Purple or green wool, Julia thought, adding that to the mental note about Mrs. Hyatt. She did not want to take off her gloves to write on the list.
“And a ream of paper?” Miss Rawlins said apologetically.
Ream of paper.
“ … and a stove brush,” Julia read to Mr. Trumble.
“What style?” the shopkeeper asked.
Julia looked up from Mrs. Beemish’s list. “Style?”
“Yes’m.” Turning his back to her, he stepped up on the stool and reached up to the top shelf. He brought down two black wire brushes and set them on the counter before her.
“I’ve sold this here oval-shaped one for years, but I’m told this new convex style is better for scrubbing.”
They looked almost the same to Julia. After picking up and studying one and then the other, she asked, “Which do you recommend, Mr. Trumble?”
A smile widened the handlebar mustache. “I lean toward progress meself, Mrs. Hollis. We’d still be cooking over open fires if it wasn’t for invocations.”
“Then I’ll take the newer one.”
“Will that be all?”
“Not quite.” She ordered the wool and paper for Mrs. Dearing and Miss Rawlins, then pulled back up the hood of her clock. “Good afternoon, Mr. Trumble.”
“And a good afternoon to you, Mrs. Hollis. I’ll send it all round before close o’day.”
After leaving the shop, Julia slogged up Market Lane in the heavy boots, swinging her arms for ballast, trying to avoid puddles of ice in the cobblestones. Fortunately, few people were outside to notice her swaggering like the captain of the Queen’s Guard. Even the Worthy sisters had consigned their lace-making operation to the indoors weeks ago. She found herself thinking about Mrs. Hyatt again as she labored along. I haven’t noticed her spending time with Mr. Durwin for the past couple of days, she realized. Have they parted company? She hoped not. Mrs. Hyatt was a gentle soul and didn’t deserve to be hurt.
The next thing she knew, one of her encumbered feet hit a patch of ice at the crossroads and slid out from under her. She performed an awkward little dance, windmilling her arms at the same time, but the ground rushed up to claim her before she could balance herself. On her backside she landed with a jarring thud. Fortunately, her thick outer clothes absorbed most of the impact, but uprighting herself proved more difficult than she had imagined. The patch of ice seemed to be directly under her now, and her unyielding boot refused to take hold.
“MRS. HOLLIS!” A male voice off to her right pierced the snownumbed air. Wincing at this proof that her performance had indeed had an audience, she turned her head and squinted at the figure hurrying down Church Lane in her direction. Vicar Phelps it was.
“BACON MADE THE WELL BLUE!” he called, waving an arm.
Bacon made the …? On second thought, Julia realized he was saying, “Wait and let me help you!” That sounded like good advice, no matter how embarrassed she was. He was still several yards away—too far away for her to be screeching back an answer, so she swallowed her pride and occupied herself with pulling her gloves away from the sticky ice.
She’d managed to get to her knees when he was about twenty feet away and closing in, puffing white vapor like a locomotive. “You should slow down,” Julia warned, but he continued to quicken his pace.
“You just have to avoid those icy—” he began. Suddenly both legs flew up into the air and sent him crashing to the frozen ground. He did not stop there, but kept sliding until coming within inches of Julia. In fact, she was able to catch his bowler hat as it attempted to fly past her.
For a second or two he simply sat there gaping up at her, for she was still upon her knees and therefore taller than him by several inches.
“Vicar?” Julia said, resisting with Herculean effort the impulse to burst into laughter.
He blinked, then sighed as he pulled one of his gloved hands from the ice. “I cannot begin to tell you how completely mortified I am.”
“Well, it certainly wasn’t your fault. Are you injured?”
“Only my dignity.” Narrowing his eyes to study her for a moment, he said, “Why, Mrs. Hollis, you’re struggling to keep from laughing, aren’t you?”
“Certainly not!”
He was attempting to get to his feet now, first rising slowly to a crouched position. “It isn’t healthy to suppress a laugh, Mrs. Hollis. Unless you’re in church, of course.”
