The Widow of Larkspur Inn (25 page)

“Then you
are
ill.”

After a hesitation, he replied, “I suffer from periods of overwhelming despondency, Mrs. Hollis. It has so affected my career that I’ve found it necessary to get away to a place where I can rest. When I came across your advertisement in
The London Times
, it seemed to be the answer.”

His expression was so bleak, his tone so hopeless, that Julia’s heart went out to him. “Have you considered …”

“A sanitarium?” A corner of Mr. Clay’s mouth quirked. “I spent several months in one some years ago in Bath. But I left there in far worse condition than when I was admitted. I do not wish to be in the company of other people who share the same affliction.”

His eyes appeared to be slate gray in the fading daylight, heavily fringed with dark lashes that a maiden would have given her last hair ribbon for. Right now, though, they appeared as opaque as marbles, as if shielding a hurting soul inside.

“I assure you I’ll not cause any trouble, or ask for any special privileges,” he went on, directing an entreating look at her. “I just need a place of respite where no decisions are required of me, and where I can be alone whenever I wish.”

Julia’s eyes swept around the dim room. While the bed had obviously been slept in, Mr. Clay had made a clumsy but thoughtful attempt to straighten the coverlet afterward. But was a dark room the atmosphere that someone like Mr. Clay needed? Was he to become a hermit in her home? What if he became suicidal?

Be honest with him,
Julia told herself.
If he moves in here, it’s going to be much harder to ask him to leave
. She sighed. “I confess that I don’t know what to make of this, Mr. Clay. A despondency of this magnitude—”

“It lightens dramatically at times, I assure you.”

That struck a suspicious cord with her. “You’re aware that this is a temperance establishment, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “That’s another reason I responded to your advertisement. I discovered years ago after almost wrecking my career that strong drink only made my condition worse. I would rather not have the temptation about.”

When Julia did not answer right away, he leaned forward slightly and said, “Won’t you allow me to stay, Mrs. Hollis? You can send me packing if you find my presence too disagreeable.”

The longing in his voice stirred compassion in Julia’s heart, and she thought again of the people who had allowed themselves to be used of God to bless her life. Was He now impressing upon her to help Mr. Clay? Surely it had been no accident that a well-traveled actor chose her unassuming establishment. If she only had a little more time to be sure before making a decision that would affect the whole household.
Perhaps we aren’t always allowed to be sure,
she thought. Again, wasn’t that where faith came in?

“Yes, you may stay here,” she finally answered, then gathered up the courage to add, “But under certain conditions, Mr. Clay.”

“Yes?”

She had already covered the matter of the children in their correspondence, so she had only to add to that. “I ask that you take meals downstairs with us. My servants have enough responsibilities without delivering trays to someone capable of walking down to the dining room.”

After just a brief hesitation, he said, “Reasonable enough, Mrs. Hollis.”

“
And
,” she continued in a firm but gentle voice, “that you vacate your room for half an hour every morning so that it can be cleaned. We’ve a comfortable sitting room on this floor, as well as a library downstairs where you can go for some solitude during that time.”

Mr. Clay nodded with apparent relief that her requests had been simple ones and turned to take something from the pocket of the frock coat hanging behind him. “My cheque,” he said, handing it over to her.

“But this is too much, Mr. Clay.”

“I find it rather overwhelming to keep up with accounts and the like, so I made it out for three months. Please remind me when that period is over, and I will draft you another.”

There seemed nothing more to discuss, so Julia thanked him and got to her feet. Mr. Clay rose as well, saying that he should freshen up for supper. Before Julia reached the door, however, he spoke to her again.

“Mrs. Hollis?”

She turned back to face him. “Yes, Mr. Clay?” His expression, from what she could tell at that distance, was apologetic.

“I am inclined toward self-obsession during times of despondency. But it has just come to my attention that you are in widow’s dress. I feel rather embarrassed. No doubt life is difficult for you at times as well.”

It touched Julia that he would consider her feelings when he seemed so defeated by his own dark emotions. She smiled consolingly at him. “I still have my children, Mr. Clay. And God has shown himself to be the most tender of companions.”

A slight nod was his only reply, so she turned and left him. When Mr. Clay came downstairs for supper he was quiet, but not unpleasantly so. He even lingered after the meal long enough to answer Aleda’s and Philip’s questions about the London stage before excusing himself and returning to his room.

“What is wrong with the poor boy?” Mrs. Kingston asked Julia later as they sat over needlework in the library while the children were occupied with other things.

Julia cocked her head at her. “Philip?”

“No, not Philip. That Mr. Clay upstairs.”

She had to smile. “He’s well into his thirties, Mrs. Kingston.”

With a shrug the older woman said, “Well, to a woman well into her sixties, Mrs. Hollis, people of that age seem as children.”

“He suffers from despondency,” Julia said after a moment’s thought. She certainly couldn’t keep Mr. Clay’s condition from the rest of the household.

“How sad.”

