The Widow of Larkspur Inn (14 page)

After hearing the children’s prayers that night, Julia changed into a nightgown and went to the bedroom that was to be hers. She was grateful to see that Fiona had slipped inside earlier and turned down the covers. She felt so bone-weary that it was a relief not having even that small chore to tend to. Yet, she thought as she pulled the sheets about her shoulders, her weariness was different from the tortured lethargy that had gripped her for the past five weeks. Tonight, her limbs were simply worn out from physical labor, and they sank greedily into the feather mattress. Today her bedroom and Fiona’s had been both been cleaned and scrubbed, and the kitchen was now clear of cobwebs.

She offered up a quiet prayer, thanking God again for giving them a place to live and for His protection and guidance. As her thoughts began to melt into a dreamlike state, she recalled what the vicar had said regarding Karl Herrick and Ethan Banning.
If you give someone a chance to prove himself, you’ll almost always be pleasantly surprised
. Was God now giving her a chance to prove herself? And would He be pleasantly surprised if she succeeded in making something worthy from the ruins that had become her life?

Not surprised, my child,
a gentle voice beyond her thoughts seemed to say.
For I’m going to help you all the way
.

Chapter 8

Saint Jude’s lone bell broke solemnly through the chill morning air as Julia, the children, and Fiona exited through the front door of the
Larkspur
. It was Julia’s first church attendance since her husband’s funeral, and she wore a simply cut gown of obsidian black poplin with covered silk buttons. The children were dressed in their Sunday best, the girls in matching lavender lawn, trimmed with lace, and Philip in a light gray suit.

Sundays were almost the only time Fiona didn’t wear the standard black-and-white alpaca of a maid. While her wardrobe was limited, she had good taste in clothes and today wore a dress of burgundy and white striped crepe and a small leghorn hat, trimmed with rosebuds made of burgundy sateen.

The five of them drew looks from several villagers while crossing the green by the church. Julia chose to believe it was because they were new faces, or perhaps because they looked nice, and not because people were surprised to see that they were still alive.

Saint Jude’s was situated among some elms and beeches to the east of the green, which stretched out between the river and Church Street. On the medieval building’s south side, a stone wall and wooden lych-gate surrounded the headstones of the churchyard. Several ancient yew trees lined the inside of the wall, conceivably planted to repel cows from wandering in from the green in earlier days. Worshipers entered the church through an arched doorway, over which the words
Watch and Pray, for Ye Know Not When the Hour Cometh
were carved into stone.

Inside, brightly colored stained-glass windows, a chancel choir, robed in white, and an organ in the gallery at the west end added to the ecclesiastical aura that so typified the Church of England. As they moved past several rows of filled bench pews in the nave, Julia was grateful to receive at least a few bashful smiles directed toward her family. Perhaps not
all
of the villagers were waiting to see if the ghost of Jake Pitt would murder them in their beds. An even greater relief came with the realization that there wasn’t a servants’ gallery and Fiona would be able to sit with the family.

“I see a good many children here,” Julia whispered to Aleda when they had settled themselves into an empty pew near the front. The girl grimaced and shrank down farther in her seat.

“They were all staring at me when we passed. I’m sure they’ll be making fun of my hair tomorrow.”

“Why, they were just being friendly. And your hair is lovely.”

“You have to say that because yours is the same color.”

“I don’t have to say anything. And let’s take our minds off ourselves for a little while, shall we?” Julia admonished gently.

Vicar Wilson’s sermon on the good Samaritan was delivered in a strong voice that belied the condition of his limbs, for Julia had noticed a hesitation as he mounted the step to the pulpit. She felt an immediate guilt for the two days the good reverend had helped at the
Larkspur
, even though he had taken on the lightest of duties.
He has been a true good Samaritan
.

“It actually makes Papa feel better to be moving about,” Henrietta reassured Julia at the outskirts of the crowd gathered outside the church door. “His joints ache him more if he spends too much time in a chair.”

Even though some villagers had been generous with nods and smiles, none ventured over to meet them save Vicar Wilson, the Worthy sisters, and Luke the gardener. “People here are a bit timid of city folk,” the good vicar explained, as if worried that Julia and her family might be disappointed.

“Has the ghost anything to do with it?” Julia asked, lowering her voice.

“Well … perhaps a little. But we’ll show them it’s all in their minds, won’t we?” Offering his arm, he led Julia and her group from one cluster of villagers to another and made introductions. Perhaps it was the vicar’s presence that solicited a surprisingly warm welcome from the dairy farmers, shopkeepers, housewives, and factory workers they met. Their children, though, tended to hang back and give shy stares to Julia’s children—who did the same themselves.

Presently Julia and her group set out for lunch at the
Bow and Fiddle.
After three days of only pastries and sandwiches, Julia decided it was time for everyone to have a hot meal. She still hoped to find a cook, though, and mentally kicked herself for not making inquiries of Henrietta after church. Even after paying for groceries and a cook’s wages, meals would be less expensive at home than at an inn. And she wanted to be a good steward of the money entrusted to her.

