At the bottom of the staircase, Mrs. Leighton turned around to flash a patronizing smile. “Beg her forgiveness? After she insulted me the way she did?”
Anger, an emotion she usually managed to keep in check, rose in Fiona’s chest. Why was it that some people assumed it beneath them to grant common courtesy to those of lower stations in life? After the silver meat platter the cook was accused of stealing was discovered to have slipped behind a cupboard shelf, one would think an apology would be of paramount importance. “Mrs. Leighton,” she said, keeping her voice as steady as possible, “she was accused wrongly.”
“Well, that’s no excuse to raise one’s voice to one’s betters.” Mrs. Leighton turned and continued on toward the front door, straightening a glove on the way. “Besides, I’m rather weary of her habit of overcooking every dish. Send Charles to the agency with a note saying we would like to schedule some interviews for a new cook. Monday morning would be fine. And have Nellie tighten the button to this glove when I return. It’ll keep for now, but you know what they say about a stitch in time.”
An hour later, Fiona was in the dining room polishing the rosewood Windsor chairs. It was a tedious chore, and one she could have easily assigned to one of the maids, but she needed the physical activity to keep herself from brooding. As she worked, she smiled a little at the memory of having dispensed advice to Mr. Clay regarding the very same thing. What had he replied? Do you think Mrs. Hyatt would teach me to do needlework?
“Miss O’Shea?”
Fiona looked up from the seat of the chair she’d just polished to the maid standing near the foot of the table. She had been so deep in thought that she hadn’t heard anyone coming through the door. “Yes, Sarah?”
“You’ve a visitor in the drawing room, a gentleman. Shall I finish dusting?”
“He must be from the domestic agency. That was fast.” But I suppose they’re used to the routine by now, she thought wryly. In reply to the maid’s offer, she said, “Yes, thank you. I’ve done all but four.”
The caller was standing at the fireplace and turned when Fiona came through the doorway. Her heart quickened at the sight of the familiar face, and her breath caught when she saw the bandage on his head. “Mr. Clay?” she said, barely daring to breathe.
“Miss O’Shea,” he replied, his expression incomprehensible as he came across the room to her. For a second she feared he would attempt to embrace her—and that she would yield to his embrace—but thankfully he took her hand instead.
She could not take her eyes from the bandage. “You’re hurt.”
“A minor wound,” he said reassuringly. Releasing her hand, he went over to the door and closed it. He came back to her and took her by the elbow. “Would you mind sitting down, Miss O’Shea?”
The solicitous way he was looking at her—as if she were fragile and might break at any moment—alarmed Fiona. She put a hand up to her chest. “Mrs. Hollis and the children …”
“Are fine.” He motioned toward the nearest chair. “Please.”
After she had allowed Mr. Clay to assist her in taking a seat, Fiona watched with a growing sense of foreboding as he got down on one knee beside the chair’s arm. If not the Hollises, then who?
“I’ve a letter here from your sister.” He took an envelope from his waistcoat pocket and held it. Regarding her somberly, he said, “I have to tell you that your husband died more than six months ago, Miss O’Shea.”
When her breath came again, Fiona held out a shaking hand for the letter. “Please.” She read her sister’s brief message three times, then dropped the hand bearing the page to her lap and closed her eyes. Even after eight years she could easily picture his face in her mind—brutal and remorseless and, unless some miracle had occurred, still shaking his fist at God until the very moment of his death.
May God have mercy on his soul, she half prayed, echoing her sister’s words, yet all the while knowing that it was too late to make that plea once a body has yielded up its spirit.
“The letter was in Philip’s possession for all this time,” Mr. Clay said softly.
Fiona opened her eyes again. He was staring at her with such solicitude in his gray eyes that the love she’d tried so hard to suppress came to the surface again. Which still brought tremendous guilt, for what sort of woman thinks of love for another man when holding such news in her hand?
“He’d forgotten that he had it. Are you going to be all right?”
