The Widow of Larkspur Inn (52 page)

“Philip?” she said, folding her arms.

He set his lunch box on the cupboard ledge. “Yes, Mother?”

“Let’s go to your room. We have something to discuss.”

As angry as his mother was with him for slipping out of the house that Saturday night, Philip could see in her eyes that it was his lying about it afterward that had hurt her the most. “I’m sorry, Mother,” he told her, aware of how feeble his apology sounded.

She only frowned. “Are you, Philip? How many other times have you lied to me?”

“This was the only time, Mother. And I’ll never do it again.” He meant it too. She’d had enough grief in her life, what with Father dying. Never again did he want to cause her sadness.

“I hope so, Philip.”

His punishment, she told him, would be to come straight home from school for the next month, and to stay home those Saturdays as well. Philip didn’t argue. After having deceived the person whom he loved more than anyone on earth, he almost looked forward to paying some penance.

He apologized again, tears burning his eyes, and Mother moved forward to kiss his forehead. “Forgiven,” she said, smiling. “But you understand that the punishment still stands, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mother.”

As Philip went back to the kitchen for his books, he thought that at least one good thing had come from his dubious action. He would have more time to study.

Chapter 31

Ambrose Clay’s first errand of the next day, after his walk with Mrs. Kingston, was one he did not relish. The directions he’d asked of Mr. Jones, the postman, led him across the Bryce, a mile past the cheese factory, and then east on a winding dirt road. It was called Nettle Lane, he had been told, even though there was no signpost to identify it. Thick hedgerows flanked both sides of the lane, behind which sat the occasional thatched-roof cottage with barn, pig sty, gardens, and outbuildings.

I should have taken Mr. Herrick up on his offer of the carriage after all,
Ambrose thought another mile later when none of the cottages he had passed fit Mr. Jones’ description. But before he could talk himself into giving up, the next bend in the lane revealed a large but nondescript half-timbered cottage with the peak of a stone barn rising up from behind it.

At least two dozen cattle stared at him curiously from a field to the left of the cottage.
Perhaps the doctor’s fee was no hardship
. That thought gave him a little comfort. Even though he would insist on reimbursing the Sanders, it was good to see that no meals were likely missed because of it.

Now all he had to do was figure out exactly what words a grown man should use to confess to skulking the roads of Gresham dressed as a ghost. For once he regretted that he’d awakened this morning in a decent mood. If he were in the grip of despondency, the situation would probably have overwhelmed him too much to do anything but sit by his window and watch life go on in the streets below.

Well, get it over with,
he thought and stopped at a wooden gate set in the hedgerow. He did not see the boy on the other side until he heard a voice.

“What d’you want?”

Ambrose looked up, startled by the hostility in the tone. “Do you live here?”

“Mayhap. Who wants t’know?” The boy looked to be about thirteen years of age, with a shock of thick hair the color of straw over a tanned face. Ambrose could recall hearing a similar voice while hiding behind a yew tree in the Keegans’ yard.
This must be the brother that ran,
he told himself. He could see no cane or crutch under the boy’s arm.

“My name is Ambrose Clay. I would like to speak with your father.”

“You ain’t from the school, are you?”

“The school? Why, no.”

“You sure look like one o’ those school people. Like my papa told you folk, my little brothers don’t wanter go. And it ain’t against the law—”

“I’m not from the school.” Ambrose let out a sigh and reached out for the latch. “Look, it’s been delightful chatting with you, but I would like to see your father now.”

“You!” The one word spoke it all—surprise, recognition, and anger, and the boy’s face flushed crimson. “You talk just like that ghost!”

“Guilty, I must confess, though it pains me to do so. And you are …?”

“You don’t need to know,” the boy scowled. “You hurt my brother.”

“Most unforgivable of me,” Ambrose said with a shake of the head. “And I’ve come to apologize and possibly make amends. I know it won’t make up for the terror you suffered or cause your brother’s foot to—”

Ambrose stopped, puzzled by the change in the boy’s expression, for the redness in his cheeks had bleached to the color of chalk.

“It’s all right, mister,” the boy said, glancing furtively back over his shoulder at the cottage.

“But I want to—”

“Just go away!”

In the brief moment that it took the boy to send another glance at the cottage, Ambrose understood. The brothers had apparently manufactured a story in relation to the injury. He folded his arms and leaned against the gate. “So … if I apologize to your father, he’ll find out that you both lied to him?”

“Please, mister. Go away!”

“I gather your father is rather unreasonable about that sort of thing.”

“I’m beggin’ you, mister. He’ll take a strap to us!”

No matter what the boy had done in the past, it would take a heart of stone not to be moved by the pleading in his voice. But instead of leaving, Ambrose stepped back into the lane, allowing a plum tree leaning over the hedgerow to shield him from the cottage. He could still see the boy clearly. “But that leaves me with some problems.”

