“A good idea,” Miss Rawlins said, and Mrs. Dearing nodded agreement.
“Curiosity killed the cat,” was Mr. Clay’s wry input.
“Satisfaction brought it back,” Mrs. Dearing told him. “You go on ahead, Mrs. Hollis.”
As Julia left the upstairs landing, she heard more than two female voices coming from the room. She hurried to the open doorway and looked in to see Mrs. Hyatt standing in the middle of the carpet with both hands up to her cheeks. In an instant, Julia discovered the source of her amazement, for at least a dozen vases and even tumblers of pink and white dianthus bedecked every surface. Mrs. Kingston stood to the side with a delighted grin, as did Mrs. Beemish, Ruth, and Willa.
“But how did he know about my favorite hymn and flower?” Mrs. Hyatt was saying, rotating slowly to take it all in.
“I suppose he decided he cared enough to find out,” Mrs. Kingston said with a nod toward Julia in the doorway, beckoning her inside.
“Where did he get flowers at this time of year?” was what Julia wanted to know.
“The squire’s conservatory,” Mrs. Kingston replied. “Mr. Durwin plays chess with the old blister occasionally and managed to talk him into selling some.”
Julia couldn’t imagine Squire Bartley contributing anything for the benefit of anyone who lived under the Larkspur’s roof. He must have charged Mr. Durwin a dear penny.
“We brought them up here while you were all at supper,” Willa volunteered, clasping her hands together. “It’s so romantic!”
Julia agreed. Not only was the gesture romantic, but effective, for she caught some of the words that Mrs. Hyatt was murmuring as she buried her face in the tops of some dianthus. “The dear, dear man!”
Mrs. Hyatt and Mr. Durwin drew Julia aside five days later to tell her that a wedding date had been tentatively set for late summer, perhaps even September. One of Mr. Durwin’s sons, an engineer building a bridge in India, would not return to England until then.
A long time for people in their golden years to wait, but it was important to Mrs. Hyatt that all of the family on both sides be in attendance. That was one of the things Mr. Durwin had recently discovered about Mrs. Hyatt. And that her maiden name was Middleton.
Chapter 39
London
February 3, 1870
“A letter for you, Miss O’Shea,” said Anne, the under-parlormaid, from the doorway of the pantry.
“Thank you, Anne,” Fiona said, setting her inventory of kitchen supplies in an empty space on one of the shelves. When the girl was gone, she broke the red wax seal stamped with the familiar image of a spray of larkspur blossoms. The date penned at the top of the first page in Mrs. Hollis’s even script was January twenty-sixth, eight days ago. Fiona perched herself on the edge of an oaken flour barrel and read all three pages, drinking in every word. By the time she had returned to her inventory with the letter folded in her apron pocket, she could not stop smiling.
She didn’t mind being asked to critique another of Miss Rawlins’ books … she wouldn’t mind being asked to do anything in her present state of euphoria. Mr. Clay … a believer! How she had prayed for that to happen!
A knock sounded on the door. But before Fiona could say, “Come in, please,” it swung open and Mrs. Leighton charged through it, waving a piece of paper in front of her.
“This is the invoice from the butcher,” her mistress said in her usual thin voice, which grated upon the ears like a file across tin. “Why did you allow Cook to order ten pounds extra of beef last week?”
When her wits had returned to her, Fiona replied, “The dinner party last week, Mrs. Leighton. Remember?” She hated being barged in upon like this! It was as if her employer expected to catch her slipping chocolate up her sleeve or some other dishonest act as the last housekeeper to the Italinate-style estate on Kensington Road was reputed to have done. Having been in the employ of the Leightons for almost four months now, Fiona had come to learn that Mrs. Leighton either suspected that every servant under her roof was in the process of pilfering, planning to pilfer, or hiding away ill-gotten gains from having pilfered in the past. Her social acquaintances were hardly esteemed in a better light, for silverware and even table napkins were regularly counted as soon as the last dinner guests’ footsteps faded from the portico.
