The Widow of Larkspur Inn (37 page)

His body went rigid when the captain called out Laurel Phelps’s name.

“Hey, Philip, what do you think of the new vicar’s girl?” Ben asked as the two walked down Church Street together after school. Jeremiah, who lived on the squire’s property, had already gone off in the opposite direction with his two younger brothers. Aleda and Grace dawdled several feet behind with Helen Johnson, the baker’s daughter, and the six-year-old Peterson twins from the infant school.

Philip shifted
The Oxford Study of Mathematics
and lunch pail to his other arm. The examination on multiplying and dividing compound fractions wasn’t until Friday, but he reckoned that studying ahead never hurt anybody. “She seems intelligent enough.” His answer was truthful, for after the shock of being beaten by a new student, he’d reasoned with himself. Why shouldn’t she be allowed that small victory on her first day of school? Even though his marks averaged out to be the highest in his standard, there were occasional times when Ben scored a point or two higher on an exam.

“Hey,
Phil
-ip!” came a singsong voice from behind them. Philip ignored it, as was his usual rule. Helen Johnson was a pest to end all pests, and her favorite hobby, besides giggling, was giggling while cuffing him on the arm and sprinting away in the hopes that he would chase her.

“
Phil
-up!” the irritating voice called again. “I wonder if the trophy’s going to go to a
girl
again this year?”

Loyal Ben slowed his steps long enough to throw over his shoulder, “Fernie Sanders was looking for you yesterday, Helen. He wants to ask you to marry him.”

“He does
not
!”

“Just ask him! I’ll go fetch him if you like.”

“I’ll go fe
-etch
him if you li
-ike
,” Helen sang out for lack of a more witty retort, causing her female companions to break out in giggles.

The boys hastened their steps until they were out of hearing range, then Philip asked if his friend wanted to go to
Trumbles
for some peppermint sticks. “Mr. Clay insisted I take sixpence for fetching one of his coats from the tailor’s. I just have to nip inside and get it from my room.”

“If you’ve a mind to share,” Ben replied. “Odd chap, your Mr. Clay, isn’t he? Always looks like he’s just been invited to his own funeral.”

“He’s just moody, that’s all,” said Philip. “But always pleasant enough. And sometimes he’s quite good company.”

They crossed Market Lane to head for the carriage drive—Mother insisted that lunch pails be brought directly to the kitchen. To his right, over the low stone wall in front of the inn, Philip could see Mrs. Kingston, a commanding figure in black moving about in the flower garden. Even though most of the early blooming flowers were fading with the approach of autumn, late blooming dahlias, delphiniums, marigolds, and pinks were coming into their own, and she still spent most of her time fussing over them.

And that’s just fine with me,
Philip thought as he and Ben returned the waves of the Worthy sisters. He had once supposed that lodgers, especially elderly ones, would be inclined toward sitting around idle, but the very opposite was true. Just as Mrs. Kingston busied herself in the garden, Mrs. Hyatt and Mrs. Dearing went through skeins of wool to make hangings for the
Larkspur
’s walls, Mr. Durwin collected and catalogued medicinal herbs, and Miss Rawlins wrote stories. And even Mr. Clay now accompanied Mrs. Kingston on her daily walk and spent a good deal of time rebinding some of the older books in the library.

Philip was glad of all that for his mother’s sake. She had enough to do without attempting to keep six people from being bored. He reckoned that the lodgers’ activities were to them what fishing was to him. Since moving to Gresham, he’d discovered some sort of hobby was necessary to most lives. Except for perhaps the Sanders brothers, unless bullying could be considered a hobby.

The air that greeted them when Philip opened the kitchen door was warm and fragrant with cinnamon. All thoughts of Mr. Trumble’s peppermint sticks vanished from his mind as he ushered Ben through the doorway. Mother turned to smile at him from the kitchen table, where she sat with Fiona, Mrs. Herrick, Mildred, and Gertie over mugs of tea.

“Good day, boys. Where are the girls?”

“They’re dawdling with their friends.” Philip set his lunch pail on a cupboard shelf. To his relief, Mother did not get out of her chair and kiss him in front of Ben. His eye caught a large towel-covered pan at the center of the table. “What smells so good?”

“Apple strudel,” Mrs. Herrick answered from the head of the table, then added with a mock scowl, “And we’re all doin’ just fine, thank you.”

Philip winced. “That was to be my next question.”

Moving the towel from the pan of pastries, Mother asked Ben, “Why don’t you join us?”

“If you’re sure there’s enough,” Ben answered with a timid eye turned toward the cook. “I’ve never tasted strudel.”

“Aye,” Mrs. Herrick replied, then winked at Fiona. “More than enough, and with another pan over there on the stove. Everyone’s been served but you and the girls.”

Mildred got up to pour the boys some milk, and Philip took the empty chair next to his mother’s. Ben went straightway around the table to sit next to Fiona. While she served up generous portions of the pastry, Mother told them that today was the Herricks’ twentieth wedding anniversary.

“It’s my Karl’s favorite, so I always bake strudel on our anniversary,” Mrs. Herrick said, as if any explanation was necessary for the wonderful, flaky confection that now melted away on Philip’s tongue. He did manage to take his mind off his taste buds long enough to feel grateful that Mrs. Herrick had had the foresight to marry a German.

Suddenly there was the sound of a man clearing his throat, and then, “Excuse us, ladies.” All heads turned to the corridor doorway, where Mr. Clay and Mr. Durwin were now standing.

“May we come in?” the actor asked with eyebrows raised pleadingly.

The four servants at the table made moves to get to their feet, but Mr. Clay advanced to the table and held up a restraining hand. “Please—do keep your seats.”

