The Widow of Larkspur Inn (23 page)

On the bank, Philip watched the Sanders brothers hoot away, slapping each other on the back in congratulations for particularly barbing insults. His eyes moved to the children. Four were back at work again, obviously trying to ignore the barbarians. But the youngest, a boy about Grace’s age, had broken into tears and was being comforted by an older sister. Pulse racing and cheeks burning fire, he opened his mouth to challenge the two bullies, but Ben beat him to the draw and shouted, “Hey! Why don’t you two push off!”

The effect upon Oram and Fernie was immediate, for the two stopped hooting and glared in their direction.

“Get ready, gents, I believe we’re about to die,” Ben whispered.

Philip nodded, watching the two advance down the bank. “It appears so.”

“Think we should run?” asked Jeremiah.

“Not on your nelly. We’d have to leave our poles and tackle. And you know what they’d do to them.”

“Just ignore them and maybe they’ll go away,” Ben advised.

The brothers did not go away but fortunately stopped where the bridge met the bank, and Philip wondered if it was because the bridge was in plain sight of the cottages lining the west end of the village green—particularly Constable Reed’s. From what he had gathered about the behavior of bullies, they preferred practicing their craft with few witnesses about.

But they certainly didn’t mind verbal sparring. “Well, well!” Oram called out. “Lookit ’em tryin’ to catch minnows wi’ poles!”

A loud
pul-ump
accompanied his taunt, followed by a spray of water that reached as high as Philip’s chin. He glared over at the two and saw that they were holding rocks as big as croquet balls.

“Whatsa matter? Fish got away?” Fernie aimed and fired his weapon. The rock fell short by a good five feet, but the boy strutted about as if he’d scored a bull’s-eye.

“Why don’t you go bother somebody else!” Ben shouted. “Like Constable Reed!”

“Oo-eee! The constable! Maybe
you
oughter go tell ’em that some bad old boys is throwin’ rocks in the river and got a little water on your aprons!”

This came from Fernie, obviously the more eloquent of the two. “Hey, Mr. Hollis, sir!” came another jeering cry. “Do you sleep with a blanket over yer head so’s you won’t be scared of old Jake?”

Philip was just opening his mouth to send back the suggestion that the Sanders brothers should wear blankets over their heads during the day so that
other
people wouldn’t be frightened, when Jeremiah cautioned, “Don’t say anything. They’re hoping one of us’ll set out after them.”

Another
pul-ump!
showered the three with water, causing Philip to pull in his line. “Guess fishing’s over for the day.”

“Guess so,” Ben said, but then did a curious thing. Ignoring the third
pul-ump!
he turned and sent a quick furtive motion toward the Anwyl.

“Look over at the hill for a second,” he whispered through his teeth. “Not too long, Jeremiah!”

“What was that abou—” Philip started but was silenced by a warning look.

“Now let’s go.” Ben stood and then said in a loud, but not
too
loud, voice, “Well, I’ve
chores
to finish anyway.”

Jeremiah’s mouth opened. “But you already did—” He stopped himself short, knowledge dawning in his eyes. “Me too. Guess I’ll be workin’ at
home
the rest of the day.”

Now Philip understood the plan. “Gipsy Woods?” he whispered to Ben as he packed up his fishing equipment.

“Half an hour.”

Philip stole a glance at the Sanders brothers. Their heads were together as if puzzling over something, but he noticed that Fernie sent a quick nod in the direction of the Anwyl. Then, in what was supposedly some brilliant tactical maneuver, Oram slammed his rock to the ground. “Aw, there’s more to do at home,” he said in a voice so loud that the Worthy sisters were likely nodding agreement as they spinned their lace.

“Boring is what this is, watchin’ these girls try to catch a fish.” The Sanders boys turned and shuffled off north in the direction of their farm, while Philip and his friends separated and walked on to their homes.

