The Widow of Larkspur Inn (72 page)

Chapter 43

Seven days later when the promised letter arrived—actually two letters counting the brief note included from Mr. Clay—Julia immediately carried them to the privacy of her room. She settled into her chair and picked up the first page of Fiona’s precise handwriting:

My dear Mrs. Hollis,

Julia considered the greeting with a bemused smile. The “Mrs. Hollis” had become more and more unnatural to her ears as her relationship with Fiona grew deeper. But customs regarding servants and employers were set in stone, and so it would have seemed too radical for either of them to consider that it should be any other way. Now, however, it was time to put away the formalities.
If only I’m given the chance to tell her so,
Julia thought before turning her attention to the text of the letter.

As you can imagine, so much has occurred since my last letter. Ambrose and I were married at Saint Patrick’s on the sixteenth, the day he arrived in London. No doubt your affection for both of us has caused you some misgivings over the haste of our actions, but you must put your fears to rest, my dear friend. I could not have imagined so much joy could be contained on this earth, and I pray daily that you will be blessed with the same happiness.

“But I
am
happy, Fiona,” Julia said, as if her friend were standing there before her, but then had to admit,
Just a little lonely
.

We had planned to honeymoon in Switzerland. Three days into our marriage, however, we were out making travel arrangements and purchasing extra clothing, and stopped for lunch at a French restaurant near Regent’s Park, Montague’s. As the hand of God would have it, we happened upon some acquaintances of Ambrose, a Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft, who manage the Prince of Wales theatre. They were in the process of assembling a cast for what they termed a “cup and saucer” comedy written by a Mr. T. W. Robertson, titled The Barrister. Three of Mr. Robertson’s plays have been produced at the same theatre; in fact, School, which is now playing there, is enjoying tremendous success.

The Bancrofts were delighted to see Ambrose and invited us to share their table. Before the dessert course was served, Ambrose was offered the lead role in The Barrister! He turned them down politely, saying that we had plans for Switzerland, but I asked him to give their offer some prayerful consideration for a day or two. There was an unmistakable light in his eyes when the offer was made, Mrs. Hollis, and I could see that he longed to be upon the stage again. As for Switzerland, I assured him later that I would much rather see the Anwyl than the Alps.

We both took the matter in prayer, and Ambrose informed the Bancrofts yesterday that he would accept the role.

Though she was happy for her friends, Julia couldn’t fight the melancholia that worked its way through her.
They’ll have to live in London permanently,
she thought.

Rehearsals begin in three weeks, so we must busy ourselves with locating and furnishing a flat. Ambrose is determined I should perform no domestic chores whatsoever, but I have convinced him that I should feel like a visitor in our home if it is overrun with servants. We have agreed upon a cook and parlormaid, and must conduct interviews for both, as well. How strange it is, the thought of a former servant having servants to attend her!

“And if I know you at all, Fiona,” Julia mumbled, “You’ll treat them like gold.”

The Barrister is scheduled to begin its run in early August, but there will be a two-week interlude between the end of rehearsals and the first performance. The Bancrofts feel that it revives an actor’s enthusiasm for his role if he is able to slip away from it for a space of time. And, my dear Mrs. Hollis, we would like to spend that time in Gresham.

Thank you, Father!
Julia prayed silently.

The remainder of Fiona’s letter contained greetings to the children, lodgers, and servants. After reading it with much lifted spirits, Julia went on to Mr. Clay’s letter. His began with the same greetings, as well as his appreciation to her for having sent him to London.
But I didn’t send you; in fact, I tried to talk you out of going!
Julia thought with a smile and shake of the head. She read on:

I am to be involved in the theatre again, thanks to the thoughtfulness of my dear wife. Although I realize it will be a struggle during the times of despondency, I cannot help but feel the burden will be lighter with Fiona at my side and Christ in my heart. And I have a plan, my dear Mrs. Hollis, that will hopefully give us a life more normal than was my parents’.

I am interested in the set of rooms over your stables. Would it be possible to have them refurbished, at my expense of course, as a second home for us? We will pay whatever board you ask, for knowing that a peaceful place of escape is available to us will lessen dramatically the pressures of living in London. Fiona and I have prayed over the matter and feel that I should take a recess for several months every time a role is finished, before taking on a new one.

He went on to apologize for abandoning his room without notice, giving her permission to find a new lodger to take his place.

If the apartment above the stables is incomplete by late July, we’ll rent a room at the Bow and Fiddle for our first visit, he wrote. So please do not feel pressured to hurry, my friend.

