The Widow of Larkspur Inn (56 page)

Julia sighed and turned away from the window.
It’s Christmas, and here you are moping.
And with a hundred things yet to do. She must get dressed, and there were the children to wake, if they hadn’t already slipped out to prod and poke among the packages under the decorated tree in the hall.

She had just taken a gown from her wardrobe when a light knocking sounded upon her door.

“Come in,” she said softly, and Mrs. Beemish, the new housekeeper, stepped into the room. After the shock of Fiona’s departure had lessened, Julia sent letters of inquiry to the two domestic agencies in Shrewsbury. Mrs. Beemish was the first applicant sent up to Gresham for an interview, and Julia had liked her so much that they saw no need to interview any other applicants. She was a soft, rounded woman of average height, fifty-one years old, and with brown doe eyes and graying dark hair drawn back into a bun. Since starting out in service at age eleven, Mrs. Beemish had worked at every position possible in a well-run house, including that of cook. But she wisely allowed Mrs. Herrick total command over the kitchen, just as Fiona had, and so the two got on quite well.

Yet the best thing about her, in Julia’s opinion, was her voice, as soothing as a warm cup of tea. And soothing was what she had needed after Fiona left.

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hollis!” the housekeeper said, smiling.

“And the same to you, Mrs. Beemish. Did you sleep well?”

“I’m afraid not, missus. You’d think that after fifty years, Christmas wouldn’t excite me so much anymore.”

Julia smiled. “I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.”

“Thank you, missus. I just thought you might want to know that the children are in the hall, eyeing the stockings. They said they didn’t want to wake you, but I suspect they were hoping I would.”

“Then I should hurry before eyeing leads to touching.” With the housekeeper’s assistance she dressed quickly. On her way down the corridor, she thought with a touch of melancholy,
Our first Christmas without their father
.

On second thought, she recalled that he wasn’t at home last Christmas, either, but then she had understood, because medical emergencies had no consideration for the calendar. And surely it
had
been an emergency, for no decent father would bow out of Christmas with the family to gamble. At least she chose to believe that.

Reaching the hall, she paused for a minute in the doorway to drink in the sight before her. Philip sat in a chair in pajamas and slippers, and the girls were still clad in nightgowns on the sofa. All three sipped from mugs that likely contained hot chocolate, knowing Mrs. Beemish. Hanging from the chimneypiece were three bulging stockings, and in a corner stood the eight-foot fir tree that Mr. Durwin and Mr. Clay had hauled down from the Anwyl. Its branches were bedecked with little baskets and trays filled with candies, fruits, fancy cakes, and gilded gingerbread figures tied with colored ribbons. There were wax candles on the ends of the branches as well, to be lit after the church service when guests arrived for dinner and merrymaking.

Aleda caught sight of her and leaned forward to set her mug on the tea table. “Mother, you’re awake!”

“Merry Christmas, children,” Julia said, walking into the room. She bent to kiss each forehead, then squeezed in between the girls. “How long have you been in here?”

“Oh, ages and ages,” Grace answered, sliding toward the edge of the sofa.

“May we take down our stockings now?” asked Philip. The children were already aware that the packages would have to wait until the lodgers were up and had breakfasted.

“Well …” Julia pretended to think this over.

“Oh, please, Mother,” Grace pressed. “We can’t wait another minute.”

“Then of course you may.”

With the aid of a chair, Philip took down all three stockings. They spent the time remaining before having to dress admiring their own and each other’s gifts. Grace’s favorite was a tiny tea set made of bone china, Aleda’s, a silver flute, and Philip’s, a folding pocket knife with a carved ivory handle. After breakfast, packages were opened from under the tree, with even the servants joining in. Julia and the three older women lodgers had bought or made something for each of them as well. The children reaped the greatest bounty, each receiving not only a gift from Julia—dolls for the girls, and a set of small tin soldiers for Philip—but something from every lodger, and even from Fiona via the post. This caused Julia a bit of concern, for she didn’t want them growing up to associate Christmas with gifts alone.

What a far cry from what worried me back in March,
she thought. Back then, her concern had been whether she would be able to provide the basic necessities for the children.
You’re so good to us, Father
.

Snow was falling steadily as Mr. Herrick drove the members of Saint Jude’s to church in the new landau behind Donny and Pete, two Welsh cob horses purchased in Woverhampton from an acquaintance of Doctor Rhodes. He had already delivered Mrs. Herrick, Mrs. Dearing, and Ruth to the Baptist chapel and would be joining them shortly. Saint Jude’s seemed like a forest; there was so much holly about that members of the congregation seemed to be sprouting it. The organist and chancel choir performed at least a dozen Christmas carols, asking the congregation to accompany them, and Vicar Phelps’s sermon about that holy night in Bethlehem was nothing short of moving.

Afterward, Vicar Phelps and his daughters, Dr. and Mrs. Rhodes, Captain and Mrs. Powell, the Worthy sisters, and Miss Hillock joined the occupants of the
Larkspur
for a dinner of roast goose with all the trimmings and plum pudding for dessert.

