The Widow of Larkspur Inn (57 page)

“Did you have a nice Christmas?” Julia asked as she tucked Philip’s blankets over his shoulders. The children had been allowed to stay awake until the guests left at ten, and the effect of too much activity and too many rich foods was evident upon their faces. The girls had barely been able to stay awake during prayers, yawning incessantly as they held their new dolls.

“It was nice,” he answered, but a bit of the old haunted look came back into his blue eyes.

“What’s wrong, Philip?”

“Do you ever think about Father anymore?”

“Of course I do,” she answered truthfully.
Not very often, but …

“Will you ever get married again?”

“Married?” The question was so incongruent with the activities of the day that she had to take a second or two to absorb it. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering.”

She had wondered that herself on occasion. Her earlier bitterness toward the whole institution had been tempered with time, and she missed the companionship, however shallow, she’d shared with her husband. And it did concern her that the children had no father.
Perhaps it would be nice … one day.
But she had no immediate plans along that line, which was appropriate because she was still officially in mourning and had no romantic feelings for any man of her acquaintance.

Before she could answer, the boy said, “I saw you and Vicar Phelps.” His tone was almost accusing, and Julia looked at him askew.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Over by the Christmas tree. You were standing close together.”

So that’s why he asked
, Julia thought. Did he honestly think she and the vicar were courting? “Philip, Vicar Phelps was telling me something that he would like to keep private for now.”

“About what?”

“About something that wouldn’t interest you. And I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough.” And giving him a reassuring smile, she added, “Men and women can enjoy each other’s company, just as you enjoy being with Ben and Jeremiah. That doesn’t mean they’re courting.”

“Is that so?”

“Quite so, young man. And believe it or not, you’ll feel the same way when you’re older.”

He looked a little more peaceful now, and she leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Now, let’s try to be more cheerful, shall we? It’s Christmas, after all.”

Christmas,
Ambrose grumbled, punching his pillow into shape for the fourth time. Was he the only person in England to feel that the day had betrayed him? Why had he allowed his expectations to be raised once again?

You were hoping she would come, weren’t you?
he thought mockingly. It had been an irrational hope, but one he had clung to until the last candle was snuffed. And, of course, that hope had failed him.

And if she were to come back—what then? She was married. And even if she were not, what could he offer her? A lifetime of emotional instability? He wouldn’t even be able to give her a family. It would be cruel to subject children to the same childhood he and his siblings had suffered.

And so the curtain closes. With no encores. She’s stepped out of your life, and that’s that
.

After at least another hour of tossing and turning, he groaned, sat up in bed, and lit the lamp on his bedside table. The air was frigid, but he dashed out from under the bedclothes to tuck his top sheet back in under the foot of his mattress. As he moved back to the side of the bed, his eye caught the Bible in the seat of his chair. Since Vicar Phelps had suggested he begin with the New Testament, he had done so with vigor, perusing every text from Saint Matthew to the mysterious Revelation. But while he was finding himself extremely interested in the concept of a God who loved sinners so much that He would sacrifice His own Son, he could not help but wonder if this Jesus Christ was nothing more than a skilled actor. Perhaps the most talented to walk the face of the earth.

After reading accounts of the crucifixion, he had no doubts that Jesus had died on that cross, but it was the aftermath that gave him trouble.

“How do we know He rose again on the third day?” he’d recently asked Vicar Phelps over tea in the vicarage parlor.

“Because it’s written in the Scriptures,” was the vicar’s answer.

“And who wrote them?”

“The New Testament? Why, most were written by the disciples, Mr. Clay. Under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit.”

“And how do we know that they didn’t perpetrate a fraud?”

“You mean, hide the body?”

“Yes. Does it shock you that I would ask?”

With a shake of the head the vicar had replied, “You aren’t the first person to ask such a question. But let me tell you what happened to those men afterward. Excluding Judas Iscariot, of course. All but John were martyred—and he himself was banished for several years.”

“Martyred?” Ambrose had heard of the disciples all of his life but had never thought to wonder how they had died.

“And in insidiously cruel ways. Most were crucified, and some were killed by other means. Bartholomew was flayed alive, James sawed to pieces, and Thomas was speared to death. Do you believe those men would give up their lives like that for a fraud of their own making?”

“They had no way of knowing they would be martyred.”

“After what happened to their leader? They knew, Mr. Clay.”

Ambrose went over to the chair and picked up the Bible, bringing it back to bed with him. He couldn’t sleep anyway, he thought, so he might as well read. There was something in those pages that had eluded him thus far, something that could be clearly seen in such people as Fiona O’Shea, Mrs. Hollis, and Vicar Phelps. He envied their simple trust.

Where do I go now?
he wondered, staring down at the book on his pillow as he lay on his side, his head propped up with his left arm. The thought of trying to understand the Old Testament just yet was a little overwhelming, so he decided to start with Saint Matthew again. An hour later, he came across something he had scarcely noticed during his first reading.
They deserted Him in the garden!

It was right there in front of him.
Then all the disciples forsook him and fled
. These were the same men who later preached so boldly, not fearing execution?

