The Widow of Larkspur Inn

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Of course. You’re name ain’t engraved on it yet, you know.”

  “Then, why haven’t you? You’re just as bright as I am.”

  Ben grinned and gave a shrug of his shoulders. The shade muted the fiery red of his hair to almost the same auburn as Philip’s. “Lazy, I suppose. I just can’t see spending so much time studying. Or writing papers over and over.”

  “But winning the trophy would make all of that worth it,” Philip said, idly stripping one of the young river grasses in two.

  “Well, fine. I’m just saying that you shouldn’t blame Laurel Phelps for wanting the same thing you want.”

  It was the voice of reason, but coming from his friend, it seemed closer to disloyalty. Philip threw his pieces of grass in the water. First my mother and sisters go off with her, and now Ben takes up for her! It gave him reason to dislike her all the more, though he kept it to himself and flopped back on his stomach to catch more minnows.

  The Roman garrison that was now ruins atop the Anwyl had been a minor one compared with other sites across Britain. Covering only about six acres, it still had good stretches of well-finished masonry standing in places up to ten feet high on all sides except the north. Through the south gate there passed what must have served as a drainage channel, now filled with dirt and weeds, and the walls of two guard rooms still stood on either side of the west gate. Its various niches and crannies made it marvelous for exploring, and the toppled sandstone rocks that besotted the ground were convenient spots to stop and rest.

  It was on two such rocks, about three feet apart, that Vicar Phelps and Julia collected their breath. Behind them, the girls continued to walk among the ruins after receiving a stern warning from the vicar not to climb any walls. And spread out before them was the village of Gresham. A stiff northeastern breeze seemed determined to snatch their hats from their heads. Julia had had to retie the ribbons under her neck twice, while the vicar, whose hat had no ribbons attached, had given up and tucked it under his arm.

  “Can you picture the Roman soldiers who walked upon this very spot?” the vicar asked in a thoughtful tone. “We imagine them as hardy and robust, but some were terribly young. How many, do you think, looked out toward the southeast and longed for families back at home?”

  Julia looked at him with a bit of awe, mixed with appreciation that he hadn’t brought up the subject of Mr. Clay and Fiona. As happy as she was for them, she did not want to think about the fact that Fiona would probably never move back to Gresham. Perhaps he was feeling the same way about Mr. Clay. “Why, that never would have occurred to me, Vicar. But I’m sure homesickness is universal.”

  He smiled. “That’s for certain. What was your very first impression of Gresham, may I ask?”

  My village, she thought, staring out at the cottages and hedged pastures. Little over a year ago, she had pledged that Gresham would be home one day. What a blessing to have that actually come to pass. Now she could not imagine living anywhere else. “I found it charming and yet a little intimidating. I had never lived in the country before, you see.”

  “Nor I. So my reaction was the same as yours—charmed but yet intimidated.”

  A familiar gray slate roof with six chimneys caught Julia’s eye. “And the Larkspur was the most intimidating sight of all.”

  “Yes?” He looked over his shoulder briefly to make sure the girls were not climbing on the crumbling walls, then turned back to her. “I can’t imagine it ever looking unattractive.”

  “It sat abandoned for eight years before we arrived here.” She described, then, the spider webs and moss-covered walls and overgrown garden. “The children wanted to turn back around and return to London. The thought occurred to me as well.”

  “And yet you had the tenacity to stay and persevere.”

  The compliment made her uncomfortable, because he was assuming she had some choice in the matter of leaving or staying. While she didn’t care to bring up her husband’s failings, it seemed dishonest to allow him to think it was sheer perseverance that caused her to turn the Larkspur into a home.

  She cleared her throat. “Vicar, we had no choice but to stay. It was all we had.”

  “Truly?”

  “That, and some money lent to me by my former butler.”

  “I’m sorry. I had no idea. Of course I took for granted that your husband’s death had devastated your family, but I didn’t realize it caused financial hardship as well.”

