The Widow of Larkspur Inn

by Lawana Blackwell

  “They were fallible men, Mr. Clay. Perhaps I would have done the same thing myself.”

  “Then after the burial, they shut themselves up in a house for fear of the same mob that had crucified their leader. It must have been a long three days for them. When did their courage come?”

  Andrew opened his mouth, but Mr. Clay held up a silencing hand and continued. “It came after they actually saw and spoke with the risen Christ. And for the first time, they had absolutely no doubts that He was God’s Son. Even Thomas became convinced.”

  “And He gave them the Holy Spirit, Mr. Clay,” Andrew added, smiling. “To comfort them and give them power to become mighty witnesses.”

  Mr. Clay nodded soberly. “They became almost suicidal maniacs, then, in their quest to spread the Gospel. Could they have done that, knowing the ultimate consequences, if they weren’t totally convinced that Jesus had come back to life?”

  Unable to stand it any longer, Andrew leaned to set his cup and saucer on the tray before him with more enthusiasm than necessary, causing tea to slosh over his fingers. Forgotten was his earlier resolve to restrain from being too forceful. “For mercy’s sake, man, I couldn’t have preached it better myself! It’s time to trust in Christ yourself!”

  “It’s not that simple, Vicar.”

  “It’s the simplest act in the world, Mr. Clay. Don’t be a King Agrippa!”

  “King Agri—” Mr. Clay stopped himself and nodded. “That fellow who told Paul the apostle that he was almost persuaded to become a Christian.”

  His pulse jumping, Andrew said, “And unless he changed his mind, he’s had centuries in hell to regret those words.”

  When the actor did not respond to this, Andrew sat back in his chair, ran his hands through his hair, and sighed. “Just how many times have you read through the New Testament?”

  The actor thought for a minute. “Four, actually. And I’ve started on the Old again. I just finished the book of Joshua yesterday.”

  “How can you read so much and not find anything that moves you?”

  “Who said I haven’t been—”

  Tapping his own chest, Andrew told him, “You said there was nothing there.”

  Mr. Clay’s face turned a shade paler. “Don’t you think I want to feel something, Vicar?”

  He’s afraid, Andrew realized suddenly. But of what? Mr. Clay did not seem to be the sort of man who would reject Christ because of fear of ridicule of others. And Christians weren’t burnt at the stake anymore in their part of the world, so what would prevent him from embracing the Gospel as the lifeline that it was? Who wouldn’t wish for the love and guidance of a heavenly Father?

  Father …

  He frowned, chewing on his lip. Is that it? Was it the very parenthood of God that compelled the actor to keep his distance? Mr. Clay had once confided in him that his father had been a highly unstable influence in his children’s lives, and his later suicide had shattered the family. Was he afraid to put his trust in another Father who might also fail him?

  Too simple. Mr. Clay’s too intelligent for that, he reasoned. But didn’t emotions often act independently of intellect? They certainly do for me, he thought, briefly thinking back to how pleasant it had been to walk arm in arm with Mrs. Hollis.

  “Mr. Clay,” Andrew said finally.

  Mr. Clay, who had turned his face to stare over at the window, turned to look at him again. “Yes?” came out with a weary sigh.

  With all the compassion that he felt for the man coming out in his voice, Andrew continued, “Mr. Clay, why don’t you leave your Bible closed tonight?”

  His friend blinked. “I’m surprised to hear you recommend that.”

  “You can be sure this is the first time,” Andrew smiled back. “But the Scriptures also instruct us to ‘be still and know that He is God.’ I believe it’s time to take pause from your frantic intellectual searching and allow His Holy Spirit to speak to your heart.”

  There was clear misery in the man’s gray eyes. “And how do I do that, Vicar?”

  “Just meditate on the things you’ve already read about Him, Mr. Clay. That He is a faithful Father, merciful, loving and just. That He loved you so much He sent His only Son to the cross so that you could have salvation. That He is ready to forgive your sin and take you into His bosom as one of His children, if you’ll only ask in the name of the risen Christ.”

  Now Mr. Clay’s cup trembled visibly in his hand, and he set it down on the table. “I can’t think now, Vicar,” he said, avoiding Andrew’s eyes. “And I’m fatigued. I must ask you to leave.”

