The Widow of Larkspur Inn

by Lawana Blackwell

  Immediately she ruled out Mr. Durwin. True, he had seemed the most upset at the news, but she could not imagine him stooping to such behavior. And Mr. Clay … well, it was true that the actor could be quite playful during his good days, but she distinctly remembered that he’d suffered depression that whole weekend. And while Mrs. Kingston was able to coax him into daily walks even during the bouts of depression, she doubted that three boys could have persuaded him to dress up in a sheet and walk the lanes at midnight.

  “Here we are, missus,” Fiona said, coming through the doorway again with a tray. “But I’m afraid Mr. Durwin met me on my way to the kitchen and insisted upon brewin’ you some of his herbal remedy. He says not to mind the bitterness. It’ll cure your headache almost right away.”

  “What is it?” Julia asked as the cup and saucer were handed to her.

  “I believe he said feverfew.” The housekeeper stood there with hands pressed together while Julia took a tentative sip.

  “Oh, this is more than bitter,” Julia choked, making a face. “It’s vile.”

  “I’m sorry,” Fiona said, bending to reach for the cup. “Here, I’ll just have to tell Mr. Durwin that you can’t drink it.”

  Julia waved her hand away. “No, don’t do that. I suppose if he went to the trouble of brewing it, I should force it down.” She took it in a single unlady-like tip of the cup, holding her breath the whole time. “Thank you,” she croaked, handing the cup over.

  Giving her a sympathetic look, Fiona reached into her apron pocket and produced two chocolate biscuits wrapped in a clean dish towel. “Mrs. Herrick took pity on you when she saw what Mr. Durwin was up to. She slipped this to me and said to tell you it would rid your mouth of the taste.”

  It would take a dozen chocolate biscuits to get rid of the bitterness that lingered, Julia thought, but she broke one and popped a half piece into her mouth. “I’ll have to thank her at lunch,” she said after chewing and swallowing it. Recalling the matter that had brought on the headache, she motioned to the bench at her dressing table. “Fiona, would you mind sitting for a little while?”

  “Of course not, missus,” the housekeeper replied and pulled the bench over to her chair.

  Julia popped in another biscuit half. Indeed her taste buds were returning to normal. “Would you like this other one?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Then, I’ll ask you something. Do you remember when Philip had Jeremiah and Ben here to stay over?”

  Fiona smiled. “Judging from their faces the next morning, little sleeping was done.”

  “Tell me, do you recall any sheet or blanket missing the next day? Or perhaps that turned up in the washing with anything unusual on it?”

  “Unusual, missus?”

  “Such as dirt?”

  “Not that I can recall. Of course, Willa takes the washing over to Mrs. Moore. Would you like me to ask her?”

  “I don’t know. It may not be necessary.” Julia’s thoughts were drawn like a magnet to Mr. Clay again. “Fiona, didn’t Mr. Clay arrive here with two trunks?”

  “Yes, ma’am. One for his clothes and the other for his costumes.”

  “His costumes?”

  “You know … theatre costumes. That’s what he told Ruth when she offered to unpack the trunk. He said it didn’t need unpacking, that he would just push it against a wall.” Fiona eyed her curiously. “Is there something wrong?”

  “I would say that,” Julia nodded. Strangely, her headache was beginning to abate just as her temper was rising. “But I would rather tell you later, Fiona. I want to talk with Mr. Clay as soon as possible.”

  “I’m afraid he’s up in his room, ma’am. Mrs. Kingston says he’s having a bad day.”

  Julia got up from her chair, swayed a bit from the effects of the herbal tea, and took a step toward the door. “Well, I believe his day is about to become a little worse.”

  “Come in,” she heard from the other side of Mr. Clay’s door three minutes later. She eased the door open. He was seated in his chair facing the window and rose upon seeing that it was her. “Good morning, Mrs. Hollis.”

  “Have you a few minutes to spare, Mr. Clay?” Julia asked. She had come to think of the actor as a tragic older brother but swallowed her sympathy and nodded toward his extra chair. “I believe we have something to discuss.”