“Problems?”

“Well, for one, I had my heart set on paying Dr. Rhodes’ fee.”

“Then just give it to the doctor, mister. It ain’t been paid yet.”

“Won’t your father wonder …?”

“My sister’s the only one who can read, and she pays the bills. She won’t tell Papa.”

Pulling absently at his chin, Ambrose thought this over. While it was wrong of the two hooligans to deceive their father, was it his duty to burst into the cottage and inform him of such? Judging from what little he knew about the sons, he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to spend a lot of time in the company of the father.

You came here to take care of the doctor’s fee and to apologize,
he reminded himself. And if the first could be taken care of as soon as he got back to town, then all that was left was to apologize. Which he had done only two minutes ago and could assume that the boy would relate his message to his brother.

“Is that all right, mister?”

The meekness in the lad’s tone did not match the flash of memory that came back to Ambrose, of the two trying their best to tip over a helpless family’s shed. And the fear that came into Philip Hollis’s eyes when he spoke of the Sanders brothers. He stroked his chin again and studied the boy through narrowed eyes.
Some assurances for the future should be in order
.

“
Please
, mister?”

Ambrose smiled. “What is your name, son?”

“Oram,” the boy replied, then added as an afterthought, “Sir.”

“I would like to take you up on your suggestion and continue on home now. But I just can’t do that until we’ve made an agreement.”

“An agreement,” the boy echoed, bobbing his head like someone dunking for apples. “Yes, that’s fine.”

“I won’t tell your father—”

“Thank you, sir!”

“ … and you and your brother will leave the Keegans alone forever.”

The bobbing paused. “The Keegans?”

“The Irish family. The basket weavers.”

“We’ll leave ’em alone,” Oram declared, resuming nodding.

“I don’t even want to hear that you’ve been
talking
to them. Or going anywhere near them or their place. Do you understand?”

The boy was starting to look drained but relieved. “Mister, you don’t have t’worry about that. We’ll never go near ’em. Ever.”

Now Ambrose had to be careful, for he was determined not to implicate the three lads who had accompanied him on that night. But while the boy was in such an agreeable mood, he might as well get all he could out of it. “And there are some other boys in Gresham that you bully. It disturbs me to hear of it. Some are my friends.”

“Just tell me who your friends are and we’ll leave ’em alone.”

“H-m-m,” Ambrose said, tapping his forehead thoughtfully. “The names escape me at the moment….”

“Then we won’t bother nobody. Just please stay away from our papa.”

“Very well, then.” Ambrose touched the brim of his bowler hat.

“Have a good day now, son.”

The boy mopped his brow with his sleeve. “Yes, thank you. Sir.”

By the time Ambrose crossed the Bryce again, it was past time for lunch. While an occasional rumble from his stomach reminded him of that fact, it seemed far more pressing that he attempt to undo the rest of the harm his prank had caused.
There has to be a way,
he thought, though for the life of him, he could not see it at the moment. And then a name crossed his mind, and instead of continuing down Market Lane, he found himself crossing the green.

“My father’s conducting a funeral service at the church,” the vicar’s daughter, who introduced herself as Elizabeth Phelps, told Ambrose at the door of the vicarage. He had heard table talk about the family but hadn’t realized any daughter was married. She seemed too young to be mother to the wide-eyed boy in her arms and the girl clutching her skirt at her side. “The servants are there as well, but I was afraid the children would make noise, so I kept them here.”

“Then I’ll come back at a more convenient time,” Ambrose told her, hat in hand.

“Actually, he should be home any minute.” Miss Phelps smiled and hefted the boy up a bit. “You may come in and wait if you like.”

Propriety forbade him to accept the invitation, even though there were two small chaperones present. “I believe I would enjoy waiting out in your garden,” he told her politely. “Would that be all right?”

“Of course.”

He had just arranged his limbs into a wicker chair when voices drifted over from the direction of Saint Jude’s. He stretched his neck and caught sight of four figures, two male and two female, coming his way from the churchyard. Ambrose supposed the man wearing the black suit to be the vicar. He was a little surprised. His acquaintance with men of the cloth had been limited, but he carried a preconceived notion that they were all required to be tall and lean, clean-shaven and scholarly looking, and of equal importance, slightly stoop-shouldered with hair graying at the temples. Spectacles were optional.

The man who’d just lifted a hand to wave at him looked as if he’d just unhooked a team of oxen from a plow. Broad-shouldered he was, with a blond beard and comfortable gait that was almost Nordic. Ambrose got to his feet and raised a hand in return, then studied his own shoes and wondered for the fourth time since setting out from the
Larkspur
exactly what he had hoped to accomplish here. He found himself more nervous than he had been while approaching the Sanders’ place.

When he looked up again, the three servants had veered off toward the back of the cottage and the black-suited man was only six feet from the gate. “Reverend Phelps?” Ambrose said.