The Widow of Larkspur Inn (2 page)

“Deems?” Julia’s neck began to feel the strain, so she asked Jensen to come around close to the rocking chair so she could see him without waking Grace. “What time is it?”

“Eleven, Mrs. Hollis,” he answered, stepping into the night 9 nursery.

It was then obvious that the butler had dressed in haste, for two of the buttons to his black tailcoat were misfastened, and at the crown of his head a loose strand of iron-gray hair bobbed comically. But Julia would not even think of laughing aloud.

“I informed the gentleman that the household was asleep, but he insists the matter cannot wait until morning.”

“I don’t recall ever hearing that name … Deems.” A tinge of some nebulous fear pierced the fog that had occupied her mind these past three weeks. Surely no good could come from a stranger’s visit at this late hour. “Did he explain what the matter was?”

“Mr. Deems refused to say, madam. Only that he had been acquainted with Dr. Hollis.”

At the mention of her husband’s name, the now familiar lump welled up in the back of Julia’s throat. One minute Dr. Philip Hollis, a brilliant surgeon at Saint Thomas’s Hospital, was examining a patient, and the next, he suffered a massive heart attack and became the object of medical attention himself. But to no avail. Swallowing, she thought,
Why did it have to happen, Philip?

She bent her neck to kiss the top of Grace’s soft head. The dark curls smelled of lavender soap.
A man with a wife and three children is supposed to take care of himself
.
What are we to do without you?

“Mrs. Hollis?” Jensen’s voice broke into her thoughts. “If I may be so bold, I most strongly suggest a meeting with the gentleman.”

Forcing herself to keep her scattered thoughts focused upon the situation at hand, Julia answered, “But if Mr. Deems is … if he
was
acquainted with Dr. Hollis, surely he’s aware that the household is in mourning.”

If not, then the black crepe hanging from the windows should have served notice. And mourning or not, eleven o’clock in the evening was not the proper time to be making calls. Irritation replaced the apprehension that had come over her just a moment ago. To the butler she said, “Please relay my apologies but ask him to come back some other time. I’m just not up to speaking with anyone at this hour.”

Instead of leaving, Jensen took another step forward and cleared his throat. “Mrs. Hollis, I must report that Mr. Deems threatens to go straight to the authorities if madam refuses to see him.”

“The authorities?” Completely baffled, Julia shook her head. “But for what reason?”

The butler’s brown eyes shifted evasively from hers, but not quickly enough to hide the knowledge in them. “It would not do to have Dr. Hollis’s name besmeared publicly….”

“My husband was beyond reproach, so how could anyone besmear his name?”

“As I stated, madam, the gentleman did not say.”

But you know, don’t you, Jensen?
Julia thought.
And it’s something you can’t take care of yourself this time, isn’t it?

How humiliated he must feel, being forced to solicit her help. For fourteen years now, ever since she’d come to Philip’s London home as a seventeen-year-old bride, the butler had treated her with little more than the politeness required of his station. It was as if he resented the fact that a baronet’s daughter fresh out of finishing school was now mistress of the house over which he’d enjoyed almost total rule.

“Oh, he’s probably a bit jealous,” Philip once consoled when she broached the subject. “He practically raised me at Uncle George’s, and I confess I’ve allowed him to take over far too many responsibilities here.”

It had not occurred to Julia during those early years that it was Philip’s duty to establish her as the mistress of the house and demand that she be given due respect. Unfortunately, some of the older servants had absorbed Jensen’s attitude over the years, to the point that there were times when Julia felt like a guest—and one that must cause the least amount of trouble possible—in her own house.
Thank God for Fiona
, Julia thought. What would she have done without her?

“Mrs. Hollis?” There was clear impatience on the butler’s face now.

“Oh, I’m …”
Sorry
, she had started to say. “Please, Jensen,” she said, her eyes staring directly into his. “You must tell me what you know.”

After a hesitation, he replied, “I would assume that Dr. Hollis owed him some money, madam.”

“My husband never mentioned owing money to anyone.” Of course, it was not the sort of thing Philip would have discussed with her, but the luxuries he’d provided for the family—the well-appointed, four-story Park Lane townhouse, fashionable clothing, and a battery of servants—were proof of a more than adequate income. “Is this Mr. Deems a banker?”

“He did not introduce himself as such. Mr. Deems has most likely made private terms with Dr. Hollis.” Jensen flung a scathing look back toward the center of the floor, as if he could see the visitor downstairs through layers of carpets and wood. “And he would not be the first to appear at the door with a promissory note in hand.”

“I don’t understand.”

Another pause, and then, “Dr. Hollis occasionally indulged in … gaming, madam.”

“Gaming?” A brief, ludicrous picture of Philip swinging a croquet mallet flitted across her mind until Jensen’s words sunk in. “You mean gambling?”

The butler nodded, then looked down at the still-sleeping Grace. For a second his face actually softened. “Shall I assist madam in carrying the child to her bed?”

They walked in silence down the staircase. On her way through the hall, Julia caught sight of herself in a mahogany-framed wall mirror. Her auburn hair hung wildly down to her waist like a horse’s mane, gray shadows lurked under her green eyes, and her dressing gown was wrinkled from the heat of Grace’s relaxed body.
We look like a pair of pantomimists
, Julia thought grimly, for Jensen looked little better in his hastily donned clothes. But her steps did not slacken. Anyone with the cheek to come calling at this time of night—and with such dubious intent—deserved to be greeted in such a manner.