“Aye, Mr. Clay,” she whispered, collecting herself. “I just wish it could have been different.”
“I know. But he chose his path, and you had nothing to do with that. And, I suspect, you could not have influenced him to change direction, even as good a person as you are.”
“Thank you for saying that, sir.”
“Fiona, may I come back tomorrow?” he asked abruptly.
It suddenly dawned upon her that “Fiona” had replaced the “Miss O’Shea” in his speech. Why was he here, she wondered, when the news could have been wired? Brought back sharply into her present situation, she sent an anxious glance toward the door. “I’ve already had my day off this week, Mr. Clay. And we aren’t allowed callers. If Mrs. Leighton knew about your being here now—”
He caught up her hand and held it to his cheek. “Oh, Fiona,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “It grieves me to hear of anyone demeaning you so. I wanted to give you a day to absorb the news of your late husband … but would you think me terribly insensitive if I asked you to marry me now?”
“Marry you?” He could have spoken Greek, and her mind would have been just as muddled. “Mr. Clay, this is so—”
“Sudden?” He kissed the hand he held. “You’ve known how I’ve felt about you since the night you made me that awful hot chocolate. And please stop calling me Mr. Clay.”
You’re free now, Fiona realized, understanding fully the change that Breanna’s letter had brought about. Custom dictated that at least a year should pass before she allow another man to say such endearing words to her, but in her mind the marriage had died a decade ago. And I’ve already mourned.
And she did know that Mr. Clay—Ambrose—loved her, but he was wrong about her being aware of his feelings the whole time. But what did that matter? Fiona found herself unable to contain a smile and reached out to touch his bandaged forehead. “Oh, Ambrose!”
She was lifted to her feet and into his arms. His kisses were as gentle as she had somehow known they would be, but after she had submitted and even returned what surely must have amounted to a score of them, she pushed him away slightly. “I must ask you …”
“Yes?”
She forced her voice to become serious now, in spite of the fact that he was smiling down at her as if he would kiss her again. “You told me once that you didn’t feel you should father children.”
After a second his face went pale. “Oh, Fiona. I didn’t even think.”
Aware of the reason for the fear in his expression, she shook her head. “I just want to be sure you haven’t changed your mind. I’m unable to have children.”
“You poor dear.” Ambrose caught her up in his arms again. As she rested her head against his shoulder, he said into her hair, “I know you would have wanted them. But we’ll make such a full life that you’ll be happy, Fiona.”
“I’m already happy,” she murmured.
“May I ask what is going on?” A voice, knife-sharp and full of indignation, came from the doorway. Fiona gasped and jumped back from Ambrose’s arms.
“Mrs. Leighton!”
Her mistress still wore her gloves and hat, the ferret eyes narrowed into slits. “So, Miss O’Shea! Your ‘superior’ morals make exceptions for stealing your employer’s time?”
Fiona could feel her heart pounding in her throat. Before she could respond, Ambrose grinned and sauntered over to the door with arm outstretched. “So very good to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Leighton,” he drawled. “I’m—”
Mrs. Leighton jerked her hand away as
if his had held a viper. “You are obviously riffraff and will leave my house immediately, or I shall send for the police!”
“Ah, well, you see, I can’t do that just right away. Miss O’Shea will need a minute to collect her belongings.” Turning to Fiona, who watched the exchange with held breath, he said, “Is there any reason we can’t be married right away, dearest? Surely we can find a minister with some time on his hands.”
“You mean, today?”
“I know you’d prefer to marry in Gresham, and so would I, but we can go back there after the honeymoon. Would somewhere like Switzerland please you? I must confess I’m not partial to Paris or Florence.”
It seemed that Mrs. Leighton was on the verge of succumbing to vapors then, for her face flushed an even deeper crimson, and sputtering noises erupted from her lips.
Fiona looked back to Ambrose. It was outrageous, the idea of marriage after a nonexistent courtship, but then, so had been the idea of taking a boat to England at the age of eighteen. And he’s no stranger. I know what lies before me. There would be times when he would be strong for her, and others when he would need to draw from her strength. With God sustaining both of us. Smiling across at him, she breathed, “Yes, Ambrose.”