  “Am I behind with my rent?” he asked as he turned his chair to face hers, then waited until she had taken a seat.

  “Not at all, Mr. Clay. And I don’t wish to offend you, but I must ask you a question you may find blunt.”

  “Well, blunt away Mrs. Hollis,” he said with a humorless little smile.

  Julia drew in a deep breath and thought, Why can’t he be in one of his good moods today? It would be much easier to accuse someone with a face not quite so long. “Did you dress up as a ghost to frighten the Sanders brothers three Saturday nights ago?”

  “Dress up as a ghost?” His slate gray eyes widened for the fraction of a second. “I beg your pardon?”

  You have it all wrong! she told herself miserably. And now you’ve insulted him. With a voice gone flat, she said, “You’ve no idea what I’m talking about, have you?”

  In spite of Mr. Clay’s dark mood, a corner of his mouth twitched.

  “Actually, I have.”

  “You have? Then, why …”

  “It’s a technique called ‘stalling for time,’ Mrs. Hollis. You caught me unawares, and I wasn’t quite ready to admit my guilt, yet I couldn’t bring myself to lie to you. Hence, the manufactured look of surprise. It was childish of me, and I do apologize for it.”

  It was frustrating to be furious with someone so likable, Julia thought. But she had a right to her anger and wouldn’t allow herself to be charmed out of it.

  “Mr. Clay, you’ve spent most of the past fortnight up here in your room insulated from what’s going on outside these walls. Are you aware that the whole village believes Jake Pitt is taking tea with us during the day and stalking the roads by night?”

  He looked genuinely perplexed. “They do?”

  “Have you any concept of how difficult it is for all of us to have to endure such a reputation? Why, Sarah had to be talked out of handing in her notice yesterday. She’s convinced that Jake Pitt has been scratching on the garret windows while she’s sleeping.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, hanging his head like a chastised schoolboy. “If it’s any consolation at all, Mrs. Hollis, I regretted the stunt as soon as I pulled it.”

  But Julia was not to be appeased so easily. “You’re an adult, Mr. Clay. Adults are supposed to set examples for children, not slip out of the house with them to do mischief.”

  “You know about—”

  “That the boys were with you? Well, I know that for sure now, don’t I?”

  He winced. “Please don’t blame them. It was my idea.”

  “Oh, I’ve enough blame to hand out four ways, Mr. Clay.” The misery on his face was beginning to soften her anger in spite of her defenses. Sighing, she said, “I admire that all of you wanted to help the Keegans. But this was an extreme way to go about it. Why, it’s fortunate that the boy’s foot was only broken and not severed.”

  Mr. Clay straightened in his chair. “Broken?”

  “Didn’t you know?”

  “Why, no. True, the building fell on him, but then he managed to run away with admirable speed.”

  “Well, it’s broken. In two places.”

  “Terrible,” the actor mumbled. “I had no idea!” He gave a pleading look to Julia. “I’ll have to call on the boy right away and apologize. And the doctor’s fee. Do you know—?”

  “How much?” Julia shook her head. “I’m sure Dr. Rhodes would be happy to tell you. But I must ask that you delay your call until Philip is home from school. He will want to accompany you.”

  To her surprise, the schoolboy expression vanished from Mr. Clay’s face. “Mrs. Hollis, that is not a good idea. I’m the one who frightened tho
se boys.”

  “And what was Philip’s part in this?”

  “Basically, he sat in a tree and watched.”

  “I suspect there’s more to it than that.”

  “Very little more. As you pointed out, Mrs. Hollis, I’m the adult. I’ll bear the responsibility.”

  Julia didn’t know how to respond to this. It was so difficult making decisions on her own that could affect the childrens’ lives forever. If she didn’t insist that Philip apologize, would he take for granted that there were no consequences to be paid for any of his actions? Was that how anarchists and hedonists started out? Before she could muster a reply, Mr. Clay shook his head firmly.

