The Widow of Larkspur Inn (74 page)

“I’m fourteen,” Philip reminded her, but she would not release the squire long enough from her steel gaze to correct herself.

“If you are any kind of gentleman,” she went on, “you will apologize to him this very minute!”

“Now see here—” the squire began indignantly, but she silenced him with a look, stepping so close to the carriage that their faces were only inches apart.

“I don’t know how someone like you manages to sleep at night. But I pity your miserable old soul.”

His face crimson, Squire Bartley opened and closed his mouth several times, like a trout on land. When he finally did speak, it was to mumble, “I beg your pardon.”

Philip could not have been more surprised had one of the horses turned its head to speak the same words.

But the apology did not satisfy Mrs. Kingston, for she snapped, “It’s the young man you’ve offended, not me.”

Philip held his breath as the squire looked at him again and cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon.”

“Yes, sir … thank you, sir,” Philip responded awkwardly, undecided now between excusing himself or waiting to see if Mrs. Kingston would lecture him further. He opted to stay, just in case he should miss something. It would be great fun repeating the whole scene to Ben and Jeremiah. But instead of lecturing, Mrs. Kingston looked up at the squire with an expression bordering on admiration.

“Why, that took some courage, Squire. I take back everything I said about you.”

“That’s quite all right,” the elderly man sighed. “It
was
wrong of me to scold the lad.”

“Well, now. Everyone has a bad day. I’ve been known to burn a few ears myself.”

The squire didn’t seem surprised at this. His bushy eyebrows raised. “Mrs….
Kingston
, is it?”

“Octavia Kingston. And I suppose you’ve another name besides squire?”

“Thurmond.” He shrugged a little self-consciously. “Passed down from my great-grandfather.”

“It’s a good strong name.”

“Why, thank you.” Squire Bartley looked out toward the
Larkspur
’s garden, then back at the Mrs. Kingston’s stalwart face. After some hesitation he said, “I wonder if I might …”

“You wish to see the rose bush, Squire?”

“Please, if I may. And then, perhaps you would care to tour the garden at the manor?”

Mrs. Kingston lifted the pruning shears still in her hand and seemed to consider them thoughtfully. “I’ve still quite a bit to do.” Then a mischievous glint came into her blue eyes. “But I’ve a whole year, haven’t I?”

Chapter 45

“I tell you, Mrs. Hollis, it just ain’t fair,” Mr. Trumble said to Julia while gathering merchandise to fill her order on the last day of June. “Those archaeology fellows bein’ allowed to dig up the ground up there. Why, my marble collection will be worthless!”

“Perhaps Mr. Ellis and Mr. Pitney would be interested in seeing them,” Julia suggested. “Most of what they find will be displayed in the British Museum.”

“Yes?” After considering that for a second or two, the shopkeeper smiled behind his long mustache. “I wouldn’t even mind given’ them to ’em if they would agree to put my name on a little card. Then my family could go and look at it sometimes. For posterior, you know.”

Posterity,
Julia corrected silently. “I don’t know why they should mind putting your name on a card, Mr. Trumble. I’ve seen donor cards in the museum.”

The bell to the door tingled, and Philip, Jeremiah, and Ben walked through it. “Oh, hello, Mother,” Philip said. “Hello, Mr. Trumble.” His two companions gave greetings, as well.

“Hello, boys,” Julia returned. “Did you catch any fish?”

“We haven’t gone yet, Mrs. Hollis,” Ben replied. “We’ve been playing marbles.”

“We decided to save the fishing for after lunch,” Philip added.

“Ah … fishing,” Mr. Trumble said dreamily. He leaned his elbows on the counter. “You’d best not say that too loud. I can just see all the bream and perch in the Bryce quacking with fear.”

Julia dared not meet Philip’s eyes, for she was having difficulty restraining her own smile over the idea of fish carrying on like ducks. Deciding a change of subject was in order, she said to the boys, “Mr. Trumble was just considering donating his collection of marbles to the British Museum.”

