The Widow of Larkspur Inn

by Lawana Blackwell

  I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand,

  And he said, “How’s poor ould Ireland, and how does she stand?”

  “She’s the most distressful country that ever yet was seen,

  For they’re hanging men and women for the Wearin’ o’ the …”

  The Irishman stopped singing and raised his head curiously as they approached.

  “How are you, Mr. Keegan?” Ben greeted the Irishman.

  A smile split the man’s face. “On top o’ the mornin’, Mr. Mayhew. And yer folks?”

  “They’re well, thank you. We—” He paused to motion on either side of him, “These are my friends, Jeremiah and Philip. We thought you might like some fish.”

  Mr. Keegan glanced down at the strings of fish. “Well how much would ye be askin’ fer them?”

  Jeremiah, who’d been the most reluctant to turn over his catch, now held out his string in a grand gesture. “They don’t cost nothin’.”

  “Nothing?” asked the man, cocking his head.

  “They’re a gift.”

  “Are you sure, lads?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A smile widened the Irishman’s face again. “Why, thank ye kindly! And may the good Lord bless ye!” Turning his head to the cottage’s open door, he called out, “Leila darlin’! Come and see!”

  A fair-haired woman appeared in the doorway to the cottage, wiping her hands upon her apron. Giving the boys a timid smile, she answered, “Yes?”

  “Would ye bring out a pail, darlin’? These kind lads are offerin’ us some fish!”

  She disappeared from the doorway and returned seconds later with an empty tin pail. “Thank you kindly, sirs,” she said, giving a little nod while her husband collected some water from the soaking tub. As the fish were dropped into the pail, she clasped both hands together. “Why, they’ll make a fine supper!”

  “Aye, they will indeed,” agreed Mr. Keegan. He brushed the grass from his brown corded trousers and motioned for the boys to follow. Not knowing what to expect, Philip and his friends followed past a stable that housed the Keegans’ wagon and a pair of mules to a shed of about sixteen square feet. It was apparently a more recent addition to the property, for it was the only building not constructed of stone. The Irishman pulled open the door and took a step inside. When he backed out again, he held three small oval baskets with lids.

  “You don’t have to give us anything,” Ben protested.

  “Aye, but it would give me great pleasure to do so.” His smile was coaxing, and reluctantly Philip took the basket that was pressed upon him. It was intricately woven of fine reeds and narrow pink ribbon. The lid was hinged and had a small reed latch, like a hamper.

  “This is very nice,” Jeremiah told him, opening and closing the lid.

  “Ye can give it to yer mothers for to keep pretties in,” Mr. Keegan explained.

  At that, Philip brightened. “It’s Fiona’s birthday next Wednesday. I’m sure she would like it.” It wasn’t that he cared less for his own mother, but the need to find something for the housekeeper’s birthday had occupied the back of his mind for a couple of days now.

  “Yer speakin’ of Miss O’Shea from Kilkenny, are ye? She comes by occasionally for a cup o’ tea with my Leila. Fine lady, she is.” He stepped back into the shed and brought out another basket. “Ye give this one to Miss O’Shea, and that one to yer mother.”

  After exchanging another round of thanks with both Mr. and Mrs. Keegan, the three boys carried their tackle hampers, poles, and new baskets back up Worton Lane. They walked silently, because to speak would break the spell that the couple’s humble gratitude had cast. Ben waved farewell as he dropped out at his house, and Jeremiah did the same at Church Lane. By the time Philip reached the Larkspur, he was feeling so at peace with the world that he tarried to chat with the Worthy sisters instead of returning their greetings in his usual perfunctory manner.

  But when Jewel launched into a description of the chilblains on an unfortunate cousin’s feet, so thick they had to be shaved with a razor, he suddenly remembered an errand he had to attend. There was only so much goodwill that a boy had available to spread around, after all.

  “Are you busy, Mother?”

  Julia smiled from her writing table at the boy standing in her doorway. “Not anymore.” Actually, she had just started drafting cheques to clear the Larkspur’s July accounts. “Come in, dear.”