There would have been even more people present if the Keegans weren’t spending the day with family in Shrewsbury—Julia had walked up to Worton Lane last week with a batch of Mrs. Herrick’s almondsugar cookies and, after being received so graciously, had extended an impulsive invitation. She wasn’t quite sure if it had come from the goodness of her heart or from a longing to hear an Irish accent again.

After carols around the pianoforte with Aleda playing accompaniment, Julia took a brief respite from hostessing to stand by the tree and watch the gathering. Guests and lodgers alike were obviously enjoying one another’s company. Even Mrs. Hyatt and Mrs. Kingston stood near the fireplace, their heads together while admiring the workmanship in Elizabeth Phelps’s cranberry velvet dress. Apparently Mrs. Kingston had decided that Christmas was not a time for competing for the affections of a certain man, or better yet, no longer had an interest in him. The garden had most likely helped that along, giving Mrs. Kingston a project to keep her hands and mind busy. Even though she couldn’t be out there working in it now, she pored over gardening books, making plans for spring. She was as determined to win a prize in the garden show as Philip was to win the school trophy.

And Philip … she watched the boy showing his new knife to Doctor and Mrs. Rhodes. Though not aggressively rude, he had practically ignored Laurel Phelps when he sat across from her at dinner. She didn’t want to spoil his Christmas by scolding him, but in a day or two they would need to have a long talk about his resentment of the girl.

“My parents would never allow me to have a knife,” came a voice at her right elbow, and she turned to smile at Vicar Phelps.

“Did you want one?”

“Oh, terribly.”

“Do you think it was foolish of me?”

The vicar shook his head. “He seems a responsible boy.”

Julia glanced over at the draughts table, where Laurel and Aleda were absorbed in a game. “I just wish he were more sociable toward your daughter, Vicar. I’m afraid he’s become single-minded about this school competition.”

“Well, I have to tell you that Laurel hasn’t been a saint about it. I’m not sure now if she wants the trophy for its own sake or to prove that she can best him.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “They’ll grow out of it, Mrs. Hollis. You know what the Scripture says … ‘When I was a child, I spake as a child.’”

She was indeed reassured and told him so. Since his first call in early October, Vicar Phelps had managed to pay a brief visit every week. Julia would join the lodgers in the hall and, like the others, appreciated his warm wit and kind nature.
And it’s been over a month since I’ve heard Jake Pitt’s name,
she thought.

“Mrs. Hollis,” the vicar said from her side, interrupting her reverie. “Has Elizabeth visited you lately?”

“Why, not since early November. I suppose the children still keep her quite busy.”

“They do indeed, but she hasn’t complained. And the little girl, Molly, has taken to addressing her as Aunt Beth.”

He glanced at the nearest chairs, where Jewel Worthy sat chatting with Miss Rawlins, then leaned closer and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Another thing that’s keeping her busy is … she has a beau.”

Julia smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“His name is Paul Treves, a curate assigned to Alveley. He seems a decent fellow.”

“But of course he is, if …”

He gave her a wry little smile. “Unfortunately, some men embrace the ministry for other reasons than a desire to preach the Gospel, Mrs. Hollis. But I’m impressed with what I’ve seen in him so far.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Lowering her voice, Julia said, “Perhaps she’s forgotten about Mr. Raleigh after all.”

“Perhaps,” he replied with a little less than total conviction in his voice.

“The aftermath was far worse than the amputation itself,” Philip overheard Captain Powell say to Mr. Clay as he was passing by the two men. Suddenly his feet took root on the carpet beneath them.

“I felt ‘ghost’ pains for weeks afterward,” Captain Powell went on, “and would often forget the arm was missing and reach out for things.”

Did he just say how he lost it?
Philip wondered, pretending to be absorbed in his knife as he stood just behind Mr. Clay’s left elbow. Surely it had happened in the midst of some heated exchange of gunfire between Boer resistance and the British army. Or had it been the result of desperate hand-to-hand fighting with bayonets? He stepped a little closer to Mr. Clay, who surely must know that an eavesdropper lurked nearby, and listened intently.

“Were you right-handed before the amputation?” the actor asked.

“Left-handed, fortunately, so at least I didn’t have to learn how to write all over again.”

That would be hard to do,
Philip thought, then happened to glance in the direction of the Christmas tree. His mother and Vicar Phelps caught his eye, standing close and smiling at each other as they chatted, as if no one else were in the same room, or even the same house. Philip blinked and studied the vicar a little closer, forgetting all about the arm Captain Powell may have left on the plains of South Africa. He had seen that look many times before on Mr. Clay’s face when Fiona was still here.

But he’s the vicar … and Mother just lost father
.

In February, he reminded himself. Ten months ago. And as for Vicar Phelps being a minister, they were certainly allowed to marry, or Elizabeth and Laurel wouldn’t be here.

Laurel,
he thought, grinding his teeth a little. He turned his attention to the draughts board. As if sensing his eyes upon her, the vicar’s daughter looked up and sent him a decided smirk. He returned the smirk, and then a horrid thought struck him. If his mother were to marry the vicar …