The Jewel of Gresham Green

by Lawana Blackwell

  What if Mr. Dunstan is the owner’s brother or some other relation? What if we’re forced to leave?

  Her fears were justified that evening, unhappily so, when she spotted Mr. Dunstan outside the factory.

  “Oh dear,” she said to Mrs. Fenton.

  “I forgot my handkerchief,” Mrs. Fenton said, turning back for the door.

  Jewel attempted to hurry past him, lose him in the press of workers, but he fell in step beside her.

  “There’s been a misunderstanding, Mrs. Libby,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you over your little girl.”

  Walking faster did no good. His legs were longer, and he was not even breathing heavily. “I’m truly sorry . . .”

  Jewel swallowed a sob.

  “. . . so I need you to speak with Mr. Brown.”

  She did not ask who this Mr. Brown was, for she had no word to spare for Mr. Dunstan. Besides, who could he be but the owner of the blocks of flats?

  “He stays late in his office. I need you to come with me . . . say you’ve made a mistake.”

  “No,” she said tightly.

  “Please,” he cajoled with voice breaking. “I need my job.”

  She continued on, teeth clenched.

  “I’ll . . . cut your next month’s rent by half, and cover the rest myself.”

  Jewel halted in her tracks, almost did not recognize her own voice for all the rage it held. “My daughter is not for sale!”

  “Do you need help, Mrs. Libby?” came a voice from behind.

  Jewel turned a burning face to Mr. Fowler and his assistant, Mr. Evans. “This man—”

  But when she looked over her shoulder, Mr. Dunstan was making tracks.

  “Coward.” Mr. Fowler spat on the pavement.

  The men turned back for the factory. Mrs. Fenton called out to her a moment later. Jewel waited, still sick at heart, but grateful.

  “You sent Mr. Fowler out?” she asked.

  “It was the only thing I knew to do.”

  Jewel squeezed her arm.

  “Do you suppose he’s been sacked?” Mrs. Fenton asked.

  “I think so.”

  Mrs. Platt’s aggrieved expression confirmed it was true when Jewel arrived to retrieve Becky. “Did ye hear?” she said, spotted hands worrying her frayed collar. “Mr. Dunstan’s been sacked!”

  Ironing her face of any expression, Jewel took Becky’s hand. Thank you, Father!

  Mrs. Platt’s eyes narrowed. “Did you have aught to do with this?”

  Jewel still needed her to tend Becky. Gently, she said, “I’m sorry you’re displeased.”

  “You’ll be, too, when they replace him with a heartless sot like Mr. Archer.”

  Jewel’s lips tightened. As long as he leaves Becky be, I don’t care if he has a walnut for a heart.

  Chapter 2

  21 APRIL 1884

  GRESHAM, ENGLAND

  “Hold still, dear,” said seamstress Beatrice Perkins, on her knees pinning the hem of the gown.

  “I’m sorry,” Grace said. “There was a bird outside your window. It brought to mind a crippled sparrow I once nursed back to health.”

  “Betrothal makes you remember all sorts of things,” Mrs. Perkins said knowingly. “Would you agree, Mrs. Phelps?”

  “Yes, that’s so,” Julia replied, being pulled from her own memories of when the bride-to-be was a babe in her arms. When poised in the doorway to a new life, it was only natural to send some looks over the shoulder at the old one.

  Mrs. Perkins returned her attention to the task at hand. “Now, if it seems too high from the ground, remember the six inches of lace. You’ll not be flashing your ankles to the church.”

  “Her father will be happy for that,” Julia said, causing Mrs. Perkins to chuckle. Grace smiled down from her perch upon the stool, a curly-haloed angel in white silk.

  Several loud knocks sounded against a wall, and the angel lost her footing. Julia jumped to offer a steadying hand.

  “Easy does it now,” Mrs. Perkins said. “That’s just my Priscilla.”

  A minute later the knocking came again, and more loudly.

  “Shall I see about her?” Julia asked.

  “That’s very kind of you, but she’ll stop when Frances brings up a tray.” Mrs. Perkins glanced at the wall clock. “Half past nine? Ah . . . I remember. She wants to go to Shrewsbury for a bonnet. She doesn’t usually raise her head from the pillow before eleven.”

