The Widow of Larkspur Inn

by Lawana Blackwell

  Books by

  Lawana Blackwell

  The Jewel of Gresham Green

  THE GRESHAM CHRONICLES

  The Widow of Larkspur Inn

  The Courtship of the Vicar’s Daughter

  The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

  www.lawanablackwell.com

  The Widow of Larkspur Inn

  Copyright © 1998

  Lawana Blackwell

  Cover by Jennifer Parker

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Minneapolis, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-07642-02674

  * * *

  Library of Congress has cataloged the original edition as follows:

  Blackwell, Lawana, 1952-

  The widow of Larkspur Inn / by Lawana Blackwell.

  p. cm.—(The Gresham chronicles ; bk. 1)

  ISBN 1–55661–947–2 (pbk.)

  I. Title. II. Series: Blackwell, Lawana, 1952- Gresham chronicles ; bk. 1.

  PS3552.L3429W53 1997

  813’.54—dc21

  97–33858

  CIP

  * * *

  This book is lovingly dedicated

  to my mother,

  Polly Chandler,

  who taught me how to be a lady.

  LAWANA BLACKWELL has eleven published novels to her credit, including the bestselling GRESHAM CHRONICLES series. She and her husband have three grown sons and live in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

  Content

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 1

  London

  March 1, 1869

  How many miles to Nottinghamshire?

  Sixty, seventy, eighty-four.

  Will I be there by candle light?

  Just if your legs be long and tight.

  Julia Hollis stopped reading and looked down at the child asleep in her arms. The combination of rocking chair and Tales of My Mother Goose had proved too formidable an opponent for a five-year-old’s nightmares. Grace’s heart-shaped face was now the epitome of peaceful slumber; her lashes resting gently against her cheeks, her lips parted slightly, and her breathing steady.

  Give her sweet dreams for the rest of the night, Lord, Julia prayed silently. She did not begrudge being roused from her bed by a frantic nanny. If only her own nightmares could be chased away so easily.

  From her left side came the whisper of felt slippers against the carpet. Julia turned her head to look at Frances, whose gaunt figure was swathed in a flannel wrapper, her brown hair wrapped in curling papers.

  “It’s time to put her back to bed now, missus.”

  Recognizing the injury in the nanny’s tone, Julia knew that it was because Grace had refused to be pacified until she came. What was I to do? Refuse my own child? Nevertheless, she would attempt to make it up to Frances by asking Jensen to extend her next half-day off to a full day.

  “I believe I’d like to hold her a bit longer,” Julia whispered back. “Did she wake the others?”

  “I just looked in on Miss Aleda—she’s fast asleep. And there wasn’t a peep from young master Philip’s room.”

  “I’m glad. They’re just starting to sleep well themselves. And they resume lessons with Mr. Hunter tomorrow.”

  “And that’s why the child needs to be back in her own bed. If you coddle her too much, she’ll repeat the same behavior again and again.”

  Julia was beginning to feel a faint irritation. True, Frances had been with them since Philip was born, and responsible nannies were supposed to be difficult to find … but she was, after all, the children’s mother and the mistress of the house. And it’s high time Frances became aware of that, she told herself.

  But then worry set in, squelching any rebellious thoughts. If she made Frances angry, she might possibly be cross with the children tomorrow. They certainly didn’t need that, not after having lost their father three weeks ago. It’s probably better to compromise this time. Giving the nanny her most nonoffensive smile, she said, “You’re right, of course. But I know I shan’t be able to sleep until I’m positive she won’t wake again. Why don’t you go on back to bed, and I’ll be sure to tuck her in very soon.”

  “Well … I suppose it won’t hurt,” Frances said after covering a yawn. “But just this once, missus. I cannot abide a spoiled child.”

  “Yes … thank you.”

  “I’ll go straighten the bedclothes. You be sure and tuck them around her shoulders so she won’t catch a chill.”

  “I will.”

  After Frances had padded back into the night nursery, Julia leaned her head against the back of the chair and resumed rocking. The warmth of Grace’s body against her shoulder and the sound of her faint snoring were comforting. She closed her eyes and her grip upon the book in her lap loosened.

  If all the world were apple pie,

  And all the sea were ink,

  And all the trees were bread and cheese,

  What should we have to drink?

  “Mrs. Hollis?”

  Images of inky black sea water dissolved at the sound of her name, but it took Julia a few seconds to realize that the voice had not been part of a dream. She turned to peer over her left shoulder. Jensen, the butler, stood framed by the doorway leading into the corridor. He was a man of about sixty and carried himself erect with a restrained dignity that would befit any palace guard. He was just as restrained with his facial expressions as with his bearing. In the fourteen years that she’d known him, Julia couldn’t recall ever having seen him smile.