  “All right.” Andrew got to his feet, but before leaving, he stepped around the tea table to put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You don’t have to be afraid, my friend. He is one Father who’ll never disappoint you.”

  The actor nodded but did not look up at him. With a final squeeze of Mr. Clay’s shoulder, Andrew turned and left the room.

  Downstairs in the hall, Andrew again returned the well-wishes of the lodgers, who pressed him to stay for a visit. His heart was not in it, though, for it was heavy for his friend upstairs. He was aware that Mrs. Hollis, seated on one of the chairs, was searching his face for any hopeful sign from their visit, and he shook his head slightly.

  Chapter 36

  It’s a shame to have to watch your own body fall apart, Mrs. Kingston thought that same night, squinting through the empty amber bottle of Dr. Miles’ Miracle Liniment For Aching Joints. Her daily walking routine usually kept the rheumatism in her knees manageable, but she’d been housebound for the past week because of the icy lanes. Tonight, age and inactivity had caught up with her, propelling her over to her mahogany chest of drawers to seek relief from Dr. Miles. She turned the bottle over and bumped the open neck against her cupped palm—only a teaspoon or two of the kerosene-smelling liquid dripped out.

  “Now, why didn’t I ask Mrs. Hollis to get me another bottle at Trumbles today?” she muttered to herself, even while knowing the answer. It was one thing to endure the inconveniences of advancing years, but quite another to admit to them in front of a room full of people.

  Mrs. Hyatt uses the same liniment on her hands, Mrs. Kingston remembered. She had never actually discussed her aches and pains with Mrs. Hyatt, who in her opinion was a bit insipid, but the odor of the medicine was hard to mask. And surely she wasn’t asleep yet, for the lodgers, except for poor Mr. Clay, who’d confined himself to his room for most of the day, had retired from the hall less than an hour ago.

  She slipped on a thick wool wrapper and slippers and stepped out into the corridor, lit by a single low wall lamp. Mrs. Hyatt’s door was only four steps from her own, but there was no light shining from underneath, and she considered giving up and going back to bed. Just then a dull pain throbbed through her right knee. She raised her hand to rap softly upon the door. At least she still has several hours left to sleep the night, Mrs. Kingston told herself.

  Immediately she heard a low, “Who’s there?”

  Well, perhaps she wasn’t asleep yet. “It’s Mrs. Kingston,” she answered as quietly as possible so as not to wake any of the other lodgers. There was a silence of about ten seconds, and just when Mrs. Kingston was beginning to wonder if she’d been heard, the knob turned in front of her. The room that was exposed when the door opened several inches was dark, and Mrs. Hyatt was wearing a flannel nightgown and cap, so she had indeed been abed.

  “Yes?” the other lodger said in the wedge of dim light coming through the door from the corridor.

  There was something strange about the tone of the single word—it came out thickly. A humorous notion passed through her head that perhaps Mrs. Hyatt had been drinking the liniment instead of rubbing it on her hands. In spite of her lack of great warmth for the other woman, Mrs. Kingston felt immediately ashamed for the thought.

  “Pardon me for disturbing you, Mrs. Hyatt,” Mrs. Kingston whispered. “But have you any liniment to spare for the night?”

  “Why, yes, I’ve an ex
tra bottle in my chest of drawers,” Mrs. Hyatt nodded but did not open the door any wider. Again the voice was thick. “Is it your knees?”

  How did she know that? Swallowing her pride, she confessed, “I’m afraid so.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Mrs. Hyatt said, “I’ll leave the bottle outside your door in five minutes. Is that all right?”

  “Leave it outside my door?” Mrs. Kingston had to remember to lower her voice again. “But why can’t you just give it to me now?”

  “Now?”

  Another wickedly humorous thought came into Mrs. Kingston’s mind, and before she could block its way to her mouth, she found herself blurting out, “What’s wrong? You haven’t Mr. Durwin in there, have you?”

  “Mrs. Kingston!” the woman gasped, the whites of her eyes showing.

  She gulped, horrified at her own audacity. She was painfully aware that she had a tendency to be blunt, but there was a limit. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hyatt!”

  A sob was the only reply as Mrs. Hyatt started backing away from the door.

