The Widow of Larkspur Inn

by Lawana Blackwell

  “He’s asleep, Philip.”

  Philip shook his head. “He’s just resting.”

  “He’s snoring.”

  They both took a step closer. Sure enough, the actor’s ghostly mouth was gaped open, and faint sonorous sounds were issuing forth. As if some inner signal warned him that he was being stared at, Mr. Clay opened his eyes.

  “No visitors yet?” he yawned.

  “Not yet.” Philip sat down on the bench beside him. “Where should we hide?”

  The actor pointed to a thick yew tree between the cottage and shed. “Plenty of room behind there. But you two need to find a place as well.”

  “We thought we’d be hiding with you,” Ben told him hopefully.

  “Sorry, son. I don’t like to share a call.” He looked around for a few seconds, then back up into the tree. “How about up there?”

  “In the tree?” Philip asked, disappointed.

  “You can settle on low limbs out of sight. Why, it’s like having orchestra seats at the theatre.”

  There was nothing to do but agree, and Philip conceded in his mind that he would feel a mite safer not standing on the same ground as the Sanders brothers. “Should we climb up there now?”

  “You’ll have time when the signal comes,” Mr. Clay replied. Seconds later a perfect switt-witt-witt-witt! drifted down from the tree. He stood and brushed his hands together. “Well then, shall we get a move on?”

  Philip’s heart rose to his throat. Now that the plan they had spent hours chuckling over was being set into motion, the seriousness of it sank in. At least two Sanders brothers were walking the dark lane, every second bringing them closer. If anything went wrong, the bullies would dedicate themselves to hunting them out. Mr. Clay they would leave alone simply because he was an adult, but he and Ben and Jeremiah would have to make sure they never went anywhere unaccompanied for the rest of their lives.

  “Philip?” Mr. Clay was looking at him with an odd expression. “Are you all right?”

  Philip nodded and realized that Ben was already pulling himself up into the tree. He jumped up on the bench and waited his turn. When he had secured himself next to Ben on a stout limb well into the tree, he looked down and noticed that Mr. Clay was no longer standing underneath. A shiver ran through him. Peering up into the branches overhead, he could see no sign of Jeremiah either. He was thankful that Ben was there beside him. The suspense would be unbearable if he’d had to wait alone. It was the perfect hiding place, however, for the shed stood only about eight feet away.

  “I hear them coming!” Ben whispered. It was obvious from the strain in his voice that he was just as nervous. Philip held his breath and listened—the sound of muffled conversation met his ears. He gave Ben a solemn nod.

  Soon footsteps rustled the grass behind them. Philip didn’t dare turn to watch for fear of making a noise and drawing attention to Ben and himself. The conversation, just a bit louder now, was jovial and unsuspecting. Finally two shapes came into view on Philip’s left. Ben, farthest out on the branch, moved his head back a bit to give him a better view.

  The two on the ground didn’t go straight for the shed but went over to the cottage and peered in the darkened windows. They were close enough now to be told apart. Fernie chuckled softly at some private joke, mumbled something, and Oram joined in. Then both turned toward the shed. Philip held his breath again and watched the yew tree. The actor had managed to conceal himself totally, for not a scrap of luminous gray was visible. In fact, Oram and Fernie passed right by the tree with not even a glance in that direction. Silently they went around to the side of the shed—they’d had weeks of experience, so no verbal collaboration was necessary. They braced their shoulders against the wall and grunted with the exertion of pushing.

  Pulse racing, Philip looked over at the tree again. “Come on, Mr. Clay!” he urged under his breath, but he saw no movement in that direction. A mental picture flashed into his head of the actor leaning back against the tree with his eyes closed and mouth gaping. Had he fallen asleep in his hiding place?

  “Where is he?” Ben whispered.

  “I don’t know.”

  They watched the shed begin to rise and tilt. When the side was about two feet off the ground, first Oram, then Fernie dropped down to catch the soleplate with both hands. Their grunts grew louder as the gap between building and ground widened. One mighty heave and it would be upon its side, but where was Mr. Clay?

