Iris wore a beatific smile across her face. “You’ve been a good neighbor, Mrs. Hollis.”
“A good neighbor indeed,” Jewel echoed, then darted a meaningful glance in Iris’s direction. “Even if ye were a mite reckless in the matter of Jake Pitt.”
Chapter 40
Cozy in her wrap and gloves, Julia strolled along Church Lane with Mr. Clay. Though the gardens were just starting to bud the flowers that would form tapestries of color in another month or so, the village still clung to its charm. From a spinny of gray silver aspens between Captain Powell’s cottage and Bartley Lane, one of the first woodlarks of the season serenaded them from atop a broken branch. Distinct white markings formed large triangles around the bird’s eyes, giving him the appearance of a studious little brown creature in spectacles. Julia pursed her lips and attempted to mimic his trilling toolooeet! Clearly unimpressed, the bird took flight from its perch.
“Do you think I offended him?” Julia asked Mr. Clay, who chuckled.
“Obviously he was mortified because your song was superior.”
She smiled at the actor. “I believe I prefer your reason.”
A dozen steps later, he gave her a quick sidelong look, wearing the expression of a boy who wishes to ask a question but fears what the answer may be.
“Yes, Mr. Clay?” Julia asked after the third such glance in her direction.
“Mildred told me that a letter arrived from Miss O’Shea yesterday.”
“Yes, that’s so. She writes that she’s doing well.”
“Do you think she means it?”
Julia had to think about that one. Fiona was too honest to lie, but sometimes there were certain gaps in her letters that she wondered about.
“She would do anything to spare us pain, Mr. Clay.”
He frowned and shoved his hands into his pocket. “Yes. And I was a selfish cad for allowing her to leave the way she did.”
“How could you have prevented her from doing so?”
“I could have moved away myself when we discovered her absence.” Turning a somber face to Julia, he asked, “Do you think she would return if I did so now?”
Julia shook her head. “Fiona knows we’ve another housekeeper. I’m positive she wouldn’t want to take any action that would jeopardize someone else’s position.” And she’ll do anything to ensure that you stay here where you can have some peace, Mr. Clay.
Suddenly she grew weary of the conversation. She missed Fiona more now than ever, and such talk served only as a reminder that there was an empty space in her life. But of one thing she was certain—never would she give up hope of Fiona returning to Gresham.
Mr. Clay would be allowed to refuge here as long as he found it necessary, but when the day came that the actor felt strong enough to leave, she intended to write Fiona and beg that she return. Fiona could take the room now being reserved for Jensen, and there would be ample time to fix up the groomsman’s apartment over the stables for the butler.
Julia didn’t need a new housekeeper—Mrs. Beemish was more than competent. What she wanted back was the friend who was more like a sister to her than anyone she’d ever known.
She glanced at Mr. Clay, who was walking with hands in pockets in a melancholy cloud of self-blame, and felt a surge of pity. How could she find fault with him for loving Fiona? Gently she touched his shoulder. “Mr. Clay.”
He started slightly, as if she’d pierced some deep thought. “Yes, Mrs. Hollis?”
“At least we had her with us for a while.”
“We did at that, didn’t we?”
“Do you regret it?” After all, if you’d never met her, you wouldn’t be suffering the loss right now.
With a glint in his eyes over a sad little smile, he replied, “Not for one second.”
Having finished copying and solving the twelve long-division problems Captain Powell had chalked on the blackboard, and after checking his work, Philip looked over to the girls’ side of the classroom. Laurel Phelps’s eyes still looked from blackboard to paper, and then back again, which meant she had not even begun to check her computations. She could write all the snooty compositions she wished about Mr. Disraeli, but she could never hold a candle to him in arithmetic.
I should study history now, he thought. No examinations loomed ahead in the near future, but when did it ever hurt to learn something new? Or in this case, old, he thought, smiling at his own humor as he took out his copy of History for Young Scholars. With the school year advancing rapidly to a close, only a quarter of the book was left unread. He flipped though those pages with interest. Since the text had been published in 1862, the writers had had no idea which side would eventually win the war between the American states, nor even how long it would continue, but the advantage seemed to be with the Confederate states. If they would have just put off finishing the book for a couple of years …
Something wedged between two of the latter pages caught his attention. An envelope, he realized right away. How did that get there?
