The Widow of Larkspur Inn (3 page)

In her bed two hours later, Julia discovered again that weariness was no guarantee of slumber. Images of other callers bearing notes-of-hand haunted her.
Mr. Deems has to have been the last
, she reasoned, plumping her pillow for the fourth time. Philip had been gone for three weeks now. Surely anyone else he owed money to would have presented himself by now.

A picture of the crumbling, vermin-infested tenements in Saint Giles drifted inexplicably into her mind. Every Christmas and Easter she made visits with the Ladies’ Home Charity Society, bearing food, blankets, and medicines. Had
all
of the poor creatures who resided there been born into poverty, she wondered? Or was it possible that some had been blessed with wealth, only to mismanage it?

Could that happen to us?
Immediately she pushed the thought away.
Philip loved his family. He would have made certain that we were well provided for
.

Chapter 2

Fiona O’Shea, one of the upstairs maids, woke Julia with a tray the next morning. “Good mornin’ to you, ma’am,” the maid spoke in her lilting Irish brogue. A capable, calming presence, she was the only servant Julia had been responsible for hiring. She looked much younger than her twenty-five years, with wide violet-colored eyes set in a delicate-looking oval face and sable black hair pinned up into her lace cap.

Julia opened one eye and groaned, “It can’t be morning already.”

“Ah, but I’m afraid it is.” Setting the tray on the bedside table, Fiona went to the closest window and pulled the heavy velvet drapes apart. “See? The sun has been up for quite a while.”

Julia sat up on her pillows, shielding her eyes with her hand from the sunlight slanting in through her open curtains. “I shouldn’t have slept so long,” she said, assuming that the hour must be at least noon. When a glance at the scroll clock on the chimneypiece revealed half past nine, she yawned and considered easing back into the covers. Sleep, no matter how fitful, was preferable to dragging through the day with a heart that had turned to stone in the pit of her chest.

If I lie in bed long enough, perhaps the pain will go away.
But remembering that her children needed her, she asked if they’d already breakfasted.

“Aye, ma’am. They’re startin’ their lessons now.” Fiona looked up from tucking Julia’s napkin under her chin to give her a smile. The violet eyes betrayed concern, though. “I heard you were up late last night. Would you be wantin’ some more sleep? I can come back a bit later.”

Though the idea was tempting, Julia shook her head. “I’ve spent too much time in bed lately.”

“Some food will give you strength.” Fiona stepped back and lifted a silver cover to reveal a slightly misshapen egg dish with bacon, toast, and marmalade. “Mrs. Capshaw tried her hand at some of those French omelets. We had them in the servants’ hall—they’re quite tasty.”

“Yes.” Picking up a fork from the tray across her lap, Julia manufactured a look of interest in the food in front of her. She knew the maid would grieve if she didn’t eat at least some of her breakfast. If it weren’t for Fiona’s coaxing, Julia supposed she wouldn’t even have the strength to get out of bed by now, with the little appetite she’d had since Philip’s death.
I don’t know how I could have gotten through all of this without her
, Julia thought.

Seven years ago an eighteen-year-old immigrant from Kilkenny, looking days past her last meal, had shown up at the kitchen door. Julia happened to be out on the terrace with little Philip when the cook coldly informed the girl that there were no positions available. The look of utter despair that came across the young face when the door slammed behind her so moved Julia that she found herself asking her husband to hire the girl.

Never had Julia been given cause to regret her impulsive behavior. Once Fiona was shown her responsibilities, she gave her wholehearted attention to the tasks at hand, while even attending evening school for servants at the nearby Wesleyan chapel. Much more than that, Fiona was a friendly presence in the house who didn’t intimidate her, as did the butler and other servants, or condescend to her, as did the wives of her husband’s associates.

After Julia had managed to force down half of the omelet, some toast, and tea, Fiona picked up the tray and set it atop the bedside table. “Would you like to pick out a gown?” she asked on her way to a cherrywood armoire against the wall.

