The Widow of Larkspur Inn (32 page)

When his neck began to ache, Philip lowered his legs back over the side of the bridge and turned his attention to his fishing cork. “They don’t seem to mind working so hard, do they,” he said to Ben, who lived up Worton Lane from the Keegan family.

“I expect they’re glad to get out of their cottage. They help their mother and papa weave baskets when there’s nothing to harvest.”

“I wouldn’t mind weavin’ baskets if I could stay home from school all the time,” Jeremiah muttered from Philip’s other side. Jeremiah often let it be known that the pursuit of education was low on his list of priorities.

“It’s a shame the boys never join our cricket matches.” Philip raised his stringer to make sure the trout and two pike were still attached. “Those oldest two look hardy. Maybe we should ask them.”

Ben shrugged his shoulders, the sunlight tinting his hair the color of fire. “You can ask if you like, but it won’t do you any good. They don’t seem to want to call attention to themselves—they know folks aren’t quite used to them yet.”

“You mean because they’re Irish or Catholic?”

“Both. But one or the other would be enough to most folks.”

“How long have they lived here?”

Chewing on his lower lip for a second, Ben finally answered, “About four years.”

“And people aren’t used to them yet?” Philip snapped his line out of the water and frowned at the undersized grayling flipping about on the other end. “How long is it going to take?”

“It takes a long time, I expect. Look at your German gardener. My father said there were years when no one would speak to him.”

“Well, people speak to Fiona, and she’s Irish.”

“That’s different—she’s not a whole group.” A wistful smile crossed Ben’s face, for he was overcome with a schoolboy’s infatuation for the housekeeper. “And she’s a mite prettier than Mr. Herrick.”

Philip tossed the freed grayling back into the water. “They must be terribly lonesome.”

“With a family that big?” Jeremiah shrugged. “It’s likely they wish they could be lonesome once in a while. I’d gladly send over my little brothers.”

Philip caught Ben’s eye and smiled. A squeal sounded, and all three heads jerked around at once. From the distance, it appeared that someone had startled a grass snake, for one of the younger Keegan boys held up something green and writhing for the others to inspect.

“I don’t think they’re lonesome at all,” Ben said after the three returned to their fishing. “At least they get to do some traveling. I’ve never been out of Gresham.”

“Where do they go?”

“Whenever weather allows it,” Ben answered, “the family hitches up their wagon on Saturday mornings and goes to Shrewsbury to peddle their baskets. They stay overnight with kin, then all go to church together the next morning.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I chat with them sometimes,” Ben replied with another shrug. “Even been inside their cottage once. My mother had me bring a chair over there to get the seat rewoven.”

An hour later, when the fish appeared to be occupied with things other than baited hooks, the boys pulled in their lines. While each had been successful, none had enough to feed a whole household. When this happened, usually the three took turns hauling the catch home, but Philip glanced back over his shoulder at the Irish children and came up with another idea.

“Why don’t we give them our catch,” Philip suggested after they’d washed the grit from their hands in the shallow water by the riverbank.

“But why?” asked Jeremiah, holding his string of fish a little closer. “They practically live on the river. They can catch their own.”

“Just to be friendly.”

“We say hello every time we see them up here. Ain’t that friendly enough?”

“But we can always catch more tomorrow,” Philip persisted. With a look at his friends’ doubtful faces, he said, “I just remember how frightened we were to move here from London and how good it felt when people made us feel welcome. I feel sorry for them.”

“Well, you know, people don’t exactly throw rocks at them,” Ben said, “except perhaps the Sanders, sometime. They aren’t
that
abused.”

Philip searched his mind for a rebuttal and finally came up with, “Not abusing isn’t the same as accepting.”

Ben looked ready to argue again but then glanced down at his string of fish and blew out his cheeks. “Oh, well, why not? Guess there’s plenty more where these came from.”

They both looked at Jeremiah, who screwed up his face into a frown. “We get to keep any fish we catch tomorrow, right?”

“Right!” Philip agreed.

He gave a reluctant nod, and with each holding his own string of fish, basket, and pole, the three crossed the bridge and turned right on Worton Lane. They heard the grind of a handsaw as they passed Ben’s father’s wheelwright’s workshop attached to their house. Farther on near the end of the lane they heard a man’s lofty tenor voice singing a melancholy ballad.

Oh, Paddy dear! and did ye hear the news that’s goin’ round?

The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground!

No more St. Patrick’s day we’ll keep; his color can’t be seen,

For there’s a cruel law ag’in’ the Wearin’ o’ the Green!

They stopped at a stone cottage with a thatched roof, where Mr. Keegan, flaxen-headed and as wiry as the reed in his hand, sat on a rough bench under a birch tree weaving a bushel basket. Close by was a wide wooden trough for soaking reeds, and on the ground a barefoot tot squatted next to a little handmade cart.

I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand,

And he said, “How’s poor ould Ireland, and how does she stand?”

“She’s the most distressful country that ever yet was seen,

For they’re hanging men and women for the Wearin’ o’ the …”

The Irishman stopped singing and raised his head curiously as they approached.

“How are you, Mr. Keegan?” Ben greeted the Irishman.

A smile split the man’s face. “On top o’ the mornin’, Mr. Mayhew. And yer folks?”

“They’re well, thank you. We—” He paused to motion on either side of him, “These are my friends, Jeremiah and Philip. We thought you might like some fish.”

Mr. Keegan glanced down at the strings of fish. “Well how much would ye be askin’ fer them?”

Jeremiah, who’d been the most reluctant to turn over his catch, now held out his string in a grand gesture. “They don’t cost nothin’.”

“Nothing?” asked the man, cocking his head.

“They’re a gift.”

