Keeping a lookout for his sisters, Philip hurried down the corridor to his mother’s office. He eased himself through the door and felt for a candle, for there were no windows. After addressing another envelope, he opened the original envelope with trembling fingers and withdrew the letter. Curiously, the folded page appeared to be blank. There were no signs of ink having blended through from the other side. Why would someone send her a blank sheet of paper? Some perverse notion took hold of him then, and hating himself for doing so, he unfolded it.
The letter was composed of two lines:
Dear Fiona,
Your husbund has past away affer a fall frum a horse whiles hunting. Maye God have mercy on his soul.
Breanna
Chapter 41
“It was taken on their fifth anniversary,” Elizabeth told Julia as they both stared down at a photograph set in a silver oval frame. The subjects, Vicar Phelps at about thirty years of age, and a dark-eyed woman in possibly her middle twenties, were captured from the waists up as they stood beside each other. Julia hadn’t noticed at first glance, but there was a hint of mischief to both sets of eyes, though the faces were arranged in the sober expressions that could be seen in any family gallery of photographs.
“Why does it seem as if they’re both on the verge of laughing?” she asked.
“Because Papa is balancing himself on a copy of War and Peace,” Elizabeth explained. “Mother was the same height as Papa, you see, so he brought the book from his library to the photographer’s.”
Julia had to smile. “Your father doesn’t strike me as being selfconscious about his height.”
“Actually, he isn’t. But he says he didn’t want future generations referring to him as ‘the short Grandfather Phelps.’ Yet he tells everyone who sees the photograph that he’s perched upon a book.”
“They must have been very happy together.”
“It was something I took for granted. I was twelve when Mother died. I wasn’t old enough to realize that not all mothers and fathers were the best of friends.”
There were tears clinging to her lashes as she said this, and Julia took her hand. “I lost my mother eleven years ago, Elizabeth, and I still miss her. But it’s so much greater a loss when you’re young.”
“Just like your children with their father.”
“Yes, like that.” Julia turned her attention back to the woman in the photograph, Kathleen Phelps. In addition to the laughing eyes, there was an aura of security in her youthful face, the kind of security a woman feels when she knows she is cherished. And you were cherished, weren’t you? she thought. She couldn’t imagine Vicar Phelps not cherishing a wife. How he must have grieved when you passed away!
Just for a moment, Julia allowed her thoughts to drift to what it would be like to be married to someone like the man in the photograph. Someone who would consider his wife his best friend and not just an accessory to the house. A man who didn’t feel it beneath his dignity to carry a three-year-old around on his shoulders. And who concerned himself with the happiness of his children. Why hadn’t someone told her how important those qualities would be fifteen years ago?
“Mrs. Hollis?”
“Oh … I’m sorry,” Julia said, realizing she’d forgotten all about the young woman beside her. She handed back the photograph. “Your mother is a lovely woman. I wish I could have known her.”
Elizabeth gave her a grateful smile. “Thank you for saying that.”
From outside came the sound of a horse and carriage. Elizabeth set the photograph down beside her and went to the window. “Why, Papa’s back already.” Leaning closer to the glass, she added, “But where is Mr. Clay?”
Julia and Elizabeth had just reached the front door when Vicar Phelps came through in a gust of cold air. “I dropped Mr. Clay off at Dr. Rhodes’,” he said upon seeing their anxious expressions.
Julia’s knees went weak. “Dr. Rhodes?”
“He’s fine,” Vicar Phelps assured her. “His forehead just requires some stitching. Mr. Sanders tossed a rock at us, and unfortunately, Mr. Clay caught it.”
“Did you tell the constable?” Elizabeth asked through the hand still covering her mouth.
“No, Beth. The man was on his own property. And he did warn us to leave.” To Julia, he said, “I’ll look in on Mr. Clay again after I deliver you back home, Mrs. Hollis.”
“May I go with you to see about him?”
“But of course,” he answered.
