The next day the postman brought two more letters of inquiry. As soon as she had the opportunity to slip away, Julia went to Trumbles and withdrew four pounds. She borrowed a wallpaper pattern book from Mr. Trumble and purchased three shiny lunch pails for sixpence each along with a card of fishing line Philip had requested for a halfpenny. Next, she went to the butcher’s and ordered a joint of lamb for Easter Sunday dinner. The rest of the money she dropped into her reticule.
She found Fiona in the hall, polishing the fireplace with leadblack. Some twelve feet away, Grace knelt upon the bench in front of the pianoforte and moved the index finger of each hand up and down upon the keys, producing inharmonious but not unpleasant sounds. Under the bench napped Buff, the yellow tabby Betty had given the girl for her sixth birthday last week. Grace was the first to notice Julia and stopped playing. “You went shopping, Mother?”
“I did indeed.” Julia set her parcel down upon one of the sofas, returned Fiona’s greeting, and walked over to kiss the top of Grace’s head. “Did your brother and sister scatter already?”
The child turned on the bench and nodded, her bottom lip trembling just a bit. Before Julia could ask what was wrong, Fiona backed out of the fireplace and got to her feet, her chore finished. Sending a sympathetic look over to Grace, she said, “Miss Wilson asked if they would help her pick some cowslips on the Anwyl to decorate the church for Easter service. I didn’t think you would mind. I’ll tidy up their rooms.”
Julia shook her head. “Thank you, but they’ll have time to finish their chores this evening.” She nudged Grace aside on the piano bench and sat down next to her. The commotion caused Buff to saunter off for more sedate surroundings. “You wanted to go with them, did you?”
Now a tear welled in the corner of one green eye. “Philip said I’m too little. He wants to look for marbles, too, and won’t have time to watch me.”
“Well, what if Fiona and I watched you?”
Grace’s face brightened, and she held out both arms and wrapped them around Julia’s neck. “Thank you, Mother!”
“You’re welcome. Now, go see if you can fish your boots out of your armoire. Those slippers will never do.”
“She’ll need woolies too, ma’am,” Fiona reminded. “The ground is still damp.”
“Of course. Just look for the boots, and I’ll be there in a minute.” When Grace had left the room, Julia turned back to Fiona. “You would enjoy a walk with us, wouldn’t you? You’ve worked so hard these past two weeks.”
The Irishwoman smiled but shook her head. “You go enjoy some time with your daughter. Besides, the fireplace in the dining room needs attention.”
“But that’s not a housekeeper’s task, is it?”
“Not a housekeeper’s task?” Fiona echoed.
Julia went over to the sofa, reached into her reticule, and pulled out two pound sterling notes. “Your past month’s wages, Fiona,” she said, crossing over to where her confused friend stood. “And welldeserved.”
Fiona shook her head again. “You haven’t a single lodger yet, ma’am—I can wait. And that’s double what I was paid in London.”
“Ah, but you weren’t the housekeeper in London, were you?” Julia, hardly able to contain her excitement, gave Fiona a quick embrace. “And we’re going to visit the dressmaker here in Gresham and see about ordering some gowns to replace those uniforms. Housekeepers should dress according to their station, don’t you think?”
She stopped babbling, a little hurt that Fiona’s expression did not match the joy she was feeling. “Aren’t you pleased at all, Fiona?”
“Why, yes … of course.” The maid bit her lip. “But you need lodgers….”
“And as to the lodgers, well, Jensen was right. We’re going to fill this house.”
Fiona’s violet eyes widened. “More letters?”
“Two,” Julia smiled, pulling the pair of envelopes from her reticule and waving them at her. “Two beautiful, wonderful letters!”
“I wish we had better cutlery,” Julia sighed as she and Fiona picked up the dishes and flatware from the oak table in the dining room. The table was inordinately long, appearing to have been crafted inside the room itself, and was flanked by ten chairs on each side, with two at each end. Out of consideration for Betty Moser, who took care of the cooking and scullery work by herself, the family still took their meals in the kitchen, but this was Easter Sunday. Vicar Wilson, Henrietta, and Dr. and Mrs. Rhodes had joined them after the morning service for a feast of lamb with mint sauce, green peas, creamed onions, potatoes, and cabbage. Now that the guests were gone, Julia and Fiona had offered to help with the cleaning up so that Betty could spend part of the day with her own family.