His bandage shifted a bit, meaning he had raised his eyebrows in his characteristic manner. “Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there, you see?” Ambrose said to the sputtering woman at the door. “I can’t very well offer to excuse myself from the premises just yet, for I fear you’ll use the opportunity to say unpleasant things to my very-soon-to-be wife.”
“I’ll go at once.” Fiona hurried toward the door, but Mrs. Leighton stepped aside to block her with both hands on her hips.
“And so you’ll just dance out of here without giving notice, yes?”
Fiona flinched at the wrath in the voice. She felt a hand on her shoulder.
“I’m afraid that’s so, madam,” Ambrose said from her side with a theatrical “tsk” for emphasis. “Sharper than a serpent’s tooth is a thankless housekeeper. Isn’t that how the saying goes?”
“I’ve had just about enough of you!” Mrs. Leighton hissed, turning on him. But then a strange thing happened. Color drained from her face, and the ferret eyes widened with shock. “King Lear?” she gasped.
“Well, I confess to taking some liberties with it, but—”
A hand flew up to her throat. “Why … I’ve seen you on stage. You’re Ambrose Clay!”
Gresham, being the size it was, had no telegraph wire leading to the village. Messages of an urgent nature were wired to Shrewsbury and then sent via post to the surrounding villages. This resulted in a delay of one to two days, but was still more speedy than the regular post.
So it was late on a Saturday morning, March nineteenth, that Julia was handed a wired message delivered by Mr. Jones:
MARRIED YESTERDAY STOP. LETTER TO FOLLOW STOP. TELL PHILIP NOT TO WORRY STOP. AMBROSE CLAY
After reading the message several times until her mind could absorb the full meaning of the words, Julia looked at the date it was sent. March seventeenth. One day after he left here. Which meant he had gone to Fiona immediately upon arriving in London. And then married on the same day!
The recent turn of events in her own life had given Julia the conviction that engagements should be lengthy, allowing both the man and woman time to learn as much as possible about each other. But she could fault neither of them for their actions. Fiona was no naive seventeen-year-old. She knew Mr. Clay’s faults as well as anyone did, and as for Mr. Clay knowing hers …
Julia had to think for a minute on that one. I suppose burning bacon could be considered a fault. But in the grand collection of faults, that one very likely occupied a minor place. The only regret Julia had, and she was aware that it was a selfish one, was that Fiona would likely never come back to live at the Larkspur. Nor Mr. Clay, and the absence of both dear people was already leaving a void she knew would be difficult, if not impossible, to fill.
Though she planned to share the news, she decided that Philip should be the only person to see the actual wire, since it contained a message to him, and because he’d been so torn up with regret after finding the misplaced letter. To her surprise, he frowned miserably.
“But they would have been able to marry earlier if I’d only brought her the letter.”
“But you can’t go back and undo that,” she told him, touching his shoulder and marveling at how tall he was growing. In the year since they had moved to Gresham, Philip had caught up with her in height. “And perhaps it was good that Mr. Clay and Fiona had some time away from each other.”
“But will they ever come back?”
That, Julia could not answer. Mr. Clay had just recently paid for three month’s lodging in advance, but at the time he had been unaware that he was poised at the threshold of matrimony. “We’ll just have to see what the letter says,” she told him.
Aleda and Grace took the news with starry-eyed wonder and begged to be allowed to spread the news to the rest of the household. Julia gave them permission, with the exception of Mrs. Kingston, whom she felt she should tell herself. The older woman sobbed effusively for the joy of it, and, Julia suspected, also because she would miss having Mr. Clay to mother.
She was leaving Mrs. Kingston’s bedchamber when another face materialized in her mind, that of Vicar Phelps. It would not be fitting for him to discover the news by happenstance. She was halfway finished writing a note in her office asking the vicar to call at his earliest convenience, when she realized that would simply not do. If she had learned anything about life in a small village, it was that news spread rapidly.
