The Widow of Larkspur Inn

by Lawana Blackwell

  Philip smiled back, and a strange warmth filled his heart. In fact, he found himself wanting to bound over there and pick up the book for her. He touched the crown of his head and wished he’d bought another jar of pomade after Grace used it all. His stubborn cowlick was again asserting its right to stand apart from the other hairs.

  That’s all right, he consoled himself. Hadn’t he overheard Miss Rawlins say to Mrs. Dearing just last week that women were more attracted to a man’s intelligence than his appearance? It wouldn’t take this Laurel Phelps long to discover who was the most upstanding student in the whole school.

  Captain Powell’s authoritative voice snapped him out of his reverie and brought his attention to the front of the classroom.

  “Students in sixth standard, clear your desks and prepare pens and paper,” he was saying.

  Philip obeyed, confidently looking forward to the first history test. Mr. Durwin had called out dates and events that occurred during the classical era for over two hours yesterday evening, drilling him until he’d had dreams last night of Diocletian dividing the Roman Empire and Vandals capturing Carthage. After filling his pen from the inkwell upon his desk, he scripted his name at the top of the page and waited for the first question.

  Captain Powell’s first question, as it turned out, was directed to the new girl. “Miss Phelps,” he said. “Would you prefer to delay your examination for a week? You’ve not had the advantage of preparing for it.”

  You should wait, Philip urged silently, watching her face from the corner of his eye. Captain Powell’s examinations are beastly hard. He could even offer to help her study. And of course she would see the advantage of having him do so, for the top scorer would probably be announced by the end of the day. Captain Powell was inclined to use every hour of daylight available to him, so he often graded papers during break while seated on the school steps.

  But Laurel Phelps surprised him by shaking her head. “No, thank you, sir,” she said shyly. “I studied the classical world last year. I believe I can remember most of it.”

  Philip felt sorry for her, for he was aware of what she was doing. It was better to risk making a poor score than to set yourself apart from the other students on your first day. With a quiet sigh, he turned his attention back to the examination, answering the first question by writing, The cause of the Punic Wars was commercial rivalry over the Mediterranean Sea between Rome and Carthage. Captain Powell insisted that answers be given in the form of whole sentences. He didn’t recall the headmaster informing Laurel Phelps as such and hoped she would instinctively figure that out.

  During the break, Philip, Ben, and Jeremiah joined several other boys for a game of marbles around a circle they’d scratched in the dirt under an elder tree. They played with more animation than ever, congratulating themselves loudly for good plays, but so many glances were directed to the girls’ side of the school yard that points were few and far between. And sure enough, Captain Powell graded papers on the steps. Hopefully he would allow the new girl to take a makeup examination in a few days. Philip wished he had the boldness to sidle up to the schoolmaster and suggest that he do so. Wouldn’t that make him a hero in her eyes!

  It was not until the closing minutes of the day that Captain Powell handed out the graded examinations. Even though he’d received a twenty-nine out of a possible thirty points, Philip sat silent amidst the low groans and self-congratulatory remarks. His near perfect scores had always made the former unnecessary, and as far as the latter … well, praise was always sweeter coming from someone else’s lips. Casually leaning back in his desk chair, he pretended to study a blister on his thumb and waited for the announcement of the top score. He would accept the congratulations of his teacher with his usual modest composure, so that no one could accuse him of conceit.

  His body went rigid when the captain called out Laurel Phelps’s name.

  “Hey, Philip, what do you think of the new vicar’s girl?” Ben asked as the two walked down Church Street together after school. Jeremiah, who lived on the squire’s property, had already gone off in the opposite direction with his two younger brothers. Aleda and Grace dawdled several feet behind with Helen Johnson, the baker’s daughter, and the six-year-old Peterson twins from the infant school.

  Philip shifted The Oxford Study of Mathematics and lunch pail to his other arm. The examination on multiplying and dividing compound fractions wasn’t until Friday, but he reckoned that studying ahead never hurt anybody. “She seems intelligent enough.” His answer was truthful, for after the shock of being beaten by a new student, he’d reasoned with himself. Why shouldn’t she be allowed that small victory on her first day of school? Even though his marks averaged out to be the highest in his standard, there were occasional times when Ben scored a point or two higher on an exam.