Mr. Durwin, looking quite self-conscious, walked over to stand at Mr. Clay’s elbow. “We would just like to say how much we enjoyed the apple strudel. Our sincere compliments to the cook.”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Clay. “And I personally would like to ask for her hand in marriage.”

Philip chuckled, and Ben covered a shocked grin with his hand. Mrs. Herrick, however, took in the proposal with aplomb. “And you happen to know that you’re safe in saying your fancy words, Mr. Clay. But I do thank you gentlemen for the compliment. How about if we send you out another tray?”

“No need to go to the trouble, if you can stand our company.”

“Please, gentlemen … take a chair.”

The offer did not have to be repeated. Mr. Durwin walked over to the chair next to Philip, and Mr. Clay went around to sit across from him, next to Ben.

“Why, hullo, Mr. Mayhew,” the actor said to Philip’s friend. “My eyes were so full of strudel that I didn’t notice you there. Tell me, gentlemen, what did you learn in school today?”

“That we’re not as bright as we thought we were,” Ben answered right away, causing Philip to shoot him a warning look and everyone else at the table to smile.

“Well then, I’ve always maintained that the beginning of true knowledge is when we realize we don’t know everything,” Mr. Clay said.

“That’s a fact, boys,” Mr. Durwin nodded. He studied Ben for a second and then said, “Your father works for the squire, doesn’t he?”

“No, sir,” Philip answered for him. “That’s Jeremiah’s father. Ben’s father is a wheelwright.”

“Is that so?”

Ben spoke this time. “Yes, sir. His shop is on Worton Lane, attached to our house.”

“Past that old abandoned mill?” asked Mr. Clay.

“You’ve seen our place?”

“I’ve seen practically every cottage in Gresham,” Mr. Clay answered, feigning a sigh. “Mrs. Kingston insists upon changing the route of our walk every few days. Isn’t there a family of basket weavers at the end of the lane?”

“The Keegans,” Philip replied.

“Indeed?” Mr. Clay looked past Ben to Fiona. “Miss O’Shea, were you aware that you aren’t the only person in Gresham of Irish heritage?”

Philip wondered if he were the only person to notice how Mr. Clay’s voice softened just a bit whenever he said “Miss O’Shea.” And how the man’s eyes seemed to follow her whenever she came through a room. He supposed that Mr. Clay must be in love with Fiona—after all, she was the prettiest, kindest woman in England … next to Mother. The thought occurred to him that perhaps they would marry one day. That was quite all right, as long as neither moved away from the
Larkspur
. Perhaps Mr. Clay wouldn’t have so many sad moods if he had a good wife.

But then another thought followed, and he shook his head at his own ignorance. If Mr. Clay
did
indeed love Fiona, that wasn’t enough for marriage. She had to feel the same way about him too, just as Mother and Father had loved each other. And while she was certainly kind to Mr. Clay, she did not treat him any differently than anyone else.

“Yes, I’ve met the Keegans,” the housekeeper replied to Mr. Clay’s question. Her smile seemed pasted on and the violet eyes took on a worried cast. “They’ve made baskets and mats for us.”

“Were you acquainted with them in Ireland?” Mr. Durwin asked.

“I’m afraid not, sir. They hail from Dublin, and I’m from Kilkenny.”

“We gave them some fish once,” Ben said in an obvious effort to impress her. “They were very happy to have them. And we’ll likely do it again soon.”

Curiously, Fiona’s lips pressed together as if she were angry. “How kind of you,” she said at length in her soft brogue but then pushed out her chair and stood. Mr. Clay reached her before anyone else could think to move and put a hand upon her shoulder.

“Please … don’t leave, Miss O’Shea. What’s wrong?”

Philip watched as his mother hurried around the table. “Fiona? Are you ill?”

“Why don’t you have her sit down?” Mildred suggested.

Philip met Ben’s curious look with a blank stare. He couldn’t recall ever seeing Fiona upset, even when Georgette walked into a table once and caused a lamp to break.

“I’ve the marketing list to prepare,” Fiona insisted, but Mother and Mr. Clay coaxed her back into the chair. She sighed and apologized again. “So silly of me …”

“Well, nothing to be embarrassed about, dear,” said Mrs. Herrick. “You just rest there until you feel better.”

Mr. Durwin nodded. “Is there something any of us can help you with, Miss O’Shea?”

“It’s kind of you to ask, but I don’t think so.”

“Surely it would help to talk about it,” Mildred suggested.

Fiona pressed her lips together in an effort to compose herself, but a second or two later sighed. “It’s that family. They’re just so helpless.”

“Who, Fiona?” asked Mother, taking the chair that Ben vacated for her, while Mr. Clay stood just behind Fiona’s other shoulder.

“I believe she means the Keegans,” said Mr. Durwin. “Is that correct, Miss O’Shea?”

She nodded. “Yes, sir. I went over there just this mornin’ to see about some baskets for the pantry. Someone has been playing tricks on them.”

“Playing tricks?” Mother asked. “What do you mean?”

Taking a deep breath, Fiona explained that the Keegans went to Shrewsbury almost every Saturday to sell baskets and spend the night, something Philip and Ben already knew. “They’ve a wooden shed that they store finished baskets in. Every Sunday afternoon when they return from Shrewsbury, they find the shed tipped over.”

“But why?” asked Gertie.

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Fiona sighed. “And I suppose it sounds like a small matter. But they’ve never felt welcome in this village, so this has them feeling even more …”

“Alienated?” Ben offered.

“Yes. Alienated.”

Philip raised an eyebrow at Ben and received a slight nod in return. He could tell that one particular surname had crossed his friend’s mind as well as his own. Should he mention their shared suspicion yet? He turned his face toward Fiona—for a brief instant, his eyes locked with Mr. Clay’s.