Regretting now that she had so hastily allowed her daughters to spread the news, she gathered light wraps and bonnets and asked Aleda and Grace to accompany her to the vicarage. She also invited Philip out of courtesy, but he mumbled something about going fishing.
They met Vicar Phelps and Laurel strolling arm in arm in their direction down Church Lane. When Julia was close enough to see the incredulous smile across the vicar’s face, she thought, Why, he already knows!
“You received a wire too?” she asked before even offering a greeting.
“We were just coming to inquire the same of you. I assumed that you had, of course, but just in case …”
Finally etiquette was remembered and “good mornings” were exchanged. Laurel’s brown eyes shone with excitement. “We were going to explore the ruins on the Anwyl after we spoke with you.” Turning to her father, she said, “We’re still going, aren’t we, Papa?”
“Indeed we are,” he replied, but there was a brief hesitation before he added, “Would you three care to join us?”
“Oh, may we?” Aleda exclaimed right away, hanging on to Julia’s arm, with Grace doing the same on the other side.
Now no longer obliged to guilt over telling the household about the wire before thinking of the vicar, she dutifully shouldered another load, because almost a year had passed since she’d hiked the Anwyl with any of her children.
Still another guilt was beginning to gnaw at her for even considering the invitation. Would it only encourage the vicar to pursue something deeper than friendship—if indeed she hadn’t imagined his feelings toward her? Do other women spend so much time feeling guilty? she wondered.
“We wouldn’t want to intrude on your outing,” Julia protested, but only mildly because of the hope in both her daughter’s faces.
But the vicar smiled and shook his head, causing Julia to wonder if she’d imagined the earlier hesitation. “Not at all. We would be happy to have your company.”
“Please, Mother?” Grace pleaded, her green eyes hopeful.
“Please?” Laurel Phelps asked as well.
In the face of such longing there was nothing to do but agree. “It does sound lovely, thank you.”
“And why don’t we stop by the Larkspur and invite Philip?” said the vicar. “Elizabeth’s on her way to Alveley with Mr. T
reves for a Ladies’ Benevolent Society luncheon, or she would be along as well.”
Julia noticed that Laurel Phelps’s face did not alter at this invitation. But she also caught a relaxing of the girl’s posture upon learning that Philip already had plans. I hope he’s not acting rude toward her again, Julia thought, determining to talk with him and find out. She was well aware that competition for the trophy had intensified with the approaching end of the school year, but that didn’t allow him an excuse to be rude to Laurel or anyone else.
The trick to catching minnows for bait, Philip discovered, was to lie on his stomach in a shady spot on the bank where his reflection couldn’t be seen in the water and submerge his shallow net halfway, keeping it as motionless as possible. One or two curious little fish would ultimately decide to inspect the inside of the net, and then speed was required to snap them up inside, for they could dart away in a millisecond.
“Hey, I saw your mother and sisters heading for the Anwyl with the vicar and Laurel,” Ben said, doing the same as Philip just a few feet away. Jeremiah would not be joining them today because relatives from Grinshill were visiting the Tofts. Actually, the decision had been made by Philip and Ben upon learning that if Jeremiah came along, he would have to bring not only his brothers but also two or three younger cousins.
“I know,” Philip said listlessly, and just the subtle motion of his speaking caused a trio of minnows to scatter from the mouth of his net. “I saw them.”
Frowning, Ben set his jar aside and sat back on his heels. “Why don’t you like the vicar?”
“I like him just fine. I just don’t like his daughter.”
“But you can’t blame her for trying her best in school.” He shrugged. “I’d have a go at that trophy if I wanted it, and I’m your best friend.”
Intrigued by his friend’s last statement, and realizing that minnowing was futile as long as the conversation ensued, Philip took his net out of the water and wrapped both arms around his folded legs. “You would?”
The Widow of Larkspur Inn Page 47
