The Widow of Larkspur Inn

by Lawana Blackwell

  She pushed her chair out again and rose from the table. First giving Mother and Mr. Clay an appreciative look, she apologized to everyone for becoming upset. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see to that marketing list now.”

  A thoughtful silence settled over the group for a second or two after Fiona left the kitchen. It was broken when the kitchen door swung open. “What smells so good?” Aleda exclaimed, flanked by Grace and Helen. Deciding it a perfect time to leave, Philip motioned to Ben, thanked Mrs. Herrick for the strudel, and asked Mother to be excused. Permission was granted, and Philip and his friend went out the back door as the chattering girls found places at the table.

  “Do you still want to go to Trumbles?” Philip asked half-heartedly as they ambled across the courtyard.

  Ben patted his stomach and belched. “May we tomorrow instead? Besides, I’ve chores waiting, so I’ll have to leave soon.”

  “All right.” He kicked a loose stone. “What do you think of what Fiona said in there?”

  “I think the same thing you do. Should we have told?”

  “I don’t know. Mr. Durwin sounded ready to jump up and fetch the constable.” Philip sighed and kicked another stone. “Surely they’ll tire of their little game one day.” Changing the subject, he said, “Have you time for a game of horseshoes?”

  “Just one.”

  The spike was set in the ground just outside the courtyard. Ben had just tossed the first shoe, a miss, when the courtyard door opened and Mr. Clay came outside and strolled over to them with both hands in his pockets.

  “Would you like a turn?” Philip asked.

  Mr. Clay smiled, but his slate gray eyes studied both of them. “Some other time, thank you.” He nodded back toward the benches under the giant oak tree. “Why don’t we sit and have a chat?”

  “A chat?”

  “Just for a bit. I’ve a feeling you two have an interesting tale to share.”

  Philip did not need much coaxing to tell everything he knew about the Sanders brothers once they were settled upon the benches. Indeed, it was a relief to get the matter off his chest, and Ben appeared to feel likewise. “But Fiona … Miss O’Shea … doesn’t want us to go to the constable, so what can we do about it?”

  Mr. Clay nodded, tapping the cleft of his chin absently with a finger. “Surely there’s a way to right this wrong.”

  “You mean, you want to do something about it?” Philip asked, surprised. Even in his best moods, Mr. Clay had few dealings with people not attached to the Larkspur. But then he remembered the way the actor looked at Fiona and understood.

  “I wouldn’t mind. It would require some creative thought, though.”

  “We could hide behind a tree or in the bushes one Saturday night and catch them,” Ben offered.

  “And then do what with them once we’ve caught them?” Philip asked.

  “Threaten to tell Constable Reed. They can’t hold it against the Keegans if we’re the ones who report them.”

  “But they can hold it against us. And I don’t care to have to hide from the Sanders for the rest of my life.”

  Ben frowned. “That’s something to think about, sir,” he told Mr. Clay. “They give us enough grief as it is, and they’re not even angry at us.”

  “I don’t want to put either of you in jeopardy,” the actor said. Seconds later, his lips curved into a half smile. “But perhaps there is another way.”

  Chapter 22

  The vicarage was a snug two-story cottage of the same red sandstone as Saint Jude’s. It roosted on a grassy knoll a stone’s throw from the church, and its wooden gate opened up to a neat little flower garden. Cheery multicolored woven rugs softened the oak plank flooring, and odd pieces of furniture, though none of it matching, appeared polished and well cared for.

  The servants, Luke, Dora, and Mrs. Paget, had greeted Andrew and his family the previous evening with some uncertainty showing through their smiles. Andrew could understand this—he’d been informed by Bishop Myers that the vicar he was replacing, Reverend Wilson, had been much loved by the community. No doubt the servants felt the loss even more keenly than did the villagers. Their reserve melted a bit when Andrew warmly expressed his gratitude for the kettle of chicken and leek soup Mrs. Paget had kept simmering for them and indicated his appreciation of the garden and tidy rooms.