  She caught the odor of fish as he walked in, and she didn’t mind that. But there seemed to be an aloofness to Philip lately that she didn’t understand and it hurt her. He did not seek out her company nearly as much as he did when they first moved to Gresham. And when he did, it was usually because he needed something.

  Oh, she was happy that he’d embraced country life so completely, and that he had so many new friends. But did a boy ever outgrow his need for a mother? Sometimes she wondered.

  “You are busy, aren’t you?”

  “No, not at all,” she replied, aware of an eagerness in her voice that was almost pathetic. She got up from the desk and put a hand on his shoulder, half expecting him to stiffen with distaste, although Philip had never done such a thing before. “Why don’t you sit for a while so we can visit?”

  “Oh … may we do that later?” Philip lifted a hand to show her what he was holding—a charming little basket with a lid. “I want to see if Mr. Trumble has some ribbons to put in here for Fiona’s birthday.

  She’d like ribbons, wouldn’t she?”

  Though flattered that he still respected her opinion, Julia couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed again—he had sought her out again only because he wanted something. But you’re being foolish, she had to tell herself. Can’t children have moods too?

  “Why, it’s lovely,” she said, taking it from his hand. “Where did you buy it?”

  “I didn’t.” With a pleased smile he told her about bringing fish to the basket weaver’s family on Worton Lane. Though Julia had never met them herself, Fiona had told her weeks ago that she’d commissioned Mr. Keegan to make floor mats for the larder and scullery. “He gave me two baskets so I could give one to Fiona.”

  She felt a pang but really didn’t know why. “Fiona will like it very much. And she’ll be even more pleased that you thought of her.”

  “But what about the ribbons?”

  “Well, I’m afraid she doesn’t wear them. But she likes combs.”

  “Are they expensive? I only have twelvepence.”

  “Not very expensive. And you can buy a nice one for about the same as three or four ribbons.”

  He looked relieved at this. “Well, I should go do that now while I’m thinking about it. Thank you, Mother.”

  “You’re welcome.” Before the boy reached the door, Julia remembered the basket in her hand. “Philip?”

  He turned again. “Yes, Mother?”

  “You’re forgetting this.”

  “Oh, that one’s yours.”

  “For me?”

  “Mr. Keegan gave me two, remember?”

  Her eyes began to smart. “Why, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He seemed ready to leave again but then narrowed his eyes to study her. “Are you all right, Mother?”

  “I’m fine, dear.” Julia smiled. “Give my regards to Mr. Trumble.”

  When he was gone, she sat back in her chair. You’re a silly woman, she thought, tracing the ribbon woven through the lid with a finger. He’s your son and he’ll always love you.

  But she still could not let go of the feeling that something was wrong. If only he had a father in which to confide! Even Philip, as preoccupied as he had been with his own career and amusements, would have at least been able to understand the emotions of a thirteen-year-old boy.

  And then the thought struck her that perhaps that was the very thing troubling the boy. Because the children had no idea their father had gambled away their livelihoods, Julia had assumed that their mourning was a simple sorrow over the los
s of a loved one. It was not mixed with misgivings and even downright bitterness, as was hers.

  Or so she had assumed. She stared across at the closed door and after a while prayed, Father, please help him to understand that we aren’t meant to carry burdens alone—just as you taught me.

  Chapter 19

  Four days later, Fiona sat at the dining room table and held up a polished soup spoon for a final inspection. I’m rich, she thought. Perhaps not in material things, but how many housekeepers were made to feel so beloved by the families they tended? Last night’s cake, her first birthday cake ever, had been painstakingly trimmed with dozens of iced violets. And yesterday morning Mrs. Hollis insisted that she take the day off and had presented her with a ready-made dress of cornflower-blue silk. Even the children had given her gifts; Philip, a lovely basket and comb, Aleda, an alphabet sampler she’d stitched under Mrs. Hyatt’s tutelage, and little Grace, some sachets tied with lace. The female lodgers and servants had surprised her with little tokens as well. Fiona had wondered if Queen Victoria herself had ever felt so honored.