  “Women grow up sheltered, Mrs. Hollis. You’ve no idea how difficult it is for a young boy to be tormented by bullies. There is no guarantee that the Sanders will be forgiving, and I’ll simply not put Philip in that situation.”

  During the long silence that followed, Julia thought of the rumors she had heard about the Sanders brothers’ bullying. The thought of her son being battered was more than she could bear. Finally she asked, “Are you sure this is the right thing to do?”

  “Your son did nothing at all to the Sanders boys. If you want to punish him for slipping out, you’ve every right as a parent.” He gave her a little smile, though the gray eyes were serious. “But let’s not throw him to the wolves, shall we?”

  “I wish to remind the students in the sixth standard of the importance of listening to instructions,” Captain Powell said as he returned papers to the seven students involved.

  Philip smiled at this, holding out his hand for his scored grammar examination. During the almost two weeks since the “ghost” prank, he had allowed himself to put the matter out of his mind … save the stabs of guilt over his lying whenever his mother prayed with him at night. Ben’s report that the Keegans had come home last Sunday afternoon to find their shed upright for the third week in a row had helped a great deal. Why, Mother would likely be proud of him for participating in such a benevolent effort, he told himself.

  And so as his rationalizations took effect on his conscience, his desire to win the “top student” trophy returned in full force. Which was why when he looked down at the score of seventy-three at the top of his page, he clinched both sides of the paper so tightly that he almost tore it. Never in his life had he made such a poor mark! He glared at the Listen to instructions before beginning comment Captain Powell had penned under the score. He had listened, he thought, and most attentively. Actually, he was writing the answer to the first question as the instructions were explained … but that had never hindered him before.

  A glance at the desk beside Philip told him that even Jeremiah, who had no pretensions of being a scholar, had scored an eighty-five! And of course, Laurel Phelps had turned in a perfect paper, receiving Captain Powell’s congratulations.

  He was determined not to look over at the high and mighty Miss Phelps. Why give her the satisfaction of seeing the disappointment on his face? But then some inexplicable impulse took over—such as the one that would compel him to curl his big toe in his shoe, despite the pain, for days after he’d jammed it on the bedpost—and he dragged his eyes over to her side of the room. She was staring down at her examination paper with an infuriating little smile on her face.

  Why, she knows I’m looking at her! he realized, jerking his head to the front again. He fumed, clinching his hands together on top of the wretched paper. It would have been better had she scowled at him, then he could have scowled back. But to sit there with a pleased-as-punch-but-too-modest-to-gloat expression, knowing full well that he was looking, was almost more than he could bear. Why did she have to move here? Philip thought. While he rather liked Vicar Phelps and especially appreciated the advice about catching perch—which happened to work very nicely—weren’t there other villages in need of ministers?

  He passed up an after-school cricket match, brushing off Ben and Jeremiah with an “I’m not in the mood to play.” As he slunk home ahead of his sisters, he wondered why he’d even bothered to get out of bed this morning. This day couldn’t possibly get any worse.

  His melancholy fog accompanied him to the kitchen door. When he opened it, he discovered his mother sitting alone at the table. There was no refreshment or cup of tea in front of her—in fact, it seemed as if she were waiting just for him, for she got to her feet right away.

  “Philip?” she said, folding her arms.

  He set his lunch box on the cupboard ledge. “Yes, Mother?”

  “Let’s go to your room. We have something to discuss.”

  As angry as his mother was with him for slipping out of the house that Saturday night, Philip could see in her eyes that it was his lying about it afterward that had hurt her the most. “I’m sorry, Mother,” he told her, aware of how feeble his apology sounded.

  She only frowned. “Are you, Philip? How many other times have you lied to me?”

  “This was the only time, Mother. And I’ll never do it again.” He meant it too. She’d had enough grief in her life, what with Father dying. Never again did he want to cause her sadness.

  “I hope so, Philip.”

  His punishment, she told him, would be to come straight home from school for the next month, and to stay home those Saturdays as well. Philip didn’t argue. After having deceived the person whom he loved more than anyone on earth, he almost looked forward to paying some penance.

