The Widow of Larkspur Inn

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Problems?”

  “Well, for one, I had my heart set on paying Dr. Rhodes’ fee.”

  “Then just give it to the doctor, mister. It ain’t been paid yet.”

  “Won’t your father wonder …?”

  “My sister’s the only one who can read, and she pays the bills. She won’t tell Papa.”

  Pulling absently at his chin, Ambrose thought this over. While it was wrong of the two hooligans to deceive their father, was it his duty to burst into the cottage and inform him of such? Judging from what little he knew about the sons, he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to spend a lot of time in the company of the father.

  You came here to take care of the doctor’s fee and to apologize, he reminded himself. And if the first could be taken care of as soon as he got back to town, then all that was left was to apologize. Which he had done only two minutes ago and could assume that the boy would relate his message to his brother.

  “Is that all right, mister?”

  The meekness in the lad’s tone did not match the flash of memory that came back to Ambrose, of the two trying their best to tip over a helpless family’s shed. And the fear that came into Philip Hollis’s eyes when he spoke of the Sanders brothers. He stroked his chin again and studied the boy through narrowed eyes. Some assurances for the future should be in order.

  “Please, mister?”

  Ambrose smiled. “What is your name, son?”

  “Oram,” the boy replied, then added as an afterthought, “Sir.”

  “I would like to take you up on your suggestion and continue on home now. But I just can’t do that until we’ve made an agreement.”

  “An agreement,” the boy echoed, bobbing his head like someone dunking for apples. “Yes, that’s fine.”

  “I won’t tell your father—”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  “ … and you and your brother will leave the Keegans alone forever.”

  The bobbing paused. “The Keegans?”

  “The Irish family. The basket weavers.”

  “We’ll leave ’em alone,” Oram declared, resuming nodding.

  “I don’t even want to hear that you’ve been talking to them. Or going anywhere near them or their place. Do you understand?”

  The boy was starting to look drained but relieved. “Mister, you don’t have t’worry about that. We’ll never go near ’em. Ever.”

  Now Ambrose had to be careful, for he was determined not to implicate the three lads who had accompanied him on that night. But while the boy was in such an agreeable mood, he might as well get all he could out of it. “And there are some other boys in Gresham that you bully. It disturbs me to hear of it. Some are my friends.”

  “Just tell me who your friends are and we’ll leave ’em alone.”

  “H-m-m,” Ambrose said, tapping his forehead thoughtfully. “The names escape me at the moment….”

  “Then we won’t bother nobody. Just please stay away from our papa.”

  “Very well, then.” Ambrose touched the brim of his bowler hat.

  “Have a good day now, son.”

  The boy mopped his brow with his sleeve. “Yes, thank you. Sir.”

  By the time Ambrose crossed the Bryce again, it was past time for lunch. While an occasional rumble from his stomach reminded him of that fact, it seemed far more pressing that he attempt to undo the rest of the harm his prank had caused. There has to be a way, he thought, though for the life of him, he could not see it at the moment. And then a name crossed his mind, and instead of continuing down Market Lane, he found himself crossing the green.

  “My father’s conducting a funeral service at the church,” the vicar’s daughter, who introduced herself as Elizabeth Phelps, told Ambrose at the door of the vicarage. He had heard table talk about the family but hadn’t realized any daughter was married. She seemed too young to be mother to the wide-eyed boy in her arms and the girl clutching her skirt at her side. “The servants are there as well, but I was afraid the children would make noise, so I kept them here.”

  “Then I’ll come back at a more convenient time,” Ambrose told her, hat in hand.

  “Actually, he should be home any minute.” Miss Phelps smiled and hefted the boy up a bit. “You may come in and wait if you like.”

  Propriety forbade him to accept the invitation, even though there were two small chaperones present. “I believe I would enjoy waiting out in your garden,” he told her politely. “Would that be all right?”

  “Of course.”

