The Widow of Larkspur Inn (8 page)

“The Anwyl, ma’am?”

Julia leaned over Grace, who was seated between them, and peered through the window herself. In the northwest rose a stout brownish green hill of some five hundred feet. “From an old Celtic word for ‘beloved’ … according to Jensen. The cheese factory uses its picture as a trademark.”

“Of course!
Anwyl Mountain Savory Cheeses
. Why, Mrs. Capshaw wouldn’t tolerate any other brand in her kitchen.”

“Do you think we’ll be allowed to hike it?” Philip, seated across from Fiona, asked his mother after taking a look himself. The boy wore a splint and bandage on his left finger, souvenirs from his latest cricket match. “I’ve never hiked before.”

“I don’t see why we shouldn’t,” Julia answered, relieved to hear some excitement in his voice. “Wouldn’t it make a lovely picnic?”

Grace nodded absently from beside her, though it was obvious she hadn’t paid attention. In her lap she held a tin bucket with
Cooper’s Snowy-white Lard
stenciled on the side. The girl had snatched a sparrow from the jaws of the neighbor’s cat—but not soon enough to prevent damage to its wing, which Jensen had splinted for her. Settled on a nest of soft grass, the bird would let out a tentative
peep
every so often, causing its rescuer to lean down and coo reassuring words.

“He’s just worried,” Grace said to the others, her small face wearing its usual somber expression. “He’s never been away from his home before.”

Next to Philip on the rear-facing seat, Aleda stopped brushing the hair of her porcelain doll long enough to inform Grace that birds didn’t care where they lived, as long as there was food nearby. “He likely doesn’t even know the difference between one town and another.”

Grace ignored her sister and lowered her face back to the top of the pail. “You’ll be at your new home soon,” she cooed down at the bird. “And just you wait and see how nice it is.”

Turning back to peer from her own window, Julia caught sight of a red sandstone church tower off to the northeast. It rose above a group of dwellings as if they were its brood, and the sight of it brought her a measure of comfort.

Living in the country will be good for us
, she reminded herself.
It’s just going to take some getting used to.
The trick was to not allow the things she had loved about London—Hyde Park, omnibuses, Grosvenor Square, coffeehouses, the National Gallery, operas, Charing Cross—to occupy any space in her mind. One couldn’t plan for the future while clinging to the past. And hadn’t Jensen impressed upon her that a country village would be better than London for raising children?

True, Gresham would not offer the same cultural and educational opportunities of the city, but she could plainly see that neither was its air tainted with black fog from thousands of coal chimneys. Nor, by Jensen’s account, was the water from the River Bryce, which ran east to west through the north part of the village, evil-smelling and choleric from raw sewage like the Thames.
And the children will have the security of knowing that their surroundings will stay the same.
Not like London, where streets were constantly being dug up for continued expansion of the underground railway system.

The wheels left the macadamized road surface and took on the cobbled stones of a lane, causing the coach to give a slight lurch and Grace to cradle the tin more tightly in her arms. Dainty shops and pleasant little cottages lined each side of the shady lane, flecked with broken sunlight filtered through the trees that stretched out their branches overhead. From Julia’s window a huge half-timbered house came into view. She held her breath hopefully, but let it out again when a signboard displaying the words
Bow and Fiddle
caught her eye.

She knew from Jensen that this was the village’s other unfortunate coaching inn that at least had managed to keep its kitchen fires going because dairymen, farmers, and factory workers still needed a place to trade stories over clay pipes.

They passed more cottages and shops, and then the horses slowed almost to a stop at an intersecting lane. On the far left sat a two-story building, facing the east. Julia leaned closer to the opposite window.

She did not need to even glance at the old wooden signboard that hung askew on a post outside the gate, for the desolation of the place told her that it was the
Larkspur Inn
. Moss and ivy swarmed over weathered red sandstone walls and shuttered windows, and the garden behind the low stone wall was choked with weeds. Early blooming flowers that had obviously reseeded themselves added splashes of color as they valiantly struggled to survive in the melee, but it would take more than a few flowers to dispel the gloom that hovered over the house and gardens.

