That was the most difficult part, trying to think of something complementary to say after she finished the first book, The Marquis’ Daughter, without being dishonest. And pointing out that the spelling was flawless didn’t seem to be the kind of observation the novelist was seeking. But it turned out to be no problem—once Fiona mentioned, truthfully, that she enjoyed the description of Venice, Miss Rawlins smiled appreciatively and took over the conversation.
“I’m so happy to hear that, Miss O’Shea, because the setting is almost as important as the plot itself,” she’d said, pushing her reading spectacles up the bridge of her nose.
“And just how many books have you written, Fiona O’Shea?” Fiona murmured as she turned another page. It was easy to criticize someone else’s work, particularly when it was something she’d never attempted. But eight books!
A second dying ember snapped in her fireplace … or so she thought until the realization hit her that both sounds had come from her window. She closed the book, got up from the bed, and went over to press her face against the glass. There was Mr. Clay, standing in the courtyard, waving a hand at her. She opened the casement and leaned out a bit.
“Mr. Clay?” she whispered loudly, lest she wake up the others.
“Forgive me, Miss O’Shea,” he whispered back, “but your light is the only one burning. My key must have dropped from my pocket as I was changing at the town hall. I went back there to look, but the door’s locked.”
“I’ll be right there.”
She padded quietly down the corridor, aware in the circle of candlelight that her dress was terribly wrinkled from where she’d lain across the bed to read. She did not bother to brush out some of the wrinkles, for what did it matter? At the courtyard door she raised the latch and allowed him in.
“Thank you,” he said, rubbing his shirt sleeves. “It’s turned a bit nippy out.”
“Where is your costume?”
“Back at the hall … with my key, I presume. Sorry to disturb you.”
“It’s all right, Mr. Clay.” She found that she could avoid looking directly into his eyes by focusing just a shade to the right of each one. Pushing open the door to the lantern room, she said, “If you wouldn’t mind holding my candle, I’ll get another for you.”
“Thank you.”
Fiona stepped into the room, with Mr. Clay holding the candle aloft behind her. She could feel his eyes upon her back, but he did not step through the open doorway. Soon she’d fitted another candle upon a holder. Back in the corridor, she lit it from the one Mr. Clay still held.
“Well, thank you for rescuing me,” he told her in an friendly but not particularly intimate tone.
She wondered if she had presumed wrongly about his feelings for her. That should have caused her some relief, but it did not. “Good night, sir. And thank you for what you did tonight.”
“You mean, locking myself out like an idiot?”
“Trying to put an end to the Jake Pitt rumor. And especially for what you did for the Keegans.”
He did not answer until she finally was forced to look him in the eyes. “I did nothing for the Keegans.”
“But their shed hasn’t been distur—”
“I did it for you, Miss O’Shea. And now I bid you good-night.”
On her way back to her room, Fiona didn’t realize she was crying until a cold tear dropped from the side of her chin to the bodice of her gown. She wiped her face with the back of her hand and went over to the mirror above her chest of drawers. The woman who stared back at her looked ghastly in the candlelight, with hooded eyes set into an amber-palled face.
You look just like an adulteress, she thought and wiped another tear from her face. For it was nothing short of adultery for a married woman to love a man who was not her husband. You must leave this place at once.
It was the only way. And as soon as possible. If she stayed long enough to give notice or even say good-bye, Mrs. Hollis would ask Mr. Clay to leave instead. As much as her heart ached at the thought of leaving the family she had come to love, she could not do that to him. He’d found a harbor here in Gresham, a safe place that would encourage him to collect the strength to allow him to return to the stage one day.
And who knew? There seemed to be a rapport between Mr. Clay and Vicar Phelps, judging by what she had observed in the town hall tonight. Perhaps a friendship would develop that would ultimately cause the actor to come to faith.
