The Widow of Larkspur Inn (45 page)

Julia expressed sympathy for the boy while trying to place the name.
Sanders?

Mrs. Rhodes left then, sending a wave after she’d gone a few steps. Returning the wave, Julia sensed someone’s eyes upon her and turned to see Elizabeth Phelps approaching from the front of the church. Quietly, Fiona excused herself, saying she would accompany Mrs. Kingston home.

“Mrs. Hollis,” Elizabeth said. “Have you a minute?”

“Of course,” Julia smiled, taking the girl’s hand. “I believe everyone was impressed with your father’s sermon.”

There were still faint circles under the brown eyes, but the expression in them was refreshingly calmer than it had been just two days ago. “I could tell Father was worried about it. He doesn’t want people to think he’s flaunting his education, but at the same time he doesn’t want to give less than his best.”

“And how are you, Elizabeth?”

The girl smiled at this use of her given name. “Better, Mrs. Hollis, though to be truthful, Jonathan still occupies a great deal of my thoughts. But I told Father I would go with him to make his calls starting Monday. So you see, I’m taking your advice about finding something to keep myself busy.”

“I’m so glad. And I hope you’ll come to visit me again soon.”

Giving Julia a quick embrace, Elizabeth said, “I would like that very much.”

Aleda appeared at Julia’s side. “This is my oldest daughter, Aleda,” she said to the vicar’s daughter. “And this is Miss Phelps.”

“Why, my sister, Laurel, mentioned you yesterday,” Elizabeth said to the girl. “She said you play the piano quite well.”

“She did?” Aleda beamed.

“I took lessons for five years, but I still find myself disheartened if there are too many sharps or flats.” They chatted about music for a minute longer, then Elizabeth bade them good-day and joined her father at the church door. When she was gone, Aleda turned to Julia with a worried expression.

“Helen says some people said they saw the ghost last night.”

“Do you believe them?”

The girl’s forehead creased. “Why no, Mother.”

“Are you sure? Because if it has you worried …”

“I’m not worried about the ghost being real. I just wonder if people blame us, since everyone thinks he lives in our house.”

The thought had crossed Julia’s mind, but she couldn’t burden her daughter by admitting it. Putting an arm across her shoulders, Julia drew her close. “I know it’s difficult, but the best thing to do is change the subject whenever anyone mentions anything about it.”

“Do you think that will stop them from talking?”

“To be honest, I doubt it. But they’ll get the message eventually that it’s not something you wish to discuss. And I’m sure the talk will fade away like it did last time.”

“I hope so.” As they ambled on together to gather the rest of the family, Aleda said, “Miss Phelps is nice, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is,” Julia said.

“Why was she hugging you when I came up?”

“Oh, I gave her some advice recently and she was grateful.”

“Advice about what?”

Julia looked at her sideways and raised an eyebrow. “Curious, aren’t we?”

“I’m going to be a writer,” Aleda answered. “Miss Rawlins says they’re supposed to be curious. And you don’t have to worry about my telling anyone. Writers are supposed to keep secrets too.”

“Well, I trust your discretion, but I’m afraid I can’t betray a confidence. You understand that, don’t you?”

The narrow shoulders shrugged. “It must have been about love, then.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Oh, most problems seem to be about love,” she said with a deep sigh. “It seems to work better in stories than in real life.” She shook her head before Julia could ask the question her mind was framing.

“I haven’t been reading Miss Rawlins’ books, Mother.”

Julia suppressed a smile and glanced over at Mrs. Hyatt and Mr. Durwin, lost in conversation as they strolled slowly across the green. She felt a slight pang for the way they enjoyed each other’s companionship. “Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes it works out quite well.”

———

“Did you hear what everybody’s saying?” Philip asked Ben and Jeremiah in the school yard Monday morning as soon as he was out of earshot of his sisters.

Jeremiah looked over his shoulder and broke out into a grin. “Jake Pitt.”

“It’s not funny, Jeremiah. My mother asked me if I knew anything about it.”

“She did?” asked Ben, his blue eyes growing wide. “What did you tell her?”

“I had to lie.” Philip mashed down on a clod of dirt with the toe of his shoe and wondered if his conscience could hurt any worse than it had for the past twenty-four hours. Lying to one’s mother was especially wrong, in his opinion, because it combined two major sins … lying, and dishonoring a parent. He didn’t even blame God for being displeased with him at the moment, but in an effort to ease his aching conscience, he added, “Partially, I mean.”

“How do you tell part of a lie?”

“I told her that I didn’t know anything about three boys walking around with a ghost Saturday night.”

“But we
did
walk around with—” Jeremiah began until his brown eyes lit with understanding. “Oh, but Mr. Clay wasn’t a real ghost. So you told the truth, then.”

Philip shook his head. “The truth doesn’t upset your stomach. I almost told her the whole thing this morning.”

“You can’t do that!” Ben exclaimed, then glanced at the boys playing marbles just a few feet away and lowered his voice. “Fernie Sanders’ foot is broken. Did you know that?”