  And then it happened. A ghostly gray figure stepped from the back of the shed to stand behind the Sanders brothers. Philip motioned to Ben and held his breath while waiting for Mr. Clay to growl in some macabre manner, but the actor simply tapped Oram’s back.

  “Huh?” said Oram, peering over his shoulder as much as was possible with a building in his hands.

  “I say there … could you use some help?”

  “AH-H-H!” Oram screamed and jumped back, and with only one person left holding the shed, it thudded to the ground. The cry that came from Fernie’s lips was more out of pain than fright, but his brother hadn’t noticed, for Oram had already passed the tree on his way out of the yard.

  “It’s on my foot!” Fernie wailed, his cheek against the wall of the shed. Both arms were spread open against the side, as if he would press himself through the wood if humanly possible.

  “Hold on—I’ll lift it,” Mr. Clay told him and immediately began pushing at the wall with his shoulder. A second later, Fernie was loose. He took one look at his rescuer, let out a yelp of terror, and followed his brother’s tracks—his fleeing was made difficult by a severe limp, but he made admirable distance nonetheless.

  “I’m terribly sorry!” Mr. Clay called out, following across the yard in a brisk pace. “Won’t you allow me to assist you home?”

  Fernie’s limping gait accelerated, and soon he was gone. The plot had worked, but it was a somber trio that climbed down the tree.

  “I didn’t think his brother would let go of the building like that,” the actor said regretfully when the boys caught up with him in the lane.

  “It’s not your fault, Mr. Clay,” said Ben. “They shouldn’t have been over here causing mischief.”

  “I know,” Mr. Clay sighed half-heartedly, then started for home. Exchanging worried glances with his two friends, Philip hurried over to Mr. Clay’s side. A lantern now illuminated a window of the Hopper family’s cottage, but Philip was too preoccupied with the events of the night to give it more than a passing glance as they hurried home.

  By the time the Larkspur came into view, silhouetted against the night sky, Philip felt he had to say something. He touched Mr. Clay’s sleeve. “Fernie’s foot can’t be too bad if he was able to run like that.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Ben and Jeremiah nodded agreement as well. “And you did give them both a good scare,” Ben said admiringly.

  “I did at that,” the actor said, then shrugged. “Let’s just hope the lesson sticks. I’ll not be frightening children in this getup again.”

  Chapter 26

  The Larkspur’s lodgers attended Sunday services at Saint Jude’s faithfully, save Mr. Clay, who stayed home, and Mrs. Dearing, who accompanied the Herricks to the Baptist chapel. Though they often strolled to church with Julia, her children, and servants, they chose to occupy a pew farther back toward the vestibule.

  Julia glanced back at the lodgers present while worshipers filled the nave that morning. She was dismayed to see that Mrs. Kingston was not seated with the others but was instead across the aisle with Mrs. Perkins, another widow in her charity sewing group. Was Mrs. Kingston still angry at Mrs. Hyatt over the herb incident on the Anwyl? But there seemed to be no spite on the elderly woman’s face as she listened to the organ strains of the Gloria Patri with closed eyes. Could it be that Mrs. Kingston had given up on Mr. Durwin after all?

  Movement out the corner of her eye caught her attention several seconds later. Elizabeth Phelps was walking up the aisl
e to the first pew—she sent a quick smile to Julia. Beside her was a younger girl with the same blond hair visible beneath the brim of a velvet and lace hat—obviously her sister, Laurel. Though she was in Philip’s standard at school, the younger girl did not glance at him as she passed. Not that Philip would have noticed if she had. He was seated between Grace and Fiona with eyes drooping. Julia had had to wake him and his friends twice this morning, and all three had sat at the breakfast table in a lethargic stupor.

  They must have whispered all night, Julia thought, remembering how it was when she used to spend the night with friends as a child. I shouldn’t have allowed night company on a Saturday. No doubt Ben and Jeremiah, seated with their families, were having the same trouble staying upright in their pews.