And sadly, years of assuming the worst of her servants and even her peers had worked its way into her facial features—though only in her late thirties, she bore very little resemblance to the beautiful young woman in the portrait hanging in the sitting room. The sea green eyes in the portrait, luminescent even captured with oils, now wore a constant ferretlike expression, and anxiety lines were etched into her brow and at the corners of her mouth. Her constant negativity even seemed to have affected her mahogany-colored hair. It no longer had any shine, though it was brushed one hundred strokes every morning and evening by a maid.
But I have to work somewhere, Fiona reminded herself. She had been only half truthful in describing her new situation to Mrs. Hollis, lest she cause her friend and former employer and friend to worry. Mr. Leighton was indeed a Member of Parliament. What she did not say was that he was hardly ever home, preferring to spend most of his nonparliamentary hours at his club.
“Ah, but just look at this invoice!” Mrs. Leighton commanded, holding the paper out for Fiona to take. “I was charged threepence extra for each pound. Cook assumes I never look at the mail, so she feels the liberty to make arrangements with the butcher to cheat me!”
And that’s why you’ve had four cooks in the past three years, Fiona thought, pressing her lips together. She studied the invoice for a second and looked back up at her mistress.
“Brisket has gone up threepence a pound, missus,” she said in a calm voice.
The ferret eyes narrowed a bit. “It has?”
“I’ll accompany you to Mr. Frith’s shop if you’d care to see for yourself.”
“Of course you will, after you give him warning….”
“We can go right away, ma’am.”
That took some more wind from the woman’s sails. The ferret eyes shifted from the paper in Fiona’s hand to her face and back again. “Well, I was certain …”
“Mrs. Bryant is a good Christian woman, ma’am,” Fiona gently insisted. “She’s not stealing from you and the mister.”
Mrs. Leighton stared back at her, the frown deepening as if she were almost disappointed her suspicion had been proven wrong. “Well then,” she sniffed, “I want you to inform her that the salmon was overcooked last night. Overcooked and underseasoned! Food is too expensive to be ruined by unimaginative cooking!”
With that, she turned on her heel and left the room. Fiona sighed, and before returning to her work, she touched the edge of the envelope in her pocket. She would not have time to read it again until this evening, but it would be a comfort all day to know it was there. A reminder, it was, that there was still a place where people cared about one another and about her. A place where she had lived for less than a year but would always consider home.
“ … and thank you for providing for us so abundantly over this past year,” Julia prayed at the girls’ bedside. She didn’t know if the children had realized the significance of the date, February eighth, in the midst of the activities of school and scissoring and pasting valentines. And it hadn’t seemed appropriate to wave them out of the door this morning with, “Have a wonderful day at school, and by the way, your father died on this day last year.”
But she had carried around the determination all day to give them an opportunity to unburden their hearts if they felt the need to do so. And they did seem to have that need, for after the girls’ prayers were finished and Julia had gently reminded them of the anniversary of their father’s passing, Grace asked, “Do you think Father would have liked living here if he hadn’t died?”
“I’m sure he would have loved it,” Julia answered with a squeeze of her little hand.
“But we wouldn’t have had to move h
ere if Father hadn’t died,” Aleda said.
“Are you still sorry we left London?”
“Oh, no. I’m just saying that we wouldn’t have run out of money.”
That latter part wasn’t true, but Julia let it be and leaned over to plant kisses on both foreheads.
Philip’s question took Julia a little longer to answer.
“Is it a sin that I’m happier the way things are now?”
His blue eyes had a sheen in the lamplight, and Julia could tell he had struggled with this for some time. Wishing for some Solomon-like wisdom, she said, “Being happy isn’t a sin, Philip. I don’t think you’re saying that you’re glad your father died.”
“No, of course not,” he hastened to assure her, then chewed pensively on his lip. “But when Father was alive, I was hurt so many times. Like when he missed my birthday. And when you had to send for another doctor when Aleda and I had the ague. But now, instead of wondering why he doesn’t spend more time at home, I can imagine him watching us from heaven. So you see? He’s with us more now than he ever was.”
