The Widow of Larkspur Inn

by Lawana Blackwell

  This was said with an affectionate look at the youngest child, for Grace, a frequent visitor to the kitchen, was obviously Mrs. Herrick’s favorite. Grace colored a little, but when she realized everyone was smiling at the notion, she ducked her head and smiled.

  It took Aleda to break the spell, for she said casually, while toying with her fork and coddled eggs, “I would be sleepy too if I woke up at five o’clock.”

  “Aleda!” the boy hissed.

  “Well, Mother asked.”

  “But she didn’t ask you.”

  “That’s enough! Both of you.” Julia took a deep breath to compose herself and turned to Philip again. “And why did you wake so early?”

  Letting out a sigh that sounded suspiciously like another yawn, Philip replied, “I had to finish my homework.”

  “Didn’t you finish last night?”

  “I did, but I woke up worried that my composition wasn’t good enough.”

  “Wasn’t well enough, you mean,” Grace corrected while tearing her bacon into tiny bits to sprinkle over her eggs. “Miss Hillock says you shouldn’t say ‘good.’”

  “I doubt that very much,” said Aleda.

  “But she did.”

  “In what context?” Philip asked, his blue eyes intent upon his youngest sister, as if she’d made the most profound statement he’d ever heard.

  Aware that the boy was attempting to keep the conversation steered away from himself, Julia buttered a scone and allowed the grammar lesson to continue.

  Grace stopped tearing bacon pieces and stared blankly across at Philip.

  “I mean, what was Miss Hillock talking about when she told that to the class?” he asked.

  The child screwed up her face for a second, then answered, “She said if someone should ask how you are doing, you should answer, ‘I’m quite well, thank you,’ and never just ‘good.’”

  “But that doesn’t mean you mustn’t ever use the word.” Aleda launched into a lecture about the correct usage of good and well, while Philip seized that opportunity to push away his empty plate.

  “That was delicious,” he said to Mrs. Herrick, then asked Julia if he might be excused. She smiled and shook her head.

  “If you will recall, I looked over your composition last night.” The subject of the three-page assignment was to be My Most Interesting Day, and Philip had penned a lively account of the balloon races at Brighton two years ago. He went even further to explain in succinct terms the workings of a hot-air balloon. “I thought it was a fine paper.”

  The boy shook his head. “I began too many sentences with dependent clauses. You’re supposed to vary your sentence structure, you know.”

  Julia didn’t know how to respond to this. It was good that he cared about maintaining good marks. Or would that be “well”? But he seemed to be carrying it a bit too far. How she envied families with fathers intact! Her husband may have been absent most of the time, but he was someone with whom she could share her concerns about the children—even though he had laughed most of them away.

  It was on her lips to ask if this quest for perfection had anything to do with coming in second behind the new vicar’s daughter on an examination yesterday. Aleda and Helen had giggled about it at the kitchen table after school yesterday, until Julia silenced them with a warning look. Philip had a competitive streak, true, but surely a difference of one point on an examination hadn’t ruffled his feathers. “Well, you need your sleep, son,” she finally told him before granting him permission to leave the table. “So don’t be slipping out of bed so early anymore.”

  “I won’t.” Looking relieved that the interrogation was over, he left the room to clean his teeth and fetch his book. When the girls had finished breakfast and all three children had left for school, Julia asked Mrs. Herrick if she would have time today to bake something she could bring to the new vicar’s family. She thought she would ask Fiona to accompany her to the vicarage after lunch for a brief welcome call. She would never forget how welcome Reverend Wilson and Henrietta had made her family feel when they first moved to Gresham. The vicar would have his church and parishioner responsibilities to occupy his time, but no doubt Mrs. Phelps was feeling a little like a fish out of water.

  “The vicarage already has Mrs. Paget, so something sweet would be more appropriate than a meal dish … don’t you think?” she asked Mrs. Herrick.

  “Aye,” the cook replied, motioning for Gertie, who had just come in from preparing the dining room for the lodgers’ breakfast, to bring over a pan for the scones. “And one of my chocolate and black cherry tortes would be just the thing.”