  “Yes, Jensen?”

  “My apologies for disturbing madam at this late hour, but there is a caller downstairs. A Mr. Deems.”

  “Deems?” Julia’s neck began to feel the strain, so she asked Jensen to come around close to the rocking chair so she could see him without waking Grace. “What time is it?”

  “Eleven, Mrs. Hollis,” he answered, stepping into the night 9 nursery.

  It was then obvious that the butler had dressed in haste, for two of the buttons to his black tailcoat were misfastened, and at the crown of his head a l
oose strand of iron-gray hair bobbed comically. But Julia would not even think of laughing aloud.

  “I informed the gentleman that the household was asleep, but he insists the matter cannot wait until morning.”

  “I don’t recall ever hearing that name … Deems.” A tinge of some nebulous fear pierced the fog that had occupied her mind these past three weeks. Surely no good could come from a stranger’s visit at this late hour. “Did he explain what the matter was?”

  “Mr. Deems refused to say, madam. Only that he had been acquainted with Dr. Hollis.”

  At the mention of her husband’s name, the now familiar lump welled up in the back of Julia’s throat. One minute Dr. Philip Hollis, a brilliant surgeon at Saint Thomas’s Hospital, was examining a patient, and the next, he suffered a massive heart attack and became the object of medical attention himself. But to no avail. Swallowing, she thought, Why did it have to happen, Philip?

  She bent her neck to kiss the top of Grace’s soft head. The dark curls smelled of lavender soap. A man with a wife and three children is supposed to take care of himself. What are we to do without you?

  “Mrs. Hollis?” Jensen’s voice broke into her thoughts. “If I may be so bold, I most strongly suggest a meeting with the gentleman.”

  Forcing herself to keep her scattered thoughts focused upon the situation at hand, Julia answered, “But if Mr. Deems is … if he was acquainted with Dr. Hollis, surely he’s aware that the household is in mourning.”

  If not, then the black crepe hanging from the windows should have served notice. And mourning or not, eleven o’clock in the evening was not the proper time to be making calls. Irritation replaced the apprehension that had come over her just a moment ago. To the butler she said, “Please relay my apologies but ask him to come back some other time. I’m just not up to speaking with anyone at this hour.”

  Instead of leaving, Jensen took another step forward and cleared his throat. “Mrs. Hollis, I must report that Mr. Deems threatens to go straight to the authorities if madam refuses to see him.”

  “The authorities?” Completely baffled, Julia shook her head. “But for what reason?”

  The butler’s brown eyes shifted evasively from hers, but not quickly enough to hide the knowledge in them. “It would not do to have Dr. Hollis’s name besmeared publicly….”

  “My husband was beyond reproach, so how could anyone besmear his name?”

  “As I stated, madam, the gentleman did not say.”

  But you know, don’t you, Jensen? Julia thought. And it’s something you can’t take care of yourself this time, isn’t it?

  How humiliated he must feel, being forced to solicit her help. For fourteen years now, ever since she’d come to Philip’s London home as a seventeen-year-old bride, the butler had treated her with little more than the politeness required of his station. It was as if he resented the fact that a baronet’s daughter fresh out of finishing school was now mistress of the house over which he’d enjoyed almost total rule.

  “Oh, he’s probably a bit jealous,” Philip once consoled when she broached the subject. “He practically raised me at Uncle George’s, and I confess I’ve allowed him to take over far too many responsibilities here.”

  It had not occurred to Julia during those early years that it was Philip’s duty to establish her as the mistress of the house and demand that she be given due respect. Unfortunately, some of the older servants had absorbed Jensen’s attitude over the years, to the point that there were times when Julia felt like a guest—and one that must cause the least amount of trouble possible—in her own house. Thank God for Fiona, Julia thought. What would she have done without her?

  “Mrs. Hollis?” There was clear impatience on the butler’s face now.

  “Oh, I’m …” Sorry, she had started to say. “Please, Jensen,” she said, her eyes staring directly into his. “You must tell me what you know.”

  After a hesitation, he replied, “I would assume that Dr. Hollis owed him some money, madam.”

  “My husband never mentioned owing money to anyone.” Of course, it was not the sort of thing Philip would have discussed with her, but the luxuries he’d provided for the family—the well-appointed, four-story Park Lane townhouse, fashionable clothing, and a battery of servants—were proof of a more than adequate income. “Is this Mr. Deems a banker?”

