The Widow of Larkspur Inn by Lawana Blackwell

slightly accusatory tone. Her wrinkled face looked like old parchment in the candlelight.
    “Well, I’m here now.” Julia smiled back at her, sinking thankfully into one of the rush-bottomed chairs that Iris offered. “I do apologize for making you wait.”
    “That’s quite all right, dear.” Iris, settled at the table now, patted her hand and gave her a sympathetic smile. “You’re a lovely young woman, Mrs. Hollis. How long since your husband passed away?”
    “Five weeks.”
    Even the outspoken Jewel seemed stricken at this. “Five weeks? How sad for you. And those poor children!”
    Julia thanked them for their condolences and even answered their questions as to how Philip passed on, but then was forced to become a little outspoken herself. “I do appreciate your hospitality, but I shan’t be able to stay for too long. I’d like to tuck the children into their beds.”
    “That’s what we wished to speak with you about, dear,” said Iris with a worried crease in her forehead. “Must you sleep in there tonight?”
    “Ye could stay at the Bow and Fiddle ,” Jewel suggested. “The rent would be fair, since they’ve seldom any guests. And you can get good boiled beef and dumplings for sixpence.”
    Politely Julia asked, “But why would we stay somewhere else?”
    Jewel’s blunt reply was, “Because the Larkspur Inn may have a ghost livin’ there, that’s why.”
    Julia didn’t intend to chuckle, but the bone-wearying activities of the day had weakened her resistance considerably. Still, it was just a small burst that sounded more like a cough, and she covered her mouth with her hand and apologized at once.
    Jewel was not mollified, for her gray eyebrows almost met over her frown. “Won’t be so funny when he puts a knife at yer throat one night, Mrs. Hollis. And with you bein’ a widow, the protection of yer little ’uns is in your hands.”
    “Gently, Jewel,” Iris admonished, then patted Julia’s arm. “We’re only concerned about you and the children, dear.”
    “It’s not too late to go over to the Bow and Fiddle for the night,” advised Jewel, nodding. “Then tomorrow, ye go over to the schoolyard and break off a bundle of elder twigs and ye make sure to put one in every room. Ghosts can’t abide them.”
    “Ladies,” Julia finally was compelled to say, “I appreciate your concern, but I must tell you that I don’t believe in ghosts.”
    The two exchanged startled glances, and then Iris leaned forward. “Well, we didn’t either, child … until Jake Pitt died.”
    In spite of herself, Julia had to ask. “Jake Pitt?”
    They began to explain, one taking up when the other ran out of breath or paused for a sip of chocolate. It seemed that Jake Pitt had been an itinerant knife sharpener who made rounds from village to village, pushing a handcart with his foot-pedaled grindstone. “He came through Gresham thrice yearly,” Jewel said. “He’d stop at every cottage and shop, and folk would bring out their knives and tools.”
    “Most itinerant traders are eager to chat,” said Iris. “It’s a lonely life, you can be sure. And most people are just as eager to hear from them, for they bring news of happenings in the surrounding villages.”
    Jewel nodded. “But Jake Pitt weren’t that sort. You would ha’ thought that words cost a quid apiece, so sparin’ was he with them. And what a lively temper he had! Children used to gather round so they could watch the sparks fly when he worked, and he would just glare at ’em.”
    “And he stayed at the Larkspur Inn ?”
    “Stayed at the Larkspur ?” Jewel echoed, as if she found the question absurd. “No, he surely didn’t have the means to be staying at no inn. He slept under a canvas in the fields when weather allowed. In barns when it wouldn’t.”
    “Then what does he have to do with—”
    “I’m coming to that part, dearie. Well, he showed up in Gresham the winter of ’56 …” Jewel paused, chewing on her lip.