The Widow of Larkspur Inn (11 page)

For the first time it struck Julia why the idea of operating a lodging house now seemed so attractive to her.
My children will have something resembling a large family.
With only one parent and no grandparents, that was important. She read from Grace’s
Wonderful Stories for Children
by Hans Christian Anderson, listened to their prayers, kissed both foreheads, and walked down the corridor past her bedroom to the last door.
I’ll only allow lodgers who don’t mind having children about the place
, she decided as she gave the door a soft rap.

Philip was sitting up on his pillows, staring down intently at an open book in his lap. He’d arranged the treasure he had brought, a marble chessboard and set of ivory carved men, on top of a writing desk in the corner.

“I came to see if you’d like me to read to you, and here you are going ahead without me. What is it?” Julia asked, crossing the room to sit on the side of his bed.

The thirteen-year-old smiled and held up the book so that Julia could read
Lord Brownlea’s Economic History of the British Empire
on the cover. “I found it in the library. Some of the words are difficult, but I’m learning so much.” He gave a self-conscious little shrug. “I think.”

The best surprise of that day had been the trunk of books in the shelf-lined library. Apparently the Bannings had been prodigious readers. “Economic history?” Julia leaned over to scan a sentence or two. “Why, that’s a university text. Weren’t there novels as well?”

“Yes,” Philip answered. “But novels won’t help you do well in school.”

Julia took the book out of his hands and continued to page through it. “I wouldn’t say that. Anyway, why are you concerned about doing well in school? Mr. Hunter was always impressed with your work.”

Philip chewed on the tip of his bandaged finger and gave a casual shrug, but Julia caught the worry in his green eyes. “Is it because you’ll be starting school Monday?” she asked.

After a moment, the boy admitted, “I’ve never even been inside a real schoolroom. I don’t know what the other children will be learning. What if it’s something I haven’t been taught yet? What if they think I’m ignorant for not knowing it? What if they laugh at me?”

“There’s a big difference between being ignorant and experiencing something you’ve not yet learned.” Julia reached out to touch his freckled cheek. “No one will think you’re ignorant.”

He looked doubtful. “Are you sure of that?”

“Absolutely, positively sure. Besides, it may even be the other way around. You’ve probably learned some things from Mr. Hunter that they’ve not yet been taught.”

Finally some hope came into Philip’s expression. “I didn’t even consider that.”

Julia smiled. “I think people care more about whether you’re kind to them than about how much you know. If you’re friendly they’re going to like you whether or not you’ve memorized Lord Brownlea’s book.”

Julia’s bedroom, which was between the two rooms now occupied by her children, had been cleared of webs but not cleaned yet. After her bath she slipped into nightclothes, released her hair from its chignon, then walked up the corridor to the hall. Fiona had already prepared bedding upon two horsehair-stuffed sofas facing each other about ten feet apart. The room looked a little less forbidding with the furniture uncovered, floor swept, and immediate cobwebs vanquished. She knew that webs still clung to the high oaken beams beyond the light of the single candle upon the tea table, and that it would take a ladder and broom to clear them away. Leaving the candle burning for Fiona, Julia crawled under the covers, crossed her arms behind her head, and stared up at the blackness high overhead. She felt very small surrounded by such space and thought that it was a good thing she didn’t believe in ghosts.
I would be sleeping between Grace and Aleda right now if I did
.

Fiona walked into the room from the lavatory. “Are the children comfortable in their rooms?” she asked, extinguishing the candle she carried.

“I believe so, except for Aleda.”

“She’ll come round, missus.” The maid snuffed the candle on the tea table, plunging the room into darkness. There were rustling sounds as the maid settled herself into her covers. “Once she makes new friends.”

“I hope so.” Julia smiled in the darkness and told Fiona about the book Philip had been reading. “He’s concerned about making a good impression on the other students.”

“He’s a good lad. I’m sure he will.”

It was reassuring to have someone with whom to talk about the children. How could she have survived if Fiona hadn’t insisted on coming along? Julia suddenly recalled the way the maid’s face lit up this afternoon when Philip announced the discovery of the trunk of books in the library.

“Fiona?” she said.

“Yes, missus?”

“You know you’re welcome to read any of those books you like.”

There was another rustle of sheets and quilts. “I am?”

“But of course. Weren’t you allowed to borrow from our library in London?”

After a hesitation, Fiona answered, “Mr. Jensen forbade it. But the Wesleyan chapel had a small subscription library for servants.”

The news that her friend wasn’t allowed access to her own library cut her to the quick—still worse was that she’d lived such a self-centered life that she’d never been aware of it. “Fiona … why didn’t you ever tell me? I could have asked my husband to speak to Jensen about it.”

“It’s water under the bridge now, missus,” the maid answered with no reproach in her voice. Changing the subject, she asked if Julia had enjoyed her visit with the lace spinners across the lane.

“It was quite interesting.” Julia recounted her conversation with the Worthy sisters. To that, Fiona gave an audible sigh.

