The Widow of Larkspur Inn (35 page)

While he realized he couldn’t uproot their lives to protect his daughters from every hurt, the memory of how casually Jonathan Raleigh had saluted him was a burr under Andrew’s saddle. No man, knowing the hurt that his actions would bring, had the right to treat his daughter in such a spurious manner.

And what infidelities would he commit later, perhaps when they were married with a family?
He would destroy her
.

“Father, what’s wrong?”

Andrew relaxed the hands he had inadvertently balled into fists and blinked at Laurel. “Wrong?”

“You’ve that same look you had when Mrs. Keswick’s poodle had an accident on our carpet,” the girl said.

“The
second
time, you mean,” he corrected, easing into a smile. “I was a bit more understanding the first time.”

“Well, I hope she finds some other eligible widower to chase now that you’re gone.”

“I’ll have to remember to say a prayer for that man,” Andrew said with a grimace. “And especially for his household furnishings.”

In the silence that settled over them once again, Andrew slipped back into his thoughts about the letter. Fortunately, he’d already asked Bishop Myers, an old friend and mentor, to find him a position somewhere away from Cambridge. And blessedly, a dairying village by the name of Gresham was in need of a vicar—its longtime former pastor had been assigned to a drier climate for health reasons. Andrew had gladly accepted the position on the day it was offered.

The first thing that caught Andrew’s eye from his window was a red sandstone church tower, rising above rooftops in the distance.
A good omen,
he thought. “This has to be Gresham, all right.” Anxious for a view from both sides of the coach, he slid over to the seat on his left to get a glimpse of their new home. Hedgerows, bordered by white clover, encircled lush pastures, where fat black-and-white cows ambled leisurely along the grass. To the west rose a steep wooded hill of some five hundred feet, its summit set ablaze by the setting deep orange sun.

“Look, Father, you can see footpaths,” Laurel said, settling back in her seat so that he could see more clearly. “Perhaps we can go hiking soon.”

“As soon as possible, Pet.” Andrew looked at Elizabeth, hoping for some sign of interest in their surroundings. He was distressed to see her staring down at her hands, both cheeks wet with tears. “Beth …?”

She raised glistening brown eyes to his and whispered, “Yes, Papa?”

Gently, he asked, “Can you understand why we’re doing this?”

“I understand.”

“You were miserable in Cambridge after …” He could not speak the name of Jonathan Raleigh, but he knew that she would understand his meaning.

“Yes,” she sighed, her bottom lip trembling. “But the misery is inside of me, so taking me away from Cambridge isn’t going to make it go away.”

“No, of course not.” Reaching across for one of her hands, he held it between both of his. “But it’s going to help, with time. I give you my word on that.”

He had to believe that. The only damper on Andrew’s optimism was that he had not taken the time to seek God’s will about the transfer.
Here I am, a minister, not practicing what I preach.
He could only pray that God understood. And as long as God allowed him to stay here, he would serve the people of Gresham to the best of his ability.

The setting sun was just dropping behind the Anwyl while Julia Hollis gathered sprigs of mint in the kitchen garden. Red light was thrown over the village and seemed to bathe everything with a beautiful rosy glow. She was savoring the aroma of white jasmine that wafted over from the Worthy sisters’ garden—the flower retained its fragrance until October, Jewel had informed her—and humming to herself
Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing
when her ears caught what had become a rare sound in Gresham.
Coach’s wheels,
she thought. Straightening, she took a couple of steps down the carriage drive toward Market Lane. Sure enough, four horses were coming up the lane, drawing a black coach. She could see well enough in the evening twilight to note the absence of a family crest upon the door.
A hired one—must be the new vicar
.

In spite of the reasonable attitude she’d encouraged within herself since Vicar Wilson left, she now found herself fighting back a decidedly unreasonable tinge of resentment. It wasn’t the new vicar’s fault that Reverend Wilson had been transferred.

In the fleeting second before the vehicle turned onto Church Street, she imagined she could see a couple of faces at the window peering at her from the interior. She lifted a hand to wave, just in case her imagination was not playing tricks on her. When the carriage could no longer be seen, she picked three more sprigs of mint and went back around to the courtyard door. “Here’s some garnish for the quince pudding,” she told Mrs. Herrick on her way over to the scullery to rinse the leaves.

“Thank you, missus,” Mrs. Herrick nodded from the step stool she was standing upon at the worktable. “But I could ha’ asked Karl to fetch it.”

“No need to do that.” Julia brought the mint leaves over to the table, where Mrs. Herrick carefully ladled
Northseas Crimped Cod and Oyster Sauce
from a copper pot into a serving platter. “Besides, I believe he’s fixing up a box in the lamp room for the kittens.”

That brought a smile to the cook’s face. “I’ll warrant he’s got someone helpin’ him too,” she replied, scraping the pot for the last of the sauce.

Julia had to admit she was right. Grace had scarcely left the kittens’ side since they were discovered yesterday morning.

Mildred came from the dining room wearing her usual anxious expression. “I wonder if Mrs. Hyatt is feeling poorly today?” she said to Julia on her way to the worktable.

“Why do you think that?”

“She usually comes down to help me lay out napkins and silver, but I haven’t seen her all evening.”

“That’s odd, all right.” No one would have dreamed of asking a lodger to help set the table, but Mrs. Hyatt had generously insisted upon doing so since her second day at the
Larkspur
. The elderly woman enjoyed being in the dining room early enough to greet the others as they arrived for meals and had no qualms about being seen performing servants’ work. “Would you like me to help you set the table?” Julia offered.