  “Hey, Phil-ip!” came a singsong voice from behind them. Philip ignored it, as was his usual rule. Helen Johnson was a pest to end all pests, and her favorite hobby, besides giggling, was giggling while cuffing him on the arm and sprinting away in the hopes that he would chase her.

  “Phil-up!” the irritating voice called again. “I wonder if the trophy’s going to go to a girl again this year?”

  Loyal Ben slowed his steps long enough to throw over his shoulder, “Fernie Sanders was looking for you yesterday, Helen. He wants to ask you to marry him.”

  “He does not!”

  “Just ask him! I’ll go fetch him if you like.”

  “I’ll go fe-etch him if you li-ike,” Helen sang out for lack of a more witty retort, causing her female companions to break out in giggles.

  The boys hastened their steps until they were out of hearing range, then Philip asked if his friend wanted to go to Trumbles for some peppermint sticks. “Mr. Clay insisted I take sixpence for fetching one of his coats from the tailor’s. I just have to nip inside and get it from my room.”

  “If you’ve a mind to share,” Ben replied. “Odd chap, your Mr. Clay, isn’t he? Always looks like he’s just been invited to his own funeral.”

  “He’s just moody, that’s all,” said Philip. “But always pleasant enough. And sometimes he’s quite good company.”

  They crossed Market Lane to head for the carriage drive—Mother insisted that lunch pails be brought directly to the kitchen. To his right, over the low stone wall in front of the inn, Philip could see Mrs. Kingston, a commanding figure in black moving about in the flower garden. Even though most of the early blooming flowers were fading with the approach of autumn, late blooming dahlias, delphiniums, marigolds, and pinks were coming into their own, and she still spent most of her time fussing over them.

  And that’s just fine with me, Philip thought as he and Ben returned the waves of the Worthy sisters. He had once supposed that lodgers, especially elderly ones, would be inclined toward sitting around idle, but the very opposite was true. Just as Mrs. Kingston busied herself in the garden, Mrs. Hyatt and Mrs. Dearing went through skeins of wool to make hangings for the Larkspur’s walls, Mr. Durwin collected and catalogued medicinal herbs, and Miss Rawlins wrote stories. And even Mr. Clay now accompanied Mrs. Kingston on her daily walk and spent a good deal of time rebinding some of the older books in the library.

  Philip was glad of all that for his mother’s sake. She had enough to do without attempting to keep six people from being bored. He reckoned that the lodgers’ activities were to them what fishing was to him. Since moving to Gresham, he’d discovered some sort of hobby was necessary to most lives. Except for perhaps the Sanders brothers, unless bullying could be considered a hobby.

  The air that greeted them when Philip opened the kitchen door was warm and fragrant with cinnamon. All thoughts of Mr. Trumble’s peppermint sticks vanished from his mind as he ushered Ben through the doorway. Mother turned to smile at him from the kitchen table, where she sat with Fiona, Mrs. Herrick, Mildred, and Gertie over mugs of tea.

  “Good day, boys. Where are the girls?”

  “They’re dawdling with their f
riends.” Philip set his lunch pail on a cupboard shelf. To his relief, Mother did not get out of her chair and kiss him in front of Ben. His eye caught a large towel-covered pan at the center of the table. “What smells so good?”

  “Apple strudel,” Mrs. Herrick answered from the head of the table, then added with a mock scowl, “And we’re all doin’ just fine, thank you.”

  Philip winced. “That was to be my next question.”

  Moving the towel from the pan of pastries, Mother asked Ben, “Why don’t you join us?”

  “If you’re sure there’s enough,” Ben answered with a timid eye turned toward the cook. “I’ve never tasted strudel.”

  “Aye,” Mrs. Herrick replied, then winked at Fiona. “More than enough, and with another pan over there on the stove. Everyone’s been served but you and the girls.”

  Mildred got up to pour the boys some milk, and Philip took the empty chair next to his mother’s. Ben went straightway around the table to sit next to Fiona. While she served up generous portions of the pastry, Mother told them that today was the Herricks’ twentieth wedding anniversary.