A picture of the mistress and children standing dumbfounded in the hall upon their first arrival at the Larkspur floated into her mind, but she shook it away. Sentiment will weaken your nerve, she warned herself. The Larkspur was providing a good living for the Hollises, so she didn’t have to worry about looking out for them anymore. And the servants were used to their routines, so they could do without a housekeeper for as long as it took to hire another.
She would go back to London, she decided. Surely Mr. Jensen, who turned out to have a kind heart after all, could be persuaded to give her a good character reference. A housekeeper with the experience she now possessed could easily find a position through one of the domestic agencies. Early tomorrow morning she would pack whatever she could fit into a gripsack and wave down a ride to Shrewsbury with one of the cheese factory carriers. They rumbled past the Larkspur daily before the sun appeared and often rented out extra space on their wagon seats for travelers wishing to spare the expense of a coach.
Father, forgive me for being so underhanded, she prayed. But please give me the strength to carry through with it.
Chapter 34
First snow of the season, and on Christmas day, Julia thought early that morning, padding over to her bedroom window in her slippers. She drew her wrapper more tightly about her and touched the cold glass. Light, powdery flakes danced this way and that and had already started collecting in the corners of the windowsill.
“Are you thinking about us, Fiona?” she murmured. Her friend had been gone for over two months now, but Julia often thought she could sense her presence across the miles, could even feel the prayers she knew were being lifted up for her family. Selfishly, she realized, she had assumed Fiona would always be part of their lives. A lump welled up in her throat, and at that moment she could imagine Fiona looking at her with that straightforward expression, saying, It’s time to get on with your life, missus, as I’ve gotten on with mine.
And Fiona had gotten on quite well, according to her first letter from London, finding a housekeeping position in the home of Mr. Harold Leighton, a member of Parliament. Her letters asked about everyone at the Larkspur, including the lodgers, but she did not mention any particular lodger by name.
Nor did Mr. Clay ask about her anymore, but some relief had come to his face when Julia volunteered at the dinner table that she was safe and sound in her new location. Afterward she had been tempted to tell Mr. Clay privately the full particulars of Fiona’s marriage, but fortunately thought better of it and held her tongue. If he became aware of the past cruelty of her husband, any romantic notions he still had would be fueled—perhaps he would feel the need to rescue her. But the marriage was as binding as if her husband were a saint. Some things couldn’t change, no matter how badly one wished they could.
Mr. Clay had to have suspected that she had left because of him. He had volunteered, even insisted upon moving away himself in the hopes that she would return. But the note Fiona had left behind on her night table had let it be known that no set of circumstances would cause her to change her mind. And so she sacrificed everything she was familiar with so he would stay.
Julia sighed and turned away from the window. It’s Christmas, and here you are moping. And with a hundred things yet to do. She must get dressed, and there were the children to wake, if they hadn’t already slipped out to prod and poke among the packages under the decorated tree in the hall.
She had just taken a gown from her wardrobe when a light knocking sounded upon her door.
“Come in,” she said softly, and Mrs.
Beemish, the new housekeeper, stepped into the room. After the shock of Fiona’s departure had lessened, Julia sent letters of inquiry to the two domestic agencies in Shrewsbury. Mrs. Beemish was the first applicant sent up to Gresham for an interview, and Julia had liked her so much that they saw no need to interview any other applicants. She was a soft, rounded woman of average height, fifty-one years old, and with brown doe eyes and graying dark hair drawn back into a bun. Since starting out in service at age eleven, Mrs. Beemish had worked at every position possible in a well-run house, including that of cook. But she wisely allowed Mrs. Herrick total command over the kitchen, just as Fiona had, and so the two got on quite well.
Yet the best thing about her, in Julia’s opinion, was her voice, as soothing as a warm cup of tea. And soothing was what she had needed after Fiona left.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hollis!” the housekeeper said, smiling.
“And the same to you, Mrs. Beemish. Did you sleep well?”
“I’m afraid not, missus. You’d think that after fifty years, Christmas wouldn’t excite me so much anymore.”
Julia smiled. “I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.”
