The Widow of Larkspur Inn

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Oh.”

  “Are you lonesome for him, Philip?” she asked gently.

  His eyelids dropped a fraction lower as he murmured. “I was always lonesome for him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t like to be with me.”

  Tears welled up in Julia’s eyes. So this was what had been troubling Philip, causing the sadness that had lurked behind his smiles. He most likely was only telling her tonight because fatigue had weakened his defenses. She understood now that he’d kept his own grief to himself so as not to be a burden to her.

  “Philip, your father loved you. He just didn’t realize how little time he had left to show it.”

  “Yes?” the boy mumbled, barely moving his lips.

  “Yes.” Bending low to kiss his forehead, she assured him, “What father wouldn’t love a son like you?”

  Later that evening after the other servants had gone to bed, Fiona decided to have a look at the upstairs water closet before the lodgers left the hall for their bedchambers. It was Willa’s responsibility to keep all the water closets stocked with soaps and fresh towels, but the chambermaid was becoming more and more forgetful as her courtship with Danny Toms, one of the squire’s footmen, progressed. Does love always addle the brain? she wondered. She supposed she should be more stern with the maids, as Mr. Jensen had been back in London, but then the servants there had been notorious for sneaking as much idle time as possible when not directly in his sight. And the four maids under her charge were hard workers, even if Georgette did bump into things and Willa walked about in a daze.

  Before going upstairs, she stopped inside the hall, where most of the lodgers were still assembled. “May I bring back anything from upstairs for you?” she asked.

  “Oh, do be a love and fetch the Lloyd’s Weekly from my bedside table on your way down, will you?” Mrs. Dearing asked. “I was just telling Miss Rawlins about an article on a typing machine that has been patented.”

  Replying that she would be happy to, Fiona was just about to turn toward the corridor and staircase when Mrs. Hyatt lifted a finger meekly. “Miss O’Shea?”

  Fiona gave her a smile. “Is there something I can fetch for you, Mrs. Hyatt?”

  “My reading spectacles, dear?”

  “Of course.”

  She took to the stairs, looked in on the soap and towel situation and was pleased to see that Willa had taken care of both. She then retrieved the magazine and spectacles from the two bedchambers. In the corridor again, she met Mr. Clay coming out of his room, dressing gown over his arm, and a toothbrush and can of tooth powder in his hand. She had noticed as she went through the hall that he wasn’t downstairs with the others, but Mrs. Kingston had told her this morning that Mr. Clay had been in another despondent mood since last night.

  “Good evening, Miss O’Shea,” he greeted her in a quiet voice.

  “Good evening, Mr. Clay,” Fiona returned. The sadness in his gray eyes so moved her that she found herself adding reassuringly, “You’ll feel better in a day or two, Mr. Clay.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Well, good evening,” she said again, taking a step toward the staircase.

  “Miss O’Shea?”

  His voice stopped her. Fiona turned. “Yes?”

  He passed a hand over his haggard face. “Do you think we could walk together sometime? In the afternoon, perhaps?”

  It was at that moment Fiona realized how much affection she felt for the man, affection she had effectively kept buried … and must continue to do so.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Clay. We can’t.”

  He didn’t appear surprised but seemed to struggle with the corners of his mouth to keep from frowning. “Is it because of my insanity?”

  “Don’t say that, Mr. Clay. You aren’t insane.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  She gave him a pleading look. “Mr. Clay …”

  “Then because you’re a housekeeper? That doesn’t matter to me one whit, Miss O’Shea.”

  Sheer willpower kept Fiona from giving vent to the tears that threatened to form. You have to tell him. And now. “Mr. Clay,” she said softly, in case her voice should drift downstairs.

  “Yes?”

  The words stuck in her throat like a wad of cotton. “I’m … married.”

  He looked as if he’d been slapped. “Married?”

  “Yes, Mr. Clay. And now I have to go back downstairs.”

