The Widow of Larkspur Inn (54 page)

“Thank you for your presence here this evening,” he said, smiling. Julia had the idle thought that the minister looked more at ease tonight than he had on his first Sunday in Gresham back in late September. Perhaps the country was growing on him, as it had on her family. “We’re going to dim some of the lamps, but we’ll keep these on the platform burning, so don’t be alarmed.”

The hum of conversation returned now as Luke extinguished the four lamps hanging from posts on either side of the hall, and Julia could hear Mrs. Kingston’s, “Well, I certainly have no idea what’s going on” above it. She felt Grace move a little closer and put an arm around her shoulder.

“You aren’t afraid, are you?” Julia asked her.

“They aren’t going to put out all the lights, are they?”

“Not all of them.”

“You’ll see presently why we’ve done this,” Vicar Phelps said, his face assuming a serious expression in the glow of the lamps at the foot of the platform. “But first, I wish to thank you good people for being so patient with me. I have learned many things from you since moving to Gresham and still have much more to learn. You have been kind to my daughters and have not resented my humble attempts to follow in the footsteps of your beloved Reverend Wilson.”

He smiled then and clasped both hands behind his back. “I found myself wishing, recently, for a way to repay you for your kindness. And an opportunity was handed to me that very same day. No doubt you are all aware that an esteemed actor, Mr. Ambrose Clay, resides at the
Larkspur
.”

A low murmur ran through the assemblage and then died. Julia met Fiona’s puzzled eyes over the tops of Grace’s and Aleda’s heads.
I don’t know,
Julia mouthed.

“Mr. Clay approached me only days ago, concerned that he had caused a misunderstanding in the community. I suggested that he tell you about it himself, and since his acting has been acclaimed throughout Great Britain and even as far as New York and Canada, I asked that he give us a demonstration of his talent as well.”

Now there were murmurs of what appeared to be surprise mingled with delight.

“I must warn those with children that Mr. Clay is in costume. While his appearance is in no way fierce, it is, well, different. You may wish to take a minute to reassure them not to be alarmed.”

“You hear that, don’t you?” Mrs. Kingston said, leaning forward to peer past Miss Rawlins and Fiona at Grace and Aleda. “It’s just going to be Mr. Clay. There is no cause for fright.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Aleda told her.

“And now I present to you, Mr. Ambrose Clay,” the vicar said before taking a seat on the front row. Forewarned as everyone was, there were still gasps when Mr. Clay came through the storage room door and stepped up on the platform. He had the appearance of a moving marble statue in his gray wig, tights, and robe. And though the greasepaint that gave his skin an unearthly glow, Julia could see a sheepish expression lurking. Mr. Clay gave a bow and then spoke.

“It has been my great pleasure through the years to perform various parts in William Shakespeare’s
Hamlet of Denmark.
One of my earlier roles onstage was of Prince Hamlet’s father—who was murdered and returns as a ghost. But before I perform some lines from the play, I’ve a confession to make.”

At the word “confession” Julia sensed a collective holding of breath.

“No doubt many of you have noticed Mrs. Kingston and me walking the lanes of this fair village. We participate in this activity every morning, no matter what the weather.”

Some turned to their neighbors with knowing nods, as if to say,
That’s true, I’ve seen them
.

“On the Saturday of September twenty-sixth, I happened to take two walks. The first was my usual appointment with Mrs. Kingston, and the second was down Worton Lane. It was near midnight, and I was wearing this same costume.”

Murmurs broke out all around, and several faces turned to the left. Julia followed the line of vision to see Mr. and Mrs. Hopper seated across the aisle with stunned expressions. Turning back to the front, Julia could only see the backs of Philip’s and his companions’ heads, but they sat there as rigid as three gateposts in a row.

“No doubt you’re asking yourself why a grown man would act in such a bizarre manner,” Mr. Clay went on, and it was clear from his tone that he would rather be anywhere than on that platform. “Unfortunately, I am not at liberty to tell you, but let me assure you my actions were neither illegal nor immoral. And will never be repeated.”

