The Widow of Larkspur Inn (29 page)

Mrs. Kingston drew Julia aside in the library after supper, a strange glow to her face. “Mrs. Hollis, are you aware that there is to be a flower show on the green this coming Saturday?”

“Why, I believe it’s posted in the vestibule at church,” Julia replied. With so many duties to attend to lately, she had given the notice little more than a cursory glance but happened to recall that some members of the Shrewsbury Floral Society would be in attendance as judges. “But I must confess I paid it little mind. Are you interested in attending?”

“Oh, Mrs. Hollis!” Mrs. Kingston clasped both hands together over her heart. “We had them annually in Sheffield, but I was afraid a village this size would not. I won the ‘geranium’ ribbon three years running.”

She seized Julia’s arm, her blue eyes intense. “Mrs. Hollis, Karl Herrick is a most capable man, but it’s obvious that he has overwhelming responsibilities. Why don’t you allow me to assume the cultivation of the flower garden? It would make me very happy.”

“But, Mrs. Kingston, you pay for your lodgings here. You shouldn’t feel obligated to—”

“How can one feel obligated to do something one enjoys? Please,

Mrs. Hollis. Why, it would free Mr. Herrick to tend the vegetable garden and his other duties. And didn’t you say yourself that you plan to buy a carriage and horses? Unless you plan to hire a groomsman, he’ll have that to do as well.”

In the face of such determination, Julia could do nothing but acquiesce, adding, “But I’m sorry you’ll have nothing to show at the competition this year.”

Mrs. Kingston didn’t appear sorry at all. In fact, a content smile appeared on her face. “Ah, but there is always next year now, isn’t there?”

Three nights later, Ambrose Clay lay on his side and drew his knees up to his chest, more wide-awake than when he had climbed into his bed two hours ago. That was the most perplexing and discouraging thing about the condition that had all but ruined his career. When despondency had him in its grip, he felt so weary that he would gladly stay in bed for days at a time. If he could
sleep
, that is, for insomnia went hand-in-hand with the fatigue to form an incongruous partnership.

He often wondered why it had been his lot in life to suffer such madness. He had no doubt that he was as mad as a dervish. How else could he explain the extremes in his moods? There were days at a time when he felt he could conquer the world, when energy suffused his limbs and creativity his mind. If only he could cling to those glorious days, as a child clings to his mother, refusing to allow them to slip away! But no effort of his will could keep the despondency from returning—he knew, for he had tried many times.

Sometimes the temptation was strong to put an end to the suffering once and for all, as his father had done, yet he could not bring himself to take that drastic step. What if he succeeded in only injuring himself, to the point where he became like one of those poor wretches who hovel in doorways, begging alms of passersby?

And so he looked upon the remainder of his days as a cruel life sentence to endure. He could not go back and undo the event of his birth. Were such a thing possible, yes, but it served no good to dwell upon fantasies. With a sigh, he threw aside the bedclothes and got to his feet. Reading late at night often distracted his mind enough to allow a natural sleepiness to come over him. He slipped a flannel dressing gown over his pajamas, pushed his feet into corduroy slippers, and picked up the copy of Trollope’s
Barchester Towers
from his night table. He’d finished it late last night during another bout with insomnia and would save the chambermaid the trouble of returning it to the library.

As he held a candle in front of him on his way down the dark staircase, the stillness of the house only served to increase his melancholia. With envy he could imagine the others upon their pillows, caught up in the slumber that so eluded him. That was another paradox of his condition. While the despondency caused him to closet himself away from the company of other people, he felt at the same time overwhelmed by loneliness.
I’d welcome even Jake Pitt’s company right now,
he thought, a bitter smile twisting one corner of his mouth.

The library door was closed, as usual, but with a thread of light visible underneath.
Surely someone hasn’t left the lamp burning.
A room filled with books, some of them quite old, would be a certain fire hazard. He turned the knob to open the door and saw the startled face of Miss O’Shea.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the housekeeper said, averting her eyes as she rose from her chair.

Her apology annoyed him a little, and her aversion to look at him much more. “Sorry for what?”

“For disturbing you,” she answered in a soft Irish brogue. “I’ll leave now.”

He shook his head, still annoyed. “But how could you have disturbed me, when you were here first?”

“I just—”

“And please—I’m as fully clothed as you.”

“Yes, of course you are,” she nodded and turned her eyes to him.

He realized then that she was waiting for him to move from the doorway so she could quit the room. As annoyed as she had made him, she was the only other conscious person in the whole house, and he suddenly felt loathe to let her go.

“Would you mind keeping me company for just a little while?” he asked in a more gentle tone.

She hesitated but then lowered herself back into her chair. Ambrose took a chair about five feet away—a safe distance, so she would see that conversation was his only motive. He had never really noticed her as a
person
before, he realized, ashamed of his own elitism. Like the other servants, she had only been someone in the background—a calm little apron-clad figure who moved unobtrusively in and out of rooms to oversee the functions of the house.

Now she wore a simple housedress of a light rose color, and ravencolored hair fell about her shoulders with a healthy shine. The eyes, as purple as orchids, showed a keen intelligence that he admired in a woman and a modesty that he found charming.
She could be beautiful,
he thought.
If only someone would tell her so.

“What were you reading?” he finally asked her.

She glanced down at the book in her hands. “
The Newcomes
. Have you read it?”