  He had just arranged his limbs into a wicker chair when voices drifted over from the direction of Saint Jude’s. He stretched his neck and caught sight of four figures, two male and two female, coming his way from the churchyard. Ambrose supposed the man wearing the black suit to be the vicar. He was a little surprised. His acquaintance with men of the cloth had been limited, but he carried a preconceived notion that they were all required to be tall and lean, clean-shaven and scholarly looking, and of equal importance, slightly stoop-shouldered with hair graying at the temples. Spectacles were optional.

  The man who’d just lifted a hand to wave at him looked as if he’d just unhooked a team of oxen from a plow. Broad-shouldered he was, with a blond beard and comfortable gait that was almost Nordic. Ambrose got to his feet and raised a hand in return, then studied his own shoes and wondered for the fourth time since setting out from the Larkspur exactly what he had hoped to accomplish here. He found himself more nervous than he had been while approaching the Sanders’ place.

  When he looked up again, the three servants had veered off toward the back of the cottage and the black-suited man was only six feet from the gate. “Reverend Phelps?” Ambrose said.

  “Yes?”

  “Ambrose Clay.” They shook hands over the gate. “I lodge at the Larkspur.”

  “Ah,” the vicar nodded. “You must be the actor.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “I knew there were two men lodging there, and I met Mr. Durwin just yesterday and learned a little about him.” He tilted his head a bit. “Besides … you look like an actor.”

  Ambrose took a step backward as the man let himself in the gate. “You don’t look like a vicar, if you’ll forgive my saying so. The beard and all.”

  Reverend Phelps laughed at this. “Well, you know what Shakespeare wrote about beards, don’t you?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” Ambrose admitted after a moment’s thought.

  “‘He that hath no beard is less than a man.’” The vicar’s hazel eyes crinkled at the corners. “No insult intended. Just quoting the Bard.”

  “From Much Ado About Nothing! I believe it was Beatrice who made the observation.”

  “You are correct, Mr. Clay.”

  Now it was Ambrose who laughed as they ambled up the stone walk together. “Touché, reverend. I take it you’re fond of Shakespeare?”

  “Extremely so. And while I’m happy in my called profession, I can’t help but envy you a little.”

  “Me?”

  “As exciting as it is to read his works, it must be thrilling to live them on the stage.”

  “It has its moments,” Ambrose said but could not discuss his career without being painfully reminded of his weakness, so he changed the subject. “I wonder if I might have a few minutes of your time, Reverend Phelps.”

  The vicar paused with his hand on the doorknob. “But of course, Mr. Clay.”

  Ambrose was reintroduced to the older daughter, now reading to the children in the parlor, and was somewhat relieved to learn that the two children belonged to a family in the village. Still, Miss Phelps seemed to have great affection for them, and likewise on their part, for they had settled in her lap like robins in a nest. The vicar’s younger daughter, he was told and had already assumed, was at school.

  “We’ll visit in the study,” the vicar said after asking a maid he called Dora to send some tea. Ambrose was led down a short corridor to a small room lined with shelves of books and took
the chair the reverend offered facing the desk.

  “Very comfortable room,” Ambrose remarked, looking about him. Only one wall, the one the door opened from, did not contain shelves groaning with books, but instead, a framed Constable landscape hung between a long-case clock and a rowing paddle. A small cast-iron coal stove gave off heat in a corner. He wasn’t quite sure what he had expected from a minister’s house—stark, austere walls and rows of pews, perhaps?

  Vicar Phelps pulled out the chair on the opposite side of his desk. “Thank you. I realize it’s a bit formal in here for guests, but I always assume most people who visit would rather talk in private.”

  “That’s certainly my case.”

  “Yes? What may I do for you, Mr. Clay?”

  “Well, I’ve caused a bit of trouble and can’t seem to find a way to undo it. And since I’ve learned that Mrs. Hollis—my landlady—spoke with you yesterday, shortly before having a serious discussion with me, I must assume that you’re aware of what I’ve done.”

  After several seconds of silence, the vicar shook his head. “I’m afraid you have me at a loss, Mr. Clay. Mrs. Hollis never mentioned your name.”