So this is the consolation he’s worked up for himself, Julia thought, concealing with a smile the effect his poignant words had upon her. Now there is a valid reason for his father being absent, one that a boy can understand. And much easier to accept than the idea that his father had some control over his comings and goings and chose not to be with his son.
She recalled the days of their courtship. That Dr. Hollis was handsome, educated, courteous, and charming were the qualities that attracted her to him. Never once, as a seventeen-year-old girl, had she wondered if he would be a nurturing father to the children they would eventually have together. And even if the question had somehow presented itself to her mind, just how long would she have pondered it? Weren’t all handsome, charming men also kind to children … especially their own?
Our decisions are like stones thrown into a pool, she thought while tucking the covers over her son’s shoulders. An impetuous decision, made by an infatuated young girl with no notion of the seriousness of pledging her life away, was still sending out ripples. She could no longer blame her husband for the troubled waters they had had to navigate, she now realized, when it was she who had tossed in the stone.
Julia waited almost two weeks before bringing her regular clothing out of her trunk to be aired and pressed. Somehow, it didn’t seem proper to put away her black gowns on the exact date of Philip’s death, as if she had been just waiting for the opportunity to forget about their marriage.
When the day came, she chose a dove gray cashmere with tiny tucks along the bodice and a row of pearl buttons. It was certainly not her most striking gown, but she knew she would feel conspicuous enough for several days. Better to begin with the more subdued colors.
“Oh, isn’t it beautiful!” Georgette exclaimed that morning while flouncing out the bustle from behind.
“Thank you, Georgette.” Julia sent a smile over her shoulder and brushed an auburn hair from one of the long gathered sleeves. Actually, the gown was almost two years old and out of style by her former standards. Had she still lived in London, she would have probably passed it down to some charity drive by now.
But that doesn’t matter here. Not when half the women in Gresham came to church wearing gowns of the wide crinolined style of the fifties and even earlier. They had children to raise and gardens to tend, even labored in the cheese factory, and little spare money for such frivolities as keeping pace with the dictates of Godey’s Lady’s Book.
It seemed the whole household knew of the change in dress she would be making today. A soft knock sounded at the door to Julia’s room, and Mrs. Beemish and Sarah let themselves in. “Lovely!” exclaimed Mrs. Beemish.
“Lovely,” Sarah echoed.
Aleda and Grace voiced their similar opinions when she went in their room to wake them, which was a relief, because she had worried they would feel she was betraying their father’s memory. Only Grace held back briefly from her embrace, but it was as if she needed a moment to assure herself that her mother was still the same as before.
Philip didn’t even notice until he’d wiped the sleep from his eyes. “Oh, finally,” was his comment. “I was so tired of seeing you in black. It was like having a crow for a mother.”
“A crow, Philip?”
“Without feathers and beak,” he said with a grin.
Three weeks later, Mr. Clay knocked and stuck his head through the doorway of Julia’s office after lunch. “Have you a minute, Mrs. Hollis?”
“Of course, Mr. Clay,” Julia smiled, looking up from the letter she was drafting. “Would you care to have a seat?”
He stepped into the office but did not take the chair. “I just wanted to tell you that Mrs. Kingston and I looked in on the Worthy sisters this morning. Mrs. Herrick had asked if we would mind dropping off a loaf of apple bread before our walk. The sisters ask that you pop over sometime today.”
“Did they say why?” Julia asked, her pen poised in midair.
“To give you a gift. When you stopped wearing black, they decided to make you some sort of lace decoration to wear. A ruffle or something. I don’t know the names of all the latest women’s frills. By the way, you look very nice in purple.”
Julia had to laugh. “It’s lavender, Mr. Clay. And sometimes it’s impossible to keep up with your train of conversation.”
He did not take offense; in fact, his gray eyes sparkled under their thick fringe of lashes. “Sad but true, Mrs. Hollis. Mrs. Dearing says it’s as if when the good moods take hold of me, I feel compelled to talk twice as much to compensate for the times I spend staring out of the window during the bad.”