  “It’s my Karl’s favorite, so I always bake strudel on our anniversary,” Mrs. Herrick said, as if any explanation was necessary for the wonderful, flaky confection that now melted away on Philip’s tongue. He did manage to take his mind off his taste buds long enough to feel grateful that Mrs. Herrick had had the foresight to marry a German.

  Suddenly there was the sound of a man clearing his throat, and then, “Excuse us, ladies.” All heads turned to the corridor doorway, where Mr. Clay and Mr. Durwin were now standing.

  “May we come in?” the actor asked with eyebrows raised pleadingly.

  The four servants at the table made moves to get to their feet, but Mr. Clay advanced to the table and held up a restraining hand. “Please—do keep your seats.”

  Mr. Durwin, looking quite self-conscious, walked over to stand at Mr. Clay’s elbow. “We would just like to say how much we enjoyed the apple strudel. Our sincere compliments to the cook.”

  “Yes,” agreed Mr. Clay. “And I personally would like to ask for her hand in marriage.”

  Philip chuckled, and Ben covered a shocked grin with his hand. Mrs. Herrick, however, took in the proposal with aplomb. “And you happen to know that you’re safe in saying your fancy words, Mr. Clay. But I do thank you gentlemen for the compliment. How about if we send you out another tray?”

  “No need to go to the trouble, if you can stand our company.”

  “Please, gentlemen … take a chair.”

  The offer did not have to be repeated. Mr. Durwin walked over to the chair next to Philip, and Mr. Clay went around to sit across from him, next to Ben.

  “Why, hullo, Mr. Mayhew,” the actor said to Philip’s friend. “My eyes were so full of strudel that I didn’t notice you there. Tell me, gentlemen, what did you learn in school today?”

  “That we’re not as bright as we thought we were,” Ben answered right away, causing Philip to shoot him a warning look and everyone else at the table to smile.

  “Well then, I’ve always maintained that the beginning of true knowledge is when we realize we don’t know everything,” Mr. Clay said.

  “That’s a fact, boys,” Mr. Durwin nodded. He studied Ben for a second and then said, “Your father works for the squire, doesn’t he?”

  “No, sir,” Philip answered for him. “That’s Jeremiah’s father. Ben’s father is a wheelwright.”

  “Is that so?”

  Ben spoke this time. “Yes, sir. His shop is on Worton Lane, attached to our house.”

  “Past that old abandoned mill?” asked Mr. Clay.

  “You’ve seen our place?”

  “I’ve seen practically every cottage in Gresham,” Mr. Clay answered, feigning a sigh. “Mrs. Kingston insists upon changing the route of our walk every few days. Isn’t there a family of basket weavers at the end of the lane?”

  “The Keegans,” Philip replied.

  “Indeed?” Mr. Clay looked past Ben to Fiona. “Miss O’Shea, were you aware that you aren’t the only person in Gresham of Irish heritage?”

  Philip wondered if he were the only person to notice how Mr. Clay’s voice softened just a bit whenever he said “Miss O’Shea.” And how the man’s eyes seemed to follow her whenever she came through a room. He supposed that Mr. Clay must be in love with Fiona—after all, she was the prettiest, kindest woman in England … next to Mother. The thought occurred to him that perhaps they would marry one day. That was quite all right, as long as neither moved away from the Larkspur. Perhaps Mr. Clay wouldn’t have so many sad moods if he had a good wife.

  But then another thought followed, and he shook his head at his own ignorance. If Mr. Clay did indeed love Fiona, that wasn’t enough for marriage. She had to feel the same way about him too, just as Mother and Father had loved each other. And while she was certainly kind to Mr. Clay, she did not treat him any differently than anyone else.

  “Yes, I’ve met the Keegans,” the housekeeper replied to Mr. Clay’s question. Her smile seemed pasted on and the violet eyes took on a worried cast. “They’ve made baskets and mats for us.”

  “Were you acquainted with them in Ireland?” Mr. Durwin asked.

  “I’m afraid not, sir. They hail from Dublin, and I’m from Kilkenny.”

  “We gave them some fish once,” Ben said in an obvious effort to impress her. “They were very happy to have them. And we’ll likely do it again soon.”