  He apologized again, tears burning his eyes, and Mother moved forward to kiss his forehead. “Forgiven,” she said, smiling. “But you understand that the punishment still stands, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  As Philip went back to the kitchen for his books, he thought that at least one good thing had come from his dubious action. He would have more time to study.

  Chapter 31

  Ambrose Clay’s first errand of the next day, after his walk with Mrs. Kingston, was one he did not relish. The directions he’d asked of Mr. Jones, the postman, led him across the Bryce, a mile past the cheese factory, and then east on a winding dirt road. It was called Nettle Lane, he had been told, even though there was no signpost to identify it. Thick hedgerows flanked both sides of the lane, behind which sat the occasional thatched-roof cottage with barn, pig sty, gardens, and outbuildings.

  I should have taken Mr. Herrick up on his offer of the carriage after all, Ambrose thought another mile later when none of the cottages he had passed fit Mr. Jones’ description. But before he could talk himself into giving up, the next bend in the lane revealed a large but nondescript half-timbered cottage with the peak of a stone barn rising up from behind it.

  At least two dozen cattle stared at him curiously from a field to the left of the cottage. Perhaps the doctor’s fee was no hardship. That thought gave him a little comfort. Even though he would insist on reimbursing the Sanders, it was good to see that no meals were likely missed because of it.

  Now all he had to do was figure out exactly what words a grown man should use to confess to skulking the roads of Gresham dressed as a ghost. For once he regretted that he’d awakened this morning in a decent mood. If he were in the grip of despondency, the situation would probably have overwhelmed him too much to do anything but sit by his window and watch life go on in the streets below.

  Well, get it over with, he thought and stopped at a wooden gate set in the hedgerow. He did not see the boy on the other side until he heard a voice.

  “What d’you want?”

  Ambrose looked up, startled by the hostility in the tone. “Do you live here?”

  “Mayhap. Who wants t’know?” The boy looked to be about thirteen years of age, with a shock of thick hair the color of straw over a tanned face. Ambrose could recall hearing a similar voice while hiding behind a yew tree in the Keegans’ yard. This must be the brother that ran, he told himself. He could see no cane or crutch under the boy’s arm.

  “My name is Ambrose Clay. I would like to speak with your father.”


  “You ain’t from the school, are you?”

  “The school? Why, no.”

  “You sure look like one o’ those school people. Like my papa told you folk, my little brothers don’t wanter go. And it ain’t against the law—”

  “I’m not from the school.” Ambrose let out a sigh and reached out for the latch. “Look, it’s been delightful chatting with you, but I would like to see your father now.”

  “You!” The one word spoke it all—surprise, recognition, and anger, and the boy’s face flushed crimson. “You talk just like that ghost!”

  “Guilty, I must confess, though it pains me to do so. And you are …?”

  “You don’t need to know,” the boy scowled. “You hurt my brother.”

  “Most unforgivable of me,” Ambrose said with a shake of the head. “And I’ve come to apologize and possibly make amends. I know it won’t make up for the terror you suffered or cause your brother’s foot to—”

  Ambrose stopped, puzzled by the change in the boy’s expression, for the redness in his cheeks had bleached to the color of chalk.

  “It’s all right, mister,” the boy said, glancing furtively back over his shoulder at the cottage.

  “But I want to—”

  “Just go away!”

  In the brief moment that it took the boy to send another glance at the cottage, Ambrose understood. The brothers had apparently manufactured a story in relation to the injury. He folded his arms and leaned against the gate. “So … if I apologize to your father, he’ll find out that you both lied to him?”

  “Please, mister. Go away!”

  “I gather your father is rather unreasonable about that sort of thing.”

  “I’m beggin’ you, mister. He’ll take a strap to us!”

  No matter what the boy had done in the past, it would take a heart of stone not to be moved by the pleading in his voice. But instead of leaving, Ambrose stepped back into the lane, allowing a plum tree leaning over the hedgerow to shield him from the cottage. He could still see the boy clearly. “But that leaves me with some problems.”