  Those past hurts had healed long ago, she’d thought. So why did the sympathy in his hazel eyes give her so much comfort? “God has provided, Vicar,” she said simply. “More than I even deserve.”

  “You deserve …” he began, but then self-consciousness invaded his expression and he stopped himself. “I should see about the girls again. They’re being a bit too quiet.”

  “I’ll go with you,” she said, allowing him to help her to her feet. They discovered the reason for the girls silence—they had apparently worn themselves out and were sprawled on their stomachs across the top of a flat boulder. But Laurel’s energy was miraculously recovered at the sight of her father.

  “Oh, please,” she said, capturing his arm. “Play bear with us, Papa.”

  “Laurel …” He glanced at Julia quickly, but it was long enough for her to notice a certain pinkness above his blond beard.

  “We haven’t played it in years and years,” the girl said dramatically.

  “With good reason—you’re too old.” But his daughter persisted, and the vicar turned to Julia again with a resigned smile. “Mrs. Hollis, will you take charge of seeing that these little sprigs keep their eyes closed? Oh, and would you mind holding my hat?”

  Julia took the bowler hat from him and smiled at the anticipation in all three young faces as Laurel explained the rules. “Is this similar to hide-and-seek?”

  “Fairly similar. But at hide-and-seek, one doesn’t get eaten by a bear.” To the girls, he ordered, “Count to fifty now. And slowly.”

  While Julia watched the girls, Vicar Phelps made his way to the only archway still standing and stepped behind one of the posts.

  Soon the three girls finished counting, and first looking to Julia for permission, they began searching hesitantly behind rocks and walls. Eventually they happened upon the vicar, who raised up from his hiding place with a terrible roar and grabbed the first youngster in his path, who happened to be Grace. While she let out a mixture of squeals and giggles, the two others squealed and ran.

  It didn’t take long for Julia to grasp that the game was far too simple for even Grace’s six years. There were no rules beyond hiding one’s eyes and counting, and then came the search for the bear until someone was snatched. But they loved it and begged to play again and again until the vicar finally called a halt. It’s not the intricacies of the game they care about, she realized. It was having Vicar Phelps pay them some attention.

  If only my children had a father like him, she thought as they walked the gently sloping footpath down the hill, with the sun at its apex and the girls running a bit ahead of them. The notion occurred to her that it could happen. She didn’t think she was mistaken about the vicar’s affection for her. Perhaps one day he would ask …

  Alarm snapped Julia out of her reverie, and she chided herself under her breath. You would consider marrying a man you don’t love just because he would make a fine father? Would that be fair to him? Why not draft up an advertisement and hire a husband as you would a gardener?

  “Mrs. Hollis?”

  She looked at him, thankful that he could not hear her thoughts. “Yes, Vicar?”

  “I know the game was a little silly. And not at all challenging to children their ages. I was surprised that Laurel wanted to play it after so many years.”

  “It was easy to see that they loved it,” Julia said, smiling. “And I don’t believe the simplicity of it really mattered. You made them laugh.”

  “Thank you for saying that, Mrs. Hollis,” he said with an appreciative smile. “An
d for joining us today. You and your daughters made the outing much more pleasant.”

  Julia felt a subtle relaxing of her shoulders. She had not realized they were tensed. “We did?”

  “Careful of that hole,” he said, guiding her by the elbow around a deep rut in the path. He turned his face to her with puzzlement knitting his forehead. “Why did you sound so relieved just now, may I ask?”

  “It’s just that I noticed …” Noticed what? she asked herself. “Nothing, really. And we enjoyed the outing as well.”

  “Please tell me.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she said, “Perhaps I imagined it, but there seemed to be some reluctance on your part to invite us, Vicar.

  No doubt you felt obligated, having just announced that you and Laurel intended to—”

  “Mrs. Hollis,” the vicar cut in, and she felt a light touch on her sleeve.

  “Yes?”

  He gave her an affectionate smile. “Hush.”