“You mean you aren’t going to sell them?” Jeremiah asked, voicing the surprise written across all three young faces.

“Not if they’ll allow my name on a card.”

“Speaking of marbles …” Philip dug something from his trousers’ pocket. Opening his palm, he proudly displayed a large marble, called a
taw,
of polished white agate. “I won it off Nate Casper today.”

Julia felt a sudden increase in the temperature inside the shop as a lump as big as the marble centered itself in her chest. “You …
won
it?”

“Why, yes, Mother.” He seemed not to notice anything amiss in her expression. “It took some doing. Nate’s about the best, even if he’s only in fourth standard.”

There was a chorus of agreement from Ben and Jeremiah, and words of congratulations from Mr. Trumble, but Julia paid them no mind. Watching her son standing there holding out a marble, she imagined a taller, older figure holding out a note-of-hand. And that was when the horror on her face must have shown, for the boys and Mr. Trumble became suddenly quiet.

“Mother?” Philip said, his blue eyes uncertain.

She forced calm into a voice that was on the verge of screeching like a fishwife. “I’m so disappointed in you, Philip. You will return it to Nate Casper today. And I never want to hear of your gambling again. Ever.”

He blinked at her.
“Gambling?”

“You did not buy that marble, and the boy didn’t give it to you of his own free will.”

“But everyone does it. And he could have won one from me just as—”

“Right away, Philip!” she cut in, then turned on her heel and left them gaping behind her.
I embarrassed him,
she thought as she walked home, but that was the least of her worries.
Maybe this was how his
father got started. Marbles one day, money the next!

As she neared the
Larkspur,
pulse still pounding in her throat, she was faced with two dilemmas. Mrs. Kingston was in the front garden, as usual. And at the back, there were the Worthy sisters to consider. Her heart sank. As dear as all three women were to her, she was in no mood to carry on polite conversation.

And yet she felt a great need to talk over what had just happened with someone who would listen and could help her see what she should do next.
Oh, Father … if only Fiona were here,
she prayed silently. But it was not Fiona’s face that came into her mind next.

Julia paused at the crossroads and looked off to the east, down Church Lane.
I’ve practically ignored him lately. How can I go crying
on his shoulder now?
But she could think of no other person in Gresham who could provide the comfort she so desperately needed at the moment.

She was barely able to keep her voice from shaking as she greeted the Burrell children coming from the opposite direction, the two oldest carrying little Molly and David on their shoulders.
Will some of them
turn out like their father?
she wondered sadly.
Is weakness of character
an inherited trait? And has Philip passed down the same to his son?

Dora answered the vicarage door. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but the vicar ain’t back just yet. Would you care to come inside?”

“Yes … no.” Julia blew out a long breath. “I’m sorry, Dora. May I wait in the garden?”

“Why, of course, Mrs. Hollis.”

She had just settled herself in one of the wicker chairs when Elizabeth came rushing out of the house. “Mrs. Hollis, what’s wrong?”

The concern in her young face was almost enough to cause Julia to lose the rest of her composure. Still, she managed a weak smile. “I just need to speak with your father.”

“Certainly. But I don’t think you want to sit out here alone.” Before Julia could protest, Elizabeth seated herself in another chair. Thankfully, she seemed to understand that Julia was in no mood for small talk. Laurel stuck her head out of the door just long enough to receive a shake of the head from her sister. Dora brought tea soon after that and then left them alone.

Presently the gate squeaked and there was the vicar. The tea and Elizabeth’s company had calmed Julia down enough to exchange greetings. If he was surprised to see her, he didn’t show it, but his brow furrowed thoughtfully when his daughter excused herself right away and went into the house.

“Mrs. Hollis?” His hazel eyes studied her face as he took her hand. “I gather this isn’t a social call.”

