The Widow of Larkspur Inn (55 page)

“Then I will give you my word. For this evening. But if I lapse into preaching you’ll have to remind me. It’s as much a part of me as my arm.”

“Fair enough.” Ambrose chewed on his lip and tried to decide upon the first question, finally coming up with, “Why is it we’re not supposed to wear clothes woven from linen and wool together?”

“What?” The vicar said, halting in his tracks. An indulgent smile spread across his face. “Tell me, Mr. Clay, how long have you been reading the Bible?”

“Who said I’m—”

“You recently picked it up and started at the first page, didn’t you? And you’ve gotten yourself bogged down in the book of Leviticus.”

“I normally begin books from the first page, vicar,” Ambrose bristled. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, the Bible isn’t a novel, Mr. Clay. It must be spiritually discerned. And frankly, you cannot obtain that discernment until you’ve met the Author.”

“Met the author?”

“You’ve asked me not to try to convert you this evening, and I’ll keep my word. But I strongly recommend you first read the book of Saint John, and then Saint Paul’s letter to the Romans. Then I’d like to talk with you about what you’ve read.”

Things were moving too fast for Ambrose, and he was starting to feel great discomfort. Holding up a hand, he said, “Perhaps we’ll talk about it. I don’t know yet.”

“As long as you’re reading anyway, will you at least start with Saint John?”

“All right,” Ambrose shrugged, and they resumed their walk. Presently, he grumbled, “I don’t see why you can’t just tell me about the wool and linen.”

“I’ll be happy to,” the vicar chuckled. “Forgive me for being so vague. Since you’ve read past Exodus, you know that the Israelites were a people God wanted to set apart. He gave them several laws meant to instill a reverence for order that was set by Him—such as the law forbidding two varieties of seeds to be mixed together while sowing. I don’t pretend to understand many of them, Mr. Clay, but then I don’t have to, since they were addressed to the Israelites, and under the old covenant.”

“The old covenant? Well, what’s the new covenant then?”

“The new covenant, my talented friend, is the blood atonement of Jesus Christ. You did ask. And it would be a lie to give you any other answer.”

“And … I believe I’m feeling a little worn from the performance,” Ambrose told him. “Your daughters will be wondering about you as well.”

“Then I suppose it’s time to bid you farewell,” Vicar Phelps said, causing Ambrose to appreciate the fact that he did not attempt to pressure him. They shook hands and the vicar turned to head back toward the vicarage.

Ambrose had gone about twelve feet when a fish jumped in the water to his right. It was a lonely sound in the still darkness, but it gave him comfort in a way that he couldn’t fathom. He turned and looked at the retreating back of the minister, barely visible in the darkness, and impulsively called out, “Saint John, you said?”

Slowing his pace only a little, the vicar looked over his shoulder and waved a hand. “Let me know when you’re ready to talk.”

Darcy Knight’s tiny nostrils flared with fury, her iridescent green eyes clawing across the handsome dragoon’s face like talons. “Just because you’ve beaten General Bonaparte, Colonel Jefferies, doesn’t mean you can march back up here to Keld and expect me to fall at your feet like the rest of England! If the moors couldn’t tame me in six years, what makes you assume you can in three weeks?”

Fiona rubbed sleep from her eyes, the words briefly running together on the page. Is it possible to be a heroine without having a willful streak, pouting lips, and wild mane of hair? she asked herself. And must every hero be tall, with an aquiline nose and strong square chin?

She didn’t know why she didn’t put the novel down and go to sleep, but then that would require the routine necessary for dressing for bed. It seemed easier just to lie across her coverlet and stare at an increasingly predictable plot.
But it was kind of her to lend it to me
, Fiona reminded herself.

The trouble had started when Miss Rawlins recently learned that she was an avid reader and had generously insisted upon lending Fiona eight of her published novelettes. “You may take your time reading them, Miss O’Shea,” she had said, beaming as would a mother holding out her brood for a neighbor to admire. “But I would appreciate hearing your opinion as you finish each one. A reader’s insight is so valuable.”

That was the most difficult part, trying to think of something complementary to say after she finished the first book,
The Marquis’ Daughter
, without being dishonest. And pointing out that the spelling was flawless didn’t seem to be the kind of observation the novelist was seeking. But it turned out to be no problem—once Fiona mentioned, truthfully, that she enjoyed the description of Venice, Miss Rawlins smiled appreciatively and took over the conversation.

“I’m so happy to hear that, Miss O’Shea, because the setting is almost as important as the plot itself,” she’d said, pushing her reading spectacles up the bridge of her nose.

“And just how many books have
you
written, Fiona O’Shea?” Fiona murmured as she turned another page. It was easy to criticize someone else’s work, particularly when it was something she’d never attempted.
But eight books!

A second dying ember snapped in her fireplace … or so she thought until the realization hit her that both sounds had come from her window. She closed the book, got up from the bed, and went over to press her face against the glass. There was Mr. Clay, standing in the courtyard, waving a hand at her. She opened the casement and leaned out a bit.

“Mr. Clay?” she whispered loudly, lest she wake up the others.

“Forgive me, Miss O’Shea,” he whispered back, “but your light is the only one burning. My key must have dropped from my pocket as I was changing at the town hall. I went back there to look, but the door’s locked.”