“I’m happy that you’re feeling well. And it was kind of the Worthy sisters to make something for me. I’ll pay them a call …” She started to say, “When I’ve finished this letter,” but thought better of it. In Mr. Clay’s garrulous mood, he could possibly ask if she was writing to Fiona, which she was, in reply to the letter she’d received from the former housekeeper yesterday.
“ … in a little while,” she told him instead. “Thank you for telling me.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll leave you to your work.” His hand had barely touched the doorknob when he turned back to face her again. “Mrs. Hollis …”
“Yes, Mr. Clay?”
“Why don’t you take a walk with me after you visit the sisters?”
“But you’ve already walked with Mrs. Kingston today.”
“I don’t mean a walk walk. I’ve promised to accompany the vicar on a call, and when I joined them for supper last Tuesday Miss Phelps mentioned how much she admires you. Why don’t you keep her company while we’re away?”
Puzzled, Julia sat back in her chair. “You’re accompanying the vicar?”
“To lend moral support, actually. Our good reverend has intentions of trying to save the souls of a certain hoard of barbarians.”
Julia didn’t even have to ask of whom he was referring. “Shouldn’t you bring Constable Reed along?”
“Now, now, Mrs. Hollis. And just how receptive to the Gospel do you think that would make them? And surely Mr. Sanders has enough paternal integrity not to allow his sons to commit murder on his own property.”
“I’ve never heard Sanders and integrity mentioned in the same sentence, Mr. Clay.”
“Worrying will give you wrinkles, Mrs. Hollis,” he told her. “Now, what have you going on here that can’t wait for an hour or two?”
Casually she allowed her hand to stray over to Fiona’s name on the letter. You’ve been planning to visit with Elizabeth for weeks now, she reminded herself. And she certainly couldn’t expect the young woman to put forth the effort, not with two small children to tend.
She was aware of why she’d put off calling at the vicarage, and the reason had a blond beard and kind hazel eyes. If it were so that Vicar Phelps did indeed harbor romantic feelings toward her, it would be unfair to raise his hopes by making a call to his house. Wouldn
’t he assume that she had some interest in him beyond friendship?
For the first time, she could see the fallacy in that assumption. Vicar Phelps clearly had so modest of an opinion of himself that she could stare at him with doe eyes, the way Georgette used to stare at Mr. Clay, and he would torment himself trying to recall what ridiculous thing he’d done lately. The thought of such a polished orator in the pulpit battling such personal insecurities in her presence made him rather endearing to her, in a nonromantic sort of way.
“What are you smiling at, Mrs. Hollis?”
She returned her attention abruptly to the actor. “Just a stray thought, Mr. Clay.” Besides, he’ll be away most of the afternoon. “I would enjoy a visit with Miss Phelps. Thank you for suggesting it.”
The Worthy sisters’ gift to Julia was a beautiful collar of finely woven ecru lace. It was long in front, with one side lapping over the other at her bodice, and ended about three inches above her waist.
“Why, it goes very well with that frock,” Iris declared as Julia slipped it on over her gown in their cottage.
“Children wear frocks, Iris,” Jewel corrected but wore a pleased smile. “Ye do look nice, Mrs. Hollis.”
“You’ve both been so kind to me.”
At Iris’s urging, Julia stepped over to an oval mirror hanging from the wall above the washstand. The face that stared back at her wore a strange expression of expectancy, and Julia realized she was actually looking forward to the afternoon’s outing. And why wouldn’t she? Mr. Clay and Vicar Phelps were pleasant company. And as for Elizabeth, any woman would be flattered to have a younger woman look up to her and seek her counsel.
She touched the fine lace of the collar, appreciating the work that went into every square inch. Turning again to the sisters, she went over to kiss both wrinkled cheeks. “It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever owned. Thank you so much.”
The Widow of Larkspur Inn Page 44
