The Widow of Larkspur Inn

by Lawana Blackwell

  “I told you … because she’s come to realize that marriage would be …”

  His face seemed to have aged ten years. “That’s not a specific reason, Mrs. Kingston. What are you keeping from me?”

  Why did I ever involve myself in this? she now wondered. This was much more difficult than she had imagined it would be. She had expected that someone of Mr. Durwin’s years would take the news a bit more stoically. Could it be that he sincerely cared about Mrs. Hyatt, and not just because she possessed a set of ears? “Well …” she hedged.

  Mr. Durwin’s expression became pleading. “Please, I beg of you.”

  Mrs. Kingston sighed and folded her arms akimbo across her chest. “Very well, then. Tell me, Mr. Durwin, what color are Mrs. Hyatt’s eyes?”

  “Her … I beg your pardon?”

  “Her eyes. You look at them every day. What color are they?”

  He thought for a minute. “Hazel?”

  “Gray, Mr. Durwin. How about her maiden name? Or her favorite flower, or hymn?”

  He stared at her for a few seconds, his mind obviously hard at work, before shaking his head. “Why, I’m afraid I have no idea. Is that why she’s angry?”

  “Not angry. Afraid.”

  “Afraid, you say? Of what?”

  There was no way to soft-soap this, so Mrs. Kingston plunged on ahead. “Of finding herself married to an old man who can only talk about himself, Mr. Durwin.”

  Mr. Durwin looked as if she’d slapped him. “I didn’t realize …” he mumbled, but his words trailed off into the chill air of the room.

  Compassion stirred in Mrs. Kingston’s ample bosom. “But it’s quite obvious to me that she cares for you, Mr. Durwin,” she said gently.

  He simply stared at her, ashen-faced, and Mrs. Kingston figured the best action for her to take now was to leave the room. She’d spread enough gloom and doom for one night and reckoned that the sleep she so craved would certainly evade her. “Well, good night, Mr.—”

  But Mr. Durwin seized the doorknob again. “Do you think it possible for me to win her back?”

  “Win her back?” Mrs. Kingston reached out and patted his arm. “As I said, I do believe she still cares for you, Mr. Durwin. I suppose that depends on whether or not an old dog can learn new tricks.”

  I’ll never meddle again, Lord, she prayed as she limped her way back down the corridor. At Mrs. Hyatt’s door she paused, wondering if she should inform her that the deed had been done. She sighed and continued to her own room. Beginning this very moment.

  The murmur of voices from the room next door ceased drifting through the wall, much to Ambrose’s regret as he lay in his bed. Even though he had not been able to discern any of the words, nor even the identity of the speakers—but one would have to have been Mr. Durwin—the sound had provided some comfort, proof that he wasn’t all alone on this earth.

  But I am all alone.

  You have friends, he reminded himself in an attempt to soften the ache in his chest. Mrs. Hollis, Mrs. Kingston, Vicar Phelps …

  “Vicar,” he mumbled in the darkness. How determined the man was to see him come to faith! And if the truth were to be known, Ambrose felt a longing to do so, a longing that he had not been able to admit to the good reverend because the intensity of it frightened him.

  He thinks it’s because I’m afraid God will fail me as my father did, Ambrose thought, his mind going over Vicar Phelps’s parting words again. Why didn’t I tell him he was mistaken?

  Because then I would have been compelled to explain the real reason. And actors were a superstitious lot. Admitting one’s fears aloud often ensured that what one feared would come to pass. He had just recently come to understand the basis of his fears, the reason he couldn’t allow himself to surrender completely.

  What if nothing changed?

  Oh, he had chafed at Miss O’Shea … dear, dear Miss O’Shea … once asking her mockingly if becoming a Christian would banish the emotional ball and chain that was his lot in life. What had been her reply?

  “God’s ways are not our ways, Mr. Clay. Sometimes He heals, sometimes He doesn’t.”

