a sip of tea.
“Well, perhaps there’s your answer,” the maid replied, pointing to a slim, white envelope propped against the honey pot at the rear of the tray. She headed for the door, saying over her shoulder, “And remember, miss. You’re not to get up until ’tis finished. Every crumb and every drop.”
Cleome took another drink of the sweet tea, grateful for the warmth it gave her. She could not attempt the food as yet; but settling back against the pillows once more, she picked up the envelope. It was addressed to her in the strong, flowing hand she recognized immediately. Cautiously, as if the contents would burn her fingers, she opened it.
My dear Miss Parker, he wrote. I do not see how my intrusion on your grief would be of benefit to either of us. I have business to attend in Newcastle, and I do not expect to return for at least a fortnight. The competent staff of the Eagle’s Head has been instructed to see to your every need in this time of great sadness, and I hope to find you a little improved when I return. At that time we can make necessary arrangements regarding the inn, and discuss your situation. I remain, your servant, Drake Stoneham.
“My servant, indeed!” Cleome was seething. She wondered what he would be calling himself as he pushed her and her mother out the door. She picked up her fork and attacked her breakfast with grim determination. Taking the place of her grief, for the time being, was a calm, pure hatred for its perpetrator. She would eat, and she would somehow gain the stamina and wit necessary to fight him. Her resolution renewed, she swore to herself and the God in Whom her faith was now somewhat shaken, that she would keep a roof over her mother’s head . . . this roof. She would not languish in bed but would continue to run the Eagle’s Head as usual. When Mr. Stoneham returned from Newcastle, she would have it fully operational. Not a penny would be lost during the transition of ownership. She would show him that her knowledge and efficiency were indispensable and she’d ask him to allow her and her mother to remain. She could move into her mother’s room, giving him another room to let, which would increase his profits. And the inn was large enough so that they need cross paths but occasionally.
She knew that in time she would resent the flaw in her grandfather’s character that had led him to do this, to blithely depart a cruel world, leaving two dependent women at its mercy. Cleome decided that somehow she would learn not to be dependent, ever again, on anyone—least of all, a man. But for the present, her bitterness must be put aside, along with her grief at losing her dear granda. He must have a decent burial and she must get to work.
**
Reverend Jefferson, the vicar at the small church her grandparents had attended, was scandalized when Cleome insisted on including Jacqueline at the funeral; but this tragic, useless death had matured Cleome into a stubborn, unyielding woman. Quite simply, she meant to have her way in laying her granda to rest. Using his suicide as justification, she also insisted on burying him beneath an old oak tree at the edge of the property, near the stream, instead of in the consecrated church yard. It had been one of his favorite places, where he’d taught her to fish and showed her where the best wild plums grew. In a simple ceremony, the vicar offered up a lengthy prayer, asking God to grant mercy, even for this unforgivable sin and so on and so on. Cleome was relieved when it was over. She and Jacqueline walked back to the inn together, each taking comfort in the other’s company while Cleome shared her plan with the French woman.
When Garnett called a little later to extend his sympathies, he found Cleome bustling about the kitchen, giving orders as to what dishes were to be provided for the many mourners who had come to pay their last respects. She was courteous, and she found his concern comforting, but she didn’t need to lean
“Well, perhaps there’s your answer,” the maid replied, pointing to a slim, white envelope propped against the honey pot at the rear of the tray. She headed for the door, saying over her shoulder, “And remember, miss. You’re not to get up until ’tis finished. Every crumb and every drop.”
Cleome took another drink of the sweet tea, grateful for the warmth it gave her. She could not attempt the food as yet; but settling back against the pillows once more, she picked up the envelope. It was addressed to her in the strong, flowing hand she recognized immediately. Cautiously, as if the contents would burn her fingers, she opened it.
My dear Miss Parker, he wrote. I do not see how my intrusion on your grief would be of benefit to either of us. I have business to attend in Newcastle, and I do not expect to return for at least a fortnight. The competent staff of the Eagle’s Head has been instructed to see to your every need in this time of great sadness, and I hope to find you a little improved when I return. At that time we can make necessary arrangements regarding the inn, and discuss your situation. I remain, your servant, Drake Stoneham.
“My servant, indeed!” Cleome was seething. She wondered what he would be calling himself as he pushed her and her mother out the door. She picked up her fork and attacked her breakfast with grim determination. Taking the place of her grief, for the time being, was a calm, pure hatred for its perpetrator. She would eat, and she would somehow gain the stamina and wit necessary to fight him. Her resolution renewed, she swore to herself and the God in Whom her faith was now somewhat shaken, that she would keep a roof over her mother’s head . . . this roof. She would not languish in bed but would continue to run the Eagle’s Head as usual. When Mr. Stoneham returned from Newcastle, she would have it fully operational. Not a penny would be lost during the transition of ownership. She would show him that her knowledge and efficiency were indispensable and she’d ask him to allow her and her mother to remain. She could move into her mother’s room, giving him another room to let, which would increase his profits. And the inn was large enough so that they need cross paths but occasionally.
She knew that in time she would resent the flaw in her grandfather’s character that had led him to do this, to blithely depart a cruel world, leaving two dependent women at its mercy. Cleome decided that somehow she would learn not to be dependent, ever again, on anyone—least of all, a man. But for the present, her bitterness must be put aside, along with her grief at losing her dear granda. He must have a decent burial and she must get to work.
**
Reverend Jefferson, the vicar at the small church her grandparents had attended, was scandalized when Cleome insisted on including Jacqueline at the funeral; but this tragic, useless death had matured Cleome into a stubborn, unyielding woman. Quite simply, she meant to have her way in laying her granda to rest. Using his suicide as justification, she also insisted on burying him beneath an old oak tree at the edge of the property, near the stream, instead of in the consecrated church yard. It had been one of his favorite places, where he’d taught her to fish and showed her where the best wild plums grew. In a simple ceremony, the vicar offered up a lengthy prayer, asking God to grant mercy, even for this unforgivable sin and so on and so on. Cleome was relieved when it was over. She and Jacqueline walked back to the inn together, each taking comfort in the other’s company while Cleome shared her plan with the French woman.
When Garnett called a little later to extend his sympathies, he found Cleome bustling about the kitchen, giving orders as to what dishes were to be provided for the many mourners who had come to pay their last respects. She was courteous, and she found his concern comforting, but she didn’t need to lean
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