  You weren’t honest with her, Andrew’s thoughts accused him later as Laurel and he sat down to a lunch of spiced beef and dumplings. Even though he hadn’t overtly denied the hesitancy he’d felt about extending the invitation, he had allowed Mrs. Hollis to believe it was all in her imagination.

  “That was great fun this morning, wasn’t it?” Laurel asked while spreading butter on a slice of dark bread.

  He smiled back at her. “Great fun.”

  Why don’t you just come out and confess to her how you feel? he asked himself. Then he wouldn’t have to be so anxious every minute he spent in her company. She would either reject his declaration of affection or accept it. Either way, he could give up the struggle to keep his feelings from showing in his face and in the tone of his voice.

  But with second thoughts came reason. While he no longer believed that she would reject him because he wasn’t an Adonis—for he had come to appreciate that she wasn’t the shallow sort of person who focused on outward appearance—there was still the newness of her widowhood, the love she surely still felt for her late husband, to consider. She certainly didn’t need another man’s attentions at present. Why do I have to keep reminding myself of that fact? he chided himself.

  That evening, after Julia had tucked the children into their beds and had slipped into a nightgown, she sat at her dressing table in the lamplight and idly arranged the combs, lotions, and hairpins. Why can’t I love someone like Vicar Phelps, Father? she prayed. Am I only capable of loving men who are bad for me? As she unnecessarily turned each hairpin so that the ends pointed in the same direction, she narrowed her prayer from “someone like Vicar Phelps” to “Why can’t I feel any love for him? He’s such a dear soul. There is plenty of affection, but …”

  Chapter 43

  Seven days later when the promised letter arrived—actually two letters counting the brief note included from Mr. Clay—Julia immediately carried them to the privacy of her room. She settled into her chair and picked up the first page of Fiona’s precise handwriting:

  My dear Mrs. Hollis,

  Julia considered the greeting with a bemused smile. The “Mrs. Hollis” had become more and more unnatural to her ears as her relationship with Fiona grew deeper. But customs regarding servants and employers were set in stone, and so it would have seemed too radical for either of them to consider that it should be any other way. Now, however, it was time to put away the formalities. If only I’m given the chance to tell her so, Julia thought before turning her attention to the text of the letter.

  As you can imagine, so much has occurred since my last letter. Ambrose and I were married at Saint Patrick’s on the sixteenth, the day he arrived in London. No doubt your affection for both of us has caused you some misgivings over the haste of our actions, but you must put your fears to rest, my dear friend. I could not have imagined so much joy could be contained on this earth, and I pray daily that you will be blessed with the same happiness.

  “But I am happy, Fiona,” Julia said, as if her friend were standing there before her, but then had to admit, Just a little lonely.

  We had planned to honeymoon in Switzerland. Three days into our marriage, however, we were out making travel arrangements and purchasing extra clothing, and stopped for lunch at a French restaurant near Regent’s Park, Montague’s. As the hand of God would have it, we happened upon some acquaintances of Ambrose, a Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft, who manage the Prince of Wales theatre. They were in the process of assembling a cast for what they termed a “cup and saucer” comedy written by a Mr. T. W. Robertson, titled The Barrister. Three of Mr. Robertson’s plays have been produced at the same theatre; in fact, School, which is now playing there, is enjoying tremendous success.

  The Bancrofts were delighted to see Ambrose and invited us to share their table. Before the dessert course was served, Ambrose was offered the lead role in The Barrister! He turned them down politely, saying that we had plans for Switzerland, but I asked him to give their offer some prayerful consideration for a day or two. There was an unmistakable light in his eyes when the offer was made, Mrs. Hollis, and I could see that he longed to be upon the stage again. As for Switzerland, I assured him later that I would much rather see the Anwyl than the Alps.

  We both took the matter in prayer, and Ambrose informed the Bancrofts yesterday that he would accept the role.

  Though she was happy for her friends, Julia couldn’t fight the melancholia that worked its way through her. They’ll have to live in London permanently, she thought.