This utterance of sympathy surprised Julia, who halfway expected Mrs. Kingston to mutter something like Mr. Scrooge’s “humbug!”

Later, after she had prayed with her children, Julia found that her own private prayers were becoming longer. In a little over a week she’d added requests that Mrs. Kingston’s son and daughter-in-law forgive her, and now, that the quiet man in the room upstairs would find peace of mind.

Vicar Wilson’s last official duty in Gresham would be to give a short devotion at the school awards ceremony in the town hall on the evening of June first, a Tuesday. The children spent the last day of school helping to tidy the classrooms before the summer months. They were allowed a longer break in the school yard and found punch and biscuits waiting for them upon their return.

None of the boys dared assemble for cricket, nor did the girls for “drop the handkerchief ” after the dismissal bell, for mothers had warned that they were to stay clean for the assemblage tonight. After bidding his friends good-bye, Philip went straight to
Trumbles
.

“And what might I do for you today, Mr. Hollis?” the ever affable shopkeeper asked, hooking his thumbs under his suspenders.

From his trousers’ pocket Philip took the two shillings that Mother had given him this morning. “I’d like to buy some hair pomade.”

“Ah. Running errands for that new lodger, are you?”

He almost nodded, for even though the pomade had been his idea, he now felt a little embarrassed about it.
But you live in a lodging house … so you’re a lodger in a way,
said some less-than-honest voice in his mind. But he just couldn’t make himself act out the lie. Trying to assume as manly an expression as possible, he deepened his voice just a bit and said, “It’s for me, Mr. Trumble.”

Thankfully, Mr. Trumble did not appear to find this amusing. “Ah, awards ceremony tonight, isn’t it? You must be expecting to be called up, a bright fellow like you.”

Philip hung his head. “Thank you, sir. That would be nice, all right.”

“Well, I’ve just the thing for you, young Mr. Hollis.” The shopkeeper brought out a blue glass bottle from behind the counter. “
Pearce Brothers’ Fine Oil
,” he said.

“Is it any good?”

“Is it any good?” Mr. Trumble echoed incredulously. “Why, it’s the brand used by the most extinguished gentlemen in England.”

After dressing in his Sunday best and spending a good ten minutes combing a dab of pomade through his auburn hair, Philip practiced making expressions of surprise in the mirror above his chest of drawers.
Don’t overdo it,
he told himself. In a way, he wished Captain Powell didn’t have the habit of announcing the results of examinations and compositions in class, for no student at Gresham school, save possibly the infants in Miss Hillock’s class, would be fooled by any surprise he feigned. Yet if he appeared to be actually expecting one of the medals awarded to the students in the fifth standard, people would think him conceited.

He settled for a pleased-but-humble-looking smile and left his room to find his mother. She was in the hall, chatting with Mrs. Kingston—the two women looked like a pair of rooks in their black gowns, gloves, and bonnets, and Philip had the disloyal thought that he would be glad when Mother didn’t have to wear black anymore.

“Don’t you think it’s time we were leaving?” Philip asked his mother when a break occurred in Mrs. Kingston’s flow of words. Both women turned to look at him.

“It’s a bit early,” Mother replied.

“But we’ll want to sit up front, won’t we?”

“It’s always nicer when you can see what’s going on,” Mrs. Kingston remarked, and Philip gave her an appreciative smile.

After two weeks now, he was still not quite at ease in the elderly woman’s presence. Even though she had never been unkind, her tone of voice could still be sharp at times. It had surprised him greatly to learn that she was eager to attend the awards ceremony.

“All right, then,” Mother said to him. “Step into the kitchen and tell Miss O’Shea we’re ready, then you can fetch the girls.” So that Fiona would be respected as the housekeeper, his mother referred to her as “Miss O’Shea” whenever lodgers or other servants were present and had instructed Philip and his sisters to do the same.

“Thank you!” Philip threw over his shoulder on his way up the corridor. He delivered the message to Fiona in the kitchen and hurried back down to the family corridor. He was just about to knock on his sisters’ door when a strange sound met his ears. He thought it was Buff the cat at first, but then his heart jolted in his chest.
Grace?

Her sobs grew louder as he threw the door open. She was standing in front of the dressing table and mirror, her hands covering her face while Aleda looked on with a frown.

“What happened?” Philip asked Aleda.

“Just look at her hair,” she replied in a disgusted tone.

Philip heard panicked voices behind him and moved aside to allow Mother and Mrs. Kingston in the room. Then he studied the object of Aleda’s scorn more closely. Grace’s brown curls lay plastered against her scalp in an oily sheen, while the odor of pomade,
his
pomade, hung heavy about her.

“Grace?” Mother said, stepping over to her. “Whatever did you do?”

“She said she wanted to look nice for the ceremony,” Aleda replied, arms akimbo. “She went into Philip’s room just a minute ago and got into that bottle of oil he bought. She’s supposed to win the ‘Good Citizen’ award, but I don’t think Miss Hillock would give it to her if she could see how sneaky she’s been.”