The Widow of Larkspur Inn

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Has the ghost anything to do with it?” Julia asked, lowering her voice.

  “Well … perhaps a little. But we’ll show them it’s all in their minds, won’t we?” Offering his arm, he led Julia and her group from one cluster of villagers to another and made introductions. Perhaps it was the vicar’s presence that solicited a surprisingly warm welcome from the dairy farmers, shopkeepers, housewives, and factory workers they met. Their children, though, tended to hang back and give shy stares to Julia’s children—who did the same themselves.

  Presently Julia and her group set out for lunch at the Bow and Fiddle. After three days of only pastries and sandwiches, Julia decided it was time for everyone to have a hot meal. She still hoped to find a cook, though, and mentally kicked herself for not making inquiries of Henrietta after church. Even after paying for groceries and a cook’s wages, meals would be less expensive at home than at an inn. And she wanted to be a good steward of the money entrusted to her.

  About one third of the tables at the half-timbered inn were taken when the five sat down to a lunch of the beef and dumplings that Mrs. Jewel Worthy had recommended. Mr. Pool, the owner, came over to make their acquaintance—he was a portly man wearing a fringe of gray whiskers below the jaw, extending from ear to ear. “I was worried when I heard someone was opening up th’ Larkspur again, I don’t mind telling you,” he said to Julia while wiping his hands with his white apron. “There just ain’t enough business for two inns in Gresham. But a lodging house … well, that won’t affect me none at all.”

  “I’m sorry about the loss of coaching business,” Julia told him, to which he responded with a shrug.

  “I get more customers come evenings, so I can’t complain. Folks still need a place to visit.” He gave her a cagey grin. “And maybe your lodgers will want to supper here once in a while. I’ve the best cook in Gresham working in my kitchen.”

  Julia smiled. The meal had indeed been tasty. “The best cook?”

  With a slight blush, the innkeeper confessed, “Well, second best, if you care to know th’ truth. But the best won’t budge from th’ squire’s kitchen, so there you have it.”

  That afternoon, Fiona and Mrs. Hollis devoted their cleaning efforts to the pantry. Each had bound her hair up in a scarf to keep it protected from dust and webs for the evensong church service that night. “All we need are eye patches to look like pirates,” Fiona had remarked, and it was good to hear her mistress laugh.

  “I would really like to hire Audrey Herrick in the kitchen,” Mrs. Hollis said a little while later as she wiped down shelves with a wet dish towel. “She would be a great asset to our lodging house. But I can’t offer her any wages until we’ve lodgers on the way, and we need a cook right now.”

  Fiona nodded down from the chair upon which she stood to reach cobwebs with her broom. “If only I’d learned. But an older sister took care of the cookin’ at home until I was eleven, and then she left to take a position at the big house.”

  “Eleven,” her mistress breathed. “Why, that’s Aleda’s age. How did you bear it?”

  “I had no choice but to bear it. Besides, that was the way things were. Some had it much worse, so I’ve no right to complain.” The subject was not a comfortable one, so Fiona directed it back to the matter of the cook. “But I’d be willin’ to try, until you can hire Mrs. Herrick.”

  Mrs. Hollis shook her head. “The guest chambers need both our attention. I’ve not paid much notice to what goes into shopping for food and cooking, but it seems that the whole process takes a lot of time. If I were to hire someone for the kitchen, then it wouldn’t be right to dismiss her as soon as it’s practical for Mrs. Herrick to come. And if I demoted someone who’s had complete charge of the kitchen to a lesser position, then there would surely be some resentment.”

  They worked on to the sounds of broom straws swishing against walls and the squeak of a cleaning cloth against wood, until an idea presented itself to Fiona. She dropped down into the chair and smiled.

  “What if you hired someone permanent to help with the cleaning now, missus? You mentioned needin’ to hire other servants later. That would free me to work in the kitchen until Mrs. Herrick can come. Surely I can manage for a while.”

  Mrs. Hollis paused from her work to cock her head thoughtfully. “Why, of course. It’s such a simple solution. But I’ll help you.”