As soon as he saw the name on the outside, he felt a little queasy. Clearly now he could recall Mr. Trumble entrusting him with the delivery of a letter to the Larkspur. When had that been? His discomfort increased with the realization it had been sometime in late September or early October. Six months ago!
Vicar Phelps himself met them at the door carrying a girl of about three years of age up on a broad shoulder. Julia remembered seeing her outside the church with her family.
“I was just about to bring little Molly upstairs,” he informed Julia after warmly welcoming them into the vestibule. “It’s time for the children’s naps, so Elizabeth will be happy for your company. Would you care to wait in the parlor?”
Julia smiled at the girl, who only regarded her gravely. “Why don’t I bring her up there myself so you two can go on ahead?”
“Thank you, but I’m afraid Dora’s visiting her sister in Stone, so I would need to show you the way anyway.”
“Yes?” She lifted an eyebrow. “And just how many people are wandering around lost up there, Vicar?”
After a brief startled look at her, he joined Mr. Clay in a chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I see your point, Mrs. Hollis.” After he’d lifted the child from his shoulders to the floor, he crouched down and said in a gentle tone, “Mrs. Hollis will bring you upstairs to Aunt Beth now.”
But Molly tugged at his sleeve while pointing at the doorway leading to the rest of the vicarage. “Read book?”
“We’ve already read two, Molly. It’s time to sleep.”
“Dabid sleep. Moll-yee read book.” Another jab at the doorway with a little finger. “Sit down in chair.”
“Looks as if she’s used to giving you orders,” Mr. Clay observed, smiling.
“As is every other female in this house,” the reverend responded good-naturedly, causing the actor and Julia to exchange amused glances. To the child, Vicar Phelps said with gentle firmness, “Another time, Molly. Now, please take Mrs. Hollis’s hand and show her where to find Aunt Beth.”
Julia realized she had been holding her breath, expecting a scene that a three-year-old would be fully capable of delivering. But Molly simply allowed her to take her by the hand.
When the two men had left on their evangelistic mission—just like Paul and Silas going to the heathens, Julia thought—she smiled down at the child again. “Can you climb the stairs, or shall I carry you?”
The girl pointed again to the vestibule doorway, but instead of asking for a story, she said, “Moll-yee walk uptairs.”
They made their way slowly, because Molly could not ascend one step until both feet were planted on the one below it. Julia held her hand and kept the pace patiently. Halfway up the staircase, she heard a muffled childish chuckle from someone on the next floor. Molly turned her small face to her, finally wearing something resembling a smile. “Dabid laff, huh?”
“He did indeed,” Julia smiled back. Upon reaching the landing, Molly walked slightly ahead of Jul
ia and pulled her hand down the passage.
“Come in,” came Elizabeth Phelps’s voice from behind the third door after Julia’s soft knock. She opened the door, and inside, the vicar’s daughter was sitting on the side of a tester bed, patting the back of a boy much younger than the child still attached to Julia’s hand.
“Why, I thought you were Papa!” Elizabeth said with a welcoming smile. “And don’t you look stunning! I love seeing you in colors now.”
“You’re too kind.” Julia walked over to give the young woman a quick embrace. “Your father and Mr. Clay left for the Sanders’.”
“Ah, yes. Well, how good of you to come.”
The vicar’s daughter took charge of Molly then, leaving Julia with the boy while she led the girl to a water closet in another part of the house. “So, you like to have your back patted, little David?” Julia asked when she noticed the child staring up at her from his pillow. Taking up Miss Phelps’s place on the side of the bed, she gently began patting his back. Patting led to humming, which led to looking around the room. It was a typical young woman’s room, one that Julia might have had at one time. Though the wall covering—stripes of mauve, eggshell, and marigold—was faded somewhat with age, it did not detract from the rose and green-leaf pattern on the dimity bed coverings, curtains, and tester.