Forty-five minutes later, the three sat on a bank in the south bend of the River Bryce. The northern edge of Gipsy Woods shielded them from sight of the Anwyl—which was likely being explored that very moment by the Sanders boys. It was a fine picture, Philip thought, to imagine blond heads peering behind shrubbery and between rocks. And pulling off a successful subterfuge made the fishing even more fun.

Ben and Jeremiah had already pulled in a trout apiece, between bites of the ham sandwiches that Mrs. Herrick had packed up for the three to share. Philip, however, waited to finish his sandwich before tending to his line. While he had no qualms about baiting a hook with some wriggling slug or cricket, it was not the most appetiteinducing sight.

“Have they always been like that?” he asked presently, wiping his hands upon his trousers and picking up his line. He did not have to say to whom he was referring, for straightway Jeremiah gave a nod.

“Even the two oldest, Harold and Dale, were bullies in their day, accordin’ to Thomas.” Thomas was Jeremiah’s older brother, who also worked in the squire’s stables alongside his father. “And they still pick fights at the
Bow and Fiddle
when they’re in their cups.”

“And their papa as well,” said Ben. He was reflectively quiet for a minute, then tapped his forehead. “
Now
I know what that saying means.”

Philip blinked. “Beg pardon?”

“You know—my grandmother says it all the time. ‘The fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree’. I always wondered why she would say that, and always after discussing with my mother something awful that somebody did. She’d have that ‘look’ about her too, and I had a feeling she wasn’t just talking about apples or pears. But when I’d ask, she or mother would send me off to play.”

“
What
look?” Jeremiah asked, clearly puzzled.

“I’ll show you,” Ben replied. First, he pursed up his lips primly, then arched an eyebrow while giving a slow nod. Philip burst out laughing.

“You’ve got it, all right. You’ll make a fine grandmother, Ben.”

“
Grandmother!
”

They traded cuffs for a minute, and then Philip patiently explained the old adage about the fruit and tree to Jeremiah. As the early afternoon approached and the fish seemed to be less inclined to bite, the boys packed up to go. Their patience had been rewarded and all three of their tables would boast fish tonight. Philip had the least to show for his efforts, but the three decent-size bream and large trout would be ample supply for one of Mrs. Herrick’s savory chowders.

On his way around back to the gardening cottage to put away his pole and tackle, he automatically lifted a hand to wave to the Worthy sisters off to his left. He did not even have to wonder if they’d seen him. Their keen eyes never missed any movement within seeing distance. How they managed to spin lace at the same time was still a mystery to him. As usual, the two elderly women weren’t about to allow him to enter their range of sight without comment.

“Ye’ve a guest inside, Philip,” Jewel called out in her raspy voice.

Philip paused and nodded. “Mrs. Kingston. She’s boarding with us now.”

“Not Mrs. Kingston.” Iris shook her head. “She came last Saturday. Ye’ve another guest today.”

“A gentleman,” Jewel said. “And he sent his coach away, so he’s likely planning to stay. Had two trunks ye could ha’ buried horses in.”

“Now, why would a gentleman need two trunks of that size?” asked Iris.

With a fair touch of resentment in her voice, Jewel said, “He ain’t the friendly sort, if ye ask me. I asked him his name, and he wouldn’t even look my way.”

“And your mother and sisters aren’t home,” Iris said. “They left for a walk about an hour ago with your housekeeper and that Mrs. Kingston.”

Jewel nodded, her fingers still moving with their usual swiftness. “And your sister, Aleda, left earlier. Said she were going to play at a friend’s house. We’ve decided it must be Josiah Johnson’s girl, Helen, over at the bakery. They spend a lot o’ time together. Sweet child, that Helen.”

After all of this information had been reported, the sisters silenced themselves and watched Philip expectantly. All he knew to do was to hold up the string of fish in his hand. “Well, I should put away my things now. Have a pleasant afternoon.”

They bade him the same, and he could feel both sets of eyes upon him as he neared the gardening cottage. Inside, Karl Herrick’s quick brown eyes looked up from the shovel he was sharpening with a file. He was short like Mrs. Herrick, but with a long torso and powerful-looking arms. “You haff caught some fish,
ja
?”