  Ambrose didn’t take his eyes off Fiona until she reached the staircase landing and turned out of his sight. Why are you surprised? he asked himself while bitter irony burned in his chest. Although she’d always shown compassion toward him, there had still been a distancing on her part. He’d assumed it was because of his despondent moods or possibly because of her position in the household. He had even wondered if it was because he didn’t profess to be a Christian, though he had been reading the Bible Mrs. Kingston had given him every night as of late.

  And yet even with the wall that she kept between them, he hadn’t been able to keep from thinking about her. The few minutes here and there that he was able to spend time in her company always made his day a little brighter. It was as if the two of them shared a certain kinship that he couldn’t fully understand.

  But none of that mattered now. Later, when he’d dressed for bed and pulled the covers over his shoulders, Ambrose wondered about the husband. Why wasn’t he here with her? Was he in the army or something like that? He sighed, closed his eyes, and waited for the sleep he knew would evade him for hours. I hope the man knows how fortunate he is, he thought.

  Chapter 24

  Philip seemed his old self at breakfast Thursday morning, causing Julia to wonder if he even remembered talking with her about his father last night. “Do you think Jeremiah and Ben could stay over Saturday night?” he asked while he buttered his toast.

  “Wouldn’t Friday be better? We’ve church the next morning.”

  “But they could walk with us and join their families there. Please?”

  “All right, then,” Julia replied after thinking it over for a second. She was so relieved to see the sadness absent from his face that she thought she would have granted any request. “But I don’t want the three of you sitting up in your room and whispering all night.”

  “We won’t. Thank you, Mother!”

  “May Helen stay with me too?” Aleda asked hopefully.

  “I’m sorry, Aleda, but not in the same weekend,” Julia told her with a consoling smile. She looked up at the round dial clock on the wall. “You’ve only five minutes until it’s time to leave. Let’s finish our breakfasts now, shall we?”

  When the children were gone, she went to her bedroom writing table and drafted a cheque to Jensen. “Twenty pounds,” she murmured while moving her pen. How wonderful it felt to be just a little closer to having that obligation paid off. She didn’t know how her husband had been able to live with the specter of debt continually hanging over his head. Apparently he had managed not to think about it.

  She penned a letter to the butler, and after tucking it into an envelope with the cheque, she rifled through the stack of correspondence and receipts in the top drawer. Who could have guessed that operating a lodging house would generate so much paperwork? I should think about finding space for an office, she told herself. There were a couple of storage rooms on the ground floor, too small to convert into bedchambers, that would possibly do.

  A light knock at the door followed by Fiona’s voice interrupted her musings. “Mrs. Hollis?”

  “Come in, Fiona.”

  “Tending to business again?” the housekeeper asked, stepping into the room. She wore a dress Mrs. Hyatt had helped her construct of mauve calico that flattered her porcelain complexion and dark hair. But then, Fiona could wear a tent canvas and still look as though she’d stepped right out of the pages of a Jane Austen novel.

  “I’m sending Jensen another twenty quid,” Julia replied. “And a letter, of course.”
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br />   “Please send him my greetings as well.”

  “I knew you would say that, so I took the liberty of doing so already.”

  Fiona smiled. “You’ve a caller in the hall, ma’am. It’s Miss Phelps.”

  “Elizabeth Phelps?”

  “She’s returning your basket. She caught up with me as I was leaving Mr. Trumble’s store and walked with me the rest of the way.”

  “That sounds encouraging. And how does she seem to you?”

  “She seems a mite more cheerful than yesterday.”

  Rising from the writing table, Julia said, “Then I shouldn’t keep her waiting.”

  The lodgers were having breakfast when she passed the dining room door, and sounds of amiable conversation drifted into the corridor. She found Miss Phelps seated in the wing chair closest to the fireplace, staring at the flames licking the coals.

  “Miss Phelps?”

  The girl got to her feet and smiled. She wore a dress of periwinkleblue calico trimmed with straw-colored piping, and a small straw hat trimmed with blue ribbon. The sides of her hair were pulled back into a comb, but the back was left hanging loose in the latest American fashion. With her face clear of splotches, Miss Phelps looked even younger than she had yesterday.