  “I’m sorry,” Julia said. But a sympathetic expression required some effort. Priscilla was, after all, a year older than Grace, and of sound body and mind.

  Grace had enough sympathy on her heart-shaped face for the both of them. “Why don’t you stop sending up trays, Mrs. Perkins?” she suggested, with the appropriate respect due the older woman.

  “Why, she’s got to eat.”

  “But if you didn’t send up trays, she’d eventually have to come down.”

  “And then have her sulk all day?” Mrs. Perkins sniffed. “I admit I coddle Priscilla, her being the only child. Amos says it’s high time she find either a husband or position. But easier said than done. Shropshire men don’t take to high-spirited women. As to a position, she has no gift for sewing. And I’ll not have my daughter slaving in the cheese factory.”

  Anwyl Mountain Cheeses, north of the River Bryce, was named for the five-hundred-foot hill rising abruptly to the west. The thought passed through Julia’s mind that it would be better for Priscilla’s character to be making cheese than banging on walls.

  Mrs. Perkins’ lips tightened. “But you’d think she’d have some gratitude. Why, even with all the work I’ve got to do, she’s got to have a new frock every month!”

  “But she can’t force you to—”

  “Do stand straight, dear,” Julia reminded Grace. “We don’t want the hem uneven.”

  A half hour later Julia and her daughter were strolling homeward. The rainstorms of Easter week had dried, and the village abounded with sweet April color: yellow bellworts, red crown imperials, and violet corydalis nodded over white daffodils, blue anemone, and pink primulas. Green ivy and clematis resumed inching along weathered sandstone walls. Pear trees stood out like lights, with snowy blossoms against pale green leaves. Pink-faced women pegging out fresh laundry or pottering in gardens called out greetings.

  “I should get your father some tonic,” Julia said as they neared a rosy stone building on the corner of Market and Thatcher Lanes. The bell over Trumbles’ door tinkled as they entered. Jack Sanders sent a smile from the postal and telegraph end of the shop as his hands continued sorting envelopes. Orville Trumble ceased arranging cards of needles upon a rack and hurried around the counter.

  “How may I assist you, Mrs. Phelps and Miss Hollis?”

  “I believe Andrew is almost out of—”

  “Smith’s Patented Stomach Soother,” he finished for her. He swiveled to take an amber bottle from a shelf and slipped it into a small paper bag. His blond hair had thinned to a fringe, but his walrus mustache was in full glory, quivering with each word, legitimate or otherwise.

  “My dear wife’s mother,” Mr. Trumble continued. “After meals, the pain was so bad she would become historical until we gave her a dose.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Julia said. “But Andrew’s isn’t severe. It’s usually after a heavy meal, and he has learned to lessen his portions.”

  The shopkeeper patted his stomach. “That’s a lessen we should all learn.”

  Jack Sanders chuckled. Julia and Grace smiled, not so much at the humor but because they were genuinely fond of Mr. Trumble.

  On Church Lane they passed the grammar school, where son-in-law Jonathan would be filling thirty-four young heads with knowledge. In the garden of the cottage to their left, Mrs. Shaw left off pruning a forsythia shrub to amble to the fence. Julia asked about her feet, which were apt to swell.

  “Much better since I started propping them up three times a day.” She was not one to go on about her health prob
lems, but she did offer a bit of advice to Grace.

  “Mind your spending, dearie. A woman can send out more with a teaspoon than her husband can bring in with a shovel.”

  “You’ll be getting more and more of that,” Julia said when they were out of hearing range. “It’s natural for people to want to pass on to the young what they’ve learned.”

  “I don’t mind,” Grace said, and hesitated. “In fact, I had hoped you would offer some advice.”

  “To Mrs. Shaw?”

  “Mrs. Perkins. She works so hard. And to have Priscilla abuse her so.”

  “Yes,” Julia agreed. “There was a stout wind when the apple fell from that tree.”

  “Apple?” Grace caught on, laughed guiltily, sobered. “But shouldn’t you have offered advice?”

  “She didn’t ask for any, dear.”

  “You could have helped her. You know more about rearing children than anyone in Gresham.”

  Julia smiled. “You may be prejudiced, do you think?”