That matter closed, he allowed a smile to relax his face. “From William Shakespeare’s
Hamlet
. In this scene from Act I, the ghost, Prince Hamlet’s father, is telling Hamlet that he was murdered by his own brother, who has now married his wife and ascended to the throne.”

“Is Mr. Clay going to sing now?” Grace whispered up at Julia.

“Not sing … act,” Julia whispered back. “I’ll explain at home.”

An awesome transformation came over Mr. Clay’s face. He raised an arm slowly and spoke with such conviction that Julia could almost see Prince Hamlet standing onstage with him:

… I am thy father’s spirit’ Doom’d for a certain term to walk the night, And for the day confined to fast in fires, Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature, Are burnt and purged away. But that I am forbid To tell the secrets of my prison-house, I would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood …

Applause rippled through the room when the actor paused to take a breath, but he held up a restraining hand before it could escalate.

… Now, Hamlet, hear:‘T is given out that, sleeping in mine orchard, A serpent stung me’ so the whole ear of Denmark Is by a forged process of my death Rankly abused; but know, thou noble youth, The serpent that did sting thy father’s life Now wears his crown.

And he was only just beginning, for while even the children sat spellbound, Mr. Clay performed bits from several scenes in the play—sometimes as the ghost, sometimes as Hamlet—and even received a complimentary jeer or two during his portrayal of the evil murderer, Claudius. As he moved from one scene or character to another, he took the time to inform his audience what was taking place, and they appeared to love him for it. Julia smiled to herself, aware that any eccentricity Mr. Clay had confessed had been forgiven.

And hopefully, Jake Pitt could finally be laid to rest, for even the villagers not present would hear all about this tomorrow in the shops and factory and at the common pump.
Bless you, Mr. Clay!
And Vicar Phelps too, she thought, for his part in this.

After the last scene there was an almost reverent silence, until Mr. Sykes rose and began pounding his hands together and was quickly joined by others. Mr. Clay gave an incredible encore, though streams of sweat now mingled with the greasepaint on his face. It was a quick-as-lightning comedy sketch between a gravedigger and Hamlet, using faint differences of voice and posture to signify which character was which. When he finally stepped down from the platform, dozens of villagers of all ages surged into the aisle to be among the first at the front to shake his hand. Among those was Mrs. Rhodes, who stopped long enough to greet Julia as well.

“I have an idea about what happened that night,” the veterinary doctor whispered as she leaned over to give Julia a quick embrace. “Fernie Sanders breaks his foot about the same time? Perhaps someone thought he needed a good scare.”

While Julia gaped at her, the veterinarian gave her a knowing smile. “But I’ll keep any such notions to myself, you can be sure.”

“I would appreciate that,” Julia said, returning her smile. After Mrs. Rhodes had moved on up the aisle, Julia turned to her right and caught the bleakness in Fiona’s expression.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Fiona replied, but her eyes said differently.

She loves him,
Julia thought. She put a hand on her friend’s arm. “I’m so sorry, Fiona.”

“It’s all right, ma’am,” Fiona replied with a forced little smile. “I would like to go on home now. Do you mind?”

“Of course not. The children and I will walk with you.”

Miss Rawlins and Gertie joined them as they attempted to keep up with Mrs. Kingston’s pace across the green under a cobalt October sky. A slice of harvest moon stood poised over the Anwyl ahead while night breezes eddied about them. “That was something, wasn’t it?” Miss Rawlins declared, smiling.

“Maybe you could write a book about it,” Gertie suggested shyly.

To her credit, Miss Rawlins cocked her head and pretended to consider the suggestion. Or perhaps she actually
was
considering it—Julia could never be sure about Miss Rawlins’ plots.

“Interesting …” the writer said.

