The Widow of Larkspur Inn (60 page)

“Nothing out of the ordinary has happened since our last little chat,” Mr. Clay was saying, rubbing his stubbled chin. “Except …”

Andrew leaned forward a little. “Yes?”

“I’ve come to believe that Jesus Christ actually did come back to life after the cross.”

Andrew’s breath caught in his throat. “And you say nothing extraordinary happened?”

“Extraordinary would be my coming to faith, Vicar Phelps. I’m afraid that has not occurred, nor do I see the likelihood of it happening in the near future.”

“But why? If you believe—”

“With my head, Vicar,” the actor said poignantly. He raised a hand to tap the center of his chest. “There is nothing happening here.”

Willa returned with a tray, and another chambermaid followed with a folded crisscross table. For once, Andrew was grateful for the interruption. He needed time to send up another prayer.
I know you’ve been drawing Mr. Clay to you, or else he wouldn’t feel compelled to search the Scriptures so faithfully. But why is he afraid to give himself over to you? Please show me, Father.

After the maids left the room, the only sound was the delicate clinking of silver against bone china, then silence as each man took a sip from his cup.

“So, Mr. Clay, how did you come to the conclusion that Christ did actually come to life again?” Andrew asked in a dispassionate tone, while fighting the urge to get on his knees and plead that the actor believe this very minute. And he might very well be doing so, were he dealing with someone with a more suppliant temperament.

Mr. Clay balanced his saucer and cup on his crossed knee, steadying them with both hands. “It was the only logical conclusion I could make.”

“Logical?”

“Do you recall telling me that most of the disciples were martyred because of their bold preaching of the Gospel? And yet earlier they deserted Jesus in the garden, when surely He needed friends at His side.”

“They were fallible men, Mr. Clay. Perhaps I would have done the same thing myself.”

“Then after the burial, they shut themselves up in a house for fear of the same mob that had crucified their leader. It must have been a long three days for them. When did their courage come?”

Andrew opened his mouth, but Mr. Clay held up a silencing hand and continued. “It came after they actually saw and spoke with the risen Christ. And for the first time, they had absolutely no doubts that He was God’s Son. Even Thomas became convinced.”

“And He gave them the Holy Spirit, Mr. Clay,” Andrew added, smiling. “To comfort them and give them power to become mighty witnesses.”

Mr. Clay nodded soberly. “They became almost suicidal maniacs, then, in their quest to spread the Gospel. Could they have done that, knowing the ultimate consequences, if they weren’t totally convinced that Jesus had come back to life?”

Unable to stand it any longer, Andrew leaned to set his cup and saucer on the tray before him with more enthusiasm than necessary, causing tea to slosh over his fingers. Forgotten was his earlier resolve to restrain from being too forceful. “For mercy’s sake, man, I couldn’t have preached it better myself! It’s time to trust in Christ yourself!”

“It’s not that simple, Vicar.”

“It’s the simplest act in the world, Mr. Clay. Don’t be a King Agrippa!”

“King Agri—” Mr. Clay stopped himself and nodded. “That fellow who told Paul the apostle that he was almost persuaded to become a Christian.”

His pulse jumping, Andrew said, “And unless he changed his mind, he’s had centuries in hell to regret those words.”

When the actor did not respond to this, Andrew sat back in his chair, ran his hands through his hair, and sighed. “Just how many times have you read through the New Testament?”

The actor thought for a minute. “Four, actually. And I’ve started on the Old again. I just finished the book of Joshua yesterday.”

“How can you read so much and not find anything that moves you?”

“Who said I haven’t been—”

Tapping his own chest, Andrew told him, “You said there was nothing there.”

Mr. Clay’s face turned a shade paler. “Don’t you think I
want
to feel something, Vicar?”

He’s afraid,
Andrew realized suddenly.
But of what?
Mr. Clay did not seem to be the sort of man who would reject Christ because of fear of ridicule of others. And Christians weren’t burnt at the stake anymore in their part of the world, so what would prevent him from embracing the Gospel as the lifeline that it was? Who wouldn’t wish for the love and guidance of a heavenly Father?

