The Widow of Larkspur Inn

by Lawana Blackwell

  She smiled indulgently down upon the bush, as a mother would her sleeping child. “The Rosa Allea was chosen by the House of York as its emblem in the fifteenth century, Vicar. If you remember your schooling, Henry VII was struggling for the throne of England.”

  “The War of the Roses,” Andrew nodded. He studied the rather pitiful-looking plant again. The trappings of royalty were surely missing. “Forgive me for asking, but how can anyone be absolutely certain that it was this particular kind? Are you an expert on roses?”

  “Oh, ye of little faith!” she chided, but with good humor. “A botanist by the name of Mr. MacQuarrie stayed at the Bow and Fiddle for a week or so back in late July—he was traveling about Shropshire, cataloguing the flora and fauna, you see. When I found out about the young man, I asked him to look at the garden and give me some advice regarding some spotting on the begonia leaves. He was so startled to find what appeared to be a Rosa Allea here, that when he returned to the University of Edinburgh, he looked up records and sent me verification that it was indeed so.”

  “Amazing. Part of history growing right here in your garden.”

  Mrs. Kingston beamed at his interest, her high opinion of him obviously having gone up a notch. “But you must keep it to yourself, Vicar. I’ve only told one other person—Karl Herrick—the caretaker here. Even Mrs. Hollis isn’t yet aware of the significance of this particular bush. The squire is going to receive the shock of his life!”

  “Undoubtedly!” Andrew looked at the bush with new respect, then remembered the reason for his call. Warmly, he said, “Thank you for allowing me into your confidence, Mrs. Kingston. Rest assured, your secret is safe with me.”

  “Thank you, Vicar Phelps. And now would you like me to show you into the house?”

  When she ushered him into the hall, Andrew was glad he’d not delayed his visit until later in the day, for it became apparent that he would be spending some time here. Three other familiar faces from his congregation offered greetings, and Mrs. Kingston kindly introduced them as Mrs. Hyatt and Mr. Durwin. Miss O’Shea he remembered from his meeting with Mrs. Hollis and her on the vicarage lane, and a Mrs. Dearing was introduced as being a Baptist. Miss Rawlins, he was told, another member of Saint Jude’s, was upstairs penning a novel, and there was a lodger named Mr. Clay, an actor, who was resting in his bedchamber.

  Mrs. Hollis, he was told, was in her office. He was glad of this, for he couldn’t very well tell her of the recent changes in Elizabeth’s attitude in front of an audience. “Please don’t disturb her now,” he told Miss O’Shea as he handed over his hat. “But perhaps you could show me the way there after I’ve had a chance to visit in here for a little while?”

  The housekeeper smiled and asked if he would care for some tea. He accepted gratefully, then spent some time becoming better acquainted with the people gathered in the hall. Mr. Durwin asked if he could divulge the subject of this Sunday’s coming sermon. Always happy to talk about his ministry, Andrew replied that he would like to contrast Nehemiah’s rebuilding the wall around Jerusalem with personal holiness in a Christian’s life. They seemed to find this intriguing and spent some twenty minutes discussing biblical themes related to the subject. Mrs. Dearing, though not Church of England, had an impressive command of Scripture, and even brought out a point that he made a mental note to include in his sermon.

  When he had decided that he could politely take his leave, he stood and asked Miss O’Shea, standing silently in the background, if she would mind showing him to Mrs. Hollis’s office. “I’ve enjoyed the stimulating conversation,” he smiled at the group.

  “You come visit us again, Reverend,” Mr. Durwin said to a chorus of agreement.

  As the Irish housekeeper led him down a corridor, Andrew complimented her on the two cups of tea he’d consumed in the hall. “Delightful blend. Was it purchased here in Gresham?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir,” she replied. “Mrs. Herrick orders a special blend through a company in London. She wouldn’t dream of serving anything else. Would you like me to ask for the address?”

  “That would be very kind—” he told her, but a second thought brought him pause. “Do you think Mrs. Paget would take offense? She rather prides herself on the tea she serves.”