“I should have never allowed him to come with me,” Vicar Phelps said as he drove the trap up Church Lane a short time later.
“Mr. Clay is a grown man,” Julia reminded him.
“But as his minister, I bore the greater responsibility.”
“I’m positive he isn’t blaming you.”
That clearly brought him no comfort, for he blew out a long breath. “Mr. Clay isn’t the blaming sort. But I should have known better than to expose a new believer to—”
She reached over and touched his sleeve. “Vicar?”
“Yes?” he said with a puzzled sidelong look.
“Hush.”
After a second or two the puzzlement in his face eased into a smile, and he sat back at the reins again. “Very well, Mrs. Hollis. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Vicar.”
They found Mr. Clay only a little worse for the wear, perched on a stool in the surgery across from the front parlor. As it turned out, Dr. Rhodes was away, and it was Mrs. Rhodes who administered the eight stitches required to close the actor’s forehead. The swollen area behind the wound was already beginning to discolor.
“You aren’t going to treat me for distemper, are you?” Mr. Clay quipped after Julia and the vicar had arrived.
Mrs. Rhodes smiled as she tied off the last stitch holding together the two-inch gash. “No, but if you should feel the urge to give chase to a cat within the next day or so, do send for me.”
After a round of laughter, Mr. Clay waved away her offer of some laudanum to help him sleep, should the wound start to throb. “I’ll just tough it out, thank you.”
Julia knew it was because he had once had trouble with alcohol and feared sedating himself. Her respect for the actor grew. Why did I ever think him a weak man?
“We’ll keep a watch out for him,” she told Mrs. Rhodes. “And I’m sure Mrs. Kingston will hover over him like Florence Nightingale.”
When they had delivered Mr. Clay to his room at the Larkspur and Mrs. Kingston indeed took up the duty of seeing that he took in some warm broth, Julia walked Vicar Phelps to the door.
“I hope you aren’t still blaming yourself,” she told him as he buttoned his coat. “Why, he acts as if it’s all been a lark.”
The vicar smiled and looked up at her. “He does have a certain resilience about him.”
“And your friendship has been good for him.”
“Actually, it’s been good for both of us,” he said, taking his gloves from his pockets. “I hadn’t realized how lacking my life had become in close friendships until Mr. Clay came along.” He cocked his head thoughtfully. “It’s strange how one always thinks of children needing friends, but I don’t suppose we ever outgrow that need.”
Julia thought of Fiona and felt a pang. “I believe you’re right. I still find myself talking to Miss O’Shea, the former housekeeper here.”
“I’m sorry. You must miss her terribly.”
“Well, as you said, vicar, we never outgrow that need.”
As Andrew allowed Rusty to pull the trap back to the vicarage, he thought back to the brief conversation at the Larkspur’s door. He was aware, from sharing conversation with Mr. Clay, that his friend sorely missed Miss O’Shea. Andrew had not lived in Gresham long enough before the housekeeper’s leaving to realize how close she and Mrs. Hollis had been.
I wonder why she didn’t mention her husband? he thought. No matter how deep a friendship she shared with Miss O’Shea, surely her recently departed husband would be foremost in her m
ind.
Perhaps the pain is too fresh to speak of him, he thought, and mumbled, “I could barely speak of you for years, Kathleen.”
Rusty quickened his pace at the sight of the turnoff to the vicarage lane. Holding the reins more tightly, Andrew was again overcome with shame for the affection he felt for Julia Hollis. Not because of Kathleen, for she had been a practical woman and would have been distressed at the thought of his spending the rest of his days alone, just as he would have wanted her to marry again had she outlived him. But that he’d allowed himself fanciful daydreams about a woman still mourning her husband seemed a self-serving act—like carrion moving in immediately after a relationship had died.
At least she doesn’t seem to know how I feel about her, he thought, sighing. And who knew what the future held? Perhaps one day, as the years passed by, Mrs. Hollis would feel some affection for him. They did get along very well. Wasn’t that how Kathleen’s and his love had developed, from a mutual comfort in each other’s company?