“What I can’t understand,” Mrs. Kingston began, resignedly slowing her steps so the group could catch up. “is why Mr. Clay wouldn’t tell us his reason for wandering about in that getup.”

Julia looked over at Philip, who was walking with both hands in his pockets just behind the rest of the group. No doubt he had suffered during Mr. Clay’s confession, wondering exactly how much the actor was going to reveal. She veered over to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure he had good reasons,” Julia said to the others. The boy shot her a grateful smile.

It was after they arrived at the
Larkspur
that Julia remembered with some chagrin that she hadn’t thanked Mr. Clay and Vicar Phelps. After tucking the children in bed, she decided to write a note of appreciation to the vicar, to be sent tomorrow, and wait to thank Mr. Clay in person. She penned the note, then chatted with the other lodgers in the hall while waiting for Mr. Clay. When he hadn’t shown up an hour later, she decided it would keep until tomorrow and went on to bed.

Chapter 33

Ambrose wasn’t quite sure how he ended up standing at the riverbank with Vicar Phelps. They had both stayed in the town hall until every last villager had returned home, including the vicar’s daughters and servants. Then Ambrose changed from his costume, wiping what was left of his greasepaint on a towel. He was a little surprised to see the vicar waiting for him when he came out of the makeshift dressing area in the storage room, but then of course the lamps had to be extinguished.

The two ended up spending a good half hour on the stoop engaged in conversation about the stage. Ambrose was amused at the way the vicar’s eyes lit up while listening to his stories about mishaps that had taken place in the course of touring and about occasions when actors sometimes were forced to improvise onstage after forgetting lines they’d known for months.

And then without either man suggesting that they do so, they began walking north across the green. Living out of a trunk for most of his thirty-six years had given Ambrose scant opportunities to cultivate friendships with other men. He had never truly realized what a vacancy this had left in his life until tonight. And it was good to talk, to keep his mind occupied so that it wouldn’t stray to the person he no longer had the right to think about.

But if anyone had told me a year ago that I’d be comfortable chatting with a minister, I wouldn’t have believed him.

“ … and so, that was the extent of my acting experience,” the minister was saying as he threw a stone through a gap between two willows to skip over the Bryce’s surface. “A student production of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
.”

“You certainly don’t fit my idea of Puck,” Ambrose told him.

“Ah, but you must remember these were my preparatory school days. I was two inches shorter then and lighter by a good three stone.”

“And now you perform on a different type of stage,” Ambrose said without thinking, then grew horrified at his own words. Even he, who had rarely been inside a church—and then only for the occasional wedding or funeral—realized he had just insulted the man.

But the vicar picked up another stone and threw it at an angle toward the water. “You know, sometimes I become full of myself and do just that. Perform, I mean. But God has a way of reminding me that I’m just His messenger.” He turned to grin at Ambrose. “A postman, if you will.”

Ambrose had to chuckle. “Doesn’t anything perturb you, Reverend?”

“You wouldn’t have to ask that if you had a grown daughter, Mr. Clay.”

They started walking to the west, and after a space of companionable silence, Ambrose thought of the myriad of questions his mind had accumulated during his nightly readings in the Bible Mrs. Kingston had pressed upon him. He had not been able to ask anyone at the
Larkspur
, not even Mrs. Hollis, for fear of encouraging discussions about his mortal soul—discussions that made him uncomfortable on his best days.

But he didn’t have to live in the same house with the vicar, he told himself, and as much as he was beginning to like the man, he could brush him off quite easily if he had to.
Go ahead and ask
, some inner voice urged. He cleared his throat and turned his face toward the man. “There are some things that have confused me of late. If I pose a couple of theological questions to you, will you give me your word you’ll just answer them and not try to convert me?”

“Hmm, that’s a tough one,” the vicar replied. “You don’t mean … not ever, do you?”

“I suppose just for this evening will do,” Ambrose sighed. He should have known it wouldn’t be as simple as he’d proposed.