  “She didn’t?” Ambrose chewed on his lip. “But then how did she know I was the ghost?”

  Now the vicar’s blond eyebrows shot up. “You?”

  “You know about the ghost?”

  “Along with half the village. But I assumed it was a hallucination.”

  “If only that were the case.” Ambrose passed a hand over his face. “I supposed I’ve obligated myself to explain.”

  “Please. I’m intrigued.”

  The maid came in with tea and shortbread, poured, and then left. After taking a sip from his cup, Ambrose pulled in a deep breath and began with the afternoon in the kitchen of the Larkspur, when he’d heard about the Irish family’s troubles. And you wanted to make Fiona O’Shea happy, he thought but did not say. When he had gone through the following Saturday night in every detail, he sat back in his chair and waited for the censure that was sure to come.

  Instead the vicar appeared to be struggling to rein in a smile. “That’s quite a story, Mr. Clay.”

  “Go ahead and laugh, if you wish. I would too if I weren’t the principal character and hadn’t involved three boys.” Ambrose took a longer drink of the tea, almost wishing it were something more potent.

  “And now Mrs. Hollis is unhappy because new fuel has been added to the Jake Pitt rumor.”

  “I gathered that yesterday.” The vicar steepled his fingers and pressed them against his chin. “And now you wish to make amends, Mr. Clay?”

  Ambrose nodded. “If at all possible. I’ve already spoken with one of the Sanders boys involved, so things seem to be taken care of in that regard. But it’s the ghost rumor that I would like to nip in the bud. I don’t know quite how to go about doing that, and I fear it may be a lost cause.”

  Leaning forward in his chair, he continued, “I realize I haven’t the right to ask you this, not being a member of your congregation, but is there any way you could help me?”

  Chapter 32

  “You’re all invited for punch and cake in the town hall after the evensong service,” Vicar Phelps announced from the pulpit three days later after the closing prayer of the morning worship. “And some very special entertainment, so please plan to attend if at all possible.”

  “What do you think that was about?” Mrs. Kingston asked Julia and Fiona as the congregation mulled around outside the church doors. “Why the secrecy? Is he going to sing?”

  “Why, I don’t know,” Julia replied. She thought about the way the vicar had smiled at her when he shook her hand at the door. Had she imagined a conspiratorial glint in his eyes? But what would punch and cake and entertainment in the town hall have to do with her? “But no doubt it’s going to be a lovely evening.”

  “And surprises are nice, don’t you think?” Fiona added.

  Mrs. Kingston glanced back at the church door and frowned. “Well, I do like the young man. But he just winked at me when I asked him what was going on.”

  “Did you wink back?” Julia teased.

  “Not on your life!” she snorted.

  Julia looked beyond Mrs. Kingston at a woman and group of children gathered around Elizabeth Phelps. The vicar’s daughter held one of the children, a small girl, in her arms, and appeared to be enjoying the company of the whole group. It was encouraging to Julia to see some calm in the girl’s expression.

  “You’ve become friends with his elder daughter, haven’t you?” asked Mrs. Kingston, noticing the object of her attention. “Why don’t you go over there and ask her about tonight?”

  “I would rather be surprised,” Julia told her firmly but smiling. “And so would you, I’m sure.” She dropped the subject to compliment Mrs. Kingston’s gown, a navy silk trimmed with ruching of the same color. Just yesterday, the woman had abruptly declared herself weary of wearing black after three years and asked Willa to air and press some gowns that had been consigned to the bottom of her trunk. Though the gown was cut in a Pompadour pattern of the last decade, it was of good quality cloth and softened the woman’s imperial appearance considerably. And instead of the usual black bonnet, she wore one of taupe-colored velvet bedecked with tiny silk flowers. “Why, you look absolutely stunning.”

  “Like Cinderella on her way to the ball,” Fiona said.