“Are you sure, lads?”

“Yes, sir.”

A smile widened the Irishman’s face again. “Why, thank ye kindly! And may the good Lord bless ye!” Turning his head to the cottage’s open door, he called out, “Leila darlin’! Come and see!”

A fair-haired woman appeared in the doorway to the cottage, wiping her hands upon her apron. Giving the boys a timid smile, she answered, “Yes?”

“Would ye bring out a pail, darlin’? These kind lads are offerin’ us some fish!”

She disappeared from the doorway and returned seconds later with an empty tin pail. “Thank you kindly, sirs,” she said, giving a little nod while her husband collected some water from the soaking tub. As the fish were dropped into the pail, she clasped both hands together. “Why, they’ll make a fine supper!”

“Aye, they will indeed,” agreed Mr. Keegan. He brushed the grass from his brown corded trousers and motioned for the boys to follow. Not knowing what to expect, Philip and his friends followed past a stable that housed the Keegans’ wagon and a pair of mules to a shed of about sixteen square feet. It was apparently a more recent addition to the property, for it was the only building not constructed of stone. The Irishman pulled open the door and took a step inside. When he backed out again, he held three small oval baskets with lids.

“You don’t have to give us anything,” Ben protested.

“Aye, but it would give me great pleasure to do so.” His smile was coaxing, and reluctantly Philip took the basket that was pressed upon him. It was intricately woven of fine reeds and narrow pink ribbon. The lid was hinged and had a small reed latch, like a hamper.

“This is very nice,” Jeremiah told him, opening and closing the lid.

“Ye can give it to yer mothers for to keep pretties in,” Mr. Keegan explained.

At that, Philip brightened. “It’s Fiona’s birthday next Wednesday. I’m sure she would like it.” It wasn’t that he cared less for his own mother, but the need to find something for the housekeeper’s birthday had occupied the back of his mind for a couple of days now.

“Yer speakin’ of Miss O’Shea from Kilkenny, are ye? She comes by occasionally for a cup o’ tea with my Leila. Fine lady, she is.” He stepped back into the shed and brought out another basket. “Ye give this one to Miss O’Shea, and that one to yer mother.”

After exchanging another round of thanks with both Mr. and Mrs. Keegan, the three boys carried their tackle hampers, poles, and new baskets back up Worton Lane. They walked silently, because to speak would break the spell that the couple’s humble gratitude had cast. Ben waved farewell as he dropped out at his house, and Jeremiah did the same at Church Lane. By the time Philip reached the
Larkspur
, he was feeling so at peace with the world that he tarried to chat with the Worthy sisters instead of returning their greetings in his usual perfunctory manner.

But when Jewel launched into a description of the chilblains on an unfortunate cousin’s feet, so thick they had to be shaved with a razor, he suddenly remembered an errand he had to attend. There was only so much goodwill that a boy had available to spread around, after all.

“Are you busy, Mother?”

Julia smiled from her writing table at the boy standing in her doorway. “Not anymore.” Actually, she had just started drafting cheques to clear the
Larkspur
’s July accounts. “Come in, dear.”

She caught the odor of fish as he walked in, and she didn’t mind that. But there seemed to be an aloofness to Philip lately that she didn’t understand and it hurt her. He did not seek out her company nearly as much as he did when they first moved to Gresham. And when he did, it was usually because he needed something.

Oh, she was happy that he’d embraced country life so completely, and that he had so many new friends. But did a boy ever outgrow his need for a mother? Sometimes she wondered.

“You
are
busy, aren’t you?”

“No, not at all,” she replied, aware of an eagerness in her voice that was almost pathetic. She got up from the desk and put a hand on his shoulder, half expecting him to stiffen with distaste, although Philip had never done such a thing before. “Why don’t you sit for a while so we can visit?”

“Oh … may we do that later?” Philip lifted a hand to show her what he was holding—a charming little basket with a lid. “I want to see if Mr. Trumble has some ribbons to put in here for Fiona’s birthday.

She’d like ribbons, wouldn’t she?”

Though flattered that he still respected her opinion, Julia couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed again—he had sought her out again only because he wanted something.
But you’re being foolish,
she had to tell herself.
Can’t children have moods too?

“Why, it’s lovely,” she said, taking it from his hand. “Where did you buy it?”

“I didn’t.” With a pleased smile he told her about bringing fish to the basket weaver’s family on Worton Lane. Though Julia had never met them herself, Fiona had told her weeks ago that she’d commissioned Mr. Keegan to make floor mats for the larder and scullery. “He gave me two baskets so I could give one to Fiona.”

She felt a pang but really didn’t know why. “Fiona will like it very much. And she’ll be even more pleased that you thought of her.”

“But what about the ribbons?”

“Well, I’m afraid she doesn’t wear them. But she likes combs.”

“Are they expensive? I only have twelvepence.”

“Not very expensive. And you can buy a nice one for about the same as three or four ribbons.”

He looked relieved at this. “Well, I should go do that now while I’m thinking about it. Thank you, Mother.”

“You’re welcome.” Before the boy reached the door, Julia remembered the basket in her hand. “Philip?”

He turned again. “Yes, Mother?”

“You’re forgetting this.”

“Oh, that one’s yours.”

“For me?”

“Mr. Keegan gave me two, remember?”

Her eyes began to smart. “Why, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He seemed ready to leave again but then narrowed his eyes to study her. “Are you all right, Mother?”

“I’m fine, dear.” Julia smiled. “Give my regards to Mr. Trumble.”

When he was gone, she sat back in her chair.
You’re a silly woman,
she thought, tracing the ribbon woven through the lid with a finger.
He’s your son and he’ll always love you
.