  “We turned out to be decent people.”

  “Oh, indeed. But Priscilla Perkins is twenty-one. It’s a bit late for child-rearing advice.”

  “How can she take advantage of her mother like that?”

  “Because Mrs. Perkins allows it. That will never change, as long as she gains something from it.”

  Grace turned to face her, emerald eyes wide. “What could she possibly gain from it?”

  “Well, the feeling of being needed.”

  “But every mother wants to be needed. Don’t you?”

  Julia cast about in her mind for the right words. Grace had much still to learn, simply because twenty years was not long enough for the whole curriculum of human nature. Even at forty-six, Julia was still learning.

  “Of course I do,” she replied. “But when that becomes a mother’s primary objective, then she cripples her children. They either become weak and passive or demanding tyrants.”

  After a thoughtful silence, Grace sighed. “I shall never be as wise as you, Mother.”

  “Oh heavens, daughter,” Julia said. “You’re far wiser than I was at your age.”

  For one example, Grace had gone against the village norm of marrying directly out of school, aware that she was not prepared for the leap into adulthood. Julia had married shortly after her seventeenth birthday, blissfully unaware that she was still a child.

  Secondly, Grace was marrying her dearest friend. Thomas Langford, youngest graduate of the Royal Veterinary College, and recently attached to a practice in Telford, was neither the most handsome nor dashing young man to set his cap for Grace. But he was thoughtful, honest, industrious, shared her fondness for animals, and made her laugh.

  Julia, on the other hand, had been unable to see the character flaws in her first husband, a charming surgeon whose gambling debts had left her and their three children virtually penniless after his death.

  And yet, in spite of it all, God made gold from the rubble, Julia thought. Here she was, married thirteen years to Andrew Phelps, vicar of Gresham and the kindest man on earth. And, as Grace had said, her three children and two stepdaughters had grown into decent adults.

  Arm in arm they walked up shady Vicarage Lane. The snug two-storey vicarage rested on a grassy knoll, a stone’s throw from Saint Jude’s. A white picket fence enclosed the garden, where sat one of those decent adults, Andrew’s eldest daughter, Elizabeth. Doctor Rhodes’ stooped frame rested in the wicker chair beside her. Some twenty feet behind them, three-year-old twins Claire and Samuel played with croquet balls and mallets.

  Elizabeth waved. From the distance, and even up close, she seemed younger than her thirty-three years. Her hair was still golden in the sunshine, the dimples still curved around her smile. She and her younger children visited almost every day of late.

  Julia understood her need to get out of the house. Her stepdaughter was going through a difficult time, having miscarried a fourth baby the previous Christmas. Thankfully for Elizabeth’s sake, the summer holidays were just around the corner, when Jonathan and eleven-year-old John would be home all day.

  Samuel’s mallet fell to the ground. He headed toward the gate, flaxen curls bobbing, short legs pumping the grass. “Grandmother! Aunt Grace!” he cried, as if he had not sat between both in church just yesterday. By the time Julia opened the gate, Claire had joined her brother.

  Julia opened her arms, leaned into their embraces. The two could hardly be taken for sister and brother, much less twins. Samuel was solidly built, with blue eyes. Claire, lithe and an inch taller, had her father’s dark hair and gray-green eyes.

  “Good morning, sweethearts,” Julia said with a peck for each forehead. As Grace kissed the same foreheads, Julia looked past to see Doctor Rhodes making pains to get to his feet. She advanced to the setting of chairs. “Please, don’t.”

  He sank back again. “My aged limbs thank you, Mrs. Phelps.”

  “Are you here to see Andrew? Is he all right?”

  “No, this is a call of another nature.” He squinted at the parcel in her hand. “But if he is still having those pains . . .”

  Julia sat in a wicker chair, leaned to prop the parcel at her feet. “Very rarely, since he started taking smaller meals, as you suggested. But he does want his tonic available. He doesn’t care to suffer one second longer than necessary.”

  “Nor do any of us. Well, send him over to see me if they grow in intensity.”

  Julia had to smile. That would be some task.

  Doctor Rhodes smiled back. “Or send word, and I shall gather a dozen strong men to drag him in with ropes. A man his age cannot afford to take any ache for granted.”