  “Oh, dear … please forgive me!” Mrs. Kingston pushed the door open wider and entered the room. “Never did I actually think that Mr. Durwin was in here.”

  “I know that,” Mrs. Hyatt sniffed as she walked over to her chest of drawers. “I have the liniment right here.”

  Why, she was crying before I even came here, Mrs. Kingston realized, for the thickness of the voice was the same. Unable to stand it any longer, she walked over to the night table, felt for a match from the tin in the drawer, and lit the lamp. When she turned around, Mrs. Hyatt was rifling through an open drawer.

  “Here it is,” she said in a now small voice, avoiding Mrs. Kingston’s eyes as she held out a bottle.

  The older woman moved a step closer and took it from her hand. “Mrs. Hyatt, I can see you’ve been crying … what is wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She turned briefly to take a handkerchief from the open drawer and blew her nose.

  Mrs. Kingston had scant patience with people who forced others to drag conversation out of them, but she couldn’t help being moved by the misery in her voice. “There, there now,” she found herself soothing, stepping forward to set the bottle on the chest and take Mrs. Hyatt by the hand. “Why don’t you tell me all about it….” After a fraction of a second’s hesitation she added, “Dear?”

  Mrs. Hyatt wiped her face again but allowed herself to be led over to her bed. Mrs. Kingston helped her sit up on the pillows, tucked the covers up under her elbows, and sat down on the side of the bed.

  “You’ll take cold,” Mrs. Hyatt sniffed.

  “My wrapper is nice and warm.”

  “You think I’m a child, don’t you?”

  The nightcap ruffle framing Mrs. Hyatt’s pink cheeks actually did give her a rather infantile appearance, but Mrs. Kingston shook her head. “Everyone weeps now and then.”

  “Even you?”

  Mrs. Kingston folded her arms and thought, This is getting a bit too personal. “On occasion. Now, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

  Her lip trembling, Mrs. Hyatt replied in a still smaller voice, “It’s Mr. Durwin.”

  I thought so! “So the old coot has broken your heart, has he?”

  The red-rimmed eyes went wide again. “Why, no. He’s asked me to marry him.”

  “Marry him?” Even though she’d resigned herself long ago to the futility of wishing for any sort of future with Mr. Durwin, she still found herself surprised and more than a little annoyed at the news. “And you’re upset about that?”

  “I know,” Mrs. Hyatt sniffed, tears running down her soft face. “He’s such a good man, and I do miss not having a husband….”

  “And you’re practically inseparable,” Mrs. Kingston was forced to admit. “So why can’t you …” She stopped herself, eased her feet back down to the floor, and went over to the open drawer for another handkerchief. After handing it to Mrs. Hyatt, who mumbled a sodden “thank you,” and wiped her eyes, she resumed her place at the bedside. “Now, go on.”

  “He doesn’t know my maiden name.”

  Mrs. Kingston blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “My maiden name. He’s never asked.” Mrs. Hyatt wiped her eyes again. “Or my favorite hymn, for that matter. Or color, or flower.”

  “Why don’t you just tell him those things, if you want him to know them?” Instead of weeping over something so simple to repair, she thought to herself. “Mr. Durwin can’t read minds, you know.”

  Mrs. Hyatt’s lips trembled. “Don’t you see, Mrs. Kingston? I know almost everything concerning Mr. Durwin, because that’s all we talk about. His children and grandchildren … his interest in herbs … how he founded Durwin Stoves. Am I so uninteresting that …?”

  “There, there now, dear,” Mrs. Kingston cut in, reaching down to pat the lump that was Mrs. Hyatt’s knee. She didn’t want to be backed into a corner with that question. Her lips tightened. But even though Mrs. Hyatt wasn’t the most fascinating person on this earth, Mr. Durwin had no right to use her as merely an audience. It would be torture to be married to a man whose only idea of conversation involved litanies of his own accomplishments. She began to feel a great relief that Mr. Durwin had shown no interest in her. “So you refused his hand, did you?”

  “Refused his hand?” Her voice wavered unsteadily. “I don’t know how to go about doing that, Mrs. Kingston.”

  “Why, it’s simple,” the older widow declared, though she couldn’t recall ever having had to break any hearts herself, even in her finishing school years. “You tell him you don’t care to be his wife, but that you’ll always think of him with affection.”