“No—how did you find out?”

“Dr. Rhodes’ cook has a brother who works for my father. She told him that one of the Sanders boys broke two bones in his foot.”

“They’re going to kill us,” Jeremiah said, peering fearfully out toward the green, as if he expected to see an army of Sanders materialize as he spoke.

“Not if they never find out,” Ben reassured him. To Philip, he said, “You can’t
ever
tell your mother, because then she’ll feel obliged to let our parents know. I don’t mind getting a strapping from my father, but the more people who hear about it, the greater chance it has of reaching the Sanders’ ears.”

“We can’t tell anybody,” Jeremiah agreed. “Ever.”

Miss Hillock came to the steps to ring the school bell, bringing an end to the conversation. Later, Philip was in the middle of penning neat rows of
It is better to light one candle than to curse the darkness
in his copybook when he remembered Mr. Clay. The actor had felt wretched about causing the shed to drop on Fernie’s foot. If he found out that the foot was broken, who knew what he would do? Perhaps even march over to the Sanders and apologize! Even if Mr. Clay claimed sole responsibility for the act—which would likely be the case—word was all over Gresham that three boys were involved as well. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out the identity of the three.

But Mr. Clay seldom left the house save his morning walks with Mrs. Kingston. And everyone who knew him tended to shield him from unpleasant news, so there was still a chance.
Oh, Lord, please don’t let him find out,
Philip prayed, then shuddered at his nerve for trying to involve God in his own misdeeds.

As the school day moved on with leaden feet, Philip didn’t even think of his academic rivalry with Laurel Phelps. When lightning could possibly come out of the sky and strike him on his way home, the matter of a trophy seemed small indeed.

“I don’t know. Maybe they just don’t like the water around the bridge anymore,” Jeremiah said that Saturday as the three boys carried their rods and tackle along the Bryce toward their second-favorite fishing spot in the north edge of Gipsy Woods.

“It’s the same water,” Philip told him. “Why would that matter?”

“Well, we breathe the same air,” said Ben. “But
we
like some places more than others.”

There was no arguing that logic, so Philip switched his fishing pole to his other shoulder and said, “All I know is … I told Mrs. Herrick I’d try for a string of perch today.” And he hoped that by bringing home a string of fish and thereby saving his mother some money he could lessen the guilt he’d carried around all week. Perhaps God would even look down from heaven and form the opinion that a boy who provided food for his family should be absolved just this once.

“What are you looking at?” Ben asked Jeremiah, nudging Philip out of his reverie.

Jeremiah pointed past the steeple of Saint Jude’s to a place up the river just north of the vicarage. “Isn’t that the vicar?”

Philip could only see willow trees along the bank. “How can you tell?”

“I saw him walk from the vicarage.”

They indeed came upon the sight of Vicar Phelps among the willows of the bank, staring out upon the water with both hands in his pockets. He appeared to be deep in thought but turned to greet them as they drew closer.

“Good morning, young men.”

“Good mornin’,” they chorused in return. Ben, the only one wearing a cap, reached up for it, but the vicar shook his head.

“That isn’t necessary, thank you. Going fishing, eh?”

Before anyone could reply to this obvious question, the vicar’s smile broadened. “But of course you are, aren’t you? You aren’t exactly outfitted for cricket.”

Philip, unable to resist the opportunity for a quip, darted a hand into his tackle basket and brought out the jar of chirping insects he’d caught behind the stables just this morning. “We’re outfitted
with
cricket, sir.”

The effect upon the minister was immediate, for he gave a great laugh that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. Caught up in the moment, the three boys joined in.

“That’s a good one,” Vicar Phelps said, wiping his eyes when the laughter had subsided into grins.

In spite of his wish that Laurel Phelps had never enrolled at Gresham School, Philip’s opinion of her father increased threefold during that exchange of levity. He had learned that some adults appreciated humor more than others. Miss Rawlins, as pleasant as she was, always seemed to assume a blank expression whenever Mr. Clay said something witty that left everyone else laughing.

“Forgive me for asking, because your faces do look familiar to me from Sunday, but what are your names?” Vicar Phelps was saying, and it seemed from the expression in his hazel eyes that he wasn’t just being polite. After Ben made introductions, the man nodded. “And I’m keeping you from your fishing, aren’t I? No doubt your families will be pleased to have fish on the platter this evening.”

“We hope so, sir,” said Jeremiah.

Ben nodded. “But we’ve spent an hour at the bridge with barely a nibble.”

“We’re especially hoping for some perch today,” was Philip’s comment.

“And with crickets, you say? Do you catch many perch with them, ordinarily?”

“Sometimes.” Ben cocked his head at the vicar, but respectfully so. “You know how to fish, Vicar Phelps?”

“Not when I was young like yourselves. But one of my parishioners in Cambridge taught me to fish the backs—the River Cam. It flows behind the colleges, you see. We had trouble bringing in perch as well, until someone lent me a very helpful book.”