Well, I was warned
, she thought dully but couldn’t tell if her sudden nausea was brought on by the long coach ride or by the thought that her family’s future security lay inside those neglected walls.

The coach turned west and rolled another thirty yards before turning right into a gravel carriage drive. In the crook of the L-shaped inn was a large flagstone courtyard, fringed by stables, a coach house, gardening cottage and potting shed, and overgrown areas that had likely been a bowling green and kitchen garden. Once the five passengers were helped to the ground, the coachman began withdrawing luggage from the boot. Meanwhile, the three children stared at the back of the inn with expressions of stunned disbelief.

“I warned you it would need some sprucing up,” Julia said, biting her lip.

“Well, it’s certainly got the fireplaces, hasn’t it?” With typical optimism, Fiona pointed up at the six chimneys rising above the slate roof. “We’ll always be warm and cozy.”

“But it’s such an ugly house, Mother,” Grace said. She held a hand over the top of her lard tin, as if to shield the sparrow from such a sight.

It is at that,
Julia thought.
But it’s a far cry from the tenements of Saint Giles.
She reached down to scoop her youngest daughter, tin and all, into her arms. Pressing the soft cheek to her own, she turned her face toward the house again. “But it’s all ours, my sweet Grace. And we’ll make it pretty.”

She felt a touch at her arm and turned to see Philip staring at her. “When are the lodgers coming?”

Julia reached up to tousle his auburn hair. “Our advertisements should be published in a week or so.” Following Jensen’s advice, she had sent the advertisements to newspapers in the major cities instead of to monthly periodicals, so that they would be printed sooner and receive more exposure. “We’ll find out after that.”
It can work,
she reassured herself, refusing to give ground to the negative thoughts that loomed in the back of her mind.
God gave us the idea through Jensen—and He’ll help us make it work
.

She set Grace back on her feet, turned to the coachman, and dug his fee out of her beaded reticule. As she tipped the man an extra florin to bring the trunks and bags inside, she heard a voice as raspy as dry leaves drift over from across the lane.

“So … ye’ve come to live in the
Larkspur
, have ye?”

The group turned, and Julia sent a wave to two white-haired women seated in front of a thatched-roof cottage. She had heard of lace spinners, had even seen them used as subjects of paintings, but had never before actually seen any in person. In the centuries-old custom, the women sat in the sunlight with lap cushions, pins, patterns, and reels of thread to weave their delicate laces.

“Yes, we have,” Julia answered genially.

“We’re Iris and Jewel Worthy, dear.” This came from a voice as soothing as the first had been grating. “Jewel was a Perkins before she married my brother Silas.”

“I moved in with my sister-in-law after my husband passed away,” the one named Jewel explained. Her nimble fingers never slowed down from winding threads around the pins sticking from her pillow. “Folk have called us the Worthy sisters for years, even though we ain’t blood related. And ye are …?”

“Julia Hollis.” A wagon bearing a man wearing the fustian work clothes of a laborer passed between them, slowing so the driver could cast a curious stare at the group standing in the carriage drive. Julia offered a smile, but the man gave a quick nod in return and directed his attention back to his team. When the lace spinners were in sight again, Julia made quick introductions of her children and Fiona, then sent the Worthy sisters another wave. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. We should go inside now.”

“Ye aren’t going to sleep in there tonight, are you?” the raspy voice queried.

Julia turned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing, dear,” Iris answered with a sharp look at her sister. “But do pop over later when you’ve time. There is something you’ll want to know.”

Jewel’s white head bobbed in agreement. “Come
alone,
mind you.”

