“And people aren’t used to them yet?” Philip snapped his line out of the water and frowned at the undersized grayling flipping about on the other end. “How long is it going to take?”
“It takes a long time, I expect. Look at your German gardener. My father said there were years when no one would speak to him.”
“Well, people speak to Fiona, and she’s Irish.”
“That’s different—she’s not a whole group.” A wistful smile crossed Ben’s face, for he was overcome with a schoolboy’s infatuation for the housekeeper. “And she’s a mite prettier than Mr. Herrick.”
Philip tossed the freed grayling back into the water. “They must be terribly lonesome.”
“With a family that big?” Jeremiah shrugged. “It’s likely they wish they could be lonesome once in a while. I’d gladly send over my little brothers.”
Philip caught Ben’s eye and smiled. A squeal sounded, and all three heads jerked around at once. From the distance, it appeared that someone had startled a grass snake, for one of the younger Keegan boys held up something green and writhing for the others to inspect.
“I don’t think they’re lonesome at all,” Ben said after the three returned to their fishing. “At least they get to do some traveling. I’ve never been out of Gresham.”
“Where do they go?”
“Whenever weather allows it,” Ben answered, “the family hitches up their wagon on Saturday mornings and goes to Shrewsbury to peddle their baskets. They stay overnight with kin, then all go to church together the next morning.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I chat with them sometimes,” Ben replied with another shrug. “Even been inside their cottage once. My mother had me bring a chair over there to get the seat rewoven.”
An hour later, when the fish appeared to be occupied with things other than baited hooks, the boys pulled in their lines. While each had been successful, none had enough to feed a whole household. When this happened, usually the three took turns hauling the catch home, but Philip glanced back over his shoulder at the Irish children and came up with another idea.
“Why don’t we give them our catch,” Philip suggested after they’d washed the grit from their hands in the shallow water by the riverbank.
“But why?” asked Jeremiah, holding his string of fish a little closer. “They practically live on the river. They can catch their own.”
“Just to be friendly.”
“We say hello every time we see them up here. Ain’t that friendly enough?”
&nbs
p; “But we can always catch more tomorrow,” Philip persisted. With a look at his friends’ doubtful faces, he said, “I just remember how frightened we were to move here from London and how good it felt when people made us feel welcome. I feel sorry for them.”
“Well, you know, people don’t exactly throw rocks at them,” Ben said, “except perhaps the Sanders, sometime. They aren’t that abused.”
Philip searched his mind for a rebuttal and finally came up with, “Not abusing isn’t the same as accepting.”
Ben looked ready to argue again but then glanced down at his string of fish and blew out his cheeks. “Oh, well, why not? Guess there’s plenty more where these came from.”
They both looked at Jeremiah, who screwed up his face into a frown. “We get to keep any fish we catch tomorrow, right?”
“Right!” Philip agreed.
He gave a reluctant nod, and with each holding his own string of fish, basket, and pole, the three crossed the bridge and turned right on Worton Lane. They heard the grind of a handsaw as they passed Ben’s father’s wheelwright’s workshop attached to their house. Farther on near the end of the lane they heard a man’s lofty tenor voice singing a melancholy ballad.
Oh, Paddy dear! and did ye hear the news that’s goin’ round?
The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground!
No more St. Patrick’s day we’ll keep; his color can’t be seen,
For there’s a cruel law ag’in’ the Wearin’ o’ the Green!
They stopped at a stone cottage with a thatched roof, where Mr. Keegan, flaxen-headed and as wiry as the reed in his hand, sat on a rough bench under a birch tree weaving a bushel basket. Close by was a wide wooden trough for soaking reeds, and on the ground a barefoot tot squatted next to a little handmade cart.
The Widow of Larkspur Inn Page 21
