Julia’s offer to take care of any matters that should arise. Those were few and far between, with Mr. Jensen so capable a manager.
Some twenty minutes later Julia excused herself and stepped inside the hall. Mrs. Dearing, white braid trailing gracefully down her back, turned to smile from the bench of the pianoforte.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Dearing.”
“And good afternoon to you, Mrs. Phelps. Is the good vicar not with you?”
“He’s in the garden with the Clays. I just stepped in to see Mr. Jensen.” She looked around at the empty sofas and chairs. “Where is everyone?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Durwin are visiting with the Sykes, Mrs. Latrell is upstairs, and Miss Rawlins is working on her latest manuscript.” Mr. Ellis and Mr. Pitney, of course, would be atop the Anwyl. “I’ve noticed that everyone seems to have reasons to absent themselves from the hall every day just about the time I’m due to practice.”
Suppressing a smile because it was likely true, Julia walked over to stand beside the piano. A book of scale exercises was propped upon the ledge. “Now, Mrs. Dearing. Aleda tells me you’re progressing very well.” Aleda still gave the woman lessons on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.
“A gracious young lady, that daughter of yours.” The levity in her tone was a sure sign that Mrs. Dearing took no offense at the emptiness of the room. “But had I the mastery of Clara Schumann, repetitive scales could still become tedious to the ears. So you had best go find Mr. Jensen before you become a captive audience.”
The notes of the f-major scale followed Julia down the corridor to Mr. Jensen’s office. Knowing that he was expecting her, she gave a light knock and eased open the door. The former butler immediately started getting to his feet, but she waved him back into his seat, closed the door, and slipped into the chair in front of his desk.
“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Phelps,” Mr. Jensen said.
“But of course, Mr. Jensen. How are you today?”
A smile deepened the lines of his sixty-five-year-old face. The former butler was a courtly looking man, with thinning, iron-gray hair. Even seated, his posture was as perfect as a dowager’s. “As I am every day in Gresham. Most content.”
“I understand.” It was here under the Larkspur ’s roof that Julia had learned the true meaning of contentment herself. “And you deserve it, I might add.”
“That would be debatable, but it’s kind of you to say it.”
“I say it only because it’s true.”
How strange it still seemed to Julia to be so beholden to the person she had considered her worst enemy back in London. From the day she crossed the threshold of surgeon Philip Hollis’s home as a seventeen-year-old bride until shortly after her husband’s death three years ago, this same man had treated her with just enough politeness to keep from losing his position. It was clear that he considered her, and later the children, impositions to his well-established routine.
And so it would have seemed that Mr. Jensen would have been ecstatic to learn that his former master’s gambling debts had left Julia penniless. But incredibly, he had advised her to transform her only asset, an abandoned coaching inn, into a lodging house—and then insisted on lending her the money for refurbishing and to cover her living expenses until rents from the Larkspur ’s lodgers could be counted upon.
Julia was well aware that God had sustained her family in those days, and she still thanked Him daily for His benevolence. Even so that knowledge did not lessen her gratitude to Mr. Jensen, for he could have hardened his heart to the Father’s suasions. God would have likely provided another way, but she was glad that had not been necessary, because the man had proved himself to be a good friend as well as a capable manager.
“Thank you for sending tea,” Julia went on, changing the subject in deference to Mr. Jensen’s embarrassment when being complimented
Some twenty minutes later Julia excused herself and stepped inside the hall. Mrs. Dearing, white braid trailing gracefully down her back, turned to smile from the bench of the pianoforte.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Dearing.”
“And good afternoon to you, Mrs. Phelps. Is the good vicar not with you?”
“He’s in the garden with the Clays. I just stepped in to see Mr. Jensen.” She looked around at the empty sofas and chairs. “Where is everyone?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Durwin are visiting with the Sykes, Mrs. Latrell is upstairs, and Miss Rawlins is working on her latest manuscript.” Mr. Ellis and Mr. Pitney, of course, would be atop the Anwyl. “I’ve noticed that everyone seems to have reasons to absent themselves from the hall every day just about the time I’m due to practice.”
Suppressing a smile because it was likely true, Julia walked over to stand beside the piano. A book of scale exercises was propped upon the ledge. “Now, Mrs. Dearing. Aleda tells me you’re progressing very well.” Aleda still gave the woman lessons on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.
“A gracious young lady, that daughter of yours.” The levity in her tone was a sure sign that Mrs. Dearing took no offense at the emptiness of the room. “But had I the mastery of Clara Schumann, repetitive scales could still become tedious to the ears. So you had best go find Mr. Jensen before you become a captive audience.”
The notes of the f-major scale followed Julia down the corridor to Mr. Jensen’s office. Knowing that he was expecting her, she gave a light knock and eased open the door. The former butler immediately started getting to his feet, but she waved him back into his seat, closed the door, and slipped into the chair in front of his desk.
“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Phelps,” Mr. Jensen said.
“But of course, Mr. Jensen. How are you today?”
A smile deepened the lines of his sixty-five-year-old face. The former butler was a courtly looking man, with thinning, iron-gray hair. Even seated, his posture was as perfect as a dowager’s. “As I am every day in Gresham. Most content.”
“I understand.” It was here under the Larkspur ’s roof that Julia had learned the true meaning of contentment herself. “And you deserve it, I might add.”
“That would be debatable, but it’s kind of you to say it.”
“I say it only because it’s true.”
How strange it still seemed to Julia to be so beholden to the person she had considered her worst enemy back in London. From the day she crossed the threshold of surgeon Philip Hollis’s home as a seventeen-year-old bride until shortly after her husband’s death three years ago, this same man had treated her with just enough politeness to keep from losing his position. It was clear that he considered her, and later the children, impositions to his well-established routine.
And so it would have seemed that Mr. Jensen would have been ecstatic to learn that his former master’s gambling debts had left Julia penniless. But incredibly, he had advised her to transform her only asset, an abandoned coaching inn, into a lodging house—and then insisted on lending her the money for refurbishing and to cover her living expenses until rents from the Larkspur ’s lodgers could be counted upon.
Julia was well aware that God had sustained her family in those days, and she still thanked Him daily for His benevolence. Even so that knowledge did not lessen her gratitude to Mr. Jensen, for he could have hardened his heart to the Father’s suasions. God would have likely provided another way, but she was glad that had not been necessary, because the man had proved himself to be a good friend as well as a capable manager.
“Thank you for sending tea,” Julia went on, changing the subject in deference to Mr. Jensen’s embarrassment when being complimented
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