  Miss O’Shea bit her lip. “Well, sir, I’m not well acquainted with her. But cooks do seem to take any suggestion for change a bit personally.”

  “That’s been my experience as well. Perhaps it’s better to have a happy cook than the best tea, don’t you think?”

  “I agree, sir,” she said, smiling, and Andrew liked the calm manner in which she conversed with him—respectful, but not subservient.

  “Forgive the obvious question,” he said. “But you’re from Ireland, aren’t you?”

  “Kilkenny, sir. I came over when I was eighteen.”

  “By yourself?”

  “By myself.”

  “I suspect there is an interesting story there.”

  Her smile did not alter, but the violet-colored eyes were serious. “Interesting perhaps, sir, but best forgotten.”

  “I understand,” he told her and received a look of appreciation in return.

  “Here is Mrs. Hollis’s office,” she said, leading him to an open door on their right. Inside, Mrs. Hollis was seated at a desk that took up about a third of the small room. She looked up from a ledger in which she was writing and got to her feet.

  “Why, good morning, Reverend Phelps,” she said, offering her hand over the desk. He stepped forward to take it.

  “Miss O’Shea was kind enough to show me here. I hope this isn’t an inconvenient time.”

  “Not at all.” Nodding toward a chair against the wall and adjacent to the front of her desk, she said, “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

  “Thank you.” Andrew waited until Mrs. Hollis had taken her own chair again before sitting down himself. From the doorway the housekeeper asked if she could bring a tray.

  “Would you care for some refreshment, Reverend?” Mrs. Hollis asked.

  Andrew shook his head. “No thank you. I’ve already had two excellent cups of tea.”

  Miss O’Shea left then, and Mrs. Hollis asked how he liked Gresham after so many years in Cambridge.

  “Very much. I’m finding myself, little by little, learning to relax and adjust to the slower pace. Was it the same way with you when you moved from London?”

  “Actually, life here was a bit frantic until we settled into a routine,” she replied, smiling. “But I’ve learned to enjoy the pace as well. And the quietness. I had never realized nights could be so quiet.”

  “Nor so dark, without the streetlamps,” Andrew said. “But that’s rather nice too. My daughters and I enjoy sitting out in the garden some evenings and noticing how much brighter the stars seem.”

  There was an awkward silence for just a fraction of a second. At least it was awkward for Andrew, for he suddenly found himself feeling an inexplicable bashfulness. Mrs. Hollis looked even more attractive than she had in the vicarage lane. The hair that had been covered with a bonnet that day was now drawn back into a loose knot. Rich auburn it was and provided quite a contrast to her emerald eyes. And the black gown, plain and adorned only with jet buttons, only heightened the color in her cheeks.

  You’ve seen attractive women before, he scolded himself silently. Some had been just as beautiful as Mrs. Hollis, if not more so. Why, now, were emotions stirring that he’d assumed to be dead?

  “Would you rather we visit in the hall with the others, Reverend?” Mrs. Hollis asked, emptying her pen back into the jar. There were blue ink stains upon the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, but she seemed not to be aware of them. “I’m afraid my office is rather confined. It was a broom closet just last week, you see.”

  Was I staring? he wondered uneasily. “No, this is fine. It’s good to have a place to keep your work separate, isn’t it?”

  Smiling again, she said, “Truthfully, most of my duties seem to be ou
tside my office.”

  “And mine as well.”

  “But I do enjoy having papers gathered in one place and not scattered about in the living quarters.”

  “And you can close the door to it whenever you wish.” She’s too busy for small talk, he reminded himself. Don’t take advantage of her hospitality.

  Andrew cleared his throat and got right to the purpose of his call. “I wanted to tell you how grateful I am for the encouragement you gave my daughter, Mrs. Hollis. It was very kind of you.” He told her how Elizabeth had started accompanying him on his calls in response to her advice to busy herself with something worthwhile.

  “And as a result, she’s found something else to do that she seems to enjoy very much. She’s going to be tending two small children so their mother can support the family. I don’t know how long her enthusiasm will last, but she’s given her word to see it through until summer.”