  He had been pleased to discover that a river, the Bryce, flowed just north of the vicarage. Perhaps there would be a little time for fishing once a routine was established. Even more pleasing was the little book-lined study just off the parlor. Andrew had spent his first full afternoon in Gresham—after inspecting Saint Jude’s and lunching with Elizabeth at the home of the churchwarden, Mr. Sykes—thumbing through a clothbound notebook that Vicar Wilson had left upon the desk with a letter of welcome. You may find this helpful, his predecessor had accurately written, for within its pages were thoughtful descriptions of every family in the parish—occupations, births and names of children, conversions and baptisms, deaths, and even facts that would aid a pastor in serving, such as:

  Mrs. Ramsey (a seamstress living on Thatcher Lane, so the notebook said) tends to her ailing mother and cannot attend church. They both look forward to Monday morning visits for prayer and hearing details of the previous day’s service.

  Another entry told of a Mr. Kerns, a cheese factory worker: He is a decent man, but occasionally struggles with the temptation of the bottle. If Mr. Kerns should be spotted entering or leaving the Bow and Fiddle at any time, it would be beneficial to deliver a stern lecture against allowing his nine children to live in want while he wastes money on strong drink. The effects of such admonition will last three months, perhaps even four, before needing to be repeated.

  “Bless you, Vicar Wilson,” Andrew said aloud, for how long would it have taken him to learn such things on his own? He made a mental note to write a letter of appreciation to the good reverend and turned his attention to the notebook again. Next came a warning that while patronizing Mr. McFarley, the barber, conversation should be gently steered away from politics lest an uneven haircut result.

  And if anyone even mentions the phrase “Scottish Reform Bill,” it would behoove you to remove yourself from the premises immediately. Andrew smiled and glanced up at the chimneypiece clock—then winced at the time. Half past four. He hadn’t intended to cloister himself away for so long. Laurel had likely returned from school by now, and Elizabeth, who’d gone upstairs after lunch with a book, would need to be encouraged to spend some time with the family.

  He wondered as he placed a folded sheet of writing paper inside the notebook to mark his stopping place if he should have been patient and waited for a city assignment. Perhaps he could have persuaded her to attend a women’s college as a day student. It wasn’t good for her to have so much time to brood.

  But was more education the answer? Had he encouraged his daughters to fill their heads with knowledge to the neglect of their character development? He had always been so secure and just a little proud of the fact that he’d led them both to faith in Christ at early ages, but shouldn’t he have encouraged them upon a journey of spiritual growth, just as he would have done for any of his other parishioners?

  The painful realization hit him that, because his daughters were raised in a minister’s home, he had assumed they would automatically absorb the spiritual principle that had taken him decades to glean. But, as Bishop Myers was fond of saying, God has no grandchildren.

  Forgive me for being a stumbling block to my own children, he prayed, sighing. And please give each a stronger sense of purpose for their lives … especially Elizabeth now.

  The search for his daughters ended in the kitchen. It was a pleasant room, with a clean flagstone floor and savory aromas. A black-leaded range shone beneath a fringe of utensils hanging from the chimneypiece, where Mrs. Paget stood tending a kettle. Both girls were seated at a well-scrubbed oak worktable over cups and biscuits and looked up when he entered the room.

  Andrew pul
led out the chair at the head of the table, adjacent to both girls. “Good afternoon, my two favorite daughters.”

  Six or seven years ago, this greeting never failed to elicit either a giggle or at least a correction of his context, but it had become a little worn with time. Now all he received were indulgent smiles. Elizabeth’s half-hearted attempt did not match Laurel’s in intensity, but he was nonetheless encouraged that it wasn’t a frown.

  “Hello, Papa,” they said, almost in unison.

  “Would you be wantin’ some tea now, vicar?” asked Mrs. Paget from the stove. She appeared at least fifty years of age, with graying blond hair and fine wrinkles webbing her eyes. She carried her thick figure with a grace that any dancer would envy. The cook had been in service at the vicarage for thirty-two years, she’d told Andrew yesterday evening, and her husband, Daniel Paget, had held Luke’s position until his passing on ten years ago.