“What did she mean by that?” Aleda asked, clutching Julia’s sleeve with one hand and her doll with another as the group walked across the courtyard, shaded by a sentinel oak with wide-reaching branches. The driver brought up the rear, shouldering a heavy trunk.

“I’m sure it’s nothing, dear.” They passed cast-iron benches mottled with algae before arriving at a solid oak door. A wrought-iron bell pull was fastened to its frame, worn smooth by generations of hands that tugged at it. Julia fished the ring of keys, two candles with tin holders, and matches from her satchel and said to the children, “Now remember, it’s been closed up for eight years.”

“Will there be mice?” Still at her side, Aleda asked the question in a low voice so as not to alarm Grace.

“I wouldn’t imagine,” Julia answered, at the same time sending up a quick,
Please, Lord, no mice!
She tried one key and then another. “There should be no food inside to attract them. We should probably get a cat later, though.”

“A cat?” It was Grace, the animal lover, who perked up at this. “Can it be a mother cat, so she’ll have kittens? And black, please, with a white face and paws.”

“Just as soon have the mice, if it was me,” grunted the overburdened coachman from the rear. “Will ye open that door, or are we to stand out here all—”

“This is the right one.” The rusty hinges squeaked and the door stood wide open. Julia was encouraged to hear no scurrying sounds as she peered inside. A corridor stretched out before them, musty-smelling and murky black beyond the light coming in from the doorway.

Julia lit her candle and stepped inside. Now that the corridor was illuminated, Julia could see that it was actually a very short one, emptying into another longer corridor running the long part of the “L” of the house. It looked no less forbidding, however, for cobwebs hung as thick as bed curtains in some spots. Aleda came up behind her and gripped at her sleeve again. “Please, Mother, let’s leave now,” she whimpered.

“It’s going to be just fine, Aleda,” Julia answered, wiping a string of cobweb from her cheek as she took another step forward.

“Would you like me to lead the way, ma’am?” asked Fiona, her candle now glowing.

The idea was enormously tempting, but Julia turned down her offer. What message would be sent to the children if she were to cower behind Fiona? She turned to the right and walked cautiously down the corridor, passing two closed doors at either side of her before pausing at the arched open doorway to a central hall. Julia took a step through the doorway and gasped when something crunched beneath her foot. Behind her, Aleda let out a squeal.

“What is it, ma’am?” Fiona asked from the rear.

“I don’t know.” Julia lowered her candle, and discovering something resembling dried leaves scattered over the stone floor, she scooped up a crumbling handful. “How odd. Why would anyone strew leaves all over the floor?”

Fiona stepped past the children and into the room, then bent to take up some leaves. Her circle of amber candlelight then illuminated her smile. “They’re likely meadowsweet—perhaps some lavender as well. To keep away mice and moths.”

Thank you, Lord
, Julia prayed, silently blessing whoever had had the foresight to take such precautions. Holding the candle above her head, she could make out a high rafted ceiling and cavernous stone fireplace. Sheets covered with dust draped every piece of furniture, many showed signs of rot where the years of neglect had taken their toll. Combined with the cobwebs, they gave the room a decidedly ethereal atmosphere.

The children came into the room in a huddle. Julia turned to reassure them that the room would look quite different when cleaned and was disheartened to see that the anxious expressions upon their faces had deteriorated into something resembling terror.
Perhaps we should stay at the Bow and Fiddle for a couple of days until the place is more presentable,
she thought.

They had sufficient money to do so. Besides the hundred pounds lent to her by Jensen and the six quid still left from the original household money, she had an extra thirty-five pounds from selling several gowns to a shop on Petticoat Lane. Some were of Parisian design and worth five times what she received for them, but she’d been too grateful for the extra money to feel any loss. In fact, she would have culled out even more of her wardrobe had not Fiona persuaded her to keep some colorful gowns for when her year of mourning was up. “You won’t be wearing black forever,” the maid had argued. “And your lodgers will expect their landlady to look cheery and presentable.”