Widow of Larkspur Inn (The Gresham Chronicles Book #1) , livre ebook

Baker Publishing Group - Lawana Blackwell

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213 pages

English

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When Life Seemed Its Worst, Gresham Awaited Julia Hollis' opulent life in Victorian London crashes to pieces when her husband passes away. Worse, she is told by his bankers that he gambled away their fortune. Now, the family's hope rests on The Larkspur, an old abandoned coaching inn in the quaint village of Gresham. Driven by dread and her desire to provide for her children, Julia decides to turn the dilapidated inn into a lodging house. But can she--who was accustomed to servants attending to every need--do what needs to be done and cope when boarders begin arriving? And then an eligible new vicar moves into town...

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Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	01 juin 2007
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781585584062
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0202€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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© 1998 Lawana Blackwell
Published by Bethany House Publishers 11400 Hampshire Avenue South Bloomington, Minnesota 55438 www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan. www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2011
Ebook corrections 04.22.2016, 07.13.2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-58558-406-2
Cover by Jennifer Parker
This book is lovingly dedicated
to my mother,
Polly Chandler,
who taught me how to be a lady.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
About the Author
Books by Lawana Blackwell
Back Cover
Chapter 1
London March 1, 1869
How many miles to Nottinghamshire?
Sixty, seventy, eighty-four.
Will I be there by candle light?
Just if your legs be long and tight.
Julia Hollis stopped reading and looked down at the child asleep in her arms. The combination of rocking chair and Tales of My Mother Goose had proved too formidable an opponent for a five-year-old’s nightmares. Grace’s heart-shaped face was now the epitome of peaceful slumber; her lashes resting gently against her cheeks, her lips parted slightly, and her breathing steady.
Give her sweet dreams for the rest of the night, Lord , Julia prayed silently. She did not begrudge being roused from her bed by a frantic nanny. If only her own nightmares could be chased away so easily.
From her left side came the whisper of felt slippers against the carpet. Julia turned her head to look at Frances, whose gaunt figure was swathed in a flannel wrapper, her brown hair wrapped in curling papers.
“It’s time to put her back to bed now, missus.”
Recognizing the injury in the nanny’s tone, Julia knew that it was because Grace had refused to be pacified until she came. What was I to do? Refuse my own child? Nevertheless, she would attempt to make it up to Frances by asking Jensen to extend her next half-day off to a full day.
“I believe I’d like to hold her a bit longer,” Julia whispered back. “Did she wake the others?”
“I just looked in on Miss Aleda—she’s fast asleep. And there wasn’t a peep from young master Philip’s room.”
“I’m glad. They’re just starting to sleep well themselves. And they resume lessons with Mr. Hunter tomorrow.”
“And that’s why the child needs to be back in her own bed. If you coddle her too much, she’ll repeat the same behavior again and again.”
Julia was beginning to feel a faint irritation. True, Frances had been with them since Philip was born, and responsible nannies were supposed to be difficult to find . . . but she was, after all, the children’s mother and the mistress of the house. And it’s high time Frances became aware of that , she told herself.
But then worry set in, squelching any rebellious thoughts. If she made Frances angry, she might possibly be cross with the children tomorrow. They certainly didn’t need that, not after having lost their father three weeks ago. It’s probably better to compromise this time . Giving the nanny her most nonoffensive smile, she said, “You’re right, of course. But I know I shan’t be able to sleep until I’m positive she won’t wake again. Why don’t you go on back to bed, and I’ll be sure to tuck her in very soon.”
“Well . . . I suppose it won’t hurt,” Frances said after covering a yawn. “But just this once, missus. I cannot abide a spoiled child.”
“Yes . . . thank you.”
“I’ll go straighten the bedclothes. You be sure and tuck them around her shoulders so she won’t catch a chill.”
“I will.”
After Frances had padded back into the night nursery, Julia leaned her head against the back of the chair and resumed rocking. The warmth of Grace’s body against her shoulder and the sound of her faint snoring were comforting. She closed her eyes and her grip upon the book in her lap loosened.
If all the world were apple pie,
And all the sea were ink,
And all the trees were bread and cheese,
What should we have to drink?
“Mrs. Hollis?”