  The message in his eyes sobered Julia. What he meant was a man in his condition, for at fifty-seven, Andrew was years away from rocking chair and shawl. But just last summer he was diagnosed with a heart murmur, by both Doctor Rhodes and his Shrewsbury colleague, a Doctor Johnson.

  Elizabeth had obviously caught the look in his eyes, too, for she leaned forward with furrowed brow. “Is Papa all right? Is his heart . . .”

  “Your father is fine, child,” Doctor Rhodes answered.

  Grace, released from the embraces of the children, walked over and leaned to kiss his lined forehead.

  “Were you lovely in your wedding gown, Gracie?” he asked, taking her hand. He had a special place in his heart for her, having, with God’s help, snatched her from the jaws of death when she contracted scarlet fever at age ten.

  “Mother says I was a princess.”

  “An angel,” Julia corrected.

  “I’m quite sure you were both,” Elizabeth said without a smidgen of jealousy. “Papa has Titus Worthy and Mrs. Draper in the parlor. Doctor Rhodes and I wonder if there’s to be another wedding in the near future.”

  “Titus Worthy?” Julia was not sure if her ears had heard correctly.

  “The old saying is true,” Doctor Rhodes said, a glint in his eyes. “There is someone for everyone.”

  “Now, now,” Julia said. “I think that’s marvelous. He’s a decent man, if a bit rough around the edges.”

  “Yes, yes. Aren’t all we men? If you’ll forgive my changing the subject, I have something important to discuss.”

  “What is it?” Julia asked.

  “I’m thinking of giving up my practice.”

  “Surely not,” Grace said, with Elizabeth echoing the same.

  “I’m too old to be climbing out of bed at three in the morning to deliver—” His face fell. He looked at Elizabeth. “Forgive me, dear.”

  She gave him an understanding smile. “Go on, Doctor Rhodes.”

  He nodded with a grateful expression. “We have a nice little nest egg. I wish to spend the years I have remaining pottering about in the garden. Reading novels. And chiefly, annoying Mrs. Rhodes.”

  Ophelia Rhodes was Gresham’s veterinary doctor for decades, but a trembling palsy had caused her to turn her practice over to a Mr. Beddows eight years ago.

  “Good for
you,” Julia said. “Not the ‘annoying Ophelia’ part, mind you.”

  He laughed. “She would not feel loved if I did otherwise.”

  “But I can’t imagine having another doctor,” Grace said.

  “Well, this person would have to be very special. I have an obligation to my community. Now that I’m long in the tooth, I receive letters from young doctors inquiring about my practice. But given Philip’s connection to Gresham, I would first like to ask if he would be interested.”

  Silence followed. Elizabeth spoke first. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

  “Wonderful,” said Grace.

  Both faces mirrored the hope Julia felt. Before entering the University of Edinburgh’s College of Medicine at seventeen, her son’s biggest dream was to practice medicine in Gresham. But practically on the eve of graduation, a guest lecture by Scottish surgeon Lawson Tait steered Philip’s interests toward surgery. Would he have any desire to leave a successful career in the most exciting city on earth for the snail-paced dairying village of his youth? And the decision was not only Philip’s to make. Loretta should have a say.

  Loretta.

  Who, on her one visit to Gresham with Philip four years ago, had rarely left their room. Who had enthused verbally over her parents’ wedding gift—a house on Pembridge Gardens—but sat silent when Philip reminded Julia and Andrew how much they appreciated their gift of Royal Doulton china. And whose father was chief surgeon at Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital, where Philip practiced.

  “All you can do is write and ask,” Julia said, as her hopes sagged.

  “I hoped you would offer to write. Coming from his mother . . .”

  “And that’s why I must not.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “You understand.”

  “Yes.” The old man sighed. “You’re right, of course. Perhaps I should wait until the wedding. Approach him face-to-face.”

  He got to his feet, and Julia walked him to the gate. On her return, she looked past Elizabeth. “Where are the children?”

  There were days when the story simply wrote itself. Aleda Hollis unrolled the page from the Sholes and Glidden typewriter and added it to the growing stack. She inserted a clean sheet, moved the carriage to the right, and attacked the keys anew with her fingertips.