  “He did not introduce himself as such. Mr. Deems has most likely made private terms with Dr. Hollis.” Jensen flung a scathing look back toward the center of the floor, as if he could see the visitor downstairs through layers of carpets and wood. “And he would not be the first to appear at the door with a promissory note in hand.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Another pause, and then, “Dr. Hollis occasionally indulged in … gaming, madam.”

  “Gaming?” A brief, ludicrous picture of Philip swinging a croquet mallet flitted across her mind until Jensen’s words sunk in. “You mean gambling?”

  The butler nodded, then looked down at the still-sleeping Grace. For a second his face actually softened. “Shall I assist madam in carrying the child to her bed?”

  They walked in silence down the staircase. On her way through the hall, Julia caught sight of herself in a mahogany-framed wall mirror. Her auburn hair hung wildly down to her waist like a horse’s mane, gray shadows lurked under her green eyes, and her dressing gown was wrinkled from the heat of Grace’s relaxed body. We look like a pair of pantomimists, Julia thought grimly, for Jensen looked little better in his hastily donned clothes. But her steps did not slacken. Anyone with the cheek to come calling at this time of night—and with such dubious intent—deserved to be greeted in such a manner.

  An anxious-looking man rose from one of the incidental chairs when Julia, flanked by Jensen, walked into the vestibule. Mr. Deems appeared only slightly younger than Julia herself, tall and beardless and impeccably dressed in a well-cut gray frock coat and black trousers. On the entrance table a silk top hat reflected the lamplight with a lustrous sheen, and a pair of kid gloves, the color of rich caramel, lay neatly beside it.

  “Mrs. Hollis, forgive me for intruding upon you at a time like this,” he began, his eyes darting to Julia’s black dressing gown.

  Julia noticed a fleshiness about the patrician lines of the man’s face, a faint coloring under the eyes that hinted of late nights and fast living. This was not the sort of person with whom her husband usually associated. Philip, gambling! she told herself. Impossible! She did not invite the visitor to resume his seat but stood some six feet away and said, “May I inquire as to the nature of your call, Mr. Deems? I am sure you’re aware of the lateness of the hour.”

  A slight twitching of one clean-shaven cheek accompanied his answer. “It’s a matter of fifteen pounds, Mrs. Hollis. I’ve a note-of-hand signed by Dr. Hollis himself.”

  Julia knew nothing of such things, having never seen a note-of-hand in her life. When Mr. Deems dug a slip of paper out of his waistcoat pocket and stepped across the Brussels carpet to give it over to her, she handed it to Jensen. The butler removed a pince-nez from his own pocket and squinted down at the paper.

  “It is legitimate, madam,” was his grave reply. “It’s Dr. Hollis’s signature.”

  When would Philip have had time to gamble? Julia asked herself. He practically lived at the hospital.

  Mr. Deems fidgeted with his silk cravat. “I won it at Crockfords over a month ago, Mrs. Hollis. When I found out what happened, I waited as long as possible to come here, but now I’m in a bit of a tight spot myself….”

  You mean there’s a card game waiting, Julia thought. As the man’s voice droned on, she wished with every fiber of her being to creep back upstairs, bury herself in her sheets, and pretend that this visitor had never appeared upon her doorstep. But that was a luxury she could not afford at present. Acknowledging the man’s apology with a nod, she said in a flat voice, “If my husband signed it, then we shall have to pay it.”

  She suddenly recalled what Jen
sen had told her upstairs, something she’d been too stunned to absorb right away. He wouldn’t be the first caller to show up at the door with a promissory note.

  “Please wait here,” Julia told Mr. Deems, not inviting him to resume his seat again. She turned to Jensen again and motioned for him to accompany her out of the vestibule and through the open doorway of the hall. When they were alone, she asked in a low voice, “Where does … where did my husband keep money for such matters?”

  “Why, on his person, madam,” the butler replied uneasily.

  “And how did you handle these debts when Dr. Hollis was away from home?”

  Jensen cleared his throat. “A locked drawer in his study usually contained several quid.”

  Why wasn’t I aware of that? Julia thought. Has my head been up in the clouds for the past fourteen years? “Are you saying that there is no more money in the desk?”

  “There is none left at present, madam.” And obviously, it was this circumstance that forced Jensen to make her aware of the situation. “But there are bank cheques. I suggest madam consider drafting—”

  “Isn’t there any money in the house at all?” In her present state of mind, she didn’t care to admit to the butler that she had never drafted a cheque in all of her life.