  “I’m so happy to hear that,” she smiled back. “And I enjoyed talking with her. Elizabeth is an intelligent young woman.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hollis. Lately I’ve wondered if I should have told her so more often. If she’d any idea of her own worth, surely she wouldn’t have allowed someone like Mr. Raleigh to trifle with her heart.”

  “You mustn’t blame yourself. Elizabeth’s barely out of childhood. It’s difficult for most women her age to see past a charming exterior.”

  “He even had me fooled for a while,” Andrew admitted. “He was so personable, so bright and witty. Any father would have wanted a son-in-law like him … or so I thought.”

  For a brief instant Mrs. Hollis’s green eyes took on a faraway look, and then she said, “It seems that many people who are deficient in character have an overabundance of charm. I wonder why that is?”

  “I’ve noticed that too. Could be that people devote most of their energies to developing that charm and ignore the building of character.” He shook his head. “I never told Elizabeth, but my greatest fear was that she would elope with the young man.”

  “I’m glad it didn’t happen. You know, I’m beginning to suspect childrearing becomes more difficult as they grow older.”

  Andrew gave a little chuckle. “At least you’re learning that while your children are still young, Mrs. Hollis. I was completely blindsided.”

  She seemed amused by this, and Andrew wondered if anyone had ever told her she had a graceful smile. Probably her husband, God rest his soul. No doubt the poor man had adored her.

  “I’ve kept you from your duties long enough, Mrs. Hollis,” he told her with reluctance. To his surprise, she seemed genuinely disappointed at his imminent departure.

  “Can you stay a little longer?” she asked. “To be honest, I was hoping you would call soon. I’m afraid I’m in need of your counsel.”

  “But of course.” Andrew lowered himself back into his chair and raised a solicitous eyebrow. “What is troubling you, Mrs. Hollis?”

  “It’s concerning a ghost that is rumored to haunt this house and now is supposedly walking the streets … Jake Pitt. I don’t suppose you’ve lived here long enough to have heard about him….”

  “Actually, I have.”

  She sighed heavily at this, making him sorry that his answer caused her some discomfort. “I trust you’ve met the Worthy sisters, Reverend Phelps?”

  “Yes, but I must tell you that they weren’t the first to inform me about the situation. And someone recently asked me to conduct a ceremony consecrating the road in front of his house. He claims to have spotted a ghost there.”

  “That would have to be Mr. Hopper.”

  Alarm must have registered on Andrew’s face, for she raised a reassuring hand from the desktop. “Everyone in Gresham has heard about it, so you haven’t betrayed a confidence. But may I ask—whatever did you tell him?”

  “I’m afraid I was rather abrupt,” Andrew replied. “I said that the things of God were not to be used as superstitious rituals, and that I would not perform any such ceremony.”

  “Do you think it did any good?”

  “I wish I could say so. But Mr. Hopper refused to back down from what he saw.” Rubbing his beard absently, he said, “You know, I have to be careful of appearing to look down on the way of life here. But I can see that a sermon on superstition is needed very soon.”

  There was little hope in Mrs. Hollis’s expression. “That is very kind of you, but I must warn you that Vicar Wilson preached two strong sermons in the same vein during his last months here. The people here are the salt of the earth, Reverend Phelps, but I’ve learned that most were practically weaned upon fables and superstitions.”

  “I must try, though. Faith is of little use if everything is easy.”

  “Forgive me,” she said with a self-effacing little smile. “I obviously forgot that.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t preaching at you, Mrs. Hollis. I can understand your frustration.” He became curious then. “How did it affect your children—moving into a house with such a dubious reputation?”

  “Fortunately, I was able to warn them of the ghost story before they heard it from anyone else. I’m afraid my son, Philip, enjoyed the attention, but to the girls it was simply a nuisance.”

  Resting her elbows upon her desk, she leaned forward slightly. “The rumors started fading a bit, you see, as time passed, and people could see that we were brought to no harm in this house. Now this latest sighting has them all stirred up again. None of us, my lodgers included, can go anywhere without someone asking about Jake Pitt. Mrs. Temple, a widow who lives across from the lending library, stopped me in Trumbles to say that she’d heard a knife-grinding wheel just outside her window one night. And yesterday morning one of our maids found scatterings of elder twigs at each outside door.”