  “Tea would be nice, thank you,” Andrew replied. After the cook poured, he asked Laurel about her day at school.

  “It went very well,” she said, her brown eyes sparkling. “I scored the highest mark in the class on a history examination.”

  “Wonderful! And how did you get on with your classmates?”

  “They were quite friendly.”

  “I trust you didn’t gloat about the exam, Laurel,” Elizabeth said in a tone filled with elder-sister-admonition. “You have a tendency to do that, you know, but the others won’t like you if they think you’re conceited.”

  “I didn’t gloat,” Laurel assured her. “And some of the girls even congratulated me over it.” She excused herself then, saying she had a composition assignment that was due the next day.

  After the sound of her footsteps had faded away, Elizabeth gave Andrew a wry smile and remarked, “She’ll be ordering the headmaster about before too long.”

  He sipped his tea and smiled back at her, pleased at this glimmer of her old sense of humor. If only that faint shadow of reproach would leave her eyes. He could see it lurking there every time she spoke to him. “She’s just a bit competitive, that’s all.”

  “A bit? And from where did she inherit that, I wonder?”

  Andrew put a hand up to his chest. “You aren’t implying that I …”

  “All I’m saying is, I noticed you managed to find time to hang your old rowing paddle in your study less than twenty-four hours after our arrival here. And what did your teammates nickname you at Trinity College?”

  “Clipper,” he mumbled, unable to offer any argument in his own defense. And he had felt a flush of pride when Laurel announced her victory at school. But women did not have the same aggressive tendencies as men—the need to prove themselves against others. He felt quite certain that Laurel had been happy about the score on her examination for its own sake, not because it put her ahead of her fellow classmates for the day.

  Changing the subject, he asked Elizabeth if she would care to accompany him on a walk. “Just to the river,” he added when she appeared about to decline. It hurt him that she showed no interest in learning anything about Gresham or its people. He’d had to practically order her to accompany him for lunch at the home of the churchwarden’s today. She’d sat mute at the table, unless to respond to a question from Mr. or Mrs. Sykes.

  But to his relief she accepted, however unenthusiastically, and fetched a wrap from upstairs. He pulled two golden pears from the tree just outside the back gate and handed one to her on the way. The Bryce stretched out north of the vicarage, and for a long time they stood on the upper bank between two willows and watched the activity at the cheese factory on the other side. It appeared that several red-and-white carrier wagons had returned from the train station in Shrewsbury with empty barrels, which were being hauled up by a pulley into the overhanging gable. Each barrel nosed open the trap door and fell with a loud clap! behind them.

  “The cheeses are delivered to nearly all parts of England, according to Mr. Sykes,” Andrew said by way of starting conversation, as if she hadn’t been seated at the same table and heard the same information herself.

  “Is that so?” she said with no hint of sarcasm.

  Andrew realized her thoughts had been occupied elsewhere during dinner. Upon whom, he did not wish to speculate. Deciding to get right to the point, he said, “I should begin paying calls tomorrow. Why don’t you consider accompanying me?”

  “Accompany you?” She threw her pear core over to a rook sauntering along the lower bank. “But why, Papa? I never did in Cambridge.”

  “You were occupied with schooling then.”

  “Are people here expecting me to come with you?”

  “I don’t know that, Beth, but I wouldn’t ask you to do anything just because people are expecting it. I believe it would be good for you to become acquainted with the villagers. And it would give you less time to brood over the past.”

  When she protested right away that she wasn’t brooding, he amended with “dwelling upon the past,” though in his mind he could see no difference.

  “Are you ordering me to come with you, Papa?” she asked.

  “Of course not.”

  “Then I would rather stay at the vicarage.” She did not say at home. Then, as if concerned that she’d hurt his feelings, she offered him a strained smile. “Perhaps some other time.”