  “But didn’t you hear?” Fiona asked later, when Julia and the housekeeper were halfway down Church Lane. They each held a handle of the basket that enclosed the torte in a loose wrapping of brown paper. From the south a bracing breeze carried a faint aroma of apples from the squire’s orchard and sent leaves dancing across the lane. “There isn’t any Mrs. Phelps. The vicar’s a widower, just like the Reverend Wilson.”

  “Oh, dear.” Julia’s steps slowed. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “He’s been one for a long time, ma’am.”

  “Is it proper for us to be paying a call?”

  “Proper?”

  “You know.” Recalling her recent conversation with Mrs. Hyatt, Julia said, “I wouldn’t want him to think …”

  Fiona’s violet eyes filled with amusement, but she tactfully refrained from smiling. “He’s our pastor now. And you’ve called on Vicar Wilson before, haven’t you?”

  “Well, yes. But Henrietta was always there.”

  “Reverend Phelps has an older daughter at home as well.”

  “I wasn’t aware of that.” Julia glanced at the school building as they passed it on their right. “How did you learn all of this?”

  This time Fiona smiled. “Mildred went out to the kitchen garden for some basil this morning.”

  “And the Worthy sisters were outside?”

  “Exactly, ma’am.”

  Julia had to smile, no longer concerned about the propriety of their visit. Besides, they were planning to stay only long enough to welcome the family. When they reached the vicarage gate, they saw the figure of a young woman resting in a wicker garden chair on the opposite side. She apparently was asleep and had not heard their approach. One cheek leaned against the curved back of the chair, and both hands rested upon the pages of the open book in her lap. After unfastening the latch Fiona pushed open the gate slowly, but the hinge let out a squeak and the young woman raised her head and blinked at them.

  “We beg your pardon,” Julia said and wondered if the girl were ill. Her eyes were swollen underneath, and red splotches stained her face. In her left cheek was etched the crisscross pattern of the chair, adding to her rather pitiful appearance. “Should we come back another time?”

  “Why, no,” the girl replied, rousing herself to her feet and setting the book on the chair seat. She had obviously been asleep only a short while and had no idea of her appearance. Julia thought that she must ordinarily be a pretty girl. Her dark brown eyes were thickly lashed, and her hair appeared golden in the patch of sunlight.

  “I stopped to rest my eyes and must have dozed off,” she said. “Please, do come in.”

  “Are you all right?” Julia couldn’t refrain from asking as she went through the gate and walked over to extend her hand.

  “Oh.” The splotches on the girl’s face grew redder, but she shook Julia’s and then Fiona’s hand. “I … must have sat in the sun too long. Are you here to see my father?”

  “If he’s available. I’m Julia Hollis, and this is Fiona O’Shea.”

  “I’m Elizabeth Phelps.” She gave them a feeble attempt at a smile. “I’m sorry, but my father is out making calls.”

  “Then we’ll just wait and make his acquaintance on Sunday.” Julia lifted the basket in her hand. “We’ve brought you a torte. Welcome to Gresham, Miss Phelps.”

  “How kind of you. I’ll run
it in to Mrs. Paget and return with your basket.” A hand went up to her lips. “Oh, forgive me. Would you care to come inside for some lemonade?”

  “Thank you, but we didn’t intend to stay long anyway,” Julia replied. She couldn’t help but notice the relief that came to the girl’s eyes. Perhaps it’s homesickness that has her so miserable. “And I’ll send one of my children to collect the basket in a day or two.”

  She and Fiona bade the vicar’s daughter good-day and turned to leave. When they reached the gate Julia glanced back over her shoulder. The girl was still standing in the same spot, one hand holding the basket and the other lifted in farewell. It was such a poignant picture that Julia felt compelled to turn and give her a reassuring smile. “Sometimes it takes a while for the newness of a place to wear off, Miss Phelps. A little homesickness is natural.”

  “Yes … thank you,” Miss Phelps said in a small voice, then turned abruptly and fled into the house. Julia could only stare at the closed door. A second later she felt a touch on her sleeve and turned to Fiona at her side.