He reread the passage, tracing the words with a finger.
Why did they run?
he asked himself. If they truly believed Jesus Christ was God’s Son, wouldn’t they have trusted Him with their lives?

“Could it be that they had doubts too?” he murmured.

Chapter 35

On the Wednesday afternoon of January nineteenth, Andrew Phelps sat in the vicarage parlor savoring a post-lunch cup of coffee and
The Shrewsbury Chronicle.
He seldom drank coffee, preferring tea instead, but there were some days that seemed made-to-order for the stronger drink. On and off for over a week now, winds from the northwest had brought freezing rains across the whole of Shropshire, crusting the drifts of the earlier Christmas snow with ice. Noses of the villagers were perpetually red, and incessant sniffles had provided accompaniment to his sermon last Sunday.

But today, finally, the sun beamed down on Gresham through a cloudless sky, and the air, though chilly, did not cut through one’s clothes like a knife. Andrew had managed to pay a half-dozen calls to parishioners along Walnut Tree Lane today and planned to make more after his newspaper and coffee were finished. His first call would be to the
Larkspur
, for Ambrose Clay had been in his thoughts all morning.

He was beginning to feel like a failure as far as the actor was concerned, in that his witness to the man seemed to be bearing no fruit.
It’s because I’ve attempted to convert him solely through reason.
And what was reasonable about salvation? How could the human intellect alone understand that a man must become as a little child to enter the kingdom of heaven? That the blood shed on a Roman cross centuries ago still had the power to cleanse the vilest sinner?

I know you’re drawing him to you, Father,
he prayed, staring blankly at the newsprint in front of him. Why else would Mr. Clay continue to seek out Scripture with such diligence?
Please send your Spirit to soften his heart and make him more receptive to the Gospel
.

He sensed a presence, as he often did when he prayed, but this time it was inexplicably different. Lowering his newspaper, he scanned the room with his eyes. There was a flash of motion as a little head darted back behind an upholstered chair in the corner.

“Have you seen Molly?” Elizabeth asked from the doorway, where she stood with little David tucked under her arm, wrapped in a bath flannel. The children’s father had not yet returned to his family, and there was now some speculation as to whether he was dead or alive. Though Andrew grieved for Mr. Burrell’s soul, he had to admit that Mr. Sykes had been correct in his view that his family fared better when he was absent.

“Have I seen Molly?” Andrew echoed, a little louder than necessary.

Her brow furrowing, Elizabeth shifted the child to her other hip. From his perch he stared down at Andrew with blue eyes as wide as his sister’s. “David rubbed treacle in his hair, so I had to give him a bath. And when I turned around Molly was gone. It’s time for their naps.”

“
Gone
, you say?” Andrew glanced at the chair again. “But wherever can she be?”

His daughter gave him a puzzled look. “Why are you talking that way, Papa?”

“What way?”

“Answering everything I say with a question.”

“Why, I’m just concerned about little Molly.”

Elizabeth frowned and glanced down the corridor. “I suppose she went in the kitchen. Mrs. Paget gives them pieces of dough when—”

“Have you tried the ash bin?” Andrew cut in.

“Papa …”

“Because I do believe that’s where you’ll find our Molly. Up to her nose in the ash bin. Why, you’ll have to scrub her from now ’til tomorrow—”

“I not in ash bin.”

They both looked in the direction of the corner, where somberfaced little Molly was easing herself out from behind the chair.

“See what I mean?” Andrew winked at Elizabeth, who only rolled her eyes. “Why, she’s covered with soot from head to toe.”

“No soot. I not in ash bin.”

“That certainly looks like soot to me. And it’s a pity, too, because I had hoped to read aloud to someone. But I can’t risk getting soot on my clothes now, can I?”

The three-year-old pressed a palm to her cheek, stared down at it with a perplexed expression, then approached Andrew’s chair with hand outstretched. “See? Not soot.”

Andrew took her little hand and pretended to study it. “Well, I suppose you’re right after all, Miss Molly. Does this mean you wish me to read to you?”

Her answer was to hurry over to the rosewood console table against the far wall, where Laurel’s and Elizabeth’s old storybooks were now stored in the bottom drawer. While Elizabeth brought David back upstairs to clothe him, Molly knelt in front of the open drawer and rifled through the dozen or so books. She returned to Andrew with
The Butterfly’s Ball
in both hands. Her blue eyes stared at him as he lifted her up on one knee.

Though the children had come to the vicarage every school day now for four months, and Andrew could cause David to chuckle with just one bounce of the knee, he had yet to receive a smile from Molly.

That she was capable of the expression wasn’t in question. He had seen her smile at every other person under his roof. He would never admit it to anyone, but it hurt him a little.

“Let’s wait for your brother, shall we?” Andrew said to her.

She looked over at the door and nodded. “Dabid come to read book.”

Some twenty minutes later, both children were sound asleep against his chest. Andrew carried them upstairs and helped Elizabeth tuck them into her bed.

“They look like little angels, don’t they?” he whispered as they stood over them.

She smiled. “And you must seem like a big angel to them.”

“Me? Why, unless I have a book in my hands, they hardly notice me.”

“That’s because they’re in awe of you, Papa. You’re likely the first man who’s ever treated them decently.”