The Widow of Larkspur Inn (59 page)

“Are you out making calls?” she finally asked.

“Actually, Mrs. Hollis, I thought I would visit with Mr. Clay, if he’s up to company. He’s been on my mind all day for some reason.”

Julia thought about the actor’s reclusiveness for the past two days and offered, “I should warn you that he’s suffering with one of his dark moods, so if he declines your company, you’ll know it’s nothing personal.”

“Of course.” He absently patted her gloved hand, his brow furrowed in thought. “But I can’t help wondering if it’s God who keeps shoving him to the forefront of my thoughts. I don’t think I could sleep tonight if I didn’t try to talk with him.”

“You’ve been good for him, Vicar.”

“I don’t know about that. Perhaps if I were more forceful—”

“He would turn a deaf ear, just as he does to Mrs. Kingston when she lapses into preaching at him. I suppose some people must be led gently if they are to be led at all.”

“Yes, it does seem that way.” After a short silence he looked down, his brow creasing once again.

“What’s wrong?” Julia asked him.

He looked up again. “Wrong? Oh, nothing.”

“It’s a sin to lie, Vicar.”

“Touché, Mrs. Hollis,” he replied after a chuckle. “If you must know, I was wondering … wherever did you get those boots?”

“Hey, isn’t that Vicar Phelps with your mother?” Ben asked Philip as they walked toward Church Lane.

Philip slowed his steps, his lips tightening at the sight at the crossroads some two hundred feet away. While he liked and respected Vicar Phelps personally, he couldn’t look at the man without being reminded of his younger daughter. Fresh in his mind was the memory of the older girls during the break indoors, singing out quietly the spelling of
collaborate
to the tune of
Here We Go ’Round the Mulberry Bush
. It was an amateurish effort, and some letters had to be squeezed together so that all the syllables would fit, producing verses that sounded like:

see-oh el-el ay bee

oh ARR AY tee ee!

And on and on
ad nauseam,
until Mr. Powell raised himself at the head of the classroom.

For
collaborate
had happened to be Philip’s undoing during the morning spelling drill between the fifth and sixth standard boys and girls, when he and the vicar’s daughter had been the only two left standing for a good ten minutes.

And while he never noticed her actually joining in the chorus that ensued, she had managed to look pleased with herself every time he stole a glance at her.
I can’t believe I ever thought she was pretty,
he told himself during the break. Whoever said that character was more important than appearance was completely right. It was easy to see what kind of character Laurel Phelps had. Prideful. And the last time he looked in his Bible, pride was listed as a sin.

And it ought to count against you double if your father’s a vicar.
After all, ministers’ children grew up with a constant reminder of how a good Christian should behave.

The worst part was that he couldn’t tell her what he thought of her. Mother had scolded him soundly after Christmas, promising to take away his fishing privileges for weeks if she learned that he’d treated her rudely. So he was forced to sulk in silence, with only Ben and Jeremiah aware of the depths of his dislike for her.

“Philip?” Ben said, jarring him back to the immediate present.

Philip blinked. “What?”

“I just wondered if that was the vicar with your mother, but I can see that it is. They’re moving along awfully slow, aren’t they?”

They were indeed walking slowly, but of course there were patches of ice here and there, and even the children’s steps were measured. Recalling what his mother had told him on Christmas night, he said a little testily, “A gentleman and a lady can enjoy each other’s company without everyone thinking they’re courting.”

Giving him a curious sidelong look, Ben said, “Who said they were courting?”

“Well, just in case you were thinking it, Mother says they’re not.”

“Fine with me,” his friend shrugged, but after a couple of steps added, “But what if she hasn’t told that to the vicar?”

“Would you be wantin’ some tea, gentlemen?” the chambermaid Andrew recognized as Willa asked after showing him up to Mr. Clay’s room.

Standing in front of his chair, the actor reminded him, “You’re terribly fond of Mrs. Herrick’s tea, Vicar Phelps.”

“Tea would be nice, thank you,” Andrew replied.

“And some for me as well, please,” said Mr. Clay. He attempted a smile in the maid’s direction, but when taken in with the bags under his eyes and bearded shadow across his cheeks, it appeared more grimacelike than grateful. Still, the girl seemed to find nothing unusual about this and gave a quick bob before exiting the room.