About one third of the tables at the half-timbered inn were taken when the five sat down to a lunch of the beef and dumplings that Mrs. Jewel Worthy had recommended. Mr. Pool, the owner, came over to make their acquaintance—he was a portly man wearing a fringe of gray whiskers below the jaw, extending from ear to ear. “I was worried when I heard someone was opening up th’
Larkspur
again, I don’t mind telling you,” he said to Julia while wiping his hands with his white apron. “There just ain’t enough business for two inns in Gresham. But a lodging house … well, that won’t affect me none at all.”

“I’m sorry about the loss of coaching business,” Julia told him, to which he responded with a shrug.

“I get more customers come evenings, so I can’t complain. Folks still need a place to visit.” He gave her a cagey grin. “And maybe your lodgers will want to supper here once in a while. I’ve the best cook in Gresham working in my kitchen.”

Julia smiled. The meal had indeed been tasty. “The best cook?”

With a slight blush, the innkeeper confessed, “Well, second best, if you care to know th’ truth. But the best won’t budge from th’ squire’s kitchen, so there you have it.”

That afternoon, Fiona and Mrs. Hollis devoted their cleaning efforts to the pantry. Each had bound her hair up in a scarf to keep it protected from dust and webs for the evensong church service that night. “All we need are eye patches to look like pirates,” Fiona had remarked, and it was good to hear her mistress laugh.

“I would really like to hire Audrey Herrick in the kitchen,” Mrs. Hollis said a little while later as she wiped down shelves with a wet dish towel. “She would be a great asset to our lodging house. But I can’t offer her any wages until we’ve lodgers on the way, and we need a cook right now.”

Fiona nodded down from the chair upon which she stood to reach cobwebs with her broom. “If only I’d learned. But an older sister took care of the cookin’ at home until I was eleven, and then she left to take a position at the big house.”

“Eleven,” her mistress breathed. “Why, that’s Aleda’s age. How did you bear it?”

“I had no choice but to bear it. Besides, that was the way things were. Some had it much worse, so I’ve no right to complain.” The subject was not a comfortable one, so Fiona directed it back to the matter of the cook. “But I’d be willin’ to try, until you can hire Mrs. Herrick.”

Mrs. Hollis shook her head. “The guest chambers need both our attention. I’ve not paid much notice to what goes into shopping for food and cooking, but it seems that the whole process takes a lot of time. If I were to hire someone for the kitchen, then it wouldn’t be right to dismiss her as soon as it’s practical for Mrs. Herrick to come. And if I demoted someone who’s had complete charge of the kitchen to a lesser position, then there would surely be some resentment.”

They worked on to the sounds of broom straws swishing against walls and the squeak of a cleaning cloth against wood, until an idea presented itself to Fiona. She dropped down into the chair and smiled.

“What if you hired someone permanent to help with the cleaning now, missus? You mentioned needin’ to hire other servants later. That would free me to work in the kitchen until Mrs. Herrick can come. Surely I can manage for a while.”

Mrs. Hollis paused from her work to cock her head thoughtfully. “Why, of course. It’s such a simple solution. But I’ll help you.”

That brought some doubts to Fiona’s mind. Mrs. Hollis had likely never set foot in a kitchen until coming here. She didn’t want to offend but couldn’t help asking, “Are you sure, missus?”

“We can teach each other. And with the two of us in the kitchen, we should be back to the housework in no time.”

“You shouldn’t be having to do that.”

Her mistress held up a hand, already beginning to redden at the knuckles. “My days of being the fine lady are over, Fiona. Besides, it could be an adventure, learning to cook. We may just surprise ourselves.”

“This porridge seems rather thick to me,” Julia said the next morning while using both hands to stir the contents of the black pot on the stove with a long metal spoon.

Fiona stopped slicing bacon at the table and walked over to take a look. “How many oats did you add to the water?”

“Well, hundreds,” Julia replied a bit testily, for her arms felt like lead. “I didn’t know I was supposed to
count
them.”

The maid took no offense but smiled. “I didn’t mean individual oats, missus.”

“Oh.” Releasing one hand to point briefly to an empty brown bag on a cupboard shelf, she said, “I used those.”

“The whole bag?”

“Wasn’t I supposed to?”

Fiona looked down into the pot again. “I believe they swell as they cook. Shall I add some more water?”

“I suppose you should.” Julia grimaced as she pulled the spoon through the muck. “It’s like stirring glue.”

Returning from the basin with a kettle of water, Fiona poured in a little at a time until Julia nodded. “Much better. But I shouldn’t wonder that we’ll be eating porridge for a week. Can it be warmed over?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“It’s still sticking to the bottom of the pot. Is it supposed to do that?”

Fiona made a helpless gesture. “Could it be the fire?”

“That’s it,” Julia told her. With her chin she pointed to the row of knobs. “Will you turn up the one on the far right?”

“Up, missus?”

“My arms are going to fall off if it doesn’t cook any faster.”

“Why don’t you let me stir for a while?”