  “I didn’t mean to upset the poor girl.”

  Fiona nodded. “I don’t think you did, ma’am. It looked like she was feelin’ that way before she ever set eyes on us.”

  “Should I go back and ask to speak with her?”

  “I don’t know. Do you think it might upset her more?”

  Julia decided that Fiona had brought up a good point and turned regretfully to leave. “Perhaps we should look in on her in a few days, when she’s had more time to adjust to the move.”

  Down the vicarage lane the two started again, neither in the mood for conversation now. They had just turned onto Church Lane when they came upon a gentleman who was obviously the new vicar. He was younger than Julia would have imagined, but then, she had formed a mental picture of someone resembling Vicar Wilson. His frame—only a few inches taller than her own, and thick without being corpulent—was clothed with a gray coat and black trousers.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said upon reaching them. The lift of his bowler hat revealed wind-disheveled hair the same dark blond color as his neatly trimmed beard. “Were you just at the vicarage?”

  Then as if he felt compelled to explain his forwardness, he added right away, “I asked that because I watched you turn from the lane just now.”

  Julia offered her gloved hand. “We were there but a minute or so. I’m Mrs. Hollis, and this is Miss O’Shea.”

  “Andrew Phelps,” he said. His smile, as he shook both of their hands, crinkled his hazel eyes at the corners and transformed a face that would be described as plain into one filled with good-humored warmth. “Do forgive my being absent—I’ve been making calls. Would you care to return with me?”

  “Thank you, but we just wanted to welcome you to Gresham.” With a glance back in the direction of the vicarage, Julia added, “I’m afraid I upset your daughter, Reverend Phelps.”

  He glanced in the same direction, his eyes saddening. “Elizabeth. And I thought she was better today.”

  “All Mrs. Hollis did was assure her that her homesickness would pass eventually,” Fiona said in a respectful but straightforward tone, as if she felt the need to defend Julia.

  “I do appreciate that, Mrs. Hollis. And please don’t blame yourself.”

  “My daughter Aleda was upset about moving here as well,” Julia told him. “But she’s quite happy now. I’m sure the same will happen for your daughter.”

  “Would that it could. But it’s not just homesickness that’s affecting her.” He shook his head and sighed. “Her heart was recently broken by a young rogue.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Julia told him, and Fiona murmured the same.

  “I appreciate your sympathy. I can only pray that she eventually forgets about the young man.”

  “I’ll pray that too, sir,” said Fiona.

  “How kind of you.” The vicar smiled again warmly. “And here I am neglecting my manners. I don’t believe I’ve asked where either of you live.”

  “The Larkspur Inn, on Market Lane,” Julia told him. “We operate a lodging house.”

  “Yes? But you mentioned your daughter being reluctant to move here, so I take it that it’s a new establishment?”

  “New to us,” Julia smiled. “We’ve only been there six months, but the building dates back to the 1600s.” Then realizing that the vicar must be anxious to see about his daughter, she said, “We’ll bid you good day now, Reverend Phelps. Welcome to Gresham.”

  He thanked them both with another tip of the hat and said he looked forward to seeing them again on Sunday.

  “He seems a pleasant person,” Fiona said as she and Julia walked back down Church Lane.

  “Yes, he does. I just hope he can deliver a decent sermon, or Mrs.

  Kingston will never let us hear the end of it.” The school came into view on their left, and Julia’s thoughts turned to her son. “Did you know Philip woke at five this morning to rewrite a school paper?”

  “Five? Has he ever done that before?”

  “Never. I can’t help but wonder if his nose is out of joint because the vicar’s other daughter outscored him on an examination yesterday.”

  “Oh, Philip is too mature for that, ma’am.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” She linked arms with the housekeeper. “You know, that chocolate torte smelled terribly good. I wonder if Mrs. Herrick could be persuaded to bake another one some time soon?”

  “Only if she’s asked.” Fiona smiled back.

  “A half-pound of sour balls please,” Philip said to Mr. Trumble, setting his school books and lunch pail up on the counter.

