The Widow of Larkspur Inn (69 page)

“Ouch! Mrs. Kingston! Have some pity!” Ambrose exclaimed from his chair as the bandage was pulled from his wound.

“Now, now, Mr. Clay,” she clucked, leaning over him with Mrs. Beemish at her side. “Just a little dried blood sticking to it. Mrs. Rhodes gave implicit instructions that the bandage was to be changed before you retire for the night.”

“But it’s
hours
before bedtime.”

“Not before
mine
. With all the excitement I neglected my afternoon nap today. If you expect me to stay up and greet the sun as is your custom—”

“Greet the sun, Mrs. Kingston?” He flinched away from the wet flannel she’d pressed against his skin. “Ouch! What is that!”

“Just a little soap and water. I must say, Mr. Clay, you’re being rather childish about this.” She exchanged a knowing look with the woman at her elbow. “I daresay there wouldn’t be a dozen people left on earth if men bore the children, eh, Mrs. Beemish?”

The housekeeper covered a grin with her hand, and before Ambrose could respond to the insults regarding his maturity and tolerance for pain, a knock sounded at the door. Mrs. Beemish walked over to allow Mrs. Hollis into the room.

“You’re just in time to rescue me, Mrs. Hollis,” Ambrose told her.

“She must have heard your bloodcurdling screams,” Mrs. Kingston muttered while winding a fresh bandage around his head.

Mrs. Hollis smiled at the exchange but seemed preoccupied in her manner. “I’m sure Mrs. Kingston is a capable nurse.” When the task was finished, she said to the two women, “May I speak with Mr. Clay privately?”

Julia walked Mrs. Kingston and the housekeeper to the door, then turned back to face him. Mr. Clay stared back at her with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety in his expression.

“What is wrong, Mrs. Hollis?” the actor asked. His eyes dropped to the envelope in her hand. “This isn’t about Fiona … Miss O’Shea …?”

“She’s quite all right, Mr. Clay. May I sit?”

He got to his feet and motioned to the second chair. “Please.”

When they had both settled into chairs—Julia sitting back in hers, and Mr. Clay leaning forward—she took in a deep breath and wondered if the interfering she planned to do would come back to haunt her one day.
But it’s too late to back out now.
“Mr. Clay, I’ve a letter from Fiona’s sister in Ireland.”

It seemed that he raised his eyebrows, for the bandage moved up a bit. “Her sister?”

“Her name is Breanna.” Julia stretched out her arm to hand over the envelope. “Here, see for yourself. It arrived in Gresham about six months ago, but Philip misplaced it.”

She thought about the tears that had come to her son’s eyes as he made his confession. It had been a long time since she’d seen him cry. And though she’d had to scold him—not as much for the thoughtless misplacement of the letter as for the plan he had almost carried out to conceal his mistake—she now felt pride in him for having had the courage to approach her with the truth. The fact that he could be so torn up over his own near deception gave her great hope that he would not follow in his father’s footsteps.

There was a rustling of paper as Mr. Clay opened up the page. When he’d finished reading the two lines, he looked up at her again. “Does this mean that Miss O’Shea has no idea that her husband is dead?”

“I believe that to be so. Breanna only writes about once a year. I plan to send this on to Fiona tomorrow with a letter asking her to return to us. I wonder if there is any message you would care to enclose?”

Mr. Clay appeared startled at her question. “Me? But I should think she would be too distraught about her husband—”

“There is something else you should know.”

“Please … tell me.”

Don’t hate me for this, Fiona.
“Her husband mistreated her, Mr. Clay. She did not love him. She ran away from him and came to England several years ago, yet she was too good a person to betray her marriage vows.”

“He mistreated her?” Mr. Clay looked stricken, and a hand moved to his chest as if propelled by its own will. “But why?”

“Because some people are just content to be evil, Mr. Clay. I know I should be saddened over the loss of a life, but I must confess to a great relief for my dear friend’s sake.”