Julia shook her head. “I’m in need of some counsel, Vicar. Have you time?”

“But of course. Why don’t we go to my study?”

She looked around and saw Luke Smith unharnessing the trap from the horse, Mr. Sykes picking up fallen limbs in the churchyard, and to the north, Mr. Durwin and Mrs. Hyatt ambling along the riverbank. Sitting out in a front garden was an open invitation for interruptions, and besides, she didn’t think she could speak of the things that were burdening her in so public a place. “Yes, please.”

The study Vicar Phelps led her to seemed to fit his personality exactly, from the shelves filled with books to the rowing paddle attached to a wall. He took the chair from behind his desk and put it near the one in which she was seated. “Now,” he said, giving her a reassuring smile as he took his seat. “Why don’t you tell me how I can help you?”

She sighed. “It’s Philip. He won a marble during a match with another boy, and it appears that this wasn’t the first time.”

“Yes?” The vicar nodded thoughtfully. “Did you speak with him about it?”

The scene at
Trumbles
restaged itself in her mind. “I’m afraid I humiliated him in front of his friends. But I was so frightened and angry that I just didn’t think. And I ordered him to return the marble—I suppose he’s done that by now.”

“I’m sure he has. He’s a fine lad, you know.”

“Yes, he is,” Julia agreed, grateful to him for reminding her. “And so protective of his sisters and me. I accused him of gambling, but now that I’ve had time to think about it, I doubt if he realized that’s what he was doing.”

“That’s very likely the case. You know, I played marbles for keeps when I was his age as well.”

“You did? You mean, you don’t believe it’s wrong?”

Now a smile curved under his hazel eyes. “Ministers are accused of believing everything is sinful. Everything enjoyable, that is. But actually, I don’t approve of it, because it’s still a simple form of gambling. And if a child becomes accustomed to winning something for nothing, it could lead to gambling with money when he’s older.”

Now the tears that Julia had held in rein for the past hour clouded her eyes, causing Vicar Phelps to get to his feet and begin a panicked search through his pockets for a handkerchief. He finally located one in his coat. “Now, now,” he said, awkwardly patting her shoulder as he stood beside her. “It seems to me that if you’ll just apologize for embarrassing him in front of his friends, and tell him not to play for keeps anymore—”

“Oh, Vicar,” she sniffed into the handkerchief. “There’s so much more to it than that!”

“There is?” He allowed her to weep for several minutes, still patting her shoulder. When she had finally regained her composure, she wiped her eyes again and looked up at him.

“I’m all right now.”

“Are you quite sure?” He nodded toward the door. “Shall I get another handkerchief?”

“No, thank you.”

“Would you care to tell me the rest, Mrs. Hollis?” he asked gently, taking his chair again.

Julia needed no further prompting. She had admitted her husband’s underhanded behavior to only one other person, Fiona, over a year ago. But as she poured out her heart to the vicar, the humiliation of having to reveal this dark family secret gave way to relief, the relief of allowing someone who obviously cared about her to help shoulder the burden. When she was finished, Vicar Phelps immediately nodded understanding.

“You’re afraid Philip will follow in his father’s footsteps?”

She closed her eyes. “Yes.”

There was a long silence, and when Julia opened her eyes again he was studying the fingers he had steepled over his crossed knee. She appreciated that he had not jumped in with an answer right away. When he raised his eyes and saw that she was looking at him, he smiled. “He passed away when my husband was an infant. But no, from what his uncle George said from time to time, Mr. Hollis was a decent man.” “Tell me … was your late husband’s father a gambler, Mrs. Hollis?”

“What about his grandfather?”

“No.”

“I see.” He was quiet again for several seconds. “And are your children aware that their father gambled?”

“Not at all.
I
wasn’t even aware of it until three weeks after his death.”

Vicar Phelps leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m not a prophet, Mrs. Hollis. But I don’t believe you have to worry about Philip. He strikes me as having a strong conscience.”