  Ambrose wiped his eyes with a corner of his sheet. He hadn’t even realized that he was weeping. During the course of reading the Scriptures, he had begun to harbor a feeble hope that perhaps he could be cured of his despondency after all. Jesus had healed lepers, hadn’t He? Even brought people back to life! How much trouble could it be to touch one man’s addled mind? He knew from his reading that if he became a believer, he would have the right to make that request of God. Hadn’t he read that the Father’s children were allowed to approach the throne boldly?

  “God’s ways are not our ways.” He could still hear the calm faith in Miss O’Shea’s voice. If only he could speak with her now!

  Because I don’t think I could bear it if everything turned out to be the same.

  Suddenly a picture came into his mind, sharp and clear. Three crosses. A mob jeering. Intense pain and suffering. One of the thieves calling out “If thou be Christ, save thyself and us!” The other addressing Jesus as Lord, asking nothing but that he be remembered in the Father’s kingdom.

  The first man would only accept Jesus as the Christ if certain conditions were met, Ambrose thought, his eyes widening in spite of the darkness. Am I guilty of the same?

  He got out of bed, feeling around on the carpet with his feet for his slippers. Once they were secure, he pulled the quilt from the top of his covers, wrapped it around his shoulders, and edged his way over to a chair. For a long while he sat there in the darkness and listened to the quiet. Then he leaned the back of his head against the top of the chair and stared at the dark ceiling. Why are you fighting so hard? he asked himself.

  Suddenly he was filled with a hunger to know the Father, to really know Him as only one of His children could. The same hunger that had been the impetus for his search through the Scriptures.

  The words of a song came to him. Where before had he heard it?

  Just as I am, without one plea …

  It was when Fred Russell was buried, he recalled now. Ambrose had shared a friendly acquaintance with the prop manager, who’d succumbed to consumption, and had attended the funeral at a small Methodist chapel. Strange that he could still remember the words and even the tune some five years later.

  But that Thy blood was shed for me …

  There could be no prior conditions to accepting Christ, Ambrose understood now with startling clarity. No if You’ll first agree to mend my tortured mind …

  And that Thou bidd’st me come to thee …

  And Ambrose did feel the bidding, so strong that it seemed almost palatable.

  Oh Lamb of God …

  Ambrose closed his eyes.

  “I come,” he whispered.

  Chapter 37

  Did everyone have trouble sleeping last night? Julia wondered after she’d exchanged greetings with Mr. Durwin in the corridor just outside the dining room the next morning. Mrs. Kingston and Mrs. Hyatt had come downstairs several minutes earlier, looking no more well rested than had Mr. Durwin.

  Hearing footsteps on the stairs again, Julia turned in time to receive a sunny smile from Mrs. Dearing, her long white braid draped over one shoulder. At least someone seems to have slept.

  “Good morning!” the elderly woman said as she reached the bottom step.

  Julia smiled back and returned the greeting. “You look very nice, as usual.”

  “Why, thank you, dear.” She tilted her head at Julia. “You’re joining us for breakfast?”

  “Yes, just this morning,” Julia smiled back and was relieved when Mrs. Dearing simply replied, “How nice,” and went on into the dining room. She wasn’t certain if she should tell the reason she’d altered her usual morning routine of working in her office after breakfasting with the children. The note Mr. Clay sent her, via Georgette, had only asked that she be present at breakfast. As best as she could imagine, she assumed he was going to make some sort of
announcement. Did that mean the dark mood that had held him for the past few days had lifted? Surely he’s not planning to leave here.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Hollis!” So deep had she been in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard Miss Rawlins’ feet on the staircase.

  “Good morning, Miss Rawlins,” Julia replied, smiling. “And how did you sleep?”

  “Fine, thank you. Like a drugged princess.” The writer paused, her brown eyes growing thoughtful behind her spectacles. “Why, I should use that sometime, shouldn’t I? A book can never have too many good similes.”

  “They do seem to add to a story.”

  Looking reluctantly back at the staircase, Miss Rawlins said, “I suppose I should run back upstairs and write it down. I’m quite forgetful.”

  “My office is only a few steps away,” Julia offered. “Why not write it down in there and collect it after breakfast?”