“At least the china’s nice,” Fiona consoled. “Blue goes so well with a white cloth.”
“It does at that,” Julia replied but frowned down at the fork in her hand. So many other pressing matters had kept her from considering the state of the cutlery, but today she’d noticed Mrs. Rhodes give her place setting an odd glance when she first sat down at the table. The carbon-and-steel cutlery discolored quickly and required routine tedious rubbings with a dry cork and scouring powder to retain a semblance of its original luster. No doubt her lodgers-to-be would have been used to dining with silver. Would they complain of being given substandard service, perhaps even demand a reduction in rent? But with having to order linens, wall coverings, and new carpets for the six guest rooms, as well as hire on more servants soon, she could not justify spending the remaining funds on new cutlery. And there were provisions to consider. The kitchen had to be well stocked before the first guest arrived.
Fiona’s voice drew her out of her reverie. “Have you considered praying for some silver cutlery?”
“Praying?” Julia resumed collecting pewter into a dishpan. “I’ve prayed more these past two months than in all the former years of my life combined. But don’t you think it would be greedy praying for silver? Sort of Judas Iscariot-like?”
Her arms laden with a tray of soiled dishes, the housekeeper tilted her chin thoughtfully. “Why, I don’t know, ma’am. It doesn’t seem like a greedy request to me. And Judas certainly got his silver by other means than prayin’.”
“God’s given me so much lately. I don’t want to sound ungrateful.”
“But He knows your heart. And it appears to me that you’re very grateful.”
Because I’ve so much to be grateful for, Julia thought. Never again would she take for granted that her children had food and shelter. But would it be so wrong to ask for something that would enhance the business God had provided? And if it’s something that I don’t truly need, He’ll know that better than I will.
“I’ll pray for the silver,” she finally said. “He can always say no.” And if He did, well, she had already been blessed beyond measure.
Fiona smiled, hefting the tray in her arms. “I’ll do the same.”
The weather was just perfect on May Day morning, cool enough for woolies, but with no threat of rain in the cloudless sky. Though protesting that he was too old and manly for the possession of the garland, Philip allowed Aleda and Grace to wheedle him into assembling with the other village children on the green. He was relieved to see Ben and Jeremiah there as well, sporting sheepish looks—both had also declared themselves too mature for such foolishness. Children were decked out in their Sunday finest, their hats decorated with flowers and bright ribbons. A garland of bluebells, forget-me-nots, cowslips, violets, wallflowers, and daffodils had been prepared in school the day before, and the children would take turns carrying it as they proceeded through the streets of Gresham.
A photographer from Shrewsbury was readying his tripod and camera, and Miss Hillock, Grace’s schoolmistress, arranged the children in rows—smallest to tallest. Philip, Ben, and Jeremiah gladly took the back row and assumed somber expressions. It was one thing to have one’s image captured in a photograph to be displayed in the schoolhouse for perpetuity, but to be pictured as act
ually enjoying the event would be humiliating beyond words.
“Let’s straighten your bow, shall we?” Miss Hillock said, leaning down to aid a small girl in front. When she’d finished primping every child within reach, she stepped back and allowed the photographer to do his job. The man’s head disappeared behind a black cloth. The parents who had attended the festivities admonished children to hold still, and then there was a flash, followed by a sharp sulfur odor.
“You done fine,” the photographer said when his head appeared again. “Remember to tell your mothers and fathers that I’ll be taking family portraits in front of the Maypole during the picnic.”
The children began their procession then, with Connie Jefferies, one of Grace’s little friends from the infants’ school, carrying the coin box. As a matter of custom, they went first to the vicarage behind Saint Jude’s, where they struck up in a timid and shrill chorus, a three-verse song beginning,
A bunch of may I have brought you
And at your door it stands
It is but a sprout, but it’s well put about
By the Lord Almighty’s hands.