“That wouldn’t be fair, Vicar. You didn’t laugh when I fell.”
A mischievous glint came to his eyes. “Well, actually …”
“You laughed at me?”
Finally on his feet, he leaned down toward her. “Now, I’m going to take your arms.”
“But your hat.”
“Yes, thank you.” Vicar Phelps took it from her hands and set it back on his blond head. He then caught her arms just below the elbows to brace her while he pulled. “I may have chuckled a bit,” he admitted when she was finally vertical again. “And laughter is good medicine, the Scripture says.”
Julia pretended to scowl. “Then I suppose I should have broken an arm so you could have even stronger medicine.”
“Oh, come now,” he teased. “You aren’t angry, are you, Mrs. Hollis?”
She couldn’t resist the humor in his eyes and found herself laughing. He joined in, chuckling so hard that he almost lost his balance again. Which made them both laugh even harder. Finally Julia remembered that they were standing at the village crossroads, then looked around and brushed some snow from her cloak. “At least no one was around to witness our performances.”
A bell chimed, and both she and the vicar automatically turned their heads to look at the school building in the distance. He turned to her again and, after what appeared to be some hesitation on his part, said, “That won’t be the case if either of us slips again. Why don’t you allow me to escort you the rest of the way? We can keep each other from falling.”
“Thank you,” she said, taking the arm he offered. For several minutes the only sounds were those made by boots crunching against the frozen lane—Julia’s louder than the vicar’s. Julia listened to the distant cries of children escaping academic captivity for the day and thought about how pleasant it was to be able to banter with Vicar Phelps … or just to be quiet with him. She had never had a male friend before—not even her husband had assumed that role. And having been raised an only child, she’d also missed out on the opportunity to have a brother. It seemed she had both now, and in the same person.
“Are you out making calls?” she finally asked.
“Actually, Mrs. Hollis, I thought I would visit with Mr. Clay, if he’s up to company. He’s been on my mind all day for some reason.”
Julia thought about the actor’s reclusiveness for the past two days and offered, “I should warn you that he’s suffering with one of his dark moods, so if he declines your company, you’ll know it’s nothing personal.”
“Of course.” He absently patted her gloved hand, his brow furrowed in thought. “But I can’t help wondering if it’s God who keeps shoving him to the forefront of my thoughts. I don’t think I could sleep tonight if I didn’t try to talk with him.”
“You’ve been good for him, Vicar.”
“I don’t know about that. Perhaps if I were more forceful—”
“He would turn a deaf ear, just as he does to Mrs. Kingston when she lapses into preaching at him. I suppose some people must be led gently if they are to be led at all.”
“Yes, it does seem that way.” After a short silence he looked down, his brow creasing once again.
“What’s wrong?” Julia asked him.
He looked up again. “Wrong? Oh, nothing.”
“It’s a sin to lie, Vicar.”
“Touché, Mrs. Hollis,” he replied after a chuckle. “If you must know, I was wondering … wherever did you get those boots?”
“Hey, isn’t that Vicar Phelps with your mother?” Ben asked Philip as they walked toward Church Lane.
Philip slowed his steps, his lips tightening at the sight at the crossroads some two hundred feet away. While he liked and respected Vicar Phelps personally, he couldn’t look at the man without being reminded of his younger daughter. Fresh in his mind was the memory of the older girls during the break indoors, singing out quietly the spelling of collaborate to the tune of Here We Go ’Round the Mulberry Bush. It was an amateurish effort, and some letters had to be squeezed together so that all the syllables would fit, producing verses that sounded like:
see-oh el-el ay bee
oh ARR AY tee ee!
And on and on ad nauseam, until Mr. Powell raised himself at the head of the classroom.
For collaborate had happened to be Philip’s undoing during the morning spelling drill between the fifth and sixth standard boys and girls, when he and the vicar’s daughter had been the only two left standing for a good ten minutes.