“Please have a seat, Vicar,” Mr. Clay said, nodding toward the empty chair facing his. “I suppose you’ve heard I’m in one of my sulking moods.”

Andrew took the chair and, when the actor had settled back into his, said, “I’ve never heard it described as sulking, Mr. Clay. Perhaps you could manage a little more charity toward yourself?”

The actor’s expression clouded even more so. “Someone else once said almost those exact words to me.”

“Indeed? And who was this other sage?”

“Just an acquaintance,” he answered somewhat evasively, considering how the words had seemed to affect him.

Andrew knew not to press any further. “Actually, Mr. Clay, I had no idea you were in a bad way until I reached the house a little while ago. But you’ve been in my thoughts since early this morning.”

“Yes?”

“And when God puts someone so heavily on my mind, it is always for a reason. Would you happen to know what that reason is, Mr. Clay?”

“You’re asking me to guess the motives of God?” The actor raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t that be more in line with your occupation, Vicar?”

“I just hoped you could make it a little easier for me in this circumstance,” Andrew quipped lightly.
And I’m positive now that You wanted me to be here today,
he prayed under his breath.
Please help him to open up to me
.

When Philip arrived at home, wiping his feet before entering through the courtyard door, he gave his lunch pail to Mildred in the kitchen and hurried through the house to find Mother. To his relief she was sitting in a chair in the hall, listening to Mrs. Kingston tell of her plans for the garden come spring. The vicar was nowhere to be seen.
He was just helping her home … probably from Trumbles.
After all, the lanes
were
slippery. Any gentleman would have done the same, coming across a lady outside under those conditions.

“Why, hello, Philip,” she said, smiling up in his direction. “How was your day at school?”

“Fine, Mother. Good afternoon, Mrs. Kingston.”

“And the same to you, Philip,” the older woman said. “My, I believe you’ve grown another inch when I wasn’t looking.”

Philip found himself straightening appreciatively. He had turned fourteen just last week and expected that he would launch into a growth spurt any day now, as quite a few of the adults in the house had predicted he would.

On his way back to the kitchen to hint for a snack, he thought again of the vicar, who must be upstairs visiting Mr. Clay.
You can’t blame him for liking Mother
.

He had given his mother’s situation much thought since Christmas and had come to conclude, painfully, that it was selfish to expect her to stay alone the rest of her life. In less than a year he would be enrolled in the Josiah Smith Preparatory Academy in Worchester with his visits home limited to one weekend every month. How could he keep watch over the family and attend school at the same time? Women needed husbands, even bright women like Mother. He didn’t want her ending up alone like Mrs. Kingston. And even though he was practically grown himself and had no need for another father, Aleda and Grace should have one.

But not one who already has children.
For no matter how kind and good the man happened to be, wouldn’t he favor his own? He couldn’t stand the thought of his sisters being treated like Cinderella in their own home!

Reason took over, and after he’d thanked Mrs. Herrick for the shortbread square she’d handed him, he started back toward his room to study. It was ludicrous to assume someone as kind as Vicar Phelps would ever turn into the male equivalent of a wicked stepmother. If only he didn’t have that one liability! For even though in another nine months Philip would only be home for short visits, the thought of calling Laurel Phelps sister for even two days out of thirty was a horror to him. There seemed to be no reason to expect her to change her superior, condescending ways, so how could there be any family harmony?

A bit of conscience pricked him, suggesting that he was being enormously selfish. Mother’s happiness should be the most important thing.
But how could she be happy with children who couldn’t get along?
. Hadn’t the vicar just mentioned something like that in the pulpit recently, that the family who lives in harmony has a little of heaven on earth?

Please, God,
he prayed, squeezing his eyes shut as a bit of shortbread melted away in his right cheek,
Send the right person to marry Mother one day. Someone like Mr. Trumble. Amen

He would have prayed specifically that Mr. Trumble himself be that person, but word had gotten out that the shopkeeper and Miss Hillock were fond of each other. His conscience caused another twinge, so he closed his eyes to add,
And please let Vicar Phelps find a nice wife too
.