The door was opened by Vicar Wilson himself, who slipped a penny into the money box and admired the garland, proclaiming it as being “the best ever made.”
The Manor House came next, set in a framework of pine and deciduous trees, manicured lawns, shrubbery, and outbuildings. The house itself was constructed of red sandstone with a red clay tile roof, high gables, and mullioned windows. It seemed much too huge to Philip for one man. This time a servant opened the door and turned over the penny after giving a perfunctory nod at the garland. After that the chattering gaggle of children marched to cottages and farmhouses, collecting coins that would later provide a school treat on the last day before summer recess. Even the most humble of cottages managed to produce a farthing or half-penny.
Mr. Trumble, in addition to his penny, liberally handed out boiled sweets at his general shop, bank, and post. “There now, plenty for everyone,” he chuckled, seeing that no child left without a bulge in his cheek. Philip found that he was enjoying himself immensely, though he would never have admitted it to his friends.
As the procession moved on, he looked back over his shoulder at Mr. Trumble, who stood on his front stoop waving farewell, and wished again that his father had been more like the shopkeeper. With so many items needed to ready the Larkspur for the coming lodgers, Mother had sent him to Trumbles often during the past week. And he was more than willing to go, not just to look at the marbles, but because the shopkeeper acted as if he enjoyed their chats—as if what Philip was saying was of the greatest importance.
Mr. Trumble treated everyone with the same courtesy and interest, young or old, but what Philip appreciated most was that the shopkeeper listened without seeming to be thinking about something else. How many times had he been bursting to tell Father about an exciting cricket match or something like that … only to have his father pat his head after a while and say, “That’s fine, son. Have you seen my newspaper?”
And yet he still believed his father had loved him, which brought about immense guilt whenever he tried to understand his own sense of having been abandoned. Especially when he had no words to convey how he felt. And if he could voice them, to whom would he speak? He certainly couldn’t add to his mother’s grief. She’d suffered enough and was probably still suffering, even though she managed to keep a brave front.
It seemed that most villagers were beginning to lose interest in the Larkspur’s ghost after all. As Julia approached the green, she was stopped for pleasantries several times. Vicar Wilson was right, she thought. How sad she had been to learn that he would be leaving within the month for a drier climate that would be kinder to his rheumatic joints. His kind, benevolent, grandfatherly ways would be sorely missed by everyone in Gresham. Henrietta’s absence would be felt as well, for she was like a doting aunt to all who knew her.
Even though she would be leaving soon, Henrietta showed no signs of slackening with her duties. She could be seen moving from table to platform to Maypole, taking care of little details that added to the success of the celebration. Julia waited until opportunity presented itself and approached the vicar’s daughter.
“Everything looks so nice,” Julia told her after a quick shared embrace. She could not bring herself to say good-bye just yet. “It seems the whole village is involved.”
“Well, almost,” Henrietta said, her hazel eyes smiling. “It’s because country folk work so hard. When they have a chance to play, they take it seriously.”
“What can I do to help?”
Henrietta held up a basket of violets gathered into nosegays.
“Would you like to put these around the punch and cake table?”
“But of course,” Julia replied.
As she pinned flowers to the edge of the tablecloth, Julia smiled at the sound of children’s laughter and chatter in the distance. Earlier, she and Fiona had joined the parents following the group as it passed the Larkspur, but turned back to prepare food for the picnic after the children crossed over the Bryce. Betty Moser had recently rejoined her husband, and Mr. and Mrs. Herrick and the other newly hired servants weren’t due until next week, but Julia was confident that she and Fiona could prepare a decent lunch of sandwiches, cheese, and fruit. As time slipped up on them and the hamper had not yet been packed, Fiona had insisted that she go on ahead to the green and not miss the return of the children.
