The Widow of Larkspur Inn (12 page)

“Thank you,” Julia said, then introduced herself and Fiona to her visitor. “Neither of us has had any experience in the kitchen.”

“Is that so? Cups are in the tall cupboard in the scullery, love. Cutlery in the second drawer. And there’s a set of good Wedgewood in the dining room dresser. Blue Onion pattern it is … one of my favorites.”

Julia’s eyebrows raised. “Why, you’ve cooked here before.”

“Aye, for twenty some odd years,” the woman said, wiping her small hands upon her apron. “Started out in the scullery when I was fourteen.” She motioned toward a dusty step stool beside one of the cupboards and winked. “Worked my way up … in more ways than one. Don’t mean to sound prideful, but ask anyone about town—they’ll tell you Audrey Herrick is the best cook in Gresham. Mr. Pool at the
Bow and Fiddle
is always asking me to work for him, but his missus has a proper temper and a habit of running off servants, so I don’t want to put meself into that situation.”

Soon the water was hot and the three sat at the worktable with steaming cups of tea. Audrey Herrick removed her straw bonnet and hung it on the corner of a neighboring chair. Her ginger hair was streaked with gray and drawn up in a topknot, but her lively brown eyes sparkled and laugh lines flanked the corners of her mouth. Julia asked if she was employed at present.

“We work for Squire Bartley up at the manor house, me and my Karl.”

Julia had heard about the squire yesterday from Dora when they were busy scrubbing walls. Squire Bartley, from the manor house on the southeast side of Gresham, was founder and owner of
Anwyl Mountain Savory Cheeses
. “He keeps to himself as much as possible,” the vicar’s maid had told her tactfully.

“Karl is caretaker there. It’s a decent living for both of us.” Mrs. Herrick’s voice sobered. “But truth be known, we were both happier here. And after growing up in the circus the way he did … well, this was the first real home he ever had.”

Julia suspected that it was Karl Herrick who had strewn the meadowsweet in each room. When she asked Mrs. Herrick if it were so, the woman nodded. “He kept his old set of keys, figgering someone would come and ask for them one day. Karl didn’t want pests ruining Mr. Banning’s things, so he brought around a couple of bushel baskets every summer. He would’ve liked to have kept up the grounds if the squire didn’t keep him so busy.”

“That was terribly kind of him,” Julia said. “Please do ask him to come visit some time so we can thank him.”

“Oh, he didn’t mind none.” Mrs. Herrick dabbed at a tear. “Mr. Banning was a tender old soul, and it was Karl’s way of remembering him.”

Looking close to tears herself, Fiona asked, “And how does Squire Bartley treat you?”

The woman shrugged her shoulders. “The squire is a grouchy old blister, but at least he stays out of my kitchen. I suppose he can’t help being a bear—he suffers from dyspepsia, and all his stomach can abide is gruel or porridge. A little broth and bread now and then if he’s feelin’ adventurous, but that’s the limit. There ain’t much joy in cooking miserable fare such as that.”

“Why, then, did he hire the most skilled cook in Shropshire?” Julia asked the cook. “I would imagine any kitchen maid could conjure up such simple meals.”

“Oh, Squire has to have the best of everything, Mrs. Hollis. You should see his flower garden … which you likely won’t because he hardly ever entertains. He doesn’t trust the gardeners, so he spends most of his days there himself, digging and pruning with his hopes set on ribbons at the flower shows.”

“Surely he allows you to cook proper meals for his servants,” Fiona said. “He can’t expect everyone else to live upon gruel and broth.”

“Coo! Depends upon your definition of the word ‘proper.’ The master reckons that since he can’t stomach tasty meals, he’ll not be footing the bill for his servants to live all high and mighty. And since he gets his cheeses for naught, he insists that I cook up as many cheese dishes as possible.” Mrs. Herrick pointed a teaspoon in the air. “Scrambled eggs with cheese, cheese sandwiches, potato soup with cheese—how many rarebits do you think a body can take before it starts to sicken at the sight and smell of them?”

Sighing, Julia poured herself another cup of tea. “I would love to hire you, Mrs. Herrick. Fiona and I have so much work to do on the house that we can’t be learning to cook at the same time. And the truth of the matter is that we’re turning this into a lodging house. But as I’ve no idea how many people will respond to my advertisements, I can’t ask you to leave a secure position for one with an uncertain future.”

Even as she spoke those words, Julia felt guilty for them.
Where is your faith?
she asked herself.
Has God abandoned you yet?
But she could not ask someone else to take that leap, not when Jensen and Fiona had already done so. The pressure of being responsible for yet another person’s investment of time or money would be too great to bear.

To her relief, Mrs. Herrick nodded understanding. “Well, I do appreciate your frankness, Mrs. Hollis,” she said, pushing out her chair. “With a son at university, I can’t go taking chances. But if you don’t have a cook by the time you’ve taken on lodgers, please keep me in mind. And Karl, too, if you’ve a need for a caretaker.”

She left then, with Fiona accompanying her down the lane as far as the bakery. Julia woke the children and helped them dress, so they would be ready for breakfast when Fiona returned. “You mean we’re going to have to work
again
today?” Aleda groaned as Julia cleaned her face with a flannel but immediately followed her complaint with an apology before she could be lectured.