Father …

He frowned, chewing on his lip.
Is that it?
Was it the very parenthood of God that compelled the actor to keep his distance? Mr. Clay had once confided in him that his father had been a highly unstable influence in his children’s lives, and his later suicide had shattered the family. Was he afraid to put his trust in another Father who might also fail him?

Too simple. Mr. Clay’s too intelligent for that,
he reasoned. But didn’t emotions often act independently of intellect?
They certainly do for me,
he thought, briefly thinking back to how pleasant it had been to walk arm in arm with Mrs. Hollis.

“Mr. Clay,” Andrew said finally.

Mr. Clay, who had turned his face to stare over at the window, turned to look at him again. “Yes?” came out with a weary sigh.

With all the compassion that he felt for the man coming out in his voice, Andrew continued, “Mr. Clay, why don’t you leave your Bible closed tonight?”

His friend blinked. “I’m surprised to hear you recommend that.”

“You can be sure this is the first time,” Andrew smiled back. “But the Scriptures also instruct us to ‘be still and know that He is God.’ I believe it’s time to take pause from your frantic intellectual searching and allow His Holy Spirit to speak to your heart.”

There was clear misery in the man’s gray eyes. “And how do I do that, Vicar?”

“Just meditate on the things you’ve already read about Him, Mr. Clay. That He is a faithful Father, merciful, loving and just. That He loved you so much He sent His only Son to the cross so that you could have salvation. That He is ready to forgive your sin and take you into His bosom as one of His children, if you’ll only ask in the name of the risen Christ.”

Now Mr. Clay’s cup trembled visibly in his hand, and he set it down on the table. “I can’t think now, Vicar,” he said, avoiding Andrew’s eyes. “And I’m fatigued. I must ask you to leave.”

“All right.” Andrew got to his feet, but before leaving, he stepped around the tea table to put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You don’t have to be afraid, my friend. He is one Father who’ll never disappoint you.”

The actor nodded but did not look up at him. With a final squeeze of Mr. Clay’s shoulder, Andrew turned and left the room.

Downstairs in the hall, Andrew again returned the well-wishes of the lodgers, who pressed him to stay for a visit. His heart was not in it, though, for it was heavy for his friend upstairs. He was aware that Mrs. Hollis, seated on one of the chairs, was searching his face for any hopeful sign from their visit, and he shook his head slightly.

Chapter 36

It’s a shame to have to watch your own body fall apart
, Mrs. Kingston thought that same night, squinting through the empty amber bottle of
Dr. Miles’ Miracle Liniment For Aching Joints
. Her daily walking routine usually kept the rheumatism in her knees manageable, but she’d been housebound for the past week because of the icy lanes. Tonight, age and inactivity had caught up with her, propelling her over to her mahogany chest of drawers to seek relief from Dr. Miles. She turned the bottle over and bumped the open neck against her cupped palm—only a teaspoon or two of the kerosene-smelling liquid dripped out.

“Now, why didn’t I ask Mrs. Hollis to get me another bottle at
Trumbles
today?” she muttered to herself, even while knowing the answer. It was one thing to endure the inconveniences of advancing years, but quite another to admit to them in front of a room full of people.

Mrs. Hyatt uses the same liniment on her hands,
Mrs. Kingston remembered. She had never actually discussed her aches and pains with Mrs. Hyatt, who in her opinion was a bit insipid, but the odor of the medicine was hard to mask. And surely she wasn’t asleep yet, for the lodgers, except for poor Mr. Clay, who’d confined himself to his room for most of the day, had retired from the hall less than an hour ago.

She slipped on a thick wool wrapper and slippers and stepped out into the corridor, lit by a single low wall lamp. Mrs. Hyatt’s door was only four steps from her own, but there was no light shining from underneath, and she considered giving up and going back to bed. Just then a dull pain throbbed through her right knee. She raised her hand to rap softly upon the door.
At least she still has several hours left to sleep the night,
Mrs. Kingston told herself.