  That brought some doubts to Fiona’s mind. Mrs. Hollis had likely never set foot in a kitchen until coming here. She didn’t want to offend but couldn’t help asking, “Are you sure, missus?”

  “We can teach each other. And with the two of us in the kitchen, we should be back to the housework in no time.”

  “You shouldn’t be having to do that.”

  Her mistress held up a hand, already beginning to redden at the knuckles. “My days of being the fine lady are over, Fiona. Besides, it could be an adventure, learning to cook. We may just surprise ourselves.”

  “This porridge seems rather thick to me,” Julia said the next morning while using both hands to stir the contents of the black pot on the stove with a long metal spoon.

  Fiona stopped slicing bacon at the table and walked over to take a look. “How many oats did you add to the water?”

  “Well, hundreds,” Julia replied a bit testily, for her arms felt like lead. “I didn’t know I was supposed to count them.”

  The maid took no offense but smiled. “I didn’t mean individual oats, missus.”

  “Oh.” Releasing one hand to point briefly to an empty brown bag on a cupboard shelf, she said, “I used those.”

  “The whole bag?”

  “Wasn’t I supposed to?”

  Fiona looked down into the pot again. “I believe they swell as they cook. Shall I add some more water?”

  “I suppose you should.” Julia grimaced as she pulled the spoon through the muck. “It’s like stirring glue.”

  Returning from the basin with a kettle of water, Fiona poured in a little at a time until Julia nodded. “Much better. But I shouldn’t wonder that we’ll be eating porridge for a week. Can it be warmed over?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “It’s still sticking to the bottom of the pot. Is it supposed to do that?”

  Fiona made a helpless gesture. “Could it be the fire?”

  “That’s it,” Julia told her. With her chin she pointed to the row of knobs. “Will you turn up the one on the far right?”

  “Up, missus?”

  “My arms are going to fall off if it doesn’t cook any faster.”

  “Why don’t you let me stir for a while?”

  “Thank you, but I’m rather determined to see this through.” Julia smiled. “I never thought I would feel prideful about cooking a pot of porridge.”

  Fiona smiled back as she scooped several spoonfuls of lard into a pan for frying the bacon and eggs. “If only Mrs. Capshaw could see us now, missus.”

  Philip Hollis dressed quickly Monday morning, pulling on a pair of brown corded trousers and buttoning up his favorite shirt of blue muslin. He had talked his mother out of having him wear his Sunday best after hearing from Miss Wilson that most of the students were the children of dairy laborers and would be dressed in plain smocks or jerkins. He certainly couldn’t fit in by parading his city upbringing.

  Leaving his room at the end of the corridor, he walked down to his sisters’ door and applied a rousing series of knocks. It wouldn’t do to be late on their first day of school, and if he knew anything about his sisters, he knew they took much longer to dress than he did.

  When no sound came, Philip knocked again. “Aleda? Grace?” he called, wondering why Mother hadn’t already gotten the two up and going. I’m sure not going to wait for them, he thought. But then he reasoned that they’d likely had trouble sleeping after Mother had told them about the supposed ghost.

  Not that he’d suffered any fright. Why, he could barely remember his head hitting the pillow. But Aleda and Grace, well, they couldn’t
help being girls. As he rapped upon the door and called out still a third time, the guilty thought hit him that he should have brought his pillow and blankets into the girls’ room and made a bed upon their carpet last night. He was the man of the family now, and here he was allowing his sisters to sleep unprotected, if only from their own imaginations.

  “I’m coming in!” he called before easing the door open and finding himself staring at an unoccupied bed. One corner of the coverlet touched the floor—making beds was a new experience for everyone in the house except Fiona—and it was clear to see that the girls had vacated their room some time ago.

  And they didn’t even care to wake me! he thought indignantly as he raced down the corridor to the dining room and almost bumped into Aleda.

  “Mother just sent me to fetch you,” she said, the sides of her long auburn hair drawn up into a white ribbon at the crown of her head. “We’re going to take our meals in the kitchen until we have more servants.”

  “How long have you been awake?”