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Kingston muttered but could not hide the pleasure in her expression. It became even more pronounced when Mr. Durwin came by to remind Julia and Fiona that he would not be in attendance for Sunday dinner. He had recently discovered that a halfdozen other village men possessed some skill with wind instruments—Mr. Durwin played the baritone himself—and had approached each with the idea of forming a brass band.

  “Captain Powell has invited us to lunch at his house so we can plan our practice sessions,” Mr. Durwin explained, though he had already given Fiona the same information yesterday.”

  “It’s going to be so nice having a band in the village,” Mrs. Kingston gushed in a most uncharacteristic manner. “Will you be performing concerts, Mr. Durwin?”

  “We hope to in the future,” Mr. Durwin replied, seeming not to notice anything unusual. “I daresay most of us are a bit rusty at present.”

  That information squelched the notion forming in Julia’s mind that the meeting in the town hall had something to do with Mr. Durwin’s brass band. “I’ll be sure to inform Mrs. Herrick,” she told the gentleman. As he thanked her and walked away, Julia noticed that Mrs. Kingston’s blue eyes followed.

  “I just know she’s going to be hurt one day,” Julia told Fiona later in the day as they enjoyed a rare visit, with feet propped up on footstools in the housekeeper’s tiny parlor.

  “But you can’t shield her from that, ma’am,” Fiona said tactfully from one of the overstuffed chairs. “She’s an adult and old enough to manage her own affairs.”

  “I know,” Julia sighed, resting her head against the back of her chair. “And at least her family situation seems to be improving, judging from the letters that go back and forth to Sheffield.”

  “Do you think we’ll be looking for another lodger one day soon?”

  Julia raised an eyebrow. That possibility hadn’t crossed her mind. “I hope not too soon. I’m rather fond of the crusty old soul.”

  “So am I,” Fiona agreed. “And I can’t see her leaving just yet. She has high hopes for the garden come spring.”

  “It does her good to have Mr. Clay to fuss over as well.”

  Fiona’s face clouded at the mention of the actor’s name. “Aye, missus.”

  “What’s wrong, Fiona?” Julia asked. At the same time a light seemed to go on inside her head. Why are you the last person to notice what goes on around you? she asked herself. “Mr. Clay cares for you, doesn’t he?”

  A somber nod was Fiona’s answer.

  “And how do you feel about him?”

  “It doesn’t matter how I
feel.”

  The fact that Julia had managed to push Fiona’s cruel sham of a marriage from her mind didn’t mean that it had ceased to exist. She felt an acute sense of loss for her friend, for she now knew the answer to her question. “I’m so sorry, Fiona.

  ” Fiona stared, unblinking, down at the slippers she had propped up on the footstool. “Thank you, missus.”

  “Have you told him about your husband?”

  “Just last week.”

  “You poor, poor dear. How did Mr. Clay take it?”

  “It happened to be one of his bad days, missus, so he was already feeling despondent before I told him. But he seems to have accepted the matter, so perhaps that affection was just a notion in my head.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Julia responded doubtfully. “But I’m relieved to hear he’s acting the gentleman and not pressuring you. I would hate to have to ask him to leave. Everyone rather likes him.”

  “Yes,” Fiona sighed. “He has that way about him, hasn’t he?”

  Vicar Phelps’s evensong sermon on Jacob and Esau was shorter than usual. Which was wise, Julia thought, considering the anticipatory mood of the congregation. She was learning that in Gresham special occasions were not taken for granted but were cherished and talked about for years. After the closing hymn, no one dawdled outside the door of the church as usual but hurried on over to the town hall. Chairs were set up facing the platform, and just inside to the right, Elizabeth and Laurel Phelps, along with Mrs. Paget and Dora from the vicarage, handed out servings of cake and punch in the crockery dishes and cups used at church functions.

  “Please find a seat as soon as you’ve been served,” said Vicar Phelps, closing the doors against the night chill when the last person had entered. The massive cast-iron stove in the left corner, huge as it was, would take an hour to warm the room again, but the ninety or so people present didn’t seem to mind keeping their wraps on as they settled into chairs.