  “Elder twigs? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “They repel ghosts, so the superstition goes. Obviously someone wishes to keep Jake Pitt within the bounds of the Larkspur. And the general consensus seems to be that if we had taken care of the matter when we first moved in here, he wouldn’t be menacing the streets right now.”

  Andrew shook his head. “I wasn’t aware of that. Then it seems this has gone beyond superstition into mass hysteria. Why, just last Thursday …” his voice trailed off as he berated himself for starting to say something that would only add to her worries. “Well, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Does this have to do with Jake Pitt, Reverend Phelps?”

  “Just another case of hysteria,” he reassured her. “Forgive me for even bringing it up.”

  Her green eyes became pleading. “Please continue. I can’t feel any worse about it than I do now. And I would like to keep the other people who live here informed so they aren’t taken by surprise by someone else’s revelation.”

  “Well, if you’re certain you want to hear it.”

  “I am. Please.”

  Andrew blew out a long breath. “Are you acquainted with Mr. Seaton?”

  “Doesn’t he pastor a small Wesleyan chapel across the river?”

  “He also owns a small dairy farm, like so many others here. I was making calls last Thursday and came across him mending his front gate. We struck up a conversation, and before I knew it I was invited to have lunch with his family.” Andrew gave her a little smile. “Even pastors of differing denominational backgrounds love to compare notes, much the same as two schoolmasters or two bakers would do. Anyway, he told me about a member of his congregation, a young woman, who related somewhat of a dilemma to him.”

  He paused. “Are you quite sure you want to hear this, Mrs. Hollis?”

  “Yes … please,” she nodded. “Go on.”

  “Well, one of the woman’s younger brothers, who recently suffered a broken foot, has been having nightmares having to do with a ghost. After one such incident, the boy asked her to give him her word that she wouldn’t tell their father what he was about to confide in her. With some reluctance she gave it, and the young man admitted to being accosted by a ghost while he an
d another brother were in the process of playing some sort of prank. The only reason I mention this now is that the sighting supposedly took place on Worton Lane.”

  He noticed then that her scattering of freckles now stood out boldly against a background the color of whey.

  “Mrs. Hollis?”

  “Do you happen to know the boy’s name?” she asked, her lips barely moving.

  “Why, Mr. Seaton did not mention it.” Andrew moved up to the edge of his chair. “Are you all right, Mrs. Hollis?”

  “Yes, it’s just …” She rubbed her temple with an ink-stained finger, leaving a black smudge. “I have a terrible suspicion about all of this.”

  “Mrs. Hollis?” Andrew reached out to touch the hand that still rested on the desktop. “Please forgive me—I’ve upset you.”

  “Upset me?” Mrs. Hollis blinked once and looked up at him again. “Oh, please don’t think that, Vicar. You’ve been a tremendous help.” Again she rubbed the temple. “But I’ve developed a headache, I’m afraid. Would you mind if …?”

  Getting to his feet, Andrew said, “Of course not. I’ll show myself out. But may I ask Miss O’Shea to see about you?”

  “If you wish … thank you. And again, I do appreciate your visit.”

  How can you help it, with all the cheer I’ve spread about in here? Andrew thought miserably as he moved up the corridor toward the hall in search of the housekeeper.

  Chapter 30

  “But I just need to close my eyes for a moment,” Julia said when Fiona insisted that she leave her office. “I can do that right here. It’s just a headache.”

  The housekeeper’s will prevailed, though, and Julia allowed herself to be led like an invalid down the corridor to her room. She balked at going to bed, however, and insisted upon settling in a chair. After helping her prop her feet on the footstool, Fiona said, “Now, missus, you rest, and I’ll bring you some tea.

  Mr. Hopper claims to have seen three boys that night, Julia thought when she had privacy again. Three boys in addition to the ghost. Her memory carried her back to a gathering at the kitchen table around a platter of apple strudel. Fiona was disturbed about some pranksters who were tipping over the Keegans’ shed. And there were two men present—Mr. Durwin and Mr. Clay.