  “I can’t do that,” Mrs. Hyatt gasped, horror filling her gray eyes.

  “Well, I know it’s going to take some courage….”

  Mrs. Hyatt shrank a little into the covers. “I’ve never possessed a lot of courage, Mrs. Kingston. I wish I could be as brave as you are.”

  Suddenly her opinion of Mrs. Hyatt went up a notch. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said modestly.

  “Oh, you don’t know how many times I’ve wished to be like you. You’re not afraid of saying what you think. I’m always terrified of offending.”

  “That’s because you’re so tender-hearted, Mrs. Hyatt,” Mrs. Kingston said, wondering why she had neglected to appreciate that fact before.

  “It’s kind of you to say that, Mrs. Kingston.” Mrs. Hyatt wiped her eyes and blew her nose again. “I’m so thankful you came in here tonight. I was beside myself!”

  “There, there,” Mrs. Kingston soothed, patting the knee again.

  There were several seconds of companionable silence until Mrs. Hyatt spoke in a tentative voice, “Mrs. Kingston?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think you could tell Mr. Durwin for me?”

  Mrs. Kingston started. “Me?”

  “Oh, please … I just don’t think I can face him.”

  “But you’ll have to face him sometime.”

  “I know. But I’m sure I’ll say the wrong words if I turn down his proposal. Please, Mrs. Kingston?”

  She finally gave in, fearing that this could go on all night if she didn’t reassure the poor soul. “Oh, if you absolutely must involve me in this.”

  Relief and gratitude lit Mrs. Hyatt’s ruffle-framed face. “Oh, Mrs. Kingston! I don’t know what to say! Bless you!”

  “Just lend me some liniment, that’s all.” Mrs. Kingston got to her feet again. “And go to sleep now, will you? I shan’t be able to rest if I know you’re in here tossing and turning.”

  After accepting Mrs. Hyatt’s effusive thanks again, she took the liniment from the chest, closed the open drawer, and went back to her own room. Better to leave the romance in Miss Rawlins’ books, she thought as she rubbed liniment on her right knee. Now it would be she who would toss and turn, for what sane person could look forward to the task she had agreed to undertake?

  She paused from rubbing her knee and l
ooked at the clock. Quarter past eleven. Why not get it over with immediately? Sure, she would have to wake Mr. Durwin, but wouldn’t he appreciate several hours to recover before having to face Mrs. Hyatt at breakfast in the morning? And I would surely sleep better.

  Getting out of bed again, she pushed her feet back into her slippers and retied the sash to her wrapper. The two men’s chambers were located in the shorter corridor, past the water closet and sitting room. She knocked softly on Mr. Durwin’s door. When she heard a sleep-laden “yes?” from the other side, she decided she didn’t care to announce her name out here in the corridor, lest poor Mr. Clay assume the wrong idea, so she just knocked again.

  Finally the door opened and Mr. Durwin stood there clad in nightshirt and dressing gown. A lamp burned behind him on a table.

  “Mrs. Kingston?” he blinked.

  “May I come in, Mr. Durwin?” she whispered.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Mrs. Kingston frowned. “I’ve something to tell you that I don’t think you would care to have announced in the corridor. And I’ve seen men’s dressing gowns before, so you don’t have to be so modest.”

  He backed away and allowed her in, his mouth gaping as he did. “What is the meaning of this, Mrs. Kingston?” he whispered when she’d turned from easing the door closed.

  “It’s concerning Mrs. Hyatt, Mr. Durwin. It is my sad duty to inform you that she must decline your proposal but will continue to think of you with affection.”

  “Wha—?” He cleared his throat. “What do you mean?”

  “Mrs. Hyatt has come to realize that marriage would be a mistake at this time.” Tactfully she restrained herself from adding, because you’re a bore. And with the dubious duty behind her, she bade him good-night and turned to leave.

  But Mr. Durwin would have nothing of it. “Wait!” he said, reaching the door at the same time. He put a hand on the knob to prevent her from taking it. “Are you serious about this, Mrs. Kingston?”

  “I’m afraid so. But don’t despair, Mr. Durwin. You can still be friends.”

  “But what is her reason? Surely she gave you a reason!”