  How could she have guessed, ten years ago, that life would be so peaceful and the people in her life so kind? There was a lesson to be learned from that. Valleys don’t last forever. Neither did the mountaintops of life, but if a person just had faith and held on, each valley would eventually end. “You’re rich indeed, Fiona O’Shea,” she murmured.

  She held up another spoon and was startled as a strangely distorted reflection of a person appeared on the back of the bowl. Mr. Clay’s voice came from the doorway just as Fiona was turning in her chair.

  “Miss O’Shea?”

  “Mr. Clay.” Embarrassed this time at being discovered talking to herself, she asked, “How long have you been standing there?”

  “I just now walked up,” he said, holding up the palm of his hand in a pacifying manner. “Please forgive me for startling you.”

  It was impossible to do otherwise, and Fiona’s face relaxed into a smile. “Of course, sir,” she said while pushing out her chair.

  “Please don’t get up, Miss O’Shea. May I join you for a little while?”

  “Join me?”

  He walked over to the side of the table, and she could see now that he held a hand behind his back. “I wasn’t aware of your birthday until the cake was served last night. I felt badly that I had nothing to give you.”

  “But, Mr. Clay, you know I can’t accept any gift from you.”

  “Just wait until you see it.” He put a hand on the back of the chair he was standing behind. “May I sit?”

  “Of course.” She waited until he had done so to protest again. “Mr. Clay, it was kind of you to think of me, but—”

  “And yet you accepted gifts from the women lodgers.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but you know there’s a difference. You can’t be buying gifts for me.”

  “But I didn’t buy anything, Miss O’Shea. And are all Irish as stubborn as you?”

  “I believe so, sir. Now please … don’t offer me anything.”

  He rolled his eyes and was silent for several minutes while she continued to polish the silver. Then he picked up the tin of hartshorn powder and sniffed. He wrinkled his nose at the sharp odor. “Ammonia?”

  “Alcohol too.” Fiona showed him the fork she’d just finished. “You get used to the smell. And it does the job.”

  “So it does.” Now a corner of his mouth quirked. “Aren’t you even curious, Miss O’Shea?”

  “About the gift?”

  “You could have just turned down a diamond tiara, you know.”

  She couldn’t help but return his smile. “If I admit to some curiosity about what’s behind your back, Mr. Clay, will you give me your word not to offer it again?”

  “Oh, if you insist,” he grumbled. “But I certainly wouldn’t begrudge you the pleasure of giving me a birthday gift.” From behind his back he brought a leather-bound book and held it up to show her. “Our Mutual Friend,” he said, “signed by Charles Dickens himself.”

  Fiona put down her cloth and reached out to touch the fine tooled leather. “You’ve met Mr. Dickens?”

  “I have indeed. It’s quite an interesting story. Have you read it?”

  “No, sir, I haven’t.”

  A mischievous light came into his gray eyes. “Care to change your mind, Miss O’Shea?”

  “I can’t, Mr. Clay.” Again she smiled at him. “But it’s beautiful. And so kind of you to offer it.”

  “Then I suppose I should get out of your way.”

  Fiona wondered if she were imagining things. There seemed to be a question in that statement, a hope that she would contradict him and insist that he wasn’t in her way at all.

  But she could only thank him again and pick up another fork. As his footsteps faded behind her, she discovered that the contentment she had experienced just minutes ago had vanished. In its place was the old familiar longing for something as unattainable to her as the moon.

  “I do believe I have you again, Mr. Clay,” Mrs. Dearing said one afternoon in late July, snatching another of Ambrose’s red wooden pieces from the draughts board. She spoke a little louder than usual, for a heavy rainstorm lashed against the windows of the Larkspur, and claps of thunder rattled the glass. “Your other two are cornered. Will you concede defeat?”

  “Have I any choice?” Ambrose asked but smiled at the elderly woman. His mood had lightened enough this afternoon to allow him to spend some time in the hall in the company of the other lodgers. “You’re rather merciless, aren’t you?”