Images of inky black sea water dissolved at the sound of her name, but it took Julia a few seconds to realize that the voice had not been part of a dream. She turned to peer over her left shoulder. Jensen, the butler, stood framed by the doorway leading into the corridor. He was a man of about sixty and carried himself erect with a restrained dignity that would befit any palace guard. He was just as restrained with his facial expressions as with his bearing. In the fourteen years that she’d known him, Julia couldn’t recall ever having seen him smile.
“Yes, Jensen?”
“My apologies for disturbing madam at this late hour, but there is a caller downstairs. A Mr. Deems.”
“Deems?” Julia’s neck began to feel the strain, so she asked Jensen to come around close to the rocking chair so she could see him without waking Grace. “What time is it?”
“Eleven, Mrs. Hollis,” he answered, stepping into the night nursery.
It was then obvious that the butler had dressed in haste, for two of the buttons to his black tailcoat were misfastened, and at the crown of his head a loose strand of iron-gray hair bobbed comically. But Julia would not even think of laughing aloud.
“I informed the gentleman that the household was asleep, but he insists the matter cannot wait until morning.”
“I don’t recall ever hearing that name . . . Deems.” A tinge of some nebulous fear pierced the fog that had occupied her mind these past three weeks. Surely no good could come from a stranger’s visit at this late hour. “Did he explain what the matter was?”
“Mr. Deems refused to say, madam. Only that he had been acquainted with Dr. Hollis.”
At the mention of her husband’s name, the now familiar lump welled up in the back of Julia’s throat. One minute Dr. Philip Hollis, a brilliant surgeon at Saint Thomas’s Hospital, was examining a patient, and the next, he suffered a massive heart attack and became the object of medical attention himself. But to no avail. Swallowing, she thought, Why did it have to happen, Philip?
She bent her neck to kiss the top of Grace’s soft head. The dark curls smelled of lavender soap. A man with a wife and three children is supposed to take care of himself . What are we to do without you?
“Mrs. Hollis?” Jensen’s voice broke into her thoughts. “If I may be so bold, I most strongly suggest a meeting with the gentleman.”
Forcing herself to keep her scattered thoughts focused upon the situation at hand, Julia answered, “But if Mr. Deems is . . . if he was acquainted with Dr. Hollis, surely he’s aware that the household is in mourning.”
If not, then the black crepe hanging from the windows should have served notice. And mourning or not, eleven o’clock in the evening was not the proper time to be making calls. Irritation replaced the apprehension that had come over her just a moment ago. To the butler she said, “Please relay my apologies but ask him to come back some other time. I’m just not up to speaking with anyone at this hour.”
Instead of leaving, Jensen took another step forward and cleared his throat. “Mrs. Hollis, I must report that Mr. Deems threatens to go straight to the authorities if madam refuses to see him.”
“The authorities?” Completely baffled, Julia shook her head. “But for what reason?”
The butler’s brown eyes shifted evasively from hers, but not quickly enough to hide the knowledge in them. “It would not do to have Dr. Hollis’s name besmeared publicly. . ..”
“My husband was beyond reproach, so how could anyone besmear his name?”
“As I stated, madam, the gentleman did not say.”
But you know, don’t you, Jensen? Julia thought. And it’s something you can’t take care of yourself this time, isn’t it?
How humiliated he must feel, being forced to solicit her help. For fourteen years now, ever since she’d come to Philip’s London home as a seventeen-year-old bride, the butler had treated her with little more than the politeness required of his station. It was as if he resented the fact that a baronet’s daughter fresh out of finishing school was now mistress of the house over which he’d enjoyed almost total rule.
“Oh, he’s probably a bit jealous,” Philip once consoled when she broached the subject. “He practically raised me at Uncle George’s, and I confess I’ve allowed him to take over far too many responsibilities here.”
It had not occurred to Julia during those early years that it was Philip’s duty to establish her as the mistress of the house and demand that she be given due respect. Unfortunately, some of the older servants had absorbed Jensen’s attitude over the years, to the point that there were times when Julia felt like a guest—and one that must cause the least amount of trouble possible—in her own house. Thank God for Fiona , Julia thought. What would she have done without her?
“Mrs. Hollis?” There was clear impatience on the butler’s face now.
“Oh, I’m . . .” Sorry , she had started to say. “Please, Jensen,” she said, her eyes staring directly into his. “You must tell me what you know.”
After a hesitation, he replied, “I would assume that Dr. Hollis owed him some money, madam.”
“My husband never mentioned owing money to anyone.” Of course, it was not the sort of thing Philip would have discussed with her, but the luxuries he’d provided for the family—the well-appointed, four-story Park Lane townhouse, fashionable clothing, and a battery of servants—were proof of a more than adequate income. “Is this Mr. Deems a banker?”
“He did not introduce himself as