  “Oh, Grace and I woke up ages ago. We wanted to give ourselves plenty of time to dress for school.”

  “Didn’t you have trouble sleeping?”

  She cocked her head at him. “Why, no. We slept like stones.”

  Humbled somewhat, Philip followed her into the kitchen and saw Mother at the stove, wearing a white apron over her black dress.

  “Good morning, Philip,” she said. Strands of red hair fell from a coil at her neck and her face was flush from the heat, but her expression was one of triumph. “I’m cooking porridge.”

  Fiona smiled, her appearance also slightly disheveled as she brought a platter to set on the table. “And I’ve fried some bacon. Eggs are still in the pan.”

  “Good. I’m as hungry as a bear,” Philip said, giving one of Grace’s brown curls a playful tug before pulling out a chair beside her.

  Aleda, now seated across the table from him, was attempting to stab a strip of bacon from the platter with her fork. “It’s a bit overdone,” she leaned forward to whisper to Philip.

  “Children, wait until we’ve a chance to pray,” Mother warned, dishing up porridge into a bowl. A strange burnt odor wafted over from the side of the kitchen. Philip discovered its origin after Mother and Fiona sat down to join them and the prayer was said. Black specks and flakes were scattered through the porridge in his bowl, as thick as raisins in Christmas pudding.

  And the eggs that Fiona had spoken of should have stayed in the pan, Philip thought, for they too were not up to Mrs. Capshaw’s standards. Strings of hardened yolks had leaked into the whites, and appetite-killing grease pooled in every indentation. He raised an alarmed eyebrow to Aleda, who sent him back a helpless shrug. You’re the oldest, her expression seemed to say. It’s up to you to say something.

  But he didn’t have to, for the next sound he heard was a sniffle. He turned to his mother, seated at the head of the table on his right, just in time to see a tear roll down her cheek and drip into her porridge.

  “This is inedible,” she whispered.

  “The eggs too,” Fiona said dully from Aleda’s other side. The maid’s expression matched their mother’s.

  “Why, no it isn’t.” Philip took a big spoonful of his porridge, hoping God would forgive him for the lie. He gulped it down without chewing and motioned for Aleda to do likewise. She apparently wanted to spare Fiona’s feelings as well, for she picked up a strip of bacon with her fingers and began to work the tip with her teeth, like an Eskimo chewing whale blubber.

  Deciding to follow Philip’s lead and then some, Grace spooned porridge into her mouth, gulped it down, and stretched her lips into an enraptured smile. “This porridge is heavenly, Mother!”

  Philip cut his eyes to her with a warning look, but the damage was done, for another sniffle came from the head of the table. Quickly he heaped another clump of oats onto his spoon, but before he could force it up to his lips, he heard a noise that sounded suspiciously like a low chuckle. He looked at his mother—she was wiping her eyes with her napkin but smiling at the same time.

  “You three are terrible actors,” she said quietly.

  “Why no, it’s quite …” Philip began.

  “Bless you for it, but you can stop eating now.”

  “Thank you, Mother!” Grace gushed, dropping her spoon into her bowl as if it had contained hemlock. Fiona put up a hand to cover a smile, and soon laughs erupted from all quarters of the table.

  “All we have left from last night are some bread and cheese,” Mother said presently, wiping her eyes again. “We’ll have that for breakfast.”

  It sounded like a feast to Philip.

  Breakfast was forgotten as the three set out for the short walk down Church Lane. The sight of windows glittering through a line of elder trees ahead and the rosy brick of the gabled school building only brought anxieties, which were heightened upon the sight of three dozen children of all ages and sizes at play in the school yard. Girls in ankle-length frocks and pinafores and colored hair ribbons joined hands for “drop the handkerchief ” or scratched out play houses in the dirt; boys in corduroys or farmers’ smocks played marbles or tossed a ball back and forth. Philip reckoned to himself that he’d never seen so many children together in one place. How did they all fit inside the school building?

  “What if they ask about the ghost?” Grace whispered, clutching the brown paper parcel that contained her lunch—again bread and cheese—with both hands.