“Pick out a gown?” Julia let out a sharp bleak laugh. “One black gown is as good as another, don’t you think?”

“I just thought you would feel better if—”

The anger Julia had felt last night came bubbling up to the surface again. “I’ve discovered that my husband had secrets he did not care to share with me, Fiona. And you believe choosing my own gown will make me feel better?”

“I’m sorry, missus,” Fiona said in a quiet voice.

Julia immediately felt ashamed. She had never spoken so sharply to any of the servants, and now here she was mistreating the one who had served her with unquestioning loyalty these past seven years.

Dear God, help me. I’m turning into such a shrew!
Tears welled into her eyes, blurring the image on the other side of the room. “Forgive me,” Julia whispered. “I was caught unawares by something last night.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Fiona answered, then moved to the chest of drawers and took out a handkerchief. She came over to the bed and pressed it into Julia’s hand. “Is there anything I can do to help, missus?”

Julia wiped her cheeks. She longed to tell Fiona what she had learned about her husband, but the pain was so fresh that she could not bear to have it brought out in the open again. “The strain of these past three weeks has me overreacting to everything,” she said finally. “Tomorrow has to be better.”

“Aye, it will at that, ma’am. God takes care of His own.”

The calm assurance in the maid’s voice caused Julia to muster a weak smile. How she envied Fiona’s unwavering faith in God! “I needed to be reminded of that. You’re such a blessing to me, Fiona.”

“Me, bless you?” she replied, her violet eyes widening. “I don’t see how.
You’re
the one who saved me from the workhouse.”

“I could always talk with you.” And with Philip having been away so much, her friendship with Fiona meant all the more.
He was at the hospital
, Julia insisted to herself. As the major surgeon, he must have faced tremendous pressures. And though she didn’t approve of gambling, perhaps an occasional game of cards had been what her husband had needed in order to relax.

He could have relaxed with his wife and children
, a voice spoke in her thoughts, bitter as quinine, but she forced it away and moved her legs from under the coverlet and over the side of the bed. “I suppose I should choose a gown after all.”

Fiona beamed back at her. “That’s the spirit, ma’am.”

After Julia had washed up and Fiona had helped her into a gown of black bombazine with tiny jet buttons and a modest bustle, Julia sat down at the dressing table—not because she had any interest in her appearance, but because it wouldn’t be good for the children’s morale to have their mother looking disheveled. Standing behind her, Fiona picked up a boar’s-hair brush and set to work immediately. The feel of the brush pulling through her hair was soothing, and as a chignon began to take shape at the nape of her neck, Julia had the idle thought that any stranger looking in at the two of them would assume that
she
was the one from Ireland.

While Fiona’s hair was a shiny ebony, Julia’s was the color of burnished copper. And while Fiona’s complexion was clear, save a small strawberry birthmark over one eyebrow, a baker’s dozen of small freckles dotted Julia’s cheeks and nose. Fiona had even remarked once that a number of her Irish relatives had the same coloring as Julia, down to the emerald green eyes.

The remark had surprised her, for Fiona was tight-lipped about her life back in Kilkenny. Julia had waited, wondering if the maid would reveal more about her family, but the topic was carried no further. All she knew was that Fiona had five sisters and exchanged letters every summer with one by the name of Breanna.

Julia respected Fiona too much to pry into her past. But it did strike her as curious that such a pretty young woman seemed to have no interest in finding a husband. Apparently others had wondered as well. Julia once overheard Alice, the head parlormaid, declare, “Fiona must be daft,” because she showed no interest in any of the male servants who contended for the honor of sitting near her Sunday mornings in the servants’ galley at Saint James’.

Perhaps it’s good sense that keeps her from marrying,
Julia told herself as Fiona clasped a tortoise-shell comb above her chignon. She immediately regretted the cynical thought.
You loved Philip.
She would have married him without hesitation had she that choice to make all over again. Thinking otherwise was to wish her children had never been born, a notion too terrible to contemplate.