Julia turned her attention back to the child in the bed. The visible right side of his face was the very picture of an angel in repose. Fair, wispy lashes rested against his cheek, and his small shoulders rose and fell with his breathing. Her heart went out to the little fatherless cherub. How good of Elizabeth to tend to them like this. She has such a tender heart … just like her father.
Miss Phelps returned with Molly, and after tucking her in next to her sleeping brother, she took a heavy velvet bolster from the foot of the bed and placed it alongside the girl to prevent her from rolling to the carpet. She turned to Julia and whispered, “There is a tiny sitting room at the end of the corridor. Would you mind if we visited in there? I don’t want to leave them up here alone.”
Julia said she didn’t mind at all, and just minutes later they sat in front of a wood fire on an ancient sofa of burgundy plush that sagged in all the right places.
“As you may recall, I’m fond of fireplaces,” the young woman said with a hint of her father’s self-effacing humor.
“I certainly remember,” Julia told her. “And I thought you were charming that day.”
“Thank you for saying that. But I’m afraid I’m not a good hostess. Would you care for something to drink? Mrs. Paget made some lemonade just this morning.”
“Why don’t we just visit?”
“That would be nice.” They chatted about everyday things, Molly and David in particular.
With brown eyes shining, Elizabeth said, “You know, they exhaust me sometimes, but I find myself missing them in the evenings.”
“Little ones can capture your heart, can’t they?” Julia smiled.
“Absolutely. Papa warned me, though, that as much as I love them, I should always bear in mind that they have a mother who loves them even more so. He’s afraid I’ll be devastated when the time comes that they no longer need me.”
“I’m sure you’ll always be Aunt Beth to them. But I agree with your father’s advice. And one day you’ll have children of your own to love without reserve.”
Just a hint of color stained the girl’s cheeks. “I suppose you’ve heard about Mr. Treves.”
“I have,” Julia admitted while darting a glance down at Elizabeth’s hands. She was knotting her fingers together the way she had on her first visit to the Larkspur. Touching the girl’s shoulder, she said, “What is wrong, Elizabeth?”
“Wrong?” Elizabeth looked at Julia curiously. “Why, nothing, Mrs. Hollis.”
“Are you quite sure?”
The smile that came to her lips seemed genuine enough, but not quite in harmony with the doubt that shadowed her brown eyes for just an instant and was gone. “It’s just a major decision, becoming engaged.”
Julia’s eyes widened. “You’re going to marry—”
Now the girl gave a soft giggle. If it sounded a trifle forced to Julia’s ears, she reckoned it was because the doubt she’d seen in the girl’s face just seconds ago had prejudiced her to be suspicious.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hollis, but you looked so shocked just now. It’s nothing official yet, but Paul—that’s his name, Paul Treves—will likely be promoted to the vicar of Alveley this time next year. If indeed that is the case, he will be asking Papa for my hand. Paul would like to prove to Papa that he can afford to take care of a wife, you see, and he cannot do that on a curate’s salary.”
“And so you’re happy about this?”
“Very happy, Mrs. Hollis,” Elizabeth assured her. “Why, tending the children has strengthened my desire to be a mother. And Paul is an upstanding man who’ll make a fine husband.”
The question had to be asked, for the girl’s sake, though Julia was not comfortable with its bluntness. “Elizabeth …”
“Yes?”
“Forgive me for asking, but have you completely gotten over Mr.
Raleigh?”
“Completely, Mrs. Hollis.”
Julia saw no doubt in the girl’s expression this time, but then Elizabeth wasn’t quite looking her in the eyes. “Well, at least you have another year to be sure. As you said, becoming engaged is a major decision.”
“Yes.” Elizabeth leaned over to touch her hand. “I do appreciate you asking the questions my mother would be asking right now. But please don’t worry. I shall be very happy as Paul’s wife.”
Before Julia could say anything else, the girl brightened and said, “Would you like to see a photograph of my mother?”
“I’d like that very much,” Julia replied, smiling. “She must have been very special to have such a dear family.”