“Thank you, missus. I just thought you might want to know that the children are in the hall, eyeing the stockings. They said they didn’t want to wake you, but I suspect they were hoping I would.”
“Then I should hurry before eyeing leads to touching.” With the housekeeper’s assistance she dressed quickly. On her way down the corridor, she thought with a touch of melancholy, Our first Christmas without their father.
On second thought, she recalled that he wasn’t at home last Christmas, either, but then she had understood, because medical emergencies had no consideration for the calendar. And surely it had been an emergency, for no decent father would bow out of Christmas with the family to gamble. At least she chose to believe that.
Reaching the hall, she paused for a minute in the doorway to drink in the sight before her. Philip sat in a chair in pajamas and slippers, and the girls were still clad in nightgowns on the sofa. All three sipped from mugs that likely contained hot chocolate, knowing Mrs. Beemish. Hanging from the chimneypiece were three bulging stockings, and in a corner stood the eight-foot fir tree that Mr. Durwin and Mr. Clay had hauled down from the Anwyl. Its branches were bedecked with little baskets and trays filled with candies, fruits, fancy cakes, and gilded gingerbread figures tied with colored ribbons. There were wax candles on the ends of the branches as well, to be lit after the church service when guests arrived for dinner and merrymaking.
Aleda caught sight of her and leaned forward to set her mug on the tea table. “Mother, you’re awake!”
“Merry Christmas, children,” Julia said, walking into the room. She bent to kiss each forehead, then squeezed in between the girls. “How long have you been in here?”
“Oh, ages and ages,” Grace answered, sliding toward the edge of the sofa.
“May we take down our stockings now?” asked Philip. The children were already aware that the packages would have to wait until the lodgers were up and had breakfasted.
“Well …” Julia pretended to think this over.
“Oh, please, Mother,” Grace pressed. “We can’t wait another minute.”
“Then of course you may.”
With the aid of a chair, Philip took down all three stockings. They spent the time remaining before having to dress admiring their own and each other’s gifts. Grace’s favorite was a tiny tea set made of bone china, Aleda’s, a silver flute, and Philip’s, a folding pocket knife with a carved ivory handle. After breakfast, packages were opened from under the tree, with even the servants joining in. Julia and the three older women lodgers had bought or made something for each of them as well. The children reaped the greatest bounty, each receiving not only a gift from Julia—dolls for the girls, and a set of small tin soldiers for Philip—but something from every lodger, and even from Fiona via the post. This caused Julia a bit of concern, for she didn’t want them growing up to associate Christmas with gifts alone.
What a far cry from what worried me back in March, she thought. Back then, her concern had been whether she would be able to provide the basic necessities for the children. You’re so good to us, Father.
Snow was falling steadily as Mr. Herrick drove the members of Saint Jude’s to church in the new landau behind Donny and Pete, two Welsh cob horses purchased in Woverhampton from an acquaintance of Doctor Rhodes. He had already delivered Mrs. Herrick, Mrs. Dearing, and Ruth to the Baptist chapel and would be joining them shortly. Saint Jude’s seemed like a forest; there was so much holly about that members of the congregation seemed to be sprouting it. The organist and chancel choir performed at least a dozen Christmas carols, asking the congregation to accompany them, and Vicar Phelps’s sermon about that holy night in Bethlehem was nothing short of moving.
Afterward, Vicar Phelps and his daughters, Dr. and Mrs. Rhodes, Captain and Mrs. Powell, the Worthy sisters, and Miss Hillock joined the occupants of the Larkspur for a dinner of roast goose with all the trimmings and plum pudding for dessert.
There would have been even more people present if the Keegans weren’t spending the day with family in Shrewsbury—Julia had walked up to Worton Lane last week with a batch of Mrs. Herrick’s almondsugar cookies and, after being received so graciously, had extended an impulsive invitation. She wasn’t quite sure if it had come from the goodness of her heart or from a longing to hear an Irish accent again.