  “Mrs. Hollis. I was just enjoying your fireplace. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one so huge.”

  “It has a lot of space to heat,” Julia smiled back, walking over to offer her hand. “High ceilings are interesting, but hardly practical. And how are you this morning?”

  “Very well, thank you,” she replied.

  The assurance seemed just a shade forced to Julia, but she supposed her perception could be influenced by the incident at the vicarage yesterday. “I’m so happy to hear that. Would you care to have a seat?”

  “Are you sure I haven’t come too early?”

  “I’m an early riser myself.” Julia motioned to the chair behind the girl. “Please.”

  “Thank you,” Miss Phelps said again. They both settled into chairs, and after a space of awkward silence, the girl said, “We enjoyed the torte very much. I gave the basket to Miss O’Shea, by the way.”

  “I’m happy that you enjoyed it, but you didn’t have to return the basket so soon.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mind. I’ve been up for hours—or at least it seems so.” Giving Julia a humorless smile, she said, “You know how difficult it is, getting used to a strange bed.”

  “Other than that, are you settling in comfortably in the vicarage?”

  “Quite so. But it’s rather … different, living in the country, isn’t it?” She tucked a lose strand of blond hair behind her ear and looked over toward the north wall again. “Your fireplace heats so nicely.”

  “Thank you.” Julia studied the profile in front of her—the uncertain expression, and the way she was knotting her fingers together. Could it be that the girl was trying to work up the courage to speak to her about something other than the efficiency of the fireplace? It doesn’t seem that she came here just to return that basket.

  “I do hope I’m not keeping you from anything important, Mrs. Hollis,” the girl said, turning her face from the fireplace again.

  “Making new friends is important too, isn’t it?”

  She relaxed, just a bit. “Yes—thank you.”

  Obviously this young woman was searching for a sympathetic ear—whether or not she was even aware of it herself. Judging from the tenderness and worry on Vicar Phelps’s face when he spoke about his oldest daughter yesterday, Julia imagined that he was only too willing to listen to her. But there were some times when a woman felt the need to pour out her heart to another woman.

  Fiona is better at such things than you are, Julia told herself, wondering if she should excuse herself long enough to ask the housekeeper to join them. What experience did she have with counseling young women? But Miss Phelps had had a perfect opportunity to speak with Fiona as they walked from Trumbles together. For some reason, probably because she had expressed sympathy to the girl in the vicarage garden yesterday, she was being sought out. She had to show the girl, without frightening her away, that she was willing to listen.

  Julia glanced back at the doorway the lodgers would come through any second now. “Miss Phelps?” she said, and the girl turned to her.

  “Yes?”

  Give me the right words, Father. “I find it terribly difficult to sit and chat surrounded by so much space. There is a sitting room upstairs that’s not quite so intimidating. Why don’t we continue our visit up there?”

  The brown eyes became hopeful, even as the corners of the girl’s mouth quirked downward a bit. “It’s selfish of me, keeping you from your duties.”

  “Nonsense.” Rising, Julia motioned for the girl to do the same. “I’ll send for some tea. Have you had breakfast?”

  “Well no, I didn’t have much of an appetite earlier …”

  Julia linked arms with Miss Phelps and ushered her toward the corridor door. “You’ll have one once you’ve caught sight of Mrs. Herrick’s egg-in-a-nest.”

  “Egg-in-a-nest?”

  “That’s what we call them. She hollows out a slice of bread and fries an egg in the center—in butter of course.”

  Miss Phelps smiled sheepishly. “Perhaps I am feeling a little hungry now.”

  After Georgette was dispatched for a tray, Julia kept Miss Phelps occupied with small talk at opposite ends of the sofa while waiting. Whether she could be of any help to the girl was questionable, but at least she would have breakfast. She asked safe questions about the city of Cambridge and the girl’s schooling, and answered questions about London. When the food arrived, the girl ate with considerable relish—she dabbed her mouth with a napkin afterward and gave Julia an embarrassed smile.