“Very special … and thank you.” Elizabeth got to her feet. “If you don’t mind my leaving you alone for a few minutes, I’ll peek in on the children too.”
“Take all the time you need.” As the door closed behind the girl, Julia found herself praying silently, She’s still so young, Father. Please help her to understand in the coming year the seriousness of the commitment she’s making. As an afterthought, she added, And if this young curate is the right man for her, please remove all thoughts about Mr. Raleigh completely from her mind.
“I didn’t realize how rutted the lane was when I walked it,” Mr. Clay told Andrew, raising his voice over the rattle of the trap’s wheels and Rusty’s hoofbeats.
“Is it much farther?” Andrew practically shouted back.
“Just around that next curve, I believe. Yes, that’s it.”
Andrew pulled Rusty to a stop as far to the side of Nettle Lane as he could, in front of a wide gate set in a hedgerow. He took his hat from his head and beat the dust from the brim, then replaced it. “Well, it’s now or never.”
“Never sounds rather appealing at the moment,” the actor said with a wry smile as he shook the dust from his own hat.
“Oh, come now. What can they do to us?”
Mr. Clay looked over at the house and then back at Andrew. “I suppose we’re about to find out.”
The noise of the trap apparently had drawn some attention, for by the time Andrew and Mr. Clay had stepped down and walked over to the gate, they noticed a man walking from the barn in their direction. He could have been any age, but his tanned, leathery skin gave him the appearance of someone older than either of them. He wore corded pants and a brown coat, a battered cap, and boots that were dusty.
Stopping about twelve feet from the gate, the man put both hands on his hips and said, “What do ye want?”
Andrew raised a hand in greeting. “Mr. Sanders?”
“Mayhap.”
“Now I can see where the boy got his knack for conversation,” Mr. Clay whispered at Andrew’s side.”
“Sh-h!” To the man with hands still on hips, An
drew called, “I’m Vicar Phelps, Mr. Sanders, and this is Mr. Clay. We realize you’re busy but wonder if you might spare us a few minutes?”
Some motion caught Andrew’s eye back in the direction of the barn. A couple of boys who appeared to be younger than Laurel had just started in their direction, but Mr. Sanders turned and waved them back to work. To Andrew and Mr. Clay, he simply said, “I don’t talk ter no preachers. Go away!”
“Would you just consider attending church this Sunday? You would be most welcome.”
“No.”
Andrew took a deep breath and gave one last try. “Your children should be brought up to know the Lord, Mr. Sanders.”
The man did not answer but bent down. At first, Andrew thought it was to tie a boot lace, but then Mr. Clay pulled at his arm.
“He’s picking up a rock!”
“What are you going to do?” Ben asked Philip after school was dismissed, his back propped against one of the walnut trees.
“I’ll just have to tell my mother.” He hated the thought of doing so. Was this how a fourteen-year-old man of the house managed his responsibilities? But you were thirteen when you put the letter aside, he reminded himself in a futile attempt at comfort.
“Why don’t you just throw it away?” suggested Jeremiah. “I mean, Miss O’Shea doesn’t even live here anymore, and the news is old now.”
“What if it’s important?”
Ben was thoughtful for a second, and then said, “Perhaps you should open it and see. There’s no imprint on the wax, so you could reseal it with a little heat.”
“Yes?” Philip said, but then shook his head. “It just doesn’t seem right, reading someone’s mail.”
“I’d let everyone read my mail,” Jeremiah shrugged. “If I ever got any, I mean.”
Recalling the shame he’d felt when his mother found out about his deception in the ghost prank, Philip shook his head again. “I’m just going to have to face this head on.”
But upon arriving at the Larkspur and finding that Mother was away, he came up with another idea. What if he took the letter out of the original envelope, readdressed and posted it? Mother had envelopes in her office, along with a small leather-covered book of addresses. Fiona’s would be in there. If she wondered, on the receiving end, why the envelope did not match the letter inside, it wouldn’t be like her to mention it. And that’s all Mother would do anyway … post it. Why shouldn’t I go ahead and save her the trouble?
The Widow of Larkspur Inn Page 45