But you’ve been without a wife long enough, and our daughters long enough without a mother, he could almost hear Kathleen say. “What am I to do? Sweep her off her feet?” he argued to no one’s ears but Rusty’s. The horse merely stood in the harness outside of the stable and snorted his impatience to be at his oats.
Feeling sheepish now for having said such intimate thoughts aloud, he climbed down from the trap and waved a greeting at Luke, who was thankfully out of earshot and coming in his direction from the back of the vicarage.
“Did you have a good drive, vicar?” Luke asked.
Andrew gave him a wistful smile. “It was an eventful one.”
“And does it hurt terribly, Mr. Clay?” Mrs. Dearing asked at the supper table.
Aware that all eyes were upon him, Mr. Clay played up to his audience. “Only when I laugh, Mrs. Dearing. So I must ask that you refrain yourself from saying anything even remotely amusing within my hearing.”
“Really?” asked Grace, her eyes wide.
Julia smiled with the others at her question. Even though the children were expected to be silent at the table, the young girl understood a lapse when the occasion warranted. And it wasn’t every day that someone came to the table sporting a bandaged forehead.
Mr. Clay smiled, too, from his place three chairs away. “Actually, Miss Grace, it hurts the same whether I laugh or cry. But not so much as to justify my carrying on about it. Why don’t you tell us what you learned in school today?”
After receiving a permissive nod from her mother, Grace described the old hornet’s nest that Miss Hillock showed to the class. Everyone seemed interested except for Philip, who paid scant attention to his supper plate as well.
Is he thinking about his father again? Julia wondered. When she could catch his eye, she smiled and raised her eyebrows questioningly. He gave her back a half-hearted smile that must have required some effort. Not wishing to draw embarrassing attention to him, Julia wondered if she should take him aside privately after the meal and see what was the matter.
But as it turned out, it was Philip who sought her out as she was coming out of her bedroom after exchanging her short Balmoral boots for some comfortable suede slippers. “I’ve done something horrible,” he said, his expression grim.
“Ouch! Mrs. Kingston! Have some pity!” Ambrose exclaimed from his chair as the bandage was pulled from his wound.
“Now, now, Mr. Clay,” she clucked, leaning over him with Mrs. Beemish at her side. “Just a little dried blood sticking to it. Mrs. Rhodes gave implicit instructions that the bandage was to be changed before you retire for the night.”
“But it’s hours before bedtime.”
“Not before mine. With all the excitement I neglected my afternoon nap today. If you expect me to stay up and greet the sun as is your custom—”
“Greet the sun, Mrs. Kingston?” He flinched away from the wet flannel she’d pressed against his skin. “Ouch! What is that!”
“Just a little soap and water. I must say, Mr. Clay, you’re being rather childish about this.” She exchanged a knowing look with the woman at her elbow. “I daresay there wouldn’t be a dozen people left on earth if men bore the children, eh, Mrs. Beemish?”
The housekeeper covered a grin with her hand, and before Ambrose could respond to the insults regarding his maturity and tolerance for pain, a knock sounded at the door. Mrs. Beemish walked over to allow Mrs. Hollis into the room.
“You’re just in time to rescue me, Mrs. Hollis,” Ambrose told her.
“She must have heard your bloodcurdling screams,” Mrs. Kingston muttered while winding a fresh bandage around his head.
Mrs. Hollis smiled at the exchange but seemed preoccupied in her manner. “I’m sure Mrs. Kingston is a capable nurse.” When the task was finished, she said to the two women, “May I speak with Mr. Clay privately?”
Julia walked Mrs. Kingston and the housekeeper to the door, then turned back to face him. Mr. Clay stared back at her with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety in his expression.
“What is wrong, Mrs. Hollis?” the actor asked. His eyes dropped to the envelope in her hand. “This isn’t about Fiona … Miss O’Shea …?”