  Miss Rawlins thanked her and accompanied her to the family corridor. By the time they reached the dining room again, Mr. Clay had presented himself, and the lodgers were queued up at the sideboard with plates. Julia noticed that purple shadows were still under the actor’s eyes, a sign that his mood had not lifted. Yet when he turned his head and saw her watching him, he gave her an indulgent wink.

  Whatever Mr. Clay’s announcement would be, she thought when everyone finally sat at the table with their filled plates, she could only pray that it wouldn’t add to the tension in the room—it was so thick that not even the aroma of bacon and hot scones could dispel it. Mr. Durwin and Mrs. Hyatt, while seated in their usual places across from each other, seemed to be having a contest at avoiding each other’s eyes. And Mrs. Kingston’s attention seemed to flit back and forth between the two.

  Have they argued? Julia didn’t think dear Mrs. Hyatt had the disposition to argue with anyone. And was that why Mrs. Kingston sent so many glances in their direction? Had she sensed that perhaps there was an opportunity for her after all?

  I think I’m going to need a nap today, Julia thought, absently stirring her tea longer than necessary. The only conversation—besides asking to have salt or sugar passed—was between Miss Rawlins and Mrs. Dearing, and even that died out as the mood of the room prevailed.

  Presently Mr. Clay rose from his chair and cleared his throat. “If you would be so kind as to indulge me with your attention,” he said, sending a smile all around the table, “I would like to make an announcement.”

  There were expressions of surprise, a straightening of postures, and muffled clicks as the lodgers set their cutlery temporarily back on the tablecloth.

  “Yes, Mr. Clay?” Mrs. Kingston asked when the activity had ceased.

  His face was almost radiant now, in spite of the shadows under his eyes. “Because many of you have been concerned about the state of my immortal soul, this morning I would like to put your fears to rest….”

  The following Wednesday, Julia took a cup of tea and secluded herself in her little office and began to pen a letter.

  Dear Fiona,

  I pray this finds you well and content. Mrs. Beemish is a dear soul and performs her duties as housekeeper quite competently, but she will never replace you in our hearts. I have promised the children that, if the Lord wills it, we will visit you this summer. We will take the train on a Monday so that we can wring the most of every minute of your Tuesday off, then return the following day after a visit with Mr. Jensen.

  She stopped to fill her pen. Even though the ice was finally beginning to thaw a little outdoors, summer seemed like an eternity from now. How good it would be to see her dear friend again! But she could now fully understand the wisdom in Fiona’s not wanting Mr. Clay to move from the Larkspur.

  You will be happy to know that Mr. Clay has come to faith in Christ! He is quite elated about it, as we all are. Mrs. Kingston wept tears when Mr. Clay made the announcement at breakfast last week, and Vicar Phelps visits almost every morning for an hour or so to disciple him and encourage him in his newfound faith. Mr. Clay even attended church services with us on Sunday. I can see the hand you had in his conversion, my friend. Would that I had the liberty to tell him of the sacrifice you made toward that end!

  Unfortunately, not all the events of the past week have been happy ones. Mrs. Hyatt and Mr. Durwin no longer sit together in church, nor do they accompany each other on walks. It is obvious that they are both miserable. Mr. Durwin has taken supper at the Bow and Fiddle every night this past week. Odd, when you consider how fond he is of Mrs. Herrick’s cooking. Neither has spoken about what led to the cessation of their courtship, but interestingly enough, Mrs. Hyatt seems to have taken Mrs. Kingston into her confidence.

  You are the only person on earth I can admit this to, Fiona, but I can only pray Mrs. Kingston is not using her position as confidant to exploit the situation. You can recall, I am certain, when she was interested in Mr. Durwin.

  Two more pages flowed from Julia’s pen describing the latest activities of the children, news of the servants, and other lodgers. She even wrote of Buff and her three almost-grown kittens that kept the stables free of mice and were often slipped into the kitchen by Mrs. Herrick and Mildred for feasts of meat trimmings and fish heads. Julia was just about to close and sign her name, when two more subjects came to her mind.

  Karl Herrick crafted a fine sled from that old one in the stables, and the children have spent the last three Saturdays joining other village children at the east slope of the Anwyl. You will be happy to know that Philip and his friends have successfully persuaded the Keegan children to join them.

