The Jewel of Gresham Green

by Lawana Blackwell

  Was ever a night so dark? The fog muffled all sound but the infernal footsteps. They rasped against the damp grass, deliberate, closer and closer. Captain Jacobs’ heart swelled in his chest, pounding agai—

  “EEEE!”

  Aleda’s own heart lurched; she jammed the s and t keys. The scream dissolved into giggles as she swung open her door. Two faces whipped toward her.

  “Samuel found me!” Claire exclaimed, emerging from the linen cupboard.

  “I’m a . . . good finder!” Samuel confirmed between hiccups.

  Aleda scooped a folded pillowcase from the landing rug and stashed it back onto a shelf. “And what’s the rule about playing upstairs?”

  A guilty flush spread across Claire’s cheeks. Samuel put a chubby finger to his lips. “We must be silent as mice.”

  “No, the rule is that you must not play upstairs while Aunt Aleda is writing.”

  “We didn’t know you were writing,” Claire said. “Your door was closed.”

  “That’s how you know I’m writing. And you’re being very naughty, making noise while your grandfather has guests in the parlor. Where is your mother?”

  “In the garden,” Claire replied.

  Aleda guided the children downstairs, past the parlor, through the door, and across the porch. But the wicker chairs sat empty.

  “There they are” came Elizabeth’s voice as she, Mother, and Grace appeared from the side of the house.

  “These little moppets were crawling into cupboards!” Aleda grumbled.

  Elizabeth advanced, frowning. But instead of scolding the children, she looked Aleda up and down and said, “Mercy, sister! Do you dress blindfolded?”

  “Elizabeth . . .” Mother said.

  Because Aleda had actually forgotten what garments she had thrown over her body that morning, she looked down at her ink-stained chartreuse blouse and red skirt.

  “I happen to be too busy to labor over my wardrobe. And there is the matter of the children?”

  Finally her stepsister directed her attention where it belonged. “Who gave you permission to go indoors?”

  “We wanted to ask Mr. Smith for a ride on Belle,” said Claire, the more verbose of the two. Luke Smith was the vicarage caretaker. “But he wasn’t in the stable. We looked in the kitchen—”

  “We looked in the kitchen,” Samuel echoed.

  “—but he wasn’t there, either,” Claire finished, and lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mother.”

  Samuel mumbled something equally apologetic if indiscernible. Elizabeth’s voice softened as she patted their heads. “Well, just be mindful next time.”

  It was just as she would have expected, Aleda thought, accompanying the group to the chairs and dropping into one.

  “What do you say to a turn around the green?” Grace asked the children.

  They were reduced to quivers of eagerness, with Claire pressing hands together and Samuel hopping on one foot. They turned to Elizabeth. “May we, Mother?”

  “Very well. Mind you obey your aunt Grace, and stay away from the river.”

  The two practically pulled Grace from the garden. Elizabeth touched Aleda’s elbow. “I’m sorry they interrupted your work.”

  Aleda’s martyred feelings crumbled. How could she fault Elizabeth for her softness with the children? How fragile they must seem, when Elizabeth’s own womb had not afforded safety to the ones she had lost.

  She shrugged and smiled at her stepsister. “It’s no bother. I would be coming down for lunch in an hour anyway. Who does Father have in the parlor? I heard voices.”

  “Titus Worthy and Mrs. Draper,” Elizabeth replied with eyes shining.

  “You jest?”

  As if on cue, the door opened and Father stepped out onto the porch with the couple. Titus Worthy and the widow Mrs. Draper were as different as chalk and cheese. Yet, something had changed. Aleda blinked. Gone was the gamekeeper’s tangled beard. His matted hair was cut close to the head and appeared clean. A well-pressed suit replaced wrinkled dirty clothes.

  Mrs. Draper, tidy as ever in a pale blue gown, returned Mother’s wave but continued down the flagstone walk, her arm linked through Mr. Worthy’s. Father accompanied them to the gate, then advanced toward the chairs, smiling so widely his hazel eyes crinkled, and the dimples were visible beneath his blond beard.

  He was actually Aleda’s stepfather since she was twelve. Like Grace and Philip, she adored him for stepping into the void left by their own father; a void present long before his death.

  “Where are the twins?” he asked, settling into a chair.

  “With Grace,” Elizabeth answered. “Don’t keep us in suspense, Papa.”

  He glanced over at the lane to make certain the couple were out of hearing. “Yesterday the squire gave Mr. Worthy permission to move in with Mrs. Draper, after they’re married. The gamekeeper’s cottage is too small for six children. He can perform his duties from her home just as well.”

  “He can perform them from Africa just as well,” Aleda quipped. No one understood why the squire even retained a gamekeeper, once his diet became limited to bland foods. Mr. Worthy’s job basically was to keep poachers with their guns out of the woods nearest the manor house. But what few poachers there were preferred the north woods across the river, not crisscrossed by paths and invaded by berry pickers and mushroom gatherers.

  “They wish to move the date closer?” Mother asked.

  “I hope it doesn’t conflict with Grace’s wedding,” Elizabeth said.

  “What date did they set?” Aleda asked.

  Father smiled. “A quarter of an hour ago.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Julia said.

  “I pressed Luke and Dora into service as witnesses.”

  “So that’s where Luke was,” Elizabeth said.

  “But why the hurry?” Aleda asked.

  “They feared the squire might change his mind. His disposition has become worse, according to Mr. Worthy.”

  “The poor man,” Julia said.

  “Tragic,” Elizabeth murmured.

  Aleda arranged her face into a sympathetic expression. She really did pity Squire Bartley. But she could not stop her thoughts from racing toward a certain cottage in Gipsy Woods.

  Chapter 3

  The red sandstone manor house had been as unapproachable as a prison ever since the squire’s wife, Octavia Kingston Bartley, slipped out of life while tending her precious roses five years ago. So it was with some flutters of nerves that Aleda trod the winding stone path through Squire Bartley’s austere gardens.

  She was dressed smartly for her mission. Even Elizabeth would approve. Housemaid Wanetta had ironed and starched her white blouse, and her skirt of tan Irish poplin with blue print flowed fluidly from her wide leather belt. While she wore a petticoat for modesty’s sake, she did not even own a bustle. She adored her mother and sisters, who wore them, but was embarrassed for her gender that such a fashion even existed. What man would be so foolish as to attach a wire frame contraption beneath his trousers to exaggerate his bottom?

  A gardener planting bulbs ignored her, and a young man picking up sticks from the grass merely touched the brim of his hat, which gave her some courage. Fear makes the wolf bigger than he is, she reminded herself.

  She mounted the porch, rapped the knocker, and was shortly face-to-face with the housekeeper, bosomy and round shouldered, dark