  Rehearsals begin in three weeks, so we must busy ourselves with locating and furnishing a flat. Ambrose is determined I should perform no domestic chores whatsoever, but I have convinced him that I should feel like a visitor in our home if it is overrun with servants. We have agreed upon a cook and parlormaid, and must conduct interviews for both, as well. How strange it is, the thought of a former servant having servants to attend her!

  “And if I know you at all, Fiona,” Julia mumbled, “You’ll treat them like gold.”

  The Barrister is scheduled to begin its run in early August, but there will be a two-week interlude between the end of rehearsals and the first performance. The Bancrofts feel that it revives an actor’s enthusiasm for his role if he is able to slip away from it for a space of time. And, my dear Mrs. Hollis, we would like to spend that time in Gresham.

  Thank you, Father! Julia prayed silently.

  The remainder of Fiona’s letter contained greetings to the children, lodgers, and servants. After reading it with much lifted spirits, Julia went on to Mr. Clay’s letter. His began with the same greetings, as well as his appreciation to her for having sent him to London. But I didn’t send you; in fact, I tried to talk you out of going! Julia thought with a smile and shake of the head. She read on:

  I am to be involved in the theatre again, thanks to the thoughtfulness of my dear wife. Although I realize it will be a struggle during the times of despondency, I cannot help but feel the burden will be lighter with Fiona at my side and Christ in my heart. And I have a plan, my dear Mrs. Hollis, that will hopefully give us a life more normal than was my parents’.

  I am interested in the set of rooms over your stables. Would it be possible to have them refurbished, at my expense of course, as a second home for us? We will pay whatever board you ask, for knowing that a peaceful place of escape is available to us will lessen dramatically the pressures of living in London. Fiona and I have prayed over the matter and feel that I should take a recess for several months every time a role is finished, before taking on a new one.

  He went on to apologize for abandoning his room without notice, giving her permission to find a new lodger to take his place.

  If the apartment above the stables is incomplete by late July, we’ll rent a room at the Bow and Fiddle for our first visit, he wrote. So please do not feel pressured to hurry, my friend.

  Oh, it’ll be ready, Julia thought on her way out of her room to find Karl Herrick.

  One week into April, Gresham was a tapestry
woven from the fresh green of new grasses and leaves, the yellow of wild daffodils, the begonia’s fiery red, pink and white anemones, blue lungwort, and lavender ladies’ smocks.

  For the first time since he could recall, Philip actually paid attention to his surroundings as he walked to school with his sisters. Why not appreciate such a beautiful day, when in his hands he carried the most meticulously detailed diorama that would ever be seen in Captain Powell’s classroom. He couldn’t believe he had ever grumbled last week when the headmaster assigned the project to the sixth standard students—it had actually turned out to be fun.

  He had crafted the shadow box, with Mr. Herrick’s guidance, from scraps of oak provided by Mr. Jack Preston and Garland Worthy, the two carpenters working on the apartment above the stables. Settling on a theme had been his hardest chore, for he was allowed to illustrate any scene from a favorite book. It was Mr. Durwin who had brought up Moby Dick. At first Philip had politely rejected the suggestion, figuring a water scene and white whale too ambitious a concept. But then the idea grew upon him—the more difficult the project, the less likely anyone else in the sixth standard would create a similar one.

  For at least the tenth time since setting out from the Larkspur, he gazed admiringly down at the box in his hands. To make sure he didn’t drop it, he’d asked Grace to carry his lunch pail, and Aleda his books. If one squinted one’s eyes, the fine blue netting from Trumbles looked just like a churning sea. He had carved the white whale from a bar of soap, pasted together match sticks to make a ship, and the sails were quilting squares Mrs. Beemish had provided. Captain Ahab was the most difficult task, but Mrs. Herrick had shown him how to mold and dry bread dough heavily mixed with salt, then clothe him with scraps of cloth. A sewing needle made a particularly lethal-looking harpoon. Mrs. Dearing had warned him that red paint would not adhere to the soap whale for blood, so tiny droplets of red felt were attached with pins.