And while he never noticed her actually joining in the chorus that ensued, she had managed to look pleased with herself every time he stole a glance at her. I can’t believe I ever thought she was pretty, he told himself during the break. Whoever said that character was more important than appearance was completely right. It was easy to see what kind of character Laurel Phelps had. Prideful. And the last time he looked in his Bible, pride was listed as a sin.
And it ought to count against you double if your father’s a vicar. After all, ministers’ children grew up with a constant reminder of how a good Christian should behave.
The worst part was that he couldn’t tell her what he thought of her. Mother had scolded him soundly after Christmas, promising to take away his fishing privileges for weeks if she learned that he’d treated her rudely. So he was forced to sulk in silence, with only Ben and Jeremiah aware of the depths of his dislike for her.
“Philip?” Ben said, jarring him back to the immediate present.
Philip blinked. “What?”
“I just wondered if that was the vicar with your mother, but I can see that it is. They’re moving along awfully slow, aren’t they?”
They were indeed walking slowly, but of course there were patches of ice here and there, and even the children’s steps were measured. Recalling what his mother had told him on Christmas night, he said a little testily, “A gentleman and a lady can enjoy each other’s company without everyone thinking they’re courting.”
Giving him a curious sidelong look, Ben said, “Who said they were courting?”
“Well, just in case you were thinking it, Mother says they’re not.”
“Fine with me,” his friend shrugged, but after a couple of steps added, “But what if she hasn’t told that to the vicar?”
“Would you be wantin’ some tea, gentlemen?” the chambermaid Andrew recognized as Willa asked after showing him up to Mr. Clay’s room.
Standing in front of his chair, the actor reminded him, “You’re terribly fond of Mrs. Herrick’s tea, Vicar Phelps.”
“Tea would be nice, thank you,” Andrew replied.
“And some for me as well, please,” said Mr. Clay. He attempted a smile in the maid’s direction, but when taken in with the bags under his eyes and bearded shadow across his cheeks, it appeared more grimacelike than grateful. Still, the girl seemed to find nothing unusual about this and gave a quick bob before exiting the room.
“Please have a seat, Vicar,” Mr. Clay said, nodding toward the empty chair facing his. “I suppose you’ve heard I’m in one of my sulking moods.”
Andrew took the chair and, when the actor had settled back into his, said, “I’ve never heard it described as sulking, Mr. Clay. Perhaps you could manage a little more charity toward yourself?”
The actor’s expression clouded even more so. “Someone else once said almost those exact words to me.”
“Indeed? And who was this other sage?”
“Just an acquaintance,” he answered somewhat evasively, considering how the words had seemed to affect him.
Andrew knew not to press any further. “Actually, Mr. Clay, I had no idea you were in a bad way until I reached the house a little while ago. But you’ve been in my thoughts since early this morning.”
“Yes?”
“And when God puts someone so heavily on my mind, it is always for a reason. Would you happen to know what that reason is, Mr. Clay?”
“You’re asking me to guess the motives of God?” The actor raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t that be more in line with your occupation, Vicar?”
“I just hoped you could make it a little easier for me in this circumstance,” Andrew quipped lightly. And I’m positive now that You wanted me to be here today, he prayed under his breath. Please help him to open up to me.
When Philip arrived at home, wiping his feet before entering through the courtyard door, he gave his lunch pail to Mildred in the kitchen and hurried through the house to find Mother. To his relief she was sitting in a chair in the hall, listening to Mrs. Kingston tell of her plans for the garden come spring. The vicar was nowhere to be seen. He was just helping her home … probably from Trumbles. After all, the lanes were slippery. Any gentleman would have done the same, coming across a lady outside under those conditions.
“Why, hello, Philip,” she said, smiling up in his direction. “How was your day at school?”
“Fine, Mother. Good afternoon, Mrs. Kingston.”
“And the same to you, Philip,” the older woman said. “My, I believe you’ve grown another inch when I wasn’t looking.”