He stared absently into space for several seconds, until Julia said, “Mr. Clay?”

“Forgive me. I was just—” The actor stopped himself. “Mrs. Hollis, is it possible that I could hire Mr. Herrick to deliver me to Shrewsbury early in the morning?”

“To Shrews—?” Realization hit her then, and it was now Julia’s hand that went to her heart. “Mr. Clay.”

“Yes?”

“You
aren’t
planning to go to London.”

“I am indeed, Mrs. Hollis.” He sprang from his chair and moved toward his wardrobe, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s see … a valise should be enough. One extra set of clothes, my toiletries, and I can purchase other clothing if necessary.”

“But—”

“One thing you can say for London, Mrs. Hollis. There are more than enough places where one can buy clothes.”

“Please, Mr. Clay. You’re acting …”

He stopped in the center of the floor and turned to her with a sad smile. “Irrational? Crazy?” Coming back over to her chair, he got down on one knee and took Julia’s hand. “And you’re afraid that when my present euphoria is dispelled by another dark mood—which will indeed happen—I’ll regret any impulsive action I’ve undertaken.”

“You have to consider that, Mr. Clay. Why don’t you write to her first? Give this a little time. Perhaps she’ll even give her notice in London and come back here.”

Mr. Clay’s slate gray eyes grew tender. “Because I have loved Fiona O’Shea for months, Mrs. Hollis, during dark times and good times. And I believe she feels the same for me.”

Chapter 42

London
March 16, 1870

“But if you were to
speak
to Mrs. Bryant, ma’am,” Fiona said, following Mrs. Leighton down the staircase of the Kensington Road house the next afternoon.

“About what, may I ask?” her mistress replied. The click of heels upon marble did not slacken.

“Perhaps she would withdraw her notice if you’d only—”

At the bottom of the staircase, Mrs. Leighton turned around to flash a patronizing smile. “Beg her forgiveness? After she insulted me the way she did?”

Anger, an emotion she usually managed to keep in check, rose in Fiona’s chest. Why was it that some people assumed it beneath them to grant common courtesy to those of lower stations in life? After the silver meat platter the cook was accused of stealing was discovered to have slipped behind a cupboard shelf, one would think an apology would be of paramount importance. “Mrs. Leighton,” she said, keeping her voice as steady as possible, “she was accused wrongly.”

“Well, that’s no excuse to raise one’s voice to one’s betters.” Mrs. Leighton turned and continued on toward the front door, straightening a glove on the way. “Besides, I’m rather weary of her habit of overcooking every dish. Send Charles to the agency with a note saying we would like to schedule some interviews for a new cook. Monday morning would be fine. And have Nellie tighten the button to this glove when I return. It’ll keep for now, but you know what they say about a stitch in time.”

An hour later, Fiona was in the dining room polishing the rosewood Windsor chairs. It was a tedious chore, and one she could have easily assigned to one of the maids, but she needed the physical activity to keep herself from brooding. As she worked, she smiled a little at the memory of having dispensed advice to Mr. Clay regarding the very same thing. What had he replied?
Do you think Mrs. Hyatt would teach me to do needlework?

“Miss O’Shea?”

Fiona looked up from the seat of the chair she’d just polished to the maid standing near the foot of the table. She had been so deep in thought that she hadn’t heard anyone coming through the door. “Yes, Sarah?”

“You’ve a visitor in the drawing room, a gentleman. Shall I finish dusting?”

“He must be from the domestic agency. That was fast.”
But I suppose they’re used to the routine by now
, she thought wryly. In reply to the maid’s offer, she said, “Yes, thank you. I’ve done all but four.”

The caller was standing at the fireplace and turned when Fiona came through the doorway. Her heart quickened at the sight of the familiar face, and her breath caught when she saw the bandage on his head. “Mr. Clay?” she said, barely daring to breathe.

“Miss O’Shea,” he replied, his expression incomprehensible as he came across the room to her. For a second she feared he would attempt to embrace her—and that she would yield to his embrace—but thankfully he took her hand instead.

