The Widow of Larkspur Inn (64 page)

“This should only take a few minutes.”

“
What
should?” Grace asked from her other side.

“Sh-h-h!” Julia looked ahead at Mrs. Hyatt, walking arm in arm with Mrs. Kingston down the corridor toward the hall. “I can’t tell you right now, Gracie. Just wait and see.”

“I’ll wager this has something to do with Mr. Durwin,” Aleda whispered from behind. Julia turned to gape at her.

“We don’t wager, Aleda.”

“But it’s just a saying, Mother. Everyone says it.”

“Well, I don’t want to hear it in this house again. Do you understand?”

Aleda lowered her green eyes, so like her own. “Yes, Mother.”

You’re overreacting! She isn’t going to turn out like her father just because she said wager.
Julia turned around to wrap an arm around the girl’s shoulder. “I can tell you this,” she whispered in her ear. “I’m not completely sure of everything that is to happen, but you’re absolutely right about this having to do with Mr. Durwin.”

“I knew it!” she whispered back, her face brightening. Julia squeezed her hand, and when she turned around again, Mrs. Kingston and Mrs. Hyatt were standing framed by the hall doorway, peering off to their right. Mrs. Kingston’s face wore a delighted smile, while Mrs. Hyatt looked to be in shock with her mouth partly open.

“Come now, Mrs. Hyatt. We must allow the others in,” Mrs. Kingston was urging when Julia and her children had caught up with them.

“But I don’t think—”

“It’s only Mr. Durwin’s little orchestra. Perhaps they came here to practice.”

“It’s Mr. Durwin’s band!” Grace exclaimed when the two women had moved from the doorway. Julia looked over at the west wall, where Mr. Durwin stood wearing a black suit and clutching a shiny baritone. With him, and looking just a bit sheepish, were Mr. Clark from the iron foundry with a trombone, Captain Powell with his cornet in hand, Mr. Sway the greengrocer holding a flugelhorn, and Mr. Putnam and Mr. Jones, both with horns. Mr. Summers, a cartier, and the only member without a wind instrument, had a large bass drum suspended from his shoulders. Mrs. Kingston was leading a befuddled Mrs. Hyatt to the sofa while Mrs. Beemish stood by with flushed excitement on her face.

“What have we here?” asked Mrs. Dearing with genuine surprise when she, Miss Rawlins, and Mr. Clay had entered the room. “Are you going to play for us, Mr. Durwin?”

With an exaggerated tilt of the chin, Mr. Durwin appeared to think this over, as if the seven musicians had just happened to be standing against the west wall for some other reason. His eyes seemed to be working hard to keep from straying over in Mrs. Hyatt’s direction. “Why, we would consider it an honor,” he finally replied.

“What are they going to play?” Philip whispered.

“I don’t know,” Julia whispered back.

Mrs. Beemish left the room as the men spent three or four minutes tuning their instruments. She returned shortly with the other servants in tow.

“Everyone, have a seat,” Mrs. Kingston commanded over the inharmonious sounds of the instruments from her place next to Mrs. Hyatt. The knowing authority in her voice caused Mrs. Hyatt to peer at her curiously, but Mrs. Kingston simply smiled and patted her hand. “After all, since we’re all here, we might as well be comfortable.”

When everyone had settled into seats and the hall was quiet, Mr. Durwin lifted his baritone to his mouth again. As one, the musicians blew into their mouthpieces. Mr. Summers kept time with subdued blows on his drum. The melody that issued forth was a bit on the bleating side, and an occasional sour note made itself known, but it wasn’t every day that one had the opportunity to listen to a brass band, so there were smiles coming from all directions of the room. After three or four measures, Julia recognized the familiar strains of
Now Thank We All Our God
.

“
Now Thank We All Our God
,” Grace whispered into her ear.

“Yes, it is,” Julia whispered back. And one look at Mrs. Hyatt gave her a clue as to why that particular song had been chosen. The elderly woman sat there with her hand up to her heart, her face filled with some undefinable emotion.

“Do you think we could sing along?”

It was Grace again, and Julia whispered back, “Perhaps we shouldn’t.” But when the first stanza and chorus were finished, Mr. Durwin raised a hand to silence the scattered applause that had just begun. His cheeks were flushed, and now he looked over at Mrs. Hyatt as he took a step forward.

“We’ve chosen this particular hymn to play because it is the favorite of a person very dear to us all. Now would you be so kind as to accompany us with your voices?”

There were awkward clearings of throats and exchanges of selfconscious looks as the musicians lifted their instruments again, but every voice joined in, from Grace’s soft trill to Karl Herrick’s rich accented baritone.

Now thank we all our God, with heart and hands and voices,

Who wondrous things hath done, in whom His world rejoices;

Every voice except for Mr. Clay’s, Julia then noticed with a curious glance at a chair to her left, for she was aware that he knew no hymns. He didn’t seem uncomfortable but simply sat with closed eyes and a little smile.

Who, from our mother’s arms, hath blest us on our way With countless gifts of love, and still is ours today.

As she continued singing into the second verse, Julia found herself unable to resist a covert glance at Mrs. Hyatt again. She need not have been so careful. Mrs. Hyatt’s shining gray eyes were beaming across the room at Mr. Durwin.

There was a hushed silence after the third and final stanza had trailed off to a close, then enthusiastic applause broke out. “Again, please?” Karl Herrick called out. But clearly, the musicians were worn out from the effort.

“Thank you, but some other time,” replied Mr. Durwin with a smile after the musicians had given bows over their instruments. “We appreciate your kind attention and participation and now must bid you good evening.”