“Thank you, ma’am, but it’s already done.” Mildred began sticking mint sprigs into the individual dishes of quince pudding. “It’s just that I’m a bit worried about Mrs. Hyatt.”

“Well, everyone loses track of time now and then,” Julia told her, using two folded dish towels to pick up a tureen of mulligatawny soup. “I’ll take this on to the dining room. And don’t worry about Mrs. Hyatt. She’ll most likely be down with the others.”

The others consisted of the lodgers, as well as Philip, Aleda, and Grace. The adults actually seemed to enjoy her children’s company at the long table, very likely because Julia did her part in insisting that the children keep silent during meals unless spoken to. As a child, she had gleaned much information about the world by listening to the conversations of adults and felt it would also be good for her own children.

At five minutes of seven, the dining room began filling. At five minutes past, Mrs. Hyatt still had not presented herself.

“Perhaps I should run upstairs and knock on her door?” Mr. Durwin offered.

Julia eyed the side tables, groaning with dishes of chicken-and-leek pie, boiled beef and carrots, pickled onions, swedes, tomatoes, and Yorkshire pudding. Mildred, her cheeks glowing from the heat of the kitchen, waited to dish up bowls of mulligatawny soup at the sideboard.

Meals were served
à la Russe
, with each person responsible for filling his or her own plate. It was likely that she could be downstairs with Mrs. Hyatt before the chairs were filled. “Thank you, but I’ll go. Mr. Durwin, if you would be so kind as to ask the blessing….”

“We shan’t mind waiting,” spoke up Miss Rawlins.

Mr. Clay echoed her sentiments. “We don’t mind at all.”

“I’ll try to hurry, then,” Julia said gratefully. Three minutes later, she stepped from the first floor landing and stopped at the second door to her left. “Mrs. Hyatt?” she called, giving a gentle rap on the oak wood.

There was no answer, though she imagined she heard a footstep. Julia was lifting her hand to knock again when the knob gave a faint creak. She took a step back as the door edged open wide enough to reveal a serious gray eye.

“Is that you, Mrs. Hollis?” came a voice barely above a whisper.

Puzzled, Julia nodded and whispered back. “Everyone is in the dining room now.”

“Oh, dear. Would you mind sending up a tray?”

“A tray, Mrs. Hyatt?”

“Yes.” The eye blinked. “I’m afraid I’m rather stiff from the hike today.”

Narrowing her eyes suspiciously, Julia peered down at the fragment of face before her. “You’ve been up and down the Anwyl dozens of times, Mrs. Hyatt.”

There was a pause, and then, “I suppose my age is catching up with me.” The door opened another inch, exposing half of an apologetic smile. “Actually, I’ve a huge apple on my dresser that will make a lovely supper. Do run on down and join the others, dear.”

Julia couldn’t fathom what was going on, but not for a moment did she believe that Mrs. Hyatt was feeling her age. Why, two months ago, the spry woman had turned her ankle against a loose stone on one of the footpaths that crisscrossed the Anwyl. Regardless of the pain, she’d still limped up and down the stairs afterward, in direct disobedience to Dr. Rhodes’ orders, and against the admonitions of practically everyone in the house.

The need for a bit of solitude was something that Julia could understand, what with so many people living under one roof. But Mrs. Hyatt, bashful as she was, seemed to thrive upon the company of others. Remembering the appetites downstairs that were presently being held in rein by good manners, Julia leaned closer to the door. “May I come in, Mrs. Hyatt?”

The eye blinked three times in rapid succession. “Come in? But the others …”

“ … are only too glad to wait for you,” Julia finished, applying firm pressure to the door with the tips of her fingers. “May I?”

She could hear a sigh from the other side as Mrs. Hyatt stepped back to allow her entrance. When they were face-to-face, the petite woman looked up at her with the expression of a young schoolchild who was about to be scolded for not completing an assignment. A slight tremor had even taken hold of her lips. Assuming her most non-threatening smile, Julia said, “If you truly wish to be alone, I understand. But I shan’t enjoy my meal for worrying about you.”

“I’m simply tired,” Mrs. Hyatt replied, but her doe eyes lowered to focus somewhere in the vicinity of Julia’s chin. “You needn’t worry.”

“Are you sure that’s all?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ll send up a tray, then. An apple won’t hold you until morning.” Julia was about to turn and leave when a face flashed across her mind—one that wore a decided frown.
Could it be …
She reached out a hand to touch Mrs. Hyatt’s shoulder. “Has Mrs. Kingston said something to you?”

Footsteps sounded in the hall. Julia turned to find Georgette framed by the doorway, her spectacles magnifying the confusion in her eyes. “Mrs. Hollis?”

“Please ask the others to go ahead with their supper,” Julia told the girl. When they were alone again, she turned back to Mrs. Hyatt and lowered her voice. “Has Mrs. Kingston hurt your feelings?”

“Perhaps it wasn’t intentional,” Mrs. Hyatt murmured with typical charity.

Oh, I doubt that,
Julia thought, tightening her lips to keep the words from escaping from them.

Before Julia could advise her that the best way to handle the occasional nips from Mrs. Kingston’s tongue was to ignore them, Mrs. Hyatt looked up at her and blurted out, “Do
you
think I’m throwing myself at Mr. Durwin and making a spectacle of myself?”

“She told you
that
?”

Mrs. Hyatt’s soft cheeks turned pink. “She didn’t refer directly to me … but after our hike she said, ‘Isn’t it ridiculous the way
some
old heifers are so afraid to be alone that they follow any available man around.’”

Julia felt her own cheeks grow warm. “And so that’s why you won’t come down for supper.”