“I’ll be right there.”

She padded quietly down the corridor, aware in the circle of candlelight that her dress was terribly wrinkled from where she’d lain across the bed to read. She did not bother to brush out some of the wrinkles, for what did it matter? At the courtyard door she raised the latch and allowed him in.

“Thank you,” he said, rubbing his shirt sleeves. “It’s turned a bit nippy out.”

“Where is your costume?”

“Back at the hall … with my key, I presume. Sorry to disturb you.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Clay.” She found that she could avoid looking directly into his eyes by focusing just a shade to the right of each one. Pushing open the door to the lantern room, she said, “If you wouldn’t mind holding my candle, I’ll get another for you.”

“Thank you.”

Fiona stepped into the room, with Mr. Clay holding the candle aloft behind her. She could feel his eyes upon her back, but he did not step through the open doorway. Soon she’d fitted another candle upon a holder. Back in the corridor, she lit it from the one Mr. Clay still held.

“Well, thank you for rescuing me,” he told her in an friendly but not particularly intimate tone.

She wondered if she had presumed wrongly about his feelings for her. That should have caused her some relief, but it did not. “Good night, sir. And thank you for what you did tonight.”

“You mean, locking myself out like an idiot?”

“Trying to put an end to the Jake Pitt rumor. And especially for what you did for the Keegans.”

He did not answer until she finally was forced to look him in the eyes. “I did nothing for the Keegans.”

“But their shed hasn’t been distur—”

“I did it for you, Miss O’Shea. And now I bid you good-night.”

On her way back to her room, Fiona didn’t realize she was crying until a cold tear dropped from the side of her chin to the bodice of her gown. She wiped her face with the back of her hand and went over to the mirror above her chest of drawers. The woman who stared back at her looked ghastly in the candlelight, with hooded eyes set into an amber-palled face.

You look just like an adulteress,
she thought and wiped another tear from her face. For it was nothing short of adultery for a married woman to love a man who was not her husband.
You must leave this place at once
.

It was the only way.
And as soon as possible
. If she stayed long enough to give notice or even say good-bye, Mrs. Hollis would ask Mr. Clay to leave instead. As much as her heart ached at the thought of leaving the family she had come to love, she could not do that to him. He’d found a harbor here in Gresham, a safe place that would encourage him to collect the strength to allow him to return to the stage one day.

And who knew? There seemed to be a rapport between Mr. Clay and Vicar Phelps, judging by what she had observed in the town hall tonight. Perhaps a friendship would develop that would ultimately cause the actor to come to faith.

A picture of the mistress and children standing dumbfounded in the hall upon their first arrival at the
Larkspur
floated into her mind, but she shook it away.
Sentiment will weaken your nerve
, she warned herself. The
Larkspur
was providing a good living for the Hollises, so she didn’t have to worry about looking out for them anymore. And the servants were used to their routines, so they could do without a housekeeper for as long as it took to hire another.

She would go back to London, she decided. Surely Mr. Jensen, who turned out to have a kind heart after all, could be persuaded to give her a good character reference. A housekeeper with the experience she now possessed could easily find a position through one of the domestic agencies. Early tomorrow morning she would pack whatever she could fit into a gripsack and wave down a ride to Shrewsbury with one of the cheese factory carriers. They rumbled past the
Larkspur
daily before the sun appeared and often rented out extra space on their wagon seats for travelers wishing to spare the expense of a coach.

Father, forgive me for being so underhanded,
she prayed.
But please give me the strength to carry through with it
.

Chapter 34

First snow of the season, and on Christmas day,
Julia thought early that morning, padding over to her bedroom window in her slippers. She drew her wrapper more tightly about her and touched the cold glass. Light, powdery flakes danced this way and that and had already started collecting in the corners of the windowsill.

“Are you thinking about us, Fiona?” she murmured. Her friend had been gone for over two months now, but Julia often thought she could sense her presence across the miles, could even feel the prayers she knew were being lifted up for her family. Selfishly, she realized, she had assumed Fiona would always be part of their lives. A lump welled up in her throat, and at that moment she could imagine Fiona looking at her with that straightforward expression, saying,
It’s time to get on with your life, missus, as I’ve gotten on with mine
.

And Fiona had gotten on quite well, according to her first letter from London, finding a housekeeping position in the home of Mr. Harold Leighton, a member of Parliament. Her letters asked about everyone at the
Larkspur
, including the lodgers, but she did not mention any particular lodger by name.

Nor did Mr. Clay ask about her anymore, but some relief had come to his face when Julia volunteered at the dinner table that she was safe and sound in her new location. Afterward she had been tempted to tell Mr. Clay privately the full particulars of Fiona’s marriage, but fortunately thought better of it and held her tongue. If he became aware of the past cruelty of her husband, any romantic notions he still had would be fueled—perhaps he would feel the need to rescue her. But the marriage was as binding as if her husband were a saint. Some things couldn’t change, no matter how badly one wished they could.

Mr. Clay had to have suspected that she had left because of him. He had volunteered, even insisted upon moving away himself in the hopes that she would return. But the note Fiona had left behind on her night table had let it be known that no set of circumstances would cause her to change her mind.
And so she sacrificed everything she was familiar with so he would stay.