“Ah, Thackeray. Yes, I have.” Actually, he’d acted the role of Clive Newcome in a student production at Oxford and could still quote entire paragraphs. “Are you enjoying it?”

“Quite so, sir.” She appeared ready to add something to that, but then her expression veiled and she lowered her eyes to the book again.

“What were you going to say?” he felt compelled to ask.

“Just that I enjoyed
Henry Esmond
more.”

“And what is wrong with saying that?”

A corner of her mouth flicked in an awkward manner. “I am not an educated person, Mr. Clay. It is not my place to critique novels.”

“And yet you read Thackeray. Not all knowledge is hoarded by the universities, you know.” He started to explain further but could see in her expression that she understood his meaning. “Is it very difficult for you?” he found himself asking instead.

“Difficult, sir?”

“Being in service.” Quickly, he added, “I hope that question doesn’t offend you.”

“It does not offend me,” she replied with soft frankness. “And while being in service can be difficult in some households, I’ve been blessed in my station. Mrs. Hollis treats me very well.”

“Then you are happy with your life just as it is?” Ambrose was aware that his questions were too personal, but he could not stop himself from voicing them. With happiness so elusive during his dark moods, he had to figure out how others managed to achieve it. The secret was out there, barely out of his grasp, and he just had to keep reaching for it.

After fixing her magnificent eyes upon something past his shoulder for several seconds, Miss O’Shea answered, “There are circumstances I would change if I could, sir, but I’m content.”

There was a finality in her answer that did not invite questions, and he nodded understanding. A lengthier silence stretched between them until she turned her face in his direction again.

“You were having trouble sleeping, Mr. Clay?”

He shrugged and replied self-consciously, for his condition shamed him greatly, “It seems the only time I can sleep is when I’m supposed to be awake.”

“Perhaps some hot chocolate?”

Ambrose was about to thank her anyway but then realized that if he turned down her offer, he would have to allow her to leave presently. He could not bear the thought of being alone again and so, while chiding himself for his selfishness—for she was likely growing sleepy—he replied that perhaps that would help.

She got to her feet and asked to borrow his candle. “I’ll bring it to you here,” she said, but Ambrose got to his feet as well.

“I may as well go with you.”

From the kitchen worktable in the amber light of a single lamp, Ambrose watched the housekeeper carry a small copper pot of milk to the stove. “Have you worked as a cook before?”

“I have, sir.” She sent him a brief smile while opening a tin of
Cadbury’s Cocoa Essence
. “But for only a day.”

It was the first time he could recall noticing her smile, and he found himself smiling back. “Why only one day?”

“I had no talent for it.”

“Then, how do you propose to manage hot chocolate?”

“I’ve watched Mrs. Herrick a number of times. But I cannot guarantee that it will be as palatable as hers.”

“Aye, that’s a fact,” came a voice from Ambrose’s left. The cook’s flannel-swathed little figure stood framed by the doorway, Buff the house cat staring at them from her arms.

“Oh, Mrs. Herrick,” the housekeeper said, turning in her direction. “Did we wake you?”

“It’s my fault,” Ambrose said gallantly. “I couldn’t sleep, so—”

“Just leave the kitchen as you found it. Tha’s all I ask.” The cat stretched up to lick her cheek, and Mrs. Herrick grinned. “She knows who butters her bread, don’t she?”

The cook was gone, and they traded smiles again. Ambrose said in a lower voice, “I’ll help you tidy up afterward, Miss O’Shea.”

“Thank you, but it’ll take me only a minute.” She brought a steaming crockery mug to the table. “The mug’s not fancy, but it holds more than the china cups.”

“Aren’t you having any?” He saw the hesitation in her face and wondered if it was because servants and non-servants generally did not share tables. “Please, don’t make me drink alone.” When she had seated herself across from him with a mug of her own, he took a sip.

“Just the way I like it. Not tongue-scalding hot.” He chose to ignore the fact that it was rather heavy on the sugar and could use a pinch of salt.

“Thank you, sir.”

Miss O’Shea asked him how he chose the stage for a career, and Ambrose found himself telling her all about his earlier years. “I was determined not to be an actor. I saw what the instability of a touring life did to my family. Most of the time we children were sent to my mother’s parents in Cornwall. Father couldn’t manage without my mother, you see.”

“Your father was an actor?”

“A quite successful one, actually.”

First taking a sip of her chocolate, she said, “Then what were you intending to be?”

“An engineer,” he answered with a little laugh. “One term of heavy mathematics at Oxford killed that notion.”

“But don’t you enjoy acting?”

He wrapped both hands around his mug, absorbing the warmth it produced. “Actually, I love it. I suppose it’s in my blood.”

Her eyes became grave. “If I may ask you, sir …”

“Why am I not acting?”

“Yes.”

Raising an eyebrow, he said, “Don’t you know? I assumed my … affliction was common knowledge in the house.”

“But you’re still capable of walking about, and you can still speak …”

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “So why can’t I do those same things on the stage?”

No doubt she mistook the irony in his voice for mockery, for she lowered her eyes and said, “I must ask you to forgive my naiveté, sir. I’ve never been to the theatre.”

“No, that’s quite all right,” he hastened to assure her. “That was a very sensible question. But you see, acting requires more than the ability to memorize lines and deliver them. One must put one’s whole identity into a role if it is to be portrayed with any credibility. That requires a tremendous amount of energy and emotion.”