  Reverend Phelps’s first sermon at Saint Jude’s centered around the parable of the workers in the vineyard from Saint Matthew. While he seemed more reserved than Reverend Wilson, the new vicar projected an attitude of caring that seemed to surprise the parishioners who’d not yet met him. In fact, after the service Mrs. Pool from the Bow and Fiddle murmured to Julia as they moved down the aisle toward the door, “He ain’t so snooty as you’d think someone from—” Remembering to whom she was speaking, she paled a little and did not add the obvious “from the city,” substituting instead, “from the north.” Julia smiled agreement and did not point out that Cambridge lay southeast of Gresham.

  Vicar Phelps stood just outside the door, bidding the exiting congregation farewell and thanking those who welcomed him to Gresham. His eyes were warm as he caught Julia’s hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Hollis.”

  He did not elaborate because of the people about, but Julia knew instinctively that he was referring to her chat with Elizabeth. I hope that means she’s feeling better.

  “You’re welcome, Vicar Phelps,” she replied, then moved on so as not to monopolize his time at the door. Mrs. Rhodes motioned Fiona and her aside while the children visited with friends.

  “I just want to warn you there seems to be another ghost rumor floating about,” Mrs. Rhodes said, her moss-green eyes anxious. “And I did hear Jake Pitt’s name mentioned.”

  Julia put a hand up to her throat. “Please say you’re joking.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “What happened?” asked Fiona, distress evident on her face as well.

  Mrs. Rhodes nodded toward a small circle of women engaged in conversation several feet away. “Mrs. Hopper there,” she said, indicating a middle-aged woman in brown poplin. “She lives on Worton Lane. It seems that her husband heard a ruckus sometime after midnight. He went to a window and saw a ghost. It gave him such a fright that they both dashed to their larder and hid for a couple of hours afterward.”

  “A ghost?” Julia didn’t know what to think. “Obviously they were mistaken.”

  “Of course they were. But the Hoppers have always lived rather quiet lives here. It’s not like them to fabricate something like this for attention.”

  “Then what do you think happened?”

  “Well, she said her husband lit a lamp before going to the window, so he couldn’t have seen very well out into the darkness. It could have been an owl.”

  “Well, there you have it,” said Fiona, letting out a relieved sigh. “Some owls can grow quite large, can’t they?”

  “They can. And when we’re afraid, things always look larger than life. But what’s even more perplexing is that Mr. Hopper claims to have spotted three boys as well.”

  “With the ghost?” asked Julia. “And at the same time?”

  “That’s what his wife says. And they seemed to be in no peril from their companion.”

  Three boys … Julia thought, but then dismissed the idea. Philip’s room was at the end of the family corridor. She would surely have heard them had they stirred from the room, and anyway, what reason would they have had to walk about town at night? And with a ghost? She shook her head. She wasn’t acquainted with the Hoppers other than recognizing their faces. It crossed her mind to wonder if Mr. Hopper had consumed any alcoholic beverage last night. Immediately she was ashamed for judging someone she didn’t know without just cause.

  “Why would anyone presume this vision to be Jake Pitt?” she asked. “Isn’t Jake supposed to haunt the Larkspur exclusively?”

  “I suppose he’s a convenient source of blame,” Mrs. Rhodes shrugged. “He’s Gresham’s only ghost, you know. But I didn’t want you to be taken by surprise.”

  “And I appreciate that,” Julia said, easing into a smile. “You’ve been a good friend to us.”

  “Ah, well … so have you. And now I shall excuse myself and see about my husband at home.”

  “I hope Dr. Rhodes isn’t ill,” said Fiona.

  He was a faithful churchgoer, and Julia felt a little embarrassed that she was just now noticing his absence.