  And lastly, Miss Rawlins has asked me to inform you that she will be sending you a copy of her very latest novel, The Duchess of Ramsgate, and asks if you would be so kind as to critique it for her. I considered telling her that you had run away to France, but honesty prevailed, and I reluctantly agreed to give you the message. “Forewarned is forearmed,” as dear Vicar Wilson once advised me.

  After giving Mr. Herrick Fiona’s letter to post late that morning, Julia stepped out of the kitchen and almost ran into Mr. Durwin in the corridor. “Excuse me, Mr. Durwin,” she said, automatically taking a step backward.

  “My fault entirely,” he replied. “May I speak with you, Mrs. Hollis?”

  Julia smiled at him and wondered if she were imagining a bit of hope mixed with some of the sadness his face had worn for the past week. “Shall we walk down to my office?”

  He peered down the corridor with uncertainty, then shook his head. “I don’t suppose that is necessary. I would like to inform Mrs. Herrick that I’ll be taking supper out again and ask you if I may bring the members of our brass band here this evening.”

  “Of course,” Julia replied. She fought the temptation to ask why he’d taken so many suppers away from the Larkspur lately. If he were doing so out of discomfort in Mrs. Hyatt’s presence, why did he make appearances at breakfast and dinner? “You could practice in the library, if you’d like. But will there be enough room?”

  Shifting on his feet and with another glance down the corridor, the elderly man lowered his voice. “It isn’t for practice, Mrs. Hollis. We would like to perform a song in the hall.”

  “Just one?”

  He cleared his throat. “Yes, just one.”

  This has something to do with Mrs. Hyatt, Julia thought but managed to keep her expression blank. “Why, I think that would be delightful, Mr. Durwin.”

  “I hope so,” he said, blowing out his cheeks. “We’re still rather green at this, you know. But we’ve practiced almost every evening in a room at the Bow and Fiddle. That’s why I’ve had meals away. I’ve felt obliged to compensate the other members of the band for their participation.”

  “I have rather wondered.”

  “You can be certain it wasn’t the cooking. No one can hold a candle to Mrs. Herrick’s.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell her that.”

  He looked a little worried at this. “But please don’t mention the ensemble coming here this evening. It
’s to be a surprise, you see.”

  A surprise for whom? Julia thought, knowing the answer. Still, she played her part. “Is there anyone in particular I should ask into the hall after supper?”

  He gave her an enigmatic little smile. “Thank you, but that will not be necessary.”

  When he had turned to leave, Julia went back into the kitchen to inform Mrs. Herrick that there would be one less person at supper and that it wasn’t her cooking that had driven Mr. Durwin from the table. “His brass band has had several practices lately.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” the cook declared, cutting dough into a lattice for apple pies.

  Mildred came out of the scullery after having helped Gertie wash the breakfast dishes.

  “It was dismal around the breakfast table this morning,” she told Julia while drying her hands upon her apron.

  “Oh, dear. You mean Mrs. Hyatt and Mr. Durwin?”

  Mildred shook her head and sent a glance up to the ceiling. “Mr. Clay. He ate barely enough to keep one of Buff’s kittens alive and went back upstairs with scarcely a ‘how do you do’ to anyone else.”

  Julia’s heart sank. She’d had such hope, along with everyone else who knew him, that Mr. Clay’s despondency was a thing of the past. Knowing that it would be a waste of time to see if he were with the rest of the lodgers in the hall, she took the back staircase up to the chamber floor.

  “Mr. Clay?” she said with a soft knock at his door.

  There was no response, and she was wondering if she had knocked too softly when she heard, “Yes?” from the other side.

  “It’s Mrs. Hollis, Mr. Clay.”

  “Come in, please.”

  He was seated in his chair by the window, as she expected. The haggard face he turned to her brought a lump to her throat.

  “Oh, Mr. Clay!” Impulsively she crossed the room to kneel at the side of his chair. She pressed one of his hands between both of hers and looked up into his melancholy gray eyes. “I’m so sorry.”