The Widow of Larkspur Inn by Lawana Blackwell Page A

“No, it were ’57, because our niece Emmeline married Heath Adams that following spring.”
    “He was such a decent man,” Iris sighed. “I can’t fathom why Uncle Stone never cared for him.”
    “Never cared for Jake Pitt?” asked Julia, a little dazed.
    “No, Heath Adams,” Jewel replied. “It wasn’t as if Emmeline had suitors knocking down her door, even if she was a comely woman. Emmeline had webbed fingers, you see. It weren’t ’till she was thirty-five or thirty-six that Heath took her down to Shrewsbury for an operation to make ’em normal.”
    “You would have thought that would make Uncle Stone change his opinion,” Iris said, clucking her tongue sadly. “Stubborn as a mule, he was.”
    Julia thought of her children across the lane, likely changing into nightclothes now with Fiona’s assistance. Tonight, of all nights, she wanted to tuck them into their beds and hear their prayers. And her patience was being stretched to the limit. She cleared her throat and sent a meaningful look toward a long-case clock against the wall. It worked, for the sisters returned to the subject at hand.
    “Anyhow, that January were a cold one, with snow on the ground,” Jewel went on. “But Jake Pitt came through as always. Only this time, he looked all dotery. Ye could see his hands tremblin’, even with wool gloves on. Well, Ethan Banning owned the Larkspur Inn and brought out some knives to be sharpened.”
    Julia now knew all about Ethan Banning. He had passed on eight years ago, leaving the inn to his cousin George Hollis, Philip’s uncle, who then passed away himself three years later.
    “It took some doing, but Mr. Banning insisted Jake stay at the Larkspur until he were well enough to move on. Fed the old man some warm broth with his own hand, he did.”
    Shaking her head, Iris said, “But poor old Jake became delirious and cursed Mr. Banning for not allowing him to die in peace. He didn’t last the night. A chambermaid found him in his bed cold as stone the next morning.”
    Apparently the story was finished after this, for both women folded their arms and watched Julia’s face expectantly.
    “I see,” she told them. “That’s truly sad. But it’s comforting to know that Mr. Pitt passed away in a warm bed and well cared for.”
    “But that’s not all,” Jewel said. “Our nephews, Merle and John, was hired by the joiner to help carry the coffin out of the Larkspur . Only, they was already out to the carriage drive when Merle stumbled on a stone, and the lid came awry. It were then they found they’d carried Jake’s body out of the house backward.”
    “Backward?” asked Julia.
    “The head first … before the feet.” A noticeable shudder accompanied Iris’s answer.
    “I’m sorry … I don’t understand.”
    Jewel’s faded blue eyes widened in the parchmentlike face. “Ye don’t? Why, Mrs. Hollis, everybody knows that a corpse has to be carried out of a house feet first.”
    “And if he’s not?”
    “He’ll return to that very house to do mischief! And that’s just what happened, because Mr. Banning died in his sleep three years later. He were barely fifty years old, Mrs. Hollis, and fit as a plum pudding.”
    Iris sighed. “We tried to warn him to take precautions after Jake’s funeral, but he just laughed. Said he didn’t believe in ghosts … just like you.”
    “But we felt it were our duty to warn you. Old Jake’s put a curse on the Larkspur Inn . Look what happened to that cousin Ethan Banning left it to.”
    “George Hollis,” Julia said. “But my husband’s uncle was killed in a railway accident five years ago. He never even lived in the Larkspur to my knowledge.”
    “And who did the inn pass on to after he died?”
    “Why, my husband.”
    Again the two exchanged pointed glances. “So now that makes three owners of the Larkspur dying within eleven years of Jake Pitt’s curse,” Iris said in a somber tone. “And now the inn belongs to you.”
    An eerie