An anxious-looking man rose from one of the incidental chairs when Julia, flanked by Jensen, walked into the vestibule. Mr. Deems appeared only slightly younger than Julia herself, tall and beardless and impeccably dressed in a well-cut gray frock coat and black trousers. On the entrance table a silk top hat reflected the lamplight with a lustrous sheen, and a pair of kid gloves, the color of rich caramel, lay neatly beside it.

“Mrs. Hollis, forgive me for intruding upon you at a time like this,” he began, his eyes darting to Julia’s black dressing gown.

Julia noticed a fleshiness about the patrician lines of the man’s face, a faint coloring under the eyes that hinted of late nights and fast living. This was not the sort of person with whom her husband usually associated.
Philip, gambling!
she told herself.
Impossible!
She did not invite the visitor to resume his seat but stood some six feet away and said, “May I inquire as to the nature of your call, Mr. Deems? I am sure you’re aware of the lateness of the hour.”

A slight twitching of one clean-shaven cheek accompanied his answer. “It’s a matter of fifteen pounds, Mrs. Hollis. I’ve a note-of-hand signed by Dr. Hollis himself.”

Julia knew nothing of such things, having never seen a note-of-hand in her life. When Mr. Deems dug a slip of paper out of his waistcoat pocket and stepped across the Brussels carpet to give it over to her, she handed it to Jensen. The butler removed a pince-nez from his own pocket and squinted down at the paper.

“It is legitimate, madam,” was his grave reply. “It’s Dr. Hollis’s signature.”

When would Philip have had time to gamble?
Julia asked herself.
He practically lived at the hospital
.

Mr. Deems fidgeted with his silk cravat. “I won it at Crockfords over a month ago, Mrs. Hollis. When I found out what happened, I waited as long as possible to come here, but now I’m in a bit of a tight spot myself….”

You mean there’s a card game waiting
, Julia thought. As the man’s voice droned on, she wished with every fiber of her being to creep back upstairs, bury herself in her sheets, and pretend that this visitor had never appeared upon her doorstep. But that was a luxury she could not afford at present. Acknowledging the man’s apology with a nod, she said in a flat voice, “If my husband signed it, then we shall have to pay it.”

She suddenly recalled what Jensen had told her upstairs, something she’d been too stunned to absorb right away.
He wouldn’t be the first caller to show up at the door with a promissory note
.

“Please wait here,” Julia told Mr. Deems, not inviting him to resume his seat again. She turned to Jensen again and motioned for him to accompany her out of the vestibule and through the open doorway of the hall. When they were alone, she asked in a low voice, “Where does … where
did
my husband keep money for such matters?”

“Why, on his person, madam,” the butler replied uneasily.

“And how did you handle these debts when Dr. Hollis was away from home?”

Jensen cleared his throat. “A locked drawer in his study usually contained several quid.”

Why wasn’t I aware of that?
Julia thought.
Has my head been up in the clouds for the past fourteen years?
“Are you saying that there is no more money in the desk?”

“There is none left at present, madam.” And obviously, it was this circumstance that forced Jensen to make her aware of the situation. “But there are bank cheques. I suggest madam consider drafting—”

“Isn’t there any money in the house at all?” In her present state of mind, she didn’t care to admit to the butler that she had never drafted a cheque in all of her life.

Jensen shook his head. “Only the household funds, madam.”

“And where are they kept?”

“In my office.” Raising his chin, the butler assumed his usual authoritative posture. “But those are strictly for the purchase of provisions, and the servants’ wages.”

Don’t allow him to bully you about this too!
She realized then that she must be the very picture of insecurity, for she was nervously twisting the gold and amethyst wedding ring on her finger. Forcing her hands to her sides and her own chin a little higher, she asked, “Are there fifteen pounds?”

Indignation flitted across Jensen’s expression. No doubt he resented being questioned like a scullery maid who’d broken a saucer. “I would assume so, madam. But as I made mention, those are strictly—”

“Jensen,” she cut in.

He looked stunned that she would dare interrupt him but nonetheless managed a tight-lipped “Yes, madam?”

Anger, at Mr. Deems for his dreadful note-of-hand, at Jensen for his subtle intimidation of her for fourteen years, and even at Philip for his secrets, fueled an assertiveness Julia had never before possessed. “I would like you to pay Mr. Deems what he’s owed.”

After a brief but sullen hesitation, he replied, “Yes, Mrs. Hollis.”

“Thank you,” Julia said, then turned on her heel and left the room without stepping back into the vestibule to bid Mr. Deems good evening.
You’ll have to replace the money from the household funds
, she told herself on her way up the grand staircase to her boudoir. After a rift with his late Uncle George’s solicitor, Philip had never trusted solicitors, preferring to take care of their financial matters himself whenever possible.
I’ll have to learn to use one of the bank cheques Jensen mentioned
.

A spot above her right eyebrow began to throb, and she massaged it with her fingers. Not only had she never drafted a cheque, but she had never seen the inside of a bank. The funeral had been blessedly taken care of by Saint Thomas’s, since Philip was the hospital’s major surgeon, and thus she had been spared having to think about money until now.

But just the idea of leaving the house for any reason drained her strength to the extent that lifting one foot above the other to climb the stairs required an extra effort.
I’m not up to any of this yet
, she thought.
But I suppose I’ll have to go in the morning.
Or better yet, she would muster up the nerve to ask Jensen to attend to that errand.