  Curiously, Fiona’s lips pressed together as if she were angry. “How kind of you,” she said at length in her soft brogue but then pushed out her chair and stood. Mr. Clay reached her before anyone else could think to move and put a hand upon her shoulder.

  “Please … don’t leave, Miss O’Shea. What’s wrong?”

  Philip watched as his mother hurried around the table. “Fiona? Are you ill?”

  “Why don’t you have her sit down?” Mildred suggested.

  Philip met Ben’s curious look with a blank stare. He couldn’t recall ever seeing Fiona upset, even when Georgette walked into a table once and caused a lamp to break.

  “I’ve the marketing list to prepare,” Fiona insisted, but Mother and Mr. Clay coaxed her back into the chair. She sighed and apologized again. “So silly of me …”

  “Well, nothing to be embarrassed about, dear,” said Mrs. Herrick. “You just rest there until you feel better.”

  Mr. Durwin nodded. “Is there something any of us can help you with, Miss O’Shea?”

  “It’s kind of you to ask, but I don’t think so.”

  “Surely it would help to talk about it,” Mildred suggested.

  Fiona pressed her lips together in an effort to compose herself, but a second or two later sighed. “It’s that family. They’re just so helpless.”

  “Who, Fiona?” asked Mother, taking the chair that Ben vacated for her, while Mr. Clay stood just behind Fiona’s other shoulder.

  “I believe she means the Keegans,” said Mr. Durwin. “Is that correct, Miss O’Shea?”

  She nodded. “Yes, sir. I went over there just this mornin’ to see about some baskets for the pantry. Someone has been playing tricks on them.”

  “Playing tricks?” Mother asked. “What do you mean?”

  Taking a deep breath, Fiona explained that the Keegans went to Shrewsbury almost every Saturday to sell baskets and spend the night, something Philip and Ben already knew. “They’ve a wooden shed that they store finished baskets in. Every Sunday afternoon when they return from Shrewsbury, they find the shed tipped over.”

  “But why?” asked Gertie.

  “I haven’t the foggiest,” Fiona sighed. “And I suppose it sounds like a small matter. But they’ve never felt welcome in this village, so this has them feeling even more …”

  “Alienated?” Ben offered.

  “Yes. Alienated.”

  Philip raised an eyebrow at Ben and received a slight nod in return. He could tell that one particular sur
name had crossed his friend’s mind as well as his own. Should he mention their shared suspicion yet? He turned his face toward Fiona—for a brief instant, his eyes locked with Mr. Clay’s.

  “Well, it’s a small matter to fetch the constable right away!” Mr. Durwin huffed indignantly. “Malicious mischief is still against the law in this country.”

  Fiona shook her head. “Please don’t, sir. I offered to go with them to see Constable Reed, but the Keegans insisted that they’re afraid of angering whoever is doing this.”

  “It can’t be just one person,” said Gertie. “Would take at least two to push over a shed.”

  “Do they know who it is?” Mother asked.

  “I’ve a feeling they suspect someone, ma’am. But they wouldn’t share it with me.”

  “Afraid to anger vandals?” Mr. Durwin sputtered. “And who gives a tinker’s curse if they become angry? Spending a few weeks in the lockup would cool some tempers.”

  But Philip understood. If indeed some of the Sanders boys were up to this, it was still apparently in the prank stage. If they saw that their nocturnal activities were causing no stirs, after a while they would probably give them up and move on to greener pastures. But allow the law to become involved, and the whole clan would consider it a matter of family honor to exact revenge in as many sneaky ways as possible.

  He’d once read something about elephants, how those majestic looking creatures were really quite petty and could nurse grudges for years and years. That description seemed to fit the Sanders perfectly.

  “Please.” Finally assuming her usual composure, Fiona said to Mr. Durwin, “That is so kind of you to offer, sir, but we must consider the Keegans’ wishes.”

  “Well, I don’t know how it was in Ireland, but here in England people have the right to expect the law to protect their property.”

  “But it’s a small matter to set the shed upright every week, compared with having to replace broken windows or worse. Besides, they’ve no proof of who’s doing this.”