Immediately she heard a low, “Who’s there?”

Well, perhaps she wasn’t asleep yet.
“It’s Mrs. Kingston,” she answered as quietly as possible so as not to wake any of the other lodgers. There was a silence of about ten seconds, and just when Mrs. Kingston was beginning to wonder if she’d been heard, the knob turned in front of her. The room that was exposed when the door opened several inches was dark, and Mrs. Hyatt was wearing a flannel nightgown and cap, so she had indeed been abed.

“Yes?” the other lodger said in the wedge of dim light coming through the door from the corridor.

There was something strange about the tone of the single word—it came out thickly. A humorous notion passed through her head that perhaps Mrs. Hyatt had been
drinking
the liniment instead of rubbing it on her hands. In spite of her lack of great warmth for the other woman, Mrs. Kingston felt immediately ashamed for the thought.

“Pardon me for disturbing you, Mrs. Hyatt,” Mrs. Kingston whispered. “But have you any liniment to spare for the night?”

“Why, yes, I’ve an extra bottle in my chest of drawers,” Mrs. Hyatt nodded but did not open the door any wider. Again the voice was thick. “Is it your knees?”

How did she know that?
Swallowing her pride, she confessed, “I’m afraid so.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Mrs. Hyatt said, “I’ll leave the bottle outside your door in five minutes. Is that all right?”

“Leave it outside my door?” Mrs. Kingston had to remember to lower her voice again. “But why can’t you just give it to me now?”

“Now?”

Another wickedly humorous thought came into Mrs. Kingston’s mind, and before she could block its way to her mouth, she found herself blurting out, “What’s wrong? You haven’t Mr. Durwin in there, have you?”

“Mrs. Kingston!” the woman gasped, the whites of her eyes showing.

She gulped, horrified at her own audacity. She was painfully aware that she had a tendency to be blunt, but there was a limit. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hyatt!”

A sob was the only reply as Mrs. Hyatt started backing away from the door.

“Oh, dear … please forgive me!” Mrs. Kingston pushed the door open wider and entered the room. “Never did I actually think that Mr. Durwin was in here.”

“I know that,” Mrs. Hyatt sniffed as she walked over to her chest of drawers. “I have the liniment right here.”

Why, she was crying before I even came here,
Mrs. Kingston realized, for the thickness of the voice was the same. Unable to stand it any longer, she walked over to the night table, felt for a match from the tin in the drawer, and lit the lamp. When she turned around, Mrs. Hyatt was rifling through an open drawer.

“Here it is,” she said in a now small voice, avoiding Mrs. Kingston’s eyes as she held out a bottle.

The older woman moved a step closer and took it from her hand. “Mrs. Hyatt, I can see you’ve been crying … what is wrong?”

“Nothing.” She turned briefly to take a handkerchief from the open drawer and blew her nose.

Mrs. Kingston had scant patience with people who forced others to drag conversation out of them, but she couldn’t help being moved by the misery in her voice. “There, there now,” she found herself soothing, stepping forward to set the bottle on the chest and take Mrs. Hyatt by the hand. “Why don’t you tell me all about it….” After a fraction of a second’s hesitation she added, “Dear?”

Mrs. Hyatt wiped her face again but allowed herself to be led over to her bed. Mrs. Kingston helped her sit up on the pillows, tucked the covers up under her elbows, and sat down on the side of the bed.

“You’ll take cold,” Mrs. Hyatt sniffed.

“My wrapper is nice and warm.”

“You think I’m a child, don’t you?”

The nightcap ruffle framing Mrs. Hyatt’s pink cheeks actually did give her a rather infantile appearance, but Mrs. Kingston shook her head. “Everyone weeps now and then.”

“Even you?”

Mrs. Kingston folded her arms and thought,
This is getting a bit too personal.
“On occasion. Now, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

Her lip trembling, Mrs. Hyatt replied in a still smaller voice, “It’s Mr. Durwin.”