She could not take her eyes from the bandage. “You’re hurt.”

“A minor wound,” he said reassuringly. Releasing her hand, he went over to the door and closed it. He came back to her and took her by the elbow. “Would you mind sitting down, Miss O’Shea?”

The solicitous way he was looking at her—as if she were fragile and might break at any moment—alarmed Fiona. She put a hand up to her chest. “Mrs. Hollis and the children …”

“Are fine.” He motioned toward the nearest chair. “Please.”

After she had allowed Mr. Clay to assist her in taking a seat, Fiona watched with a growing sense of foreboding as he got down on one knee beside the chair’s arm.
If not the Hollises, then who?

“I’ve a letter here from your sister.” He took an envelope from his waistcoat pocket and held it. Regarding her somberly, he said, “I have to tell you that your husband died more than six months ago, Miss O’Shea.”

When her breath came again, Fiona held out a shaking hand for the letter. “Please.” She read her sister’s brief message three times, then dropped the hand bearing the page to her lap and closed her eyes. Even after eight years she could easily picture his face in her mind—brutal and remorseless and, unless some miracle had occurred, still shaking his fist at God until the very moment of his death.

May God have mercy on his soul
, she half prayed, echoing her sister’s words, yet all the while knowing that it was too late to make that plea once a body has yielded up its spirit.

“The letter was in Philip’s possession for all this time,” Mr. Clay said softly.

Fiona opened her eyes again. He was staring at her with such solicitude in his gray eyes that the love she’d tried so hard to suppress came to the surface again. Which still brought tremendous guilt, for what sort of woman thinks of love for another man when holding such news in her hand?

“He’d forgotten that he had it. Are you going to be all right?”

“Aye, Mr. Clay,” she whispered, collecting herself. “I just wish it could have been different.”

“I know. But he chose his path, and you had nothing to do with that.
And
, I suspect, you could not have influenced him to change direction, even as good a person as you are.”

“Thank you for saying that, sir.”

“Fiona, may I come back tomorrow?” he asked abruptly.

It suddenly dawned upon her that “Fiona” had replaced the “Miss O’Shea” in his speech. Why was he here, she wondered, when the news could have been wired? Brought back sharply into her present situation, she sent an anxious glance toward the door. “I’ve already had my day off this week, Mr. Clay. And we aren’t allowed callers. If Mrs. Leighton knew about your being here now—”

He caught up her hand and held it to his cheek. “Oh, Fiona,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “It grieves me to hear of anyone demeaning you so. I wanted to give you a day to absorb the news of your late husband … but would you think me terribly insensitive if I asked you to marry me now?”

“Marry you?” He could have spoken Greek, and her mind would have been just as muddled. “Mr. Clay, this is so—”

“Sudden?” He kissed the hand he held. “You’ve known how I’ve felt about you since the night you made me that awful hot chocolate. And please stop calling me Mr. Clay.”

You’re free now
, Fiona realized, understanding fully the change that Breanna’s letter had brought about. Custom dictated that at least a year should pass before she allow another man to say such endearing words to her, but in her mind the marriage had died a decade ago.
And I’ve already mourned
.

And she did know that Mr. Clay—
Ambrose
—loved her, but he was wrong about her being aware of his feelings the whole time. But what did that matter? Fiona found herself unable to contain a smile and reached out to touch his bandaged forehead. “Oh, Ambrose!”

She was lifted to her feet and into his arms. His kisses were as gentle as she had somehow known they would be, but after she had submitted and even returned what surely must have amounted to a score of them, she pushed him away slightly. “I must ask you …”

“Yes?”

She forced her voice to become serious now, in spite of the fact that he was smiling down at her as if he would kiss her again. “You told me once that you didn’t feel you should father children.”

After a second his face went pale. “Oh, Fiona. I didn’t even think.”

Aware of the reason for the fear in his expression, she shook her head. “I just want to be sure you haven’t changed your mind. I’m unable to have children.”