Oh, it’ll be ready
, Julia thought on her way out of her room to find Karl Herrick.

One week into April, Gresham was a tapestry woven from the fresh green of new grasses and leaves, the yellow of wild daffodils, the begonia’s fiery red, pink and white anemones, blue lungwort, and lavender ladies’ smocks.

For the first time since he could recall, Philip actually paid attention to his surroundings as he walked to school with his sisters. Why not appreciate such a beautiful day, when in his hands he carried the most meticulously detailed diorama that would ever be seen in Captain Powell’s classroom. He couldn’t believe he had ever grumbled last week when the headmaster assigned the project to the sixth standard students—it had actually turned out to be fun.

He had crafted the shadow box, with Mr. Herrick’s guidance, from scraps of oak provided by Mr. Jack Preston and Garland Worthy, the two carpenters working on the apartment above the stables. Settling on a theme had been his hardest chore, for he was allowed to illustrate any scene from a favorite book. It was Mr. Durwin who had brought up
Moby Dick.
At first Philip had politely rejected the suggestion, figuring a water scene and white whale too ambitious a concept. But then the idea grew upon him—the more difficult the project, the less likely anyone else in the sixth standard would create a similar one.

For at least the tenth time since setting out from the
Larkspur
, he gazed admiringly down at the box in his hands. To make sure he didn’t drop it, he’d asked Grace to carry his lunch pail, and Aleda his books. If one squinted one’s eyes, the fine blue netting from
Trumbles
looked just like a churning sea. He had carved the white whale from a bar of soap, pasted together match sticks to make a ship, and the sails were quilting squares Mrs. Beemish had provided. Captain Ahab was the most difficult task, but Mrs. Herrick had shown him how to mold and dry bread dough heavily mixed with salt, then clothe him with scraps of cloth. A sewing needle made a particularly lethal-looking harpoon. Mrs. Dearing had warned him that red paint would not adhere to the soap whale for blood, so tiny droplets of red felt were attached with pins.

“I wish I could have made one,” Grace said from his side. Philip turned his face to her and smiled.

“You will when you’re my age.”

“But that’s so long to wait.”

“Then I’ll help you make one this summer.” The way her eyes lit up added to his feeling of well-being, and he found himself asking Aleda if she would like to join them on the project. “It could be even larger than this one. Perhaps we could divide it into four sections and make scenes from a fairy tale, like Jack and the beanstalk.”

“Perhaps,” Aleda said with just a little less enthusiasm, but still she smiled back at him. “Don’t forget I’ll be assigned one next year.”

“Well, there, you see? If you begin it this summer, you’ll have all year to make it as good as possible. Why, even better than this one, and that’s saying a lot.”

“I wonder what Laurel’s will be like?” his sister remarked.

There was no maliciousness in her words, but they seemed to carry an unspoken implication—
we won’t truly know if yours is the best until we see hers
. And he wouldn’t put it past her to have portrayed something like the guillotine scene from
A Tale of Two Cities,
complete with a screaming mob. Tightening his lips, Philip thought,
I wish I could go to school one day without having to see that face!

Helen Johnson met them at the side of the schoolyard. Philip held his shadow box tighter in anticipation of the cuff she would give him before running away squealing. But it was to Aleda that the baker’s daughter gave her attention. “Have you heard about Laurel Phelps?” she asked in a breathless voice.

A broken leg!
Philip thought miserably, all euphoria about his diorama crumbled to dust. As the news had been on everyone’s lips in the school yard that morning, it had not taken long for him to hear the whole story. Last night she had gone into the cellar of the vicarage to look for some linseed oil to rub on the outer wood of her shadow box, and on her way back up the stairs, the tin had slipped from her hand, causing her to lose her balance.

I didn’t mean I wanted something bad to happen to her!
he thought over and over during morning prayer and Scripture recital. And when Captain Powell asked for a volunteer to deliver Laurel Phelps school assignments to her, he slipped up a hand.

After asking his sisters to tell his mother he would be late, Philip accompanied the five chattering Burrell children to the vicarage; Mark, Jacob, and Anna from the upper standards, and Nora and Peter from Miss Hillock’s classroom. He had expected Ben and Jeremiah to rib him after school for the errand he had taken on, but they had been strangely silent about the matter, which made Philip feel worse. Had the words he’d spouted concerning Laurel Phelps been so hateful that everyone expected penance from him now?