“I thought only we Irish believed in that sort of thing.”

Julia automatically raised an eyebrow, though no one could see it. “Surely
you
don’t believe … !”

“No, missus,” Fiona answered. “But I did years ago, when I was a girl. I worked at a big old house, sleepin’ alone in a drafty loft. Every time the wind howled or the roof creaked, I just knew it was some spirit intent upon doin’ me harm. I got very little sleep in those days, you can be sure.”

“Is that why you ran away?” Julia asked before thinking, then immediately added, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“That wasn’t the reason I left,” Fiona answered simply. “And when I learned how to pray, I stopped fearing the noises.” A sheepish note crept into her voice. “
Most
of the time, that is.”

Though the sofa was as comfortable as any bed and the quilts ample for warmth, Julia’s sleep was fitful and besieged by dreams. They were not of itinerant knife sharpeners, however, but of her late husband. Philip was here in Gresham with them, taking charge, hiring servants, dazzling her and everyone in the village with his charm. And she slipped gratefully back into the role of a trusting, dutiful wife.

“It was all a mistake,” he said, giving her his most beguiling smile.

“Gambling? Debts? Foreclosure? Why, none of it ever happened.”

“It never happened?”

“Never happened.”

She sighed happily and rested her head upon his strong shoulder, safe within the circle of his arms. “I knew it, Philip. You love us too much.”

“I love you too much.”

The images were so real, as well as the feelings they evoked, that when she woke from the dream Julia buried her face in her pillow and wept silently for what might have been.

A sniffle interrupted Fiona’s dream about clearing endless cobwebs. Mumbling to herself, she opened one eye and attempted to orient herself in the early morning dimness.
The inn,
she thought. She could see the sleeping form on the other sofa. Then she heard a second sniff.

“Missus?” she said, slipping from under the covers and kneeling on the floor in front of the sofa. The hall rugs had not been unrolled yet, and the flagstones sent chills up her knees.

Mrs. Hollis turned her face from the pillow and blinked. “Oh, Fiona, I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

“That’s all right,” Fiona said, reaching to push back a strand of hair from her employer’s wet cheek. “Bad dream?”

“No, actually a good dream.” Mrs. Hollis gave her a feeble smile, but there was misery in the red-rimmed eyes. “A bad one would have been easier to take, I think.”

“I understand.”

“You do?”

Fiona nodded. “I do.” Softly, as if tending a fretful child, she began stroking the auburn hair while humming a tune she remembered from a long time ago.

“Cold,” Mrs. Hollis mumbled, her eyes closed again. “You need to go back to bed.”

“I’m all right, missus. Now go to sleep.” She waited until the breathing was steady again before slipping back under her own covers.
Lord, send her another husband one day,
she prayed.
A good man this time, one who’ll understand how special it is to have a family
.

She wished she could make that same supplication for herself but couldn’t. Not while her past in Ireland still dug its talons into her skin.

Chapter 7

The
Larkspur
’s kitchen was a huge room some thirty feet long and nearly as broad, with a fireplace capacious enough to roast an ox. Set in the middle of the stone-flagged floor was an oak table of a size sufficient to seat a dozen people. An open door at one end led to a scullery, where dishes were washed. Farther down the corridor were the pantry for the storage of dry foods and a larder for meats. Having rarely set foot in her own kitchen in London, Julia had little knowledge of the inner workings of a kitchen quarter. The rooms boasted every convenience a cook could desire, so Julia figured it would be an easy matter for her and Fiona to brew up some morning tea.

Half an hour later the sun had just crested the treetops of Gipsy Woods to the east when the courtyard doorbell clanged. Julia, searching cupboards for teacups, exchanged a curious glance with Fiona, who was still attempting to light the nickel-plated
Rumford
oil stove. “Surely it’s not the vicar this early,” Julia said. Waving away Fiona’s offer to answer the door, Julia left the room and walked down the short corridor to the entrance. She paused a second to put a hand up to her hair. After several attempts to coil her hair into a chignon this morning, she’d simply fastened it with a comb at the base of her neck. The fringe on her forehead dangled over her eyebrows, but until they could light the stove, Fiona could not teach her how to heat the curling rod.

Oh, well, no one can expect a princess this time of the morning.
She opened the door to find a young visitor on the doorstep. “Yes?” she said in a voice one uses with small children, but then flushed at her misconception, for the woman standing there was a dwarf.

“Happens all the time, dear,” said the woman, smiling under a straw bonnet. The voice was that of a woman in her middle forties. “Or it did, before folks got used to the sight of me. I’m Audrey Herrick. Squire Bartley’s footman told me he spotted a family moving in here. Would you be looking to hire a cook?”

“Would you care to come in?” Julia said. “I’ll offer you some tea when we’ve figured how to brew it.”

“Oh, there’s a trick to that stove,” the woman said, hurrying on past her. Reaching the kitchen, she brushed Fiona aside after taking the matches from her hand. Less than two seconds later, a front burner was alight with flame.