Philip found himself straightening appreciatively. He had turned fourteen just last week and expected that he would launch into a growth spurt any day now, as quite a few of the adults in the house had predicted he would.
On his way back to the kitchen to hint for a snack, he thought again of the vicar, who must be upstairs visiting Mr. Clay. You can’t blame him for liking Mother.
He had given his mother’s situation much thought since Christmas and had come to conclude, painfully, that it was selfish to expect her to stay alone the rest of her life. In less than a year he would be enrolled in the Josiah Smith Preparatory Academy in Worchester with his visits home limited to one weekend every month. How could he keep watch over the family and attend school at the same time? Women needed husbands, even bright women like Mother. He didn’t want her ending up alone like Mrs. Kingston. And even though he was practically grown himself and had no need for another father, Aleda and Grace should have one.
But not one who already has children. For no matter how kind and good the man happened to be, wouldn’t he favor his own? He couldn’t stand the thought of his sisters being treated like Cinderella in their own home!
Reason took over, and after he’d thanked Mrs. Herrick for the shortbread square she’d handed him, he started back toward his room to study. It was ludicrous to assume someone as kind as Vicar Phelps would ever turn into the male equivalent of a wicked stepmother. If only he didn’t have that one liability! For even though in another nine months Philip would only be home for short visits, the thought of calling Laurel Phelps sister for even two days out of thirty was a horror to him. There seemed to be no reason to expect her to change her superior, condescending ways, so how could there be any family harmony?
A bit of conscience pricked him, suggesting that he was being enormously selfish. Mother’s happiness should be the most important thing. But how could she be happy with children who couldn’t get along?. Hadn’t the vicar just mentioned something like that in the pulpit recently, that the family who lives in harmony has a little of heaven on earth?
Please, God, he prayed, squeezing his eyes shut as a bit of shortbread melted away in his right cheek, Send the right person to marry Mother one day. Someone like Mr. Trumble. Amen
He would have prayed specifically that Mr. Trumble himself be that person, but word had gotten out that the shopkeeper and Miss Hillock were fond of each other. His conscience caused another twinge, so he closed his eyes to add, And please let Vicar Phelps find a nice w
ife too.
“Nothing out of the ordinary has happened since our last little chat,” Mr. Clay was saying, rubbing his stubbled chin. “Except …”
Andrew leaned forward a little. “Yes?”
“I’ve come to believe that Jesus Christ actually did come back to life after the cross.”
Andrew’s breath caught in his throat. “And you say nothing extraordinary happened?”
“Extraordinary would be my coming to faith, Vicar Phelps. I’m afraid that has not occurred, nor do I see the likelihood of it happening in the near future.”
“But why? If you believe—”
“With my head, Vicar,” the actor said poignantly. He raised a hand to tap the center of his chest. “There is nothing happening here.”
Willa returned with a tray, and another chambermaid followed with a folded crisscross table. For once, Andrew was grateful for the interruption. He needed time to send up another prayer. I know you’ve been drawing Mr. Clay to you, or else he wouldn’t feel compelled to search the Scriptures so faithfully. But why is he afraid to give himself over to you? Please show me, Father.
After the maids left the room, the only sound was the delicate clinking of silver against bone china, then silence as each man took a sip from his cup.
“So, Mr. Clay, how did you come to the conclusion that Christ did actually come to life again?” Andrew asked in a dispassionate tone, while fighting the urge to get on his knees and plead that the actor believe this very minute. And he might very well be doing so, were he dealing with someone with a more suppliant temperament.
Mr. Clay balanced his saucer and cup on his crossed knee, steadying them with both hands. “It was the only logical conclusion I could make.”
“Logical?”
“Do you recall telling me that most of the disciples were martyred because of their bold preaching of the Gospel? And yet earlier they deserted Jesus in the garden, when surely He needed friends at His side.”
The Widow of Larkspur Inn Page 40