“I’ve two brothers and a sister in Clun, but no family in Gresham,” Audrey Herrick told Fiona as the two walked up Market Lane. It was Fiona’s first opportunity to see a bit of the village, and she found it as picturesque as the ones described in novels she’d read. It seemed that every cottage, from stone to brick to wattle-and-daub, boasted a garden in the stages of early spring.

“I moved here to get away from my family, if you want to know the truth,” the cook continued. She rolled her eyes. “They couldn’t bear the shame of having someone like me in the family.”

“Someone like you?” Fiona’s eyes widened. “You mean, your height?”

“Silly, ain’t it?” The cook smiled up at Fiona without a trace of resentment in her brown eyes. “Thank God you can pick your friends, even if you can’t pick your family.”

They parted company at the bakery, a red brick building with sash windows and
Johnson’s Baked Goods
etched on a sign hanging from a cast-iron post. A bell gave a cheery tinkle as Fiona opened the door. The inside was warm and yeasty, and an assortment of baked goods was displayed under a glass counter. Another customer, a middle-aged woman wearing a straw bonnet and gingham apron, gave Fiona a timid, curious smile as a man behind the counter wrapped her selections in paper. Fiona smiled back but did not speak. She was wearing her black-and-white uniform and lace cap, and she knew most people considered it beneath their dignity to hold social conversations with servants.

But the woman was either exceedingly friendly or exceedingly curious, for she finally said, “I’ve never seen you before. D’you work at the manor?”

The baker, heavyset with dark eyebrows that met over the nose, stopped wrapping pastries to listen in.

“No, ma’am. At the
Larkspur Inn
. We just arrived yesterday.”

“Oh.” The smile on the woman’s face grew stiff and unnatural-looking, and she traded glances with the man behind the counter. She gave Fiona a curt nod before leaving the shop with her parcel tucked into her basket.

What did I say?
Fiona wondered.

The baker was silent as he took Fiona’s order. Minutes later, when he handed her the parcel of scotch eggs and raspberry tarts, he asked, “Anybody warn you?”

“Warn me?”

“You know.” He jerked his head in the direction of the
Larkspur
. “Th’ ghost.”

Some of the tenseness in Fiona’s shoulders drained, for she realized then that she had done nothing personally to offend the woman. “Yes, sir,” she replied.

He leaned closer across the counter. “I’d be careful if I was you. Put a chip of coal in the toes of your shoes and put one under each side of your bed, and you shan’t suffer harm.”

“But I don’t believe—”

“In each shoe, now. And don’t forget you heard that from me.”

“I won’t forget,” Fiona sighed. “Thank you.”

“Audrey Herrick?” Vicar Wilson said to Julia later that morning as he cleaned lamp globes while she polished furniture in the hall. “Why, she’s indeed the best cook in Gresham. Perhaps even the whole of Shropshire.”

“She mentioned having a son away at school.”

“Ah yes, Edward. Fine boy, he is. He’s an undergraduate at Trinity College in Stafford.” He seemed to read the question in Julia’s mind, for he smiled and added, “I haven’t seen Edward since Christmas past, but he was a strapping five feet nine inches then.”

He went on to tell how the village went agog twenty years ago when Audrey went down to Shrewsbury with other servants to visit a traveling circus and came back engaged to be married to another dwarf … and a German one at that. Ethan Banning had been the only person willing to give a manual labor position to a former sideshow exhibit with a foreign accent, thus incurring the ridicule of almost everyone in the village. Karl turned out to be a diligent worker, however, and over time people accepted him into the fraternity of Gresham laborers.

“It was a good lesson for people around here to learn,” the vicar said. “If you give someone a chance to prove himself, you’ll almost always be pleasantly surprised. I think Karl was so grateful for the opportunity to leave the circus that he worked extra hard for Mr. Banning.”

Julia closed the newly polished piano lid and said, “I’m glad Mr. Banning gave him that chance. Knowing he was so kind makes me feel better about living in the house he once owned.”

“Oh, houses do seem to develop personalities, don’t they?”

“Yes, they do.” Julia thought about the house she’d left in London—Philip’s house. From her first day it had seemed an aseptic, unwelcoming place … probably because the servants had treated her with such veiled contempt. A startling realization came to her—she felt more at home today, after just one night in the
Larkspur
, than she had felt for fourteen years on Park Lane!

The two worked on in a compatible silence until Julia voiced another thought to the vicar. “You know, I was warned of a ghost in this house.”

“Indeed?” He sighed and shook his head. “I was afraid that would happen. Would that have come from the Worthy sisters?”

Julia winced. “They’ve told you, then?”

“Not directly. But Jake Pitt’s name isn’t an unfamiliar one in Gresham. I thought to mention it to you yesterday, but I didn’t want to spoil your first day here. Are you very upset?”

“Upset? Why, no. I just think it’s a little silly to believe in ghosts.”

“Well, I’m afraid it goes deeper than that. Some are convinced he walks the floors of this house. And they would consider you foolish for having moved in.”

“You’re serious?”

“It is unfortunate that people are so superstitious,” Vicar Wilson sighed, “but I’m afraid it’s that way in every small village. You should hear how many magical remedies for
warts
abound here—burying chicken feathers by the light of the moon and so on. I’ve preached sermons on the subject, but obviously with little effect.”