  “Quite so,” she smiled. “Which is why Mr. Durwin refuses to play against me anymore.” She nodded toward the gentleman, who was at that moment seated next to Mrs. Hyatt on one of the sofas, allowing her to wrap knitting yarn around his upheld hands. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Durwin?”

  Mr. Durwin’s reply was delayed by a rumble of thunder. When it had passed, he said, “What Mrs. Dearing isn’t telling you, Mr. Clay, is that she and the late Mr. Dearing were professional draught players in California.”

  “Is that so?” Ambrose asked the woman across from him, who wore not a trace of guile in her matronly face.

  “Not quite, dear.” She expertly snapped the black and red draughts into their squares as she spoke. “But the winters in Coloma could be harsh. When the weather prevented panning for gold, prospectors would spend hours around the fire at our place of business. There wasn’t much else to do, and so to give them something to help keep boredom at bay, we organized draughts tournaments. By the way, it’s called checkers over there.”

  “Well, in that case, I believe you should allow Mr. Clay some advantage,” said Mrs. Kingston from her chair near the pianoforte. She had been reading so intently from the gardening book she’d gotten from the subscription library that it was a wonder she had heard the conversation around her. “It isn’t quite fair, do you think?”

  Ambrose turned to nod at her. “I wholeheartedly agree, Mrs. Kingston. What do you think—shall we blindfold Mrs. Dearing?” There were smiles at this, even an indulgent one from Mrs. Kingston.

  “That sounds reasonable to me,” Mrs. Dearing said after a thoughtful second or two. “I would rather play with a handicap than frighten off all contenders. Shall I remove two pieces?”

  All eyes swiveled to Mrs. Kingston, who waited for another clap of thunder to subside before answering with a simple word. “Three.”

  Miss Rawlins walked into the room from the corridor as Ambrose and Mrs. Dearing were beginning their game. “I can’t possibly work with all of that noise,” she sighed, dropping into a chair.

  “Poor dear,” Mrs. Hyatt said sympathetically.

  “Oh, well. Suffering sharpens creativity, or so I’m told.” The writer looked over at Mrs. Kingston. “Who was that young man with you in the garden, Mrs. Kingston?”

  “I beg your pardon?” was the elderly woman’s reply, her eyelids blinking as if she hadn’t understood the question.

  �
��You know, this morning, before the rain. I saw you both from my window. He didn’t look like anyone I’ve seen around Gresham.”

  “Oh, that young man.”

  Ambrose caught the evasive tone of her voice and noticed that the others had as well, for all activity had ceased in anticipation of a forthcoming answer. If she’d have just acted normal, we wouldn’t have paid the subject any mind, he thought, then reminded himself that she’d not had the benefit of almost twenty years on the stage. Deciding to come to Mrs. Kingston’s rescue, as she had come to his only minutes ago, he said lightly, “I’ll wager it was some learned botanist who heard about Mrs. Kingston’s gardening skills and came to learn at her feet.”

  But the rescue was ironically ineffective. She made a startled blink of the eyes and then paled a little when Mr. Durwin said, “Actually, there is a young man staying at the Bow and Fiddle for a week or so—a Scotsman. He’s studying the flora and fauna of Shropshire, according to Mr. Pool, but I daresay he’s not out gathering in this deluge. Was he your visitor, Mrs. Kingston?”

  “Yes,” she answered a little too casually for Mr. Clay’s ears, but it seemed that no one else had noticed. “When I learned about the young man’s residence among us, I simply asked him to lend me some of his expertise regarding the spots on the begonia leaves. If one cannot trust a botanist for gardening advice, then what is this world coming to?”

  No one seemed to care to rebut that, and the lodgers resumed their draughts game and yarn winding. Miss O’Shea came into the hall bearing two periodicals the post had delivered earlier, The New Monthly Magazine and Bentley’s Miscellany. She returned Ambrose’s smile in a polite if not somewhat distant manner, as if she had never made him hot chocolate at midnight, watched him beat a carpet, nor discussed books and silver polish in the dining room. And he knew instinctively that she no longer spent late nights in the library.