Fiona’s absence was noted, for Luke Smith, the vicar’s gardener, approached Julia ostensibly to ask how she liked the fine weather and to inform her that rain had all but ruined the past two May Day celebrations. “Well, then I’m sure everyone appreciates today’s beautiful weather all the more,” she told him, pausing from her work to give him a smile.
“Yes … appreciates,” came out with a faint whistle, and he shifted his feet. “Don’t suppose everyone is here yet, though.”
She understood then and nodded in the direction of the Larkspur. “Miss O’Shea will be here shortly. She’s packing our lunch.”
Relief washed over the man’s tanned face. “Well, uh, that’s good.”
“Would you hand me another pin from that cushion?” Julia asked him, bending slightly to position another nosegay. He obliged right away. She had assumed she’d found herself an assistant, but when she asked for another pin, there was no answer. “Mr. Smith?” she said, turning, only to come face-to-face with Mrs. Rhodes.
“Lovely table, Mrs. Hollis. Could you use some help?”
“Why, thank you.”
They formed an efficient team, with Julia positioning nosegays and Mrs. Rhodes pinning. Ten minutes later, the last violets were set in place. Julia and the veterinary doctor took a step back to admire their work.
“Would you like to share our picnic?” Julia asked her, assuming Dr. Rhodes was out making a call.
Mrs. Rhodes flashed her a grateful smile but shook her head. “I just nipped over to see the decorations. Lucy’s going to foal any day now, and I want to stay close to home. But do stop by later today, if you have the time. I’ve something that may interest you.”
Chapter 11
“Now then, stay put,” Fiona muttered to the hamper lid as she trimmed the ends of the twine she’d used to make repairs. Philip had found the dusty old hamper last week while foraging about in the empty groomsman’s apartment over the stables. Now that Fiona had it cleaned, it looked practically new, but she hadn’t realized until this morning that the catch was broken. At least it holds enough food, she thought, lifting the hamper an inch from the table to test the patch job. It was quite heavy, causing her to smile at her mistress’s earlier worries that they would all starve. It’s cutting back we’ll be needing to do soon, or we’ll lose our figures for sure.
She was untying the apron from around the waist of her saffron-and-white checked gown when the bell tinkled at the courtyard door. Patting her straw hat down upon her crown, Fiona walked across the corrid
or to open it. Luke Smith stood there with an anxious smile across his clean-shaven face. He wore a black Sunday suit instead of his usual work clothes and had slicked back his hair with oil.
“Why, good day, Mr. Smith,” Fiona said.
He seemed to take encouragement from her greeting, relaxing his smile a little. Nonetheless, his hands seemed to want for something to do; they alternated between dangling at his sides and hiding in his pockets. “Thought you might be wantin’ some help toting your hamper.”
“Why, that’s very kind of you,” Fiona had no choice but to declare. The hope in his expression saddened her—Luke was a decent person and she had no wish to hurt him. She was aware that allowing him to carry the hamper was only encouraging him, yet he would have felt humiliated had she turned him down.
He followed her into the kitchen and went over to the hamper on the table. “Had to fix it, did you?” he asked, surveying the twine.
“At the last minute, I’m afraid.”
“A basket weaver lives down Worton Lane, past the old mill. Keegan’s his name.”
Fiona raised an eyebrow. “Irish?” She’d thought herself the only Irish person in Gresham.
“He could fix it up right fine for you.” Luke’s face brightened. “Why, I’ll be happy to bring it over to him after the picnic.”
“Oh no … thank you. I believe I would like to meet him anyway.”
Panic flickered across Luke’s expression, and perhaps a fair amount of jealousy. “He’s got a wife and family too, he has.”
“All the better,” Fiona said. “I don’t often have the opportunity to visit with other Irish folk.”
He was obviously relieved to hear her intentions stated in the matter. Lifting the basket, he walked ahead of her to hold open the courtyard door, then accompanied her down the carriage drive. It was too late when Fiona saw the Worthy sisters in their usual places in the sun. Had she known they weren’t going to join the festivities, she would have taken Luke out the front door. She sent a reluctant wave at the sisters and steeled herself, knowing what was coming.
The Widow of Larkspur Inn Page 12