“Four.” Philip held them out for him to admire.

“You’re a fine lad, Master Philip.” He nodded toward the direction of the Worthy sisters’ cottage. “They tell you all about the visitor?”

“More than I wanted to know,” Philip answered. “But I didn’t think any more lodgers were expected until next week. Who is he?”

“My Audrey says he is not one for speaking. She and the others are in … how you say? A
tumult
… wondering what to do with him.”

“Is that why you’re hiding out here?”

“Hiding?” The brown eyes blinked over a spreading grin. “Why, Mrs. Hollis has asked me to plant a vegetable garden. My first duty is to my employer,
verstehen
?”

“I understand,” Philip smiled back.

Mrs. Herrick was standing on her stool at the worktable preparing a tray when he walked into the kitchen. “Oh, I was hoping you was your mother!” the cook blurted out.

Philip opened his mouth to give a joking reply but stifled it upon noticing the worry in her expression. “Shall I go look for her?”

“Don’t know how long that would take. You’d do better to entertain Mr. Clay in the hall. He’s been waitin’ in there by himself for a good quarter of an hour now.”

“Wouldn’t you like me to clean the fish?” He held up the string, his pride a little injured that she hadn’t noticed.

“I’ll ask Karl to do that in a bit.” A twinkle finally lit the hazel eyes. “I suppose you’ll be wantin’ chowder for supper?”

“I can already taste it.” Looking down at his soiled blue muslin shirt, Philip asked if he should first change.

“No time for that, Master Philip,” Mrs. Herrick answered but clucked her tongue at the state of his clothes. “But here … pop into the scullery and let Gertie help you wash those hands. You’ve mud on your chin as well. Now remember, his name is Mr. Clay.”

Philip did as instructed, then, leaving the fish in the basin, he walked down the corridor to the hall. At first he thought that Mrs. Herrick was mistaken, that the gentleman had left for some other part of the house. A second later his eyes found the visitor on the sofa closest to the empty fireplace and farthest away from any lamp. Philip’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of the thick, dark brown hair, but then the man turned his face toward him and all resemblance to his father vanished.

“Mr. Clay?” Philip asked. He could not recall ever being called upon to entertain an adult visitor alone and wondered what he could possibly say that would be of any interest to him.

“Yes?” Mr. Clay had a handsome face with well-defined, aristocratic features, but his posture seemed that of a person who had been wrung out by life. His shoulders, neither broad nor slim, sagged slightly, and both hands rested motionless on the cushions at each side.

Philip advanced reluctantly, wishing he’d paid closer attention back when Mr. Hunter read a daily page from
Etiquette for Good Boys and Girls.
Was the younger supposed to offer a hand, or wait until his elder did so? He decided upon a quick bow and said, “I’m Philip Hollis. My mother owns the
Larkspur
.”

Mr. Clay solved his dilemma by stretching out his right hand. A cultured voice said, “Ambrose Clay.”

They shook hands, and Philip recalled some bits of information Mother had given about the query letters she’d received. “You’re an actor, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Philip shifted his feet and looked about the great room, wishing that by doing so he could cause his mother to materialize in some corner. “Well, I suppose you’ve been told my mother isn’t here now. She wouldn’t have left had she known you were to arrive today.”

That sounded like an accusation, he realized with horror after the words left his mouth, and he tried to correct himself. “I meant to say … Mother will be happy to find you here, just surprised.” He cleared his throat. “Pleasantly so, of course.”

“Thank you.”

Should I offer to show him his room?
Philip wondered, for surely the two trunks had already been delivered upstairs by the coachman.

A footstep sounded from behind him and Philip turned, awash with relief. But instead of Mother, it was Georgette who stood in the doorway with a tray, and he could now understand the disappointment Mrs. Herrick had felt when he’d walked into the kitchen earlier. The maid searched the long room from side to side with her short-sighted eyes squinted.

“Over here,” Philip told her.