After carols around the pianoforte with Aleda playing accompaniment, Julia took a brief respite from hostessing to stand by the tree and watch the gathering. Guests and lodgers alike were obviously enjoying one another’s company. Even Mrs. Hyatt and Mrs. Kingston stood near the fireplace, their heads together while admiring the workmanship in Elizabeth Phelps’s cranberry velvet dress. Apparently Mrs. Kingston had decided that Christmas was not a time for competing for the affections of a certain man, or better yet, no longer had an interest in him. The garden had most likely helped that along, giving Mrs. Kingston a project to keep her hands and mind busy. Even though she couldn’t be out there working in it now, she pored over gardening books, making plans for spring. She was as determined to win a prize in the garden show as Philip was to win the school trophy.
And Philip … she watched the boy showing his new knife to Doctor and Mrs. Rhodes. Though not aggressively rude, he had practically ignored Laurel Phelps when he sat across from her at dinner. She didn’t want to spoil his Christmas by scolding him, but in a day or two they would need to have a long talk about his resentment of the girl.
“My parents would never allow me to have a knife,” came a voice at her right elbow, and she turned to smile at Vicar Phelps.
“Did you want one?”
“Oh, terribly.”
“Do you think it was foolish of me?”
The vicar shook his head. “He seems a responsible boy.”
Julia glanced over at the draughts table, where Laurel and Aleda were absorbed in a game. “I just wish he were more sociable toward your daughter, Vicar. I’m afraid he’s become single-minded about this school competition.”
“Well, I have to tell you that Laurel hasn’t been a saint about it. I’m not sure now if she wants the trophy for its own sake or to prove that she can best him.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “They’ll grow out of it, Mrs. Hollis. You know what the Scripture says … ‘When I was a child, I spake as a child.’”
She was indeed reassured and told him so. Since his first call in early October, Vicar Phelps had managed to pay a brief visit every week. Julia would join the lodgers in the hall and, like the others, appreciated his warm wit and kind nature. And it’s been over a month since I’ve heard Jake Pitt’s name, she thought.
“Mrs. Hollis,” the vicar said from her side, interrupting her reverie. “Has Elizabeth visited you lately?”
“Why, not since early November. I suppose the children still keep her quite busy.”
&nb
sp; “They do indeed, but she hasn’t complained. And the little girl, Molly, has taken to addressing her as Aunt Beth.”
He glanced at the nearest chairs, where Jewel Worthy sat chatting with Miss Rawlins, then leaned closer and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Another thing that’s keeping her busy is … she has a beau.”
Julia smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“His name is Paul Treves, a curate assigned to Alveley. He seems a decent fellow.”
“But of course he is, if …”
He gave her a wry little smile. “Unfortunately, some men embrace the ministry for other reasons than a desire to preach the Gospel, Mrs. Hollis. But I’m impressed with what I’ve seen in him so far.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Lowering her voice, Julia said, “Perhaps she’s forgotten about Mr. Raleigh after all.”
“Perhaps,” he replied with a little less than total conviction in his voice.
“The aftermath was far worse than the amputation itself,” Philip overheard Captain Powell say to Mr. Clay as he was passing by the two men. Suddenly his feet took root on the carpet beneath them.
“I felt ‘ghost’ pains for weeks afterward,” Captain Powell went on, “and would often forget the arm was missing and reach out for things.”
Did he just say how he lost it? Philip wondered, pretending to be absorbed in his knife as he stood just behind Mr. Clay’s left elbow. Surely it had happened in the midst of some heated exchange of gunfire between Boer resistance and the British army. Or had it been the result of desperate hand-to-hand fighting with bayonets? He stepped a little closer to Mr. Clay, who surely must know that an eavesdropper lurked nearby, and listened intently.
“Were you right-handed before the amputation?” the actor asked.
“Left-handed, fortunately, so at least I didn’t have to learn how to write all over again.”
The Widow of Larkspur Inn Page 38