  “Not at all. But he was up most of the night delivering the Givens baby across the river—a healthy boy, by the way. And he no sooner arrived at home in the wee hours of the morning when he was called back out across the river to see about a broken foot.” She clucked her tongue. “Everyone looks down on the Sanders boys, but at least one seems to have his heart in the right place. The poor lad found himself unable to sleep early this morning and decided to have a head start on the chores. He was carrying a full pail of water to a trough when it fell on his foot.”

  Julia expressed sympathy for the boy while trying to place the name. Sanders?

  Mrs. Rhodes left then, sending a wave after she’d gone a few steps. Returning the wave, Julia sensed someone’s eyes upon her and turned to see Elizabeth Phelps approaching from the front of the church. Quietly, Fiona excused herself, saying she would accompany Mrs. Kingston home.

  “Mrs. Hollis,” Elizabeth said. “Have you a minute?”

  “Of course,” Julia smiled, taking the girl’s hand. “I believe everyone was impressed with your father’s sermon.”

  There were still faint circles under the brown eyes, but the expression in them was refreshingly calmer than it had been just two days ago. “I could tell Father was worried about it. He doesn’t want people to think he’s flaunting his education, but at the same time he doesn’t want to give less than his best.”

  “And how are you, Elizabeth?”

  The girl smiled at this use of her given name. “Better, Mrs. Hollis, though to be truthful, Jonathan still occupies a great deal of my thoughts. But I told Father I would go with him to make his calls starting Monday. So you see, I’m taking your advice about finding something to keep myself busy.”

  “I’m so glad. And I hope you’ll come to visit me again soon.”

  Giving Julia a quick embrace, Elizabeth said, “I would like that very much.”

  Aleda appeared at Julia’s side. “This is my oldest daughter, Aleda,” she said to the vicar’s daughter. “And this is Miss Phelps.”

  “Why, my sister, Laurel, mentioned you yesterday,” Elizabeth said to the girl. “She said you play the piano quite well.”

  “She did?” Aleda beamed.

  “I took lessons for five years, but I still find myself disheartened if there are too many sharps or flats.” They chatted about music for a minute longer, then Elizabeth bade them good-day and joined her father at the church door. When she was gone, Aleda turned to Julia with a worried expression.

  “Helen says some people said they saw the ghost last night.”

  “Do you believe them?”

  The girl’s forehead creased. “Why no, Mother.”

  “Are you sure? Because if it has you worried …”

  “I’m not worried about the ghost being real. I just wonder if people blame us, since everyone thinks he lives in our house.”

  The thought had crossed Julia’s mind, but she couldn’t burden her daughter by admitting it. Putting an arm across her shoulders, Julia drew her close. “I know it’s difficult, but the best thing to do is change the subject whenever anyone mentions anything about it.”

&nb
sp; “Do you think that will stop them from talking?”

  “To be honest, I doubt it. But they’ll get the message eventually that it’s not something you wish to discuss. And I’m sure the talk will fade away like it did last time.”

  “I hope so.” As they ambled on together to gather the rest of the family, Aleda said, “Miss Phelps is nice, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, she is,” Julia said.

  “Why was she hugging you when I came up?”

  “Oh, I gave her some advice recently and she was grateful.”

  “Advice about what?”

  Julia looked at her sideways and raised an eyebrow. “Curious, aren’t we?”

  “I’m going to be a writer,” Aleda answered. “Miss Rawlins says they’re supposed to be curious. And you don’t have to worry about my telling anyone. Writers are supposed to keep secrets too.”

  “Well, I trust your discretion, but I’m afraid I can’t betray a confidence. You understand that, don’t you?”

  The narrow shoulders shrugged. “It must have been about love, then.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Oh, most problems seem to be about love,” she said with a deep sigh. “It seems to work better in stories than in real life.” She shook her head before Julia could ask the question her mind was framing.

  “I haven’t been reading Miss Rawlins’ books, Mother.”

  Julia suppressed a smile and glanced over at Mrs. Hyatt and Mr. Durwin, lost in conversation as they strolled slowly across the green. She felt a slight pang for the way they enjoyed each other’s companionship. “Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes it works out quite well.”