  “Comin’ right up, Mr. Hollis,” the shopkeeper responded cheerfully. He unscrewed the lid to a two-gallon glass jar filled with candy. “Got these in fresh yesterday.”

  “Yes?” Philip said, but he hadn’t the appetite for anything at the moment. And if not for Ben and Jeremiah eyeing the progress of the candy to the scale, he would just as soon have gone home to lick his wounds. Just the memory of Laurel Phelps’s triumph was as grating to his nerves as fingernails on a chalkboard. How was he to have guessed that anyone at school would have met Benjamin Disraeli? But apparently her grandmother had headed a ladies fund-raising committee for the Tory party, and the prime minister had accompanied the archbishop of Canterbury to a dinner at her house this past summer.

  To make matters worse, the girl had embellished her composition with little tidbits that brought gasps of delight from the class, such as how Mr. Disraeli had popped a cube of sugar into his mouth during after-dinner coffee, and how the handle of his umbrella was a bronze caricature of the Duke of Wellington wearing an eye patch.

  My sentence structure was twice as varied as hers, he thought bitterly. But Captain Powell didn’t even seem to consider that. It just wasn’t fair! How many students had had the privilege of meeting someone famous?

  “You boys catch any big fish lately?” Mr. Trumble asked as he handed over the small parcel to Philip.

  “Jeremiah caught a four pounder last Saturday,” Ben answered, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Took him a good ten minutes to land it. They both put up a good fight.”

  “A whale of a fight, you say?” the shopkeeper asked, chuckling at his own joke.

  “That’s a good one, Mr. Trumble,” Ben chuckled back. “More like a trout of a fight.”

  I should have written about Mr. Clay’s experiences in the theatre, Philip thought.

  “Oh, by the way,” Mr. Trumble said when the three boys were heading for the door. “I finished sorting today’s mail just a while ago, and I seem to recall you’ve a letter.”

  “Someone wrote me?” asked Philip.

  “Actually, I believe it was for your housekeeper, Miss O’Shea.” Mr. Trumble went over to the postal counter, transforming himself from shopkeeper to postmaster in seconds. He pulled out a letter from the slots and nodded. “It’s for Miss O’Shea, all right. Would you like to take it on now?”

>   In his current mood, Philip cared less about the letter than he did the candy, but he went over to the counter. Fiona didn’t hear from her family often and would be glad to receive it today rather than waiting until Mr. Jones delivered the post tomorrow. He stuck it in his history book and thanked the shopkeeper.

  “You’re welcome. You’ve quite a load of books there, Mr. Hollis.”

  “Oh, well,” Philip shrugged. “Homework.”

  “He has his eyes set on the ‘top student’ trophy,” Jeremiah volunteered, a sour ball bulging from one cheek. Philip shot him a glance as sour as the candy, but Mr. Trumble nodded approval.

  “Nothing wrong with having high aspersions, lads.”

  “How did Captain Powell like your composition?” Julia asked after hearing Philip’s prayers that night. He’d spent most of the evening studying in his room, emerging only for supper, until Julia had insisted that he go on to bed an hour early. Even now, as he lay looking up at her from his pillow with shadows under his eyes, he still protested that he wasn’t sleepy.

  “Not as much as he liked Laurel Phelps’s,” the boy grumbled.

  “I’m so sorry.” Julia smoothed some hair away from his forehead. “But surely you don’t hold that against her … do you?”

  For a second it looked as if he would cry, but then he shook his head. “I guess not. But it doesn’t seem fair.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  “That I have to study so hard and it seems so easy for her.”

  Julia smoothed his hair again. “You’re a bright young man, Philip. If you’re doing the best you can, you shouldn’t have to worry about what other people are accomplishing. You’re going to make your way in this world too.”

  He was looking at her through half-closed lids now, making her think he’d drift into sleep any moment. But instead he asked, “Do you miss Father?”

  The question caught her by surprise, and she answered with an evasive, “It’s good that the lodging house keeps me so busy. I’ve hardly time to think sad thoughts.”