  Her attention was drawn to three rooks scrutinizing the ground where she’d thrown the pear core earlier, and Andrew studied her. So like her mother, he thought, even though she had inherited his blond hair. Would to God that Kathleen were here now. A mother would more fully understand what her daughter was feeling and be able to offer a more soothing consolation.

  But you understand loss, a voice reminded him.

  “Elizabeth,” he began haltingly.

  She turned to him. “Yes, Papa?”

  How could he put into words the feelings he had held inside for so long? But it seemed he had no choice. “When your mother passed away … I wanted to die myself.”

  Her brown eyes took on a liquid sheen. “You loved her very much, didn’t you?”

  “More than I can tell you. She was more than a helpmate, Beth. She was my dearest friend.”

  With a somber nod, she asked, “How did you cope, Papa?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “For a while, I didn’t. I blamed God, blamed myself, and blamed anyone else who happened to have the privilege of living. Perhaps I would still be doing so … who knows?

  But I had two daughters to consider and knew I could ill afford the luxury of extended grief. So I asked God to give me some renewed purpose for my life.”

  “And He did?”

  “Not right away. Or more likely, I didn’t recognize it right away. But eventually, I found that I had a deeper appreciation of my remaining family and my ministry. When I gave up dwelling upon my own misery and absorbed myself with the lives of those around me, the peace that I was lacking returned.”

  After a space of silence she threaded her arm through his. “Are you happy, Papa?”

  He patted her hand. “Yes, Beth. But don’t you see? When we pursue happiness for its own sake, it’s like chasing the end of a rainbow. It will always elude us. It is when we’re committed to some higher purpose that happiness somehow breaks through and comes to dwell with us.”

  Giving her a self-conscious smile, he said, “I sound as if I’m in the pulpit, don’t I.”

  “A bit,” she smiled back. “It’s not the first time.”

  “Habit of the trade. But do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I do, in my head.” Her eyes became liquid again. “But my heart still feels like it’s dying.”

  Reaching into his waistcoat pocket for a handkerchief, he wiped her cheek with it. “And it will continue to feel that way as long as you keep thinking about him.”

  “I need some time. You had time to grieve over Mother.”

  “But your mother wasn’t a scoundrel,” came out of his mouth before he could stop himself. The change in
her expression was immediate, for she now stared at him with lips pressed together tightly.

  Andrew put a hand upon her shoulder and felt it stiffen. “Beth, I shouldn’t have—”

  “Yes, Father, Jonathan was a scoundrel. And so that means I’ve no right to feel hurt?”

  “No, of course not.” Anger rose in Andrew’s chest—at the man who had so smoothly trifled with his daughter’s affections, and at Elizabeth, for even having loved him in the first place. The level of his voice rose a fraction. “But I do wish you would have enough selfrespect to forget about him and get on with your life.”

  In the short silence after he spoke, Andrew held his breath and waited for the eruption he knew was coming. Elizabeth worked her crimson-splotched face in a struggle to keep composure, then finally turned and dissolved into tears against his shoulder.

  “There, there now.” While she wept, he patted her back awkwardly, wishing back the years when his daughters’ hurts were the results of less-critical issues such as a failed examination, a misplaced locket, or a blemish on the chin. Those hurts could usually be soothed away by such paternal consolation. He felt utterly helpless now. He could say comforting words from now until Christmas, but none had the power to wrench Jonathan Raleigh out of her wounded heart.

  Chapter 23

  “Why are you still so sleepy, Philip?” Julia asked the boy after his third yawn over his plate of bacon and eggs the next morning. On school days they breakfasted at the kitchen table, as in their “prelodger” days. The children had to leave early, and there was no sense in making the maids bring food to the dining room twice. “Didn’t you sleep well?”

  He covered another yawn while replying, “Yes, Mother.”

  “Perhaps he needs a good strong dose o’ liver tonic,” Mrs. Herrick suggested from atop her stool at the other end of the table, where she rolled out scones for the lodgers’ breakfast. “You can get a pint for sixpence over to Mr. Trumble’s. ’Course you’d have to keep it away from Miss Grace, or she’ll be pourin’ it over her head.”