But why is he leaving?
Julia wondered as Sarah and Georgette brought the men their wraps. The romantic side of her that she’d forgotten even existed had hoped that Mr. Durwin would fall on his knees at Mrs. Hyatt’s feet when the song was finished and plead her hand in marriage. Just the mental picture the scene evoked was enough to make Julia remember that the couple were of another generation. He would not care to make a spectacle of himself, nor would Mrs. Hyatt appreciate being included in such a show.

But still, Mr. Durwin lived at the
Larkspur
. Where was there to go at this hour?

This hour,
Julia thought. As chatting servants left the room to clean the supper dishes, she put her left hand on Philip’s shoulder. “Bedtime soon. Why don’t you see to—”

“My studying,” he finished for her and was gone. Grace and Aleda, who had finished their homework, went to their room to see if the glue on their latest batch of valentines was dry. With just over two weeks remaining until Valentine’s day, the girls had an ambitious plan to hand out valentines to every person at school as well as every person with whom they were even remotely acquainted. When they were gone, Julia looked across at Mrs. Hyatt again.

“But I don’t
feel
overtired,” Mrs. Hyatt was telling Mrs. Kingston. “And how did Mr. Durwin know that my favorite song was—” She became silent then, apparently aware that all eyes remaining in the room were focused on her.

But Mrs. Kingston sent a forgiving smile around the room. “I was just telling Mrs. Hyatt that she could stand some rest after all the excitement. Wouldn’t you agree?”

There was more command than question in her voice, and Julia found that her head was nodding in unison with all of the others. She probably wouldn’t have noticed without it being pointed out, but Mrs. Hyatt did look somewhat peaked.

“But—”

“Just a quarter of an hour or so with your eyes closed and feet propped up … you’ll see, dear. It’ll feel like a tonic.”

When they were gone from the room, Julia studied the door for three or four minutes. There was something not quite right here. If Mrs. Kingston had kindly helped arrange the concert, why was she then ordering Mrs. Hyatt to her room? “I should see if she needs anything,” she finally said, standing.

“A good idea,” Miss Rawlins said, and Mrs. Dearing nodded agreement.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” was Mr. Clay’s wry input.

“Satisfaction brought it back,” Mrs. Dearing told him. “You go on ahead, Mrs. Hollis.”

As Julia left the upstairs landing, she heard more than two female voices coming from the room. She hurried to the open doorway and looked in to see Mrs. Hyatt standing in the middle of the carpet with both hands up to her cheeks. In an instant, Julia discovered the source of her amazement, for at least a dozen vases and even tumblers of pink and white dianthus bedecked every surface. Mrs. Kingston stood to the side with a delighted grin, as did Mrs. Beemish, Ruth, and Willa.

“But how did he know about my favorite hymn and flower?” Mrs. Hyatt was saying, rotating slowly to take it all in.

“I suppose he decided he cared enough to find out,” Mrs. Kingston said with a nod toward Julia in the doorway, beckoning her inside.

“Where did he get flowers at this time of year?” was what Julia wanted to know.

“The squire’s conservatory,” Mrs. Kingston replied. “Mr. Durwin plays chess with the old blister occasionally and managed to talk him into selling some.”

Julia couldn’t imagine Squire Bartley contributing anything for the benefit of anyone who lived under the
Larkspur
’s roof.
He must have charged Mr. Durwin a dear penny
.

“We brought them up here while you were all at supper,” Willa volunteered, clasping her hands together. “It’s so romantic!”

Julia agreed. Not only was the gesture romantic, but effective, for she caught some of the words that Mrs. Hyatt was murmuring as she buried her face in the tops of some dianthus. “The dear, dear man!”

Mrs. Hyatt and Mr. Durwin drew Julia aside five days later to tell her that a wedding date had been tentatively set for late summer, perhaps even September. One of Mr. Durwin’s sons, an engineer building a bridge in India, would not return to England until then.

A long time for people in their golden years to wait, but it was important to Mrs. Hyatt that all of the family on both sides be in attendance. That was one of the things Mr. Durwin had recently discovered about Mrs. Hyatt. And that her maiden name was Middleton.

Chapter 39

London
February 3, 1870

“A letter for you, Miss O’Shea,” said Anne, the under-parlormaid, from the doorway of the pantry.

“Thank you, Anne,” Fiona said, setting her inventory of kitchen supplies in an empty space on one of the shelves. When the girl was gone, she broke the red wax seal stamped with the familiar image of a spray of larkspur blossoms. The date penned at the top of the first page in Mrs. Hollis’s even script was January twenty-sixth, eight days ago. Fiona perched herself on the edge of an oaken flour barrel and read all three pages, drinking in every word. By the time she had returned to her inventory with the letter folded in her apron pocket, she could not stop smiling.

She didn’t mind being asked to critique another of Miss Rawlins’ books … she wouldn’t mind being asked to do anything in her present state of euphoria.
Mr. Clay … a believer!
How she had prayed for that to happen!

A knock sounded on the door. But before Fiona could say, “Come in, please,” it swung open and Mrs. Leighton charged through it, waving a piece of paper in front of her.

“This is the invoice from the butcher,” her mistress said in her usual thin voice, which grated upon the ears like a file across tin. “Why did you allow Cook to order ten pounds extra of beef last week?”

When her wits had returned to her, Fiona replied, “The dinner party last week, Mrs. Leighton. Remember?” She
hated
being barged in upon like this! It was as if her employer expected to catch her slipping chocolate up her sleeve or some other dishonest act as the last housekeeper to the Italinate-style estate on Kensington Road was reputed to have done. Having been in the employ of the Leightons for almost four months now, Fiona had come to learn that Mrs. Leighton either suspected that every servant under her roof was in the process of pilfering,
planning
to pilfer, or hiding away ill-gotten gains from having pilfered in the past. Her social acquaintances were hardly esteemed in a better light, for silverware and even table napkins were regularly counted as soon as the last dinner guests’ footsteps faded from the portico.