The Widow of Larkspur Inn (61 page)

I thought so!
“So the old coot has broken your heart, has he?”

The red-rimmed eyes went wide again. “Why, no. He’s asked me to marry him.”

“Marry him?” Even though she’d resigned herself long ago to the futility of wishing for any sort of future with Mr. Durwin, she still found herself surprised and more than a little annoyed at the news. “And you’re upset about that?”

“I know,” Mrs. Hyatt sniffed, tears running down her soft face. “He’s such a good man, and I do miss not having a husband….”

“And you’re practically inseparable,” Mrs. Kingston was forced to admit. “So why can’t you …” She stopped herself, eased her feet back down to the floor, and went over to the open drawer for another handkerchief. After handing it to Mrs. Hyatt, who mumbled a sodden “thank you,” and wiped her eyes, she resumed her place at the bedside. “Now, go on.”

“He doesn’t know my maiden name.”

Mrs. Kingston blinked. “Excuse me?”

“My maiden name. He’s never asked.” Mrs. Hyatt wiped her eyes again. “Or my favorite hymn, for that matter. Or color, or flower.”

“Why don’t you just
tell
him those things, if you want him to know them?”
Instead of weeping over something so simple to repair,
she thought to herself. “Mr. Durwin can’t read minds, you know.”

Mrs. Hyatt’s lips trembled. “Don’t you see, Mrs. Kingston? I know almost everything concerning Mr. Durwin, because that’s all we talk about.
His
children and grandchildren …
his
interest in herbs … how
he
founded
Durwin Stoves.
Am I so uninteresting that …?”

“There, there now, dear,” Mrs. Kingston cut in, reaching down to pat the lump that was Mrs. Hyatt’s knee. She didn’t want to be backed into a corner with
that
question. Her lips tightened. But even though Mrs. Hyatt wasn’t the most fascinating person on this earth, Mr. Durwin had no right to use her as merely an audience. It would be torture to be married to a man whose only idea of conversation involved litanies of his own accomplishments. She began to feel a great relief that Mr. Durwin had shown no interest in her. “So you refused his hand, did you?”

“Refused his hand?” Her voice wavered unsteadily. “I don’t know how to go about doing that, Mrs. Kingston.”

“Why, it’s simple,” the older widow declared, though she couldn’t recall ever having had to break any hearts herself, even in her finishing school years. “You tell him you don’t care to be his wife, but that you’ll always think of him with affection.”

“I can’t do that,” Mrs. Hyatt gasped, horror filling her gray eyes.

“Well, I know it’s going to take some courage….”

Mrs. Hyatt shrank a little into the covers. “I’ve never possessed a lot of courage, Mrs. Kingston. I wish I could be as brave as you are.”

Suddenly her opinion of Mrs. Hyatt went up a notch. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said modestly.

“Oh, you don’t know how many times I’ve wished to be like you. You’re not afraid of saying what you think. I’m always terrified of offending.”

“That’s because you’re so tender-hearted, Mrs. Hyatt,” Mrs. Kingston said, wondering why she had neglected to appreciate that fact before.

“It’s kind of you to say that, Mrs. Kingston.” Mrs. Hyatt wiped her eyes and blew her nose again. “I’m so thankful you came in here tonight. I was beside myself!”

“There, there,” Mrs. Kingston soothed, patting the knee again.

There were several seconds of companionable silence until Mrs. Hyatt spoke in a tentative voice, “Mrs. Kingston?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think you could tell Mr. Durwin for me?”

Mrs. Kingston started. “Me?”

“Oh, please … I just don’t think I can face him.”

“But you’ll have to face him
sometime
.”

“I know. But I’m sure I’ll say the wrong words if I turn down his proposal. Please, Mrs. Kingston?”

She finally gave in, fearing that this could go on all night if she didn’t reassure the poor soul. “Oh, if you absolutely
must
involve me in this.”

Relief and gratitude lit Mrs. Hyatt’s ruffle-framed face. “Oh, Mrs. Kingston! I don’t know what to say! Bless you!”

“Just lend me some liniment, that’s all.” Mrs. Kingston got to her feet again. “And go to sleep now, will you? I shan’t be able to rest if I know you’re in here tossing and turning.”

After accepting Mrs. Hyatt’s effusive thanks again, she took the liniment from the chest, closed the open drawer, and went back to her own room.
Better to leave the romance in Miss Rawlins’ books,
she thought as she rubbed liniment on her right knee. Now it would be
she
who would toss and turn, for what sane person could look forward to the task she had agreed to undertake?

She paused from rubbing her knee and looked at the clock.
Quarter past eleven.
Why not get it over with immediately? Sure, she would have to wake Mr. Durwin, but wouldn’t he appreciate several hours to recover before having to face Mrs. Hyatt at breakfast in the morning?
And I would surely sleep better
.

Getting out of bed again, she pushed her feet back into her slippers and retied the sash to her wrapper. The two men’s chambers were located in the shorter corridor, past the water closet and sitting room. She knocked softly on Mr. Durwin’s door. When she heard a sleep-laden “yes?” from the other side, she decided she didn’t care to announce her name out here in the corridor, lest poor Mr. Clay assume the wrong idea, so she just knocked again.

Finally the door opened and Mr. Durwin stood there clad in nightshirt and dressing gown. A lamp burned behind him on a table.

“Mrs. Kingston?” he blinked.

“May I come in, Mr. Durwin?” she whispered.

“I beg your pardon?”

Mrs. Kingston frowned. “I’ve something to tell you that I don’t think you would care to have announced in the corridor. And I’ve seen men’s dressing gowns before, so you don’t have to be so modest.”