The faint sound of a doorbell drifted up from downstairs, directing her thoughts to practical matters. No doubt the butcher’s or greengrocer’s cart waited outside while supplies were being delivered through the kitchen door.
The household funds,
Julia thought.
I should ask Jensen about the bank cheques right away.

As she started down the stairs to find the butler—she had never once mustered the courage to ring for him—Julia realized she was beginning to feel just a bit more optimistic about the future. Assuming responsibility for the finances seemed a staggering task, but surely it was one she could learn. And it would be good to have a project with which to occupy her mind, especially since the children would be spending weekdays with their tutor again.

The butler met her at the foot of the stairs. “Good morning, Jensen,” Julia said. She opened her mouth to ask about the bank cheques but closed it when she noticed his gray expression.

“Madam has callers in the drawing room,” he said in a somber tone.

Julia felt a sudden tightening in her chest. “Not another like Mr. Deems …”

“No, madam. These gentlemen are from the Bank of London.”

Staring across at Messrs. Forbes and Waldegrave from the Louis XV velvet sofa, Julia could almost feel pity for the two bank officers. Their faces wore the pained expressions of men more comfortable with balance sheets and profit-and-loss statements than with the grim task before them.

“H-how …” She swallowed against the raw ache at the back of her throat and began again. “How long before we have to leave the house?”

Mr. Waldegrave, the younger of the two, studied the fingers he had laced together over one knee. He was a thin man, with a bulbous nose that seemed at odds with the sharp angle of his jaws. His hair was slicked back with a thick sheen of pomade that had filled the room with the odor of apples upon his entrance. “The new owner has agreed to allow ten days, Mrs. Hollis.”

“Ten days?” Julia gasped.

“The bank was fortunate in that a buyer expressed interest in the house so soon.” His voice sounded tinny, as if echoing through a tunnel, yet the words were as devastating to Julia as if he’d roared them.

Julia swallowed again.
God help us!
She had never felt at home in this house, with its bric-a-brac infested rooms, pompous wallpapers, and furniture crafted more for decoration than comfort. But now she looked at it through the eyes of her children. It was the only home they had ever known, so she had to fight this for their sake. “I can’t believe you would foreclose on a widow and her children less than a month after her husband has died.”

The men exchanged uneasy glances, and this time it was Mr. Forbes who spoke. He wore bushy side-whiskers and had the faded complexion of someone who has spent the better of his fifty-plus years indoors. “Surely your husband …” He paused and cleared his throat. “Surely Dr. Hollis made you aware that we served warning of impending foreclosure over a year ago? A financial institution simply cannot afford to carry overdue debts on the books that long. We do regret being forced to take this course of—”

“Please.” Julia held up a hand and braced herself against a fresh onslaught of tears. “No more apologies. And no, he did not tell me.”

When she could find her voice again, she asked if there would be any money left after the foreclosure. The weight in her chest grew heavier when Mr. Forbes glanced down at his ledger and shook his head. “Your husband’s debts were immense, Mrs. Hollis. Even after the furnishings are auctioned, we predict we will barely come out on evens.”

“You’re going to take
everything
?”

“You may keep your clothing, of course, and any strictly personal items. All jewelry must be surrendered to the bank for auction.” He cleared his throat twice. “Mr. Waldegrave and I are required to collect your jewelry this morning.”

“My wedding ring as well?” she asked, fingering the setting she had worn on her left hand for fourteen years.

“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Hollis.”

Suddenly Julia grasped the reason why her jewelry had to be surrendered immediately, and it filled her with shame. Because Philip had acted less than honorably in paying his debts, did the bankers suppose she was cut from the same cloth?
Perhaps I would have held some back
, she thought. How long
would
the string of pearls or her mother’s diamond brooch feed the children?
Why are we being punished for what he did?