“She’s quite all right, Mr. Clay. May I sit?”
He got to his feet and motioned to the second chair. “Please.”
When they had both settled into chairs—Julia sitting back in hers, and Mr. Clay leaning forward—she took in a deep breath and wondered if the interfering she planned to do would come back to haunt her one day. But it’s too late to back out now. “Mr. Clay, I’ve a letter from Fiona’s sister in Ireland.”
It seemed that he raised his eyebrows, for the bandage moved up a bit. “Her sister?”
“Her name is Breanna.” Julia stretched out her arm to hand over the envelope. “Here, see for yourself. It arrived in Gresham about six months ago, but Philip misplaced it.”
She thought about the tears that had come to her son’s eyes as he made his confession. It had been a long time since she’d seen him cry. And though she’d had to scold him—not as much for the thoughtless misplacement of the letter as for the plan he had almost carried out to conceal his mistake—she now felt pride in him for having had the courage to approach her with the truth. The fact that he could be so torn up over his own near deception gave her great hope that he would not follow in his father’s footsteps.
There was a rustling of paper as Mr. Clay opened up the page. When he’d finished reading the two lines, he looked up at her again. “Does this mean that Miss O’Shea has no idea that her husband is dead?”
“I believe that to be so. Breanna only writes about once a year. I plan to send this on to Fiona tomorrow with a letter asking her to return to us. I wonder if there is any message you would care to enclose?”
Mr. Clay appeared startled at her question. “Me? But I should think she would be too distraught about her husband—”
“There is something else you should know.”
“Please … tell me.”
Don’t hate me for this, Fiona. “Her husband mistreated her, Mr. Clay. She did not love him. She ran away from him and came to England several years ago, yet she was too good a person to betray her marriage vows.”
“He mistreated her?” Mr. Clay looked stricken, and a hand moved to his chest as if propelled by its own will. “But why?”
“Because some people are just content to be evil, Mr. Clay. I know I should be saddened over the loss of a life, but I must confess to a great relief for my dear friend’s sake.”
He stared absently into space for several seconds, until Julia said, “Mr. Clay?”
“Forgive me. I was just—” The actor stopped himself. “Mrs. Hollis, is it possible that I could hire Mr. Herrick to deliver me to Shrewsbury early in the morning?”
“To Shrews—?” Realization hit her then, and it was now Julia’s hand that went to her heart. “Mr. Clay.”
“Yes?”
“You aren’t planning to go to
London.”
“I am indeed, Mrs. Hollis.” He sprang from his chair and moved toward his wardrobe, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s see … a valise should be enough. One extra set of clothes, my toiletries, and I can purchase other clothing if necessary.”
“But—”
“One thing you can say for London, Mrs. Hollis. There are more than enough places where one can buy clothes.”
“Please, Mr. Clay. You’re acting …”
He stopped in the center of the floor and turned to her with a sad smile. “Irrational? Crazy?” Coming back over to her chair, he got down on one knee and took Julia’s hand. “And you’re afraid that when my present euphoria is dispelled by another dark mood—which will indeed happen—I’ll regret any impulsive action I’ve undertaken.”
“You have to consider that, Mr. Clay. Why don’t you write to her first? Give this a little time. Perhaps she’ll even give her notice in London and come back here.”
Mr. Clay’s slate gray eyes grew tender. “Because I have loved Fiona O’Shea for months, Mrs. Hollis, during dark times and good times. And I believe she feels the same for me.”
Chapter 42
London
March 16, 1870
“But if you were to speak to Mrs. Bryant, ma’am,” Fiona said, following Mrs. Leighton down the staircase of the Kensington Road house the next afternoon.
“About what, may I ask?” her mistress replied. The click of heels upon marble did not slacken.
“Perhaps she would withdraw her notice if you’d only—”
The Widow of Larkspur Inn Page 46