He backed away and allowed her in, his mouth gaping as he did. “What is the meaning of this, Mrs. Kingston?” he whispered when she’d turned from easing the door closed.

“It’s concerning Mrs. Hyatt, Mr. Durwin. It is my sad duty to inform you that she must decline your proposal but will continue to think of you with affection.”

“Wha—?” He cleared his throat. “What do you mean?”

“Mrs. Hyatt has come to realize that marriage would be a mistake at this time.” Tactfully she restrained herself from adding,
because you’re a bore.
And with the dubious duty behind her, she bade him good-night and turned to leave.

But Mr. Durwin would have nothing of it. “Wait!” he said, reaching the door at the same time. He put a hand on the knob to prevent her from taking it. “Are you serious about this, Mrs. Kingston?”

“I’m afraid so. But don’t despair, Mr. Durwin. You can still be friends.”

“But what is her reason? Surely she gave you a reason!”

“I told you … because she’s come to realize that marriage would be …”

His face seemed to have aged ten years. “That’s not a specific reason, Mrs. Kingston. What are you keeping from me?”

Why did I ever involve myself in this?
she now wondered. This was much more difficult than she had imagined it would be. She had expected that someone of Mr. Durwin’s years would take the news a bit more stoically. Could it be that he sincerely
cared
about Mrs. Hyatt, and not just because she possessed a set of ears? “Well …” she hedged.

Mr. Durwin’s expression became pleading. “Please, I beg of you.”

Mrs. Kingston sighed and folded her arms akimbo across her chest. “Very well, then. Tell me, Mr. Durwin, what color are Mrs. Hyatt’s eyes?”

“Her … I beg your pardon?”

“Her eyes. You look at them every day. What color are they?”

He thought for a minute. “Hazel?”

“Gray, Mr. Durwin. How about her maiden name? Or her favorite flower, or hymn?”

He stared at her for a few seconds, his mind obviously hard at work, before shaking his head. “Why, I’m afraid I have no idea. Is that why she’s angry?”

“Not angry. Afraid.”

“Afraid, you say? Of what?”

There was no way to soft-soap this, so Mrs. Kingston plunged on ahead. “Of finding herself married to an old man who can only talk about himself, Mr. Durwin.”

Mr. Durwin looked as if she’d slapped him. “I didn’t realize …” he mumbled, but his words trailed off into the chill air of the room.

Compassion stirred in Mrs. Kingston’s ample bosom. “But it’s quite obvious to me that she cares for you, Mr. Durwin,” she said gently.

He simply stared at her, ashen-faced, and Mrs. Kingston figured the best action for her to take now was to leave the room. She’d spread enough gloom and doom for one night and reckoned that the sleep she so craved would certainly evade her. “Well, good night, Mr.—”

But Mr. Durwin seized the doorknob again. “Do you think it possible for me to win her back?”

“Win her back?” Mrs. Kingston reached out and patted his arm. “As I said, I do believe she still cares for you, Mr. Durwin. I suppose that depends on whether or not an old dog can learn new tricks.”

I’ll never meddle again, Lord,
she prayed as she limped her way back down the corridor. At Mrs. Hyatt’s door she paused, wondering if she should inform her that the deed had been done. She sighed and continued to her own room.
Beginning this very moment
.

The murmur of voices from the room next door ceased drifting through the wall, much to Ambrose’s regret as he lay in his bed. Even though he had not been able to discern any of the words, nor even the identity of the speakers—but one would
have
to have been Mr. Durwin—the sound had provided some comfort, proof that he wasn’t all alone on this earth.

But I am all alone
.

You have friends,
he reminded himself in an attempt to soften the ache in his chest.
Mrs. Hollis, Mrs. Kingston, Vicar Phelps …

“Vicar,” he mumbled in the darkness. How determined the man was to see him come to faith! And if the truth were to be known, Ambrose felt a longing to do so, a longing that he had not been able to admit to the good reverend because the intensity of it frightened him.

He thinks it’s because I’m afraid God will fail me as my father did,
Ambrose thought, his mind going over Vicar Phelps’s parting words again.
Why didn’t I tell him he was mistaken?

Because then I would have been compelled to explain the real reason.
And actors were a superstitious lot. Admitting one’s fears aloud often ensured that what one feared would come to pass. He had just recently come to understand the basis of his fears, the reason he couldn’t allow himself to surrender completely.

What if nothing changed?

Oh, he had chafed at Miss O’Shea …
dear, dear Miss O’Shea …
once asking her mockingly if becoming a Christian would banish the emotional ball and chain that was his lot in life. What had been her reply?

“God’s ways are not our ways, Mr. Clay. Sometimes He heals, sometimes He doesn’t.”

Ambrose wiped his eyes with a corner of his sheet. He hadn’t even realized that he was weeping. During the course of reading the Scriptures, he had begun to harbor a feeble hope that perhaps he could be cured of his despondency after all. Jesus had healed lepers, hadn’t He? Even brought people back to life! How much trouble could it be to touch one man’s addled mind? He knew from his reading that if he became a believer, he would have the right to make that request of God. Hadn’t he read that the Father’s children were allowed to approach the throne boldly?

“God’s ways are not our ways.” He could still hear the calm faith in Miss O’Shea’s voice. If only he could speak with her now!

Because I don’t think I could bear it if everything turned out to be the same
.

Suddenly a picture came into his mind, sharp and clear. Three crosses. A mob jeering. Intense pain and suffering. One of the thieves calling out “If thou be Christ, save thyself and us!” The other addressing Jesus as Lord, asking nothing but that he be remembered in the Father’s kingdom.