  Aleda was quick to offer advice. “You just tell them they’re ignorant rubes if they believe such nonsense.”

  “And I can see you’re going to have lots of friends here,” Philip told her.

  With a toss of the head, Aleda replied, “Well, I’m sure I don’t care. This is going to be such a bore.”

  Grace clamped a hand over her little mouth. “Mother says not to use slang.”

  “What slang?”

  “You said ‘bore.’”

  “That’s not slang.”

  “Yes it is,” Philip cut in, frowning. “And try to look pleasant, will you?”

  Aleda tightened her lips at these admonitions and turned her attention back to the activity outside the school building. The three kept to themselves on the fringe of the yard, pretending not to notice the curious stares from some of the children at play, until a pleasant-faced woman appeared in the doorway at the top of the steps and rang a handbell. There were squeals and chatter as the girls formed a line at the bottom of the steps, with the boys bringing up the rear. When the last student had been swallowed up by the building, Philip turned to his sisters and said, “We’d best be going in now.”

  “Now?” Grace echoed in an uncertain tone.

  “It’s only going to get harder the longer we wait.”

  The doors opened up into a good-sized schoolroom, filled with rows of desks. Queen Victoria’s portrait stared regally down at them from the back wall, and a map beside it showed the large part of the world that owed allegiance to her. On the opposite wall another doorway led into a second classroom. A dozen or so of the younger children were following the schoolmistress through this doorway, and at Philip’s urging, Grace solemnly walked behind them.

  At the head of the main room a man rose from a desk. He had close-cropped dark hair and brass spectacles, a starched collar, and a general demeanor of authority on a medium frame as erect as a lightning rod. Captain Powell was his name, Miss Wilson had told them, adding that he’d been pensioned after losing an arm in South Africa. Philip forced himself not to stare at the pinned-up left sleeve, though it fascinated him immensely.

  “You must be the Hollis children,” Captain Powell said. The blue eyes that studied them were penetrating but not unkind. “Your mother has already given me your names and ages. I’ve prepared desks for you.”

  Philip and Aleda exchanged relieved glances. To have one’s own desk would be like having a home away from home, an island of refuge in this sea of unfamiliarity. As he went over to the back-row des
k that had been pointed out to him, Philip was grateful that the schoolmaster hadn’t required the class to say “good morning” in unison, or asked him and Aleda to give short introductory speeches, or fostered any other embarrassing attention upon them.

  A short stack of texts was ready upon his desk top. Reverently Philip ran a finger along the spine of the familiar Oxford Study of Mathematics. Smith’s Rules of Grammar was there too and had never looked so good to him, mixed in with an unfamiliar-looking history text. This isn’t going to be so bad after all, he thought. As the class rose for morning devotions, he returned the grin of the boy seated next to him, a lad wearing a brown linsey-woolsey shirt that matched the color of his hair so closely that it could have been woven from it.

  “Name’s Jeremiah,” the boy whispered under the sound of shuffling feet.

  “Philip,” Philip whispered back.

  “What happened to your finger?”

  “Sprained it.”

  “Seen the ghost yet?”

  “Had breakfast with him this morning.”

  “No!”

  “Yes! Beastly table manners, but you should see him carve the bacon.”

  Both boys were silent for the morning prayer and joined in a chorus of voices for the Scripture recitation. Fortunately, it was the first chapter of Psalms, which Philip and Aleda had already memorized under Mr. Hunter.

  “Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful….”

  When the shuffling began again as students took to their seats, Jeremiah eyed Philip again. “D’you like to go fishin’?”

  “Never been.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  Philip grinned at the boy. I may just learn to like it here.

  Chapter 9

  That same afternoon, Julia was just about to enter her bedroom to fetch a bonnet when the front bell clanged. I wonder if that’s Miss Wilson. If so, Julia would be saved a walk to the vicarage, for she had decided to ask the vicar’s daughter if she knew of anyone willing to take on a temporary position as a cook. Preparing and then cleaning up after the disastrous breakfast this morning had taken her and Fiona over two hours—they simply could not afford to take that much time away from the other desperately needed cleaning chores, even if she hired another maid.