  “I just haven’t been able to eat anything since lunch yesterday.” Her eyes widened at this slip of the tongue. “I didn’t intend to deceive you about the torte, Mrs. Hollis. When I said ‘we’ enjoyed it, I was referring to my father and sister and the servants. But there is at least half left, and I certainly intend to have some later today. It looked delicious.”

  Julia took a sip of her tea to cover her smile at this outpouring of youthful insecurity, then said, “That’s quite all right, Miss Phelps. One can enjoy the sight of a pastry as well as the taste.”

  The girl looked relieved. “Thank you for saying that.”

  During the brief silence that ensued, Julia wondered how she should go about asking if Miss Phelps were in need of a sympathetic ear. She certainly couldn’t admit knowing about the young man who’d broken the girl’s heart without possibly causing some friction between father and daughter.

  Just when Julia was again considering asking Fiona to join them, the girl spoke.

  “Mrs. Hollis,” she began in a soft, distant voice, staring down at the creamery pitcher on the tea table in front of them. “I didn’t come here just because of the basket. Father planned to return it himself until I asked him to allow me instead.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yesterday … when you spoke to me in the garden. You seemed so kind and understanding.”

  With utmost calm, lest she cause the girl’s boldness to crumble, Julia said, “Would it help to talk about what is troubling you, Miss Phelps?”

  “I need to talk about it or I’ll go mad, but … it has to do with losing someone I loved. Mrs. Paget told me that your husband passed away less than a year ago. Will it cause you pain to talk of such things, Mrs. Hollis?”

  Julia smiled reassuringly. “I appreciate your consideration, but no. I’m sure it will cause me no pain.”

  “Thank you.” The girl took in a deep breath. “My father tries to comfort me, but his opinion is greatly prejudiced against the young man involved, and so he doesn’t care to hear anything about him.” Turning sad eyes to Julia, she said, “But I can’t talk about what’s troubling me without talking about him. You see, I was practically engaged to a man in Cambridge—Jonathan Raleigh. He stopped see
ing me after my father confronted him one night.”

  “Why did your father do such a thing?” Julia asked. She could probably venture an accurate guess from Vicar Phelps’s previous label of rogue, but she was careful to keep her expression blank.

  With flushed cheeks, Miss Phelps told how her beaux had been spotted with a married woman of notorious reputation. “I was devastated when Father told me about it.”

  “Do you blame your father?”

  “Blame Father?” She shook her head. “He had no choice. That much I understand.”

  “And what is it that you don’t understand, Miss Phelps?” Julia probed gently.

  “How he can expect me to pick myself up and carry on as if I had never been in love. Father feels that since Jonathan wronged me, I should be happy to banish him from my mind. But he was …” A sob broke her words, and she swallowed before continuing. “He was my whole life, Mrs. Hollis.”

  Julia nodded sadly and thought back to the days when she was sixteen and being courted by Philip. He was her first thought when she woke in the mornings and her last as she drifted into sleep at night. She only wore gowns in the colors he was fond of, and when he mentioned that she would look more sophisticated without fringe, she began having her hair fastened away from her forehead with combs. She even neglected her friends from childhood, choosing instead to stay at home in case Philip should pay a call. “So now you feel empty inside? And yet there is actual pain in your chest that won’t go away.”

  The girl closed her eyes and nodded. “I just knew you would understand.”

  It was time to be brutally honest, Julia thought, no matter how much discomfort it would bring—for what good was experience if it couldn’t be used to steer someone else around the pitfalls of life? If only someone had warned me about my obsession with Philip before we married, she thought. Oh, her parents had voiced misgivings about the age difference and the short length of their courtship, but no one had seemed concerned that she’d practically worshiped him.

  The only thing she would not allow herself to discuss was how her husband had failed his family. She would honor his memory as much as possible for the children’s sake. Propriety was the other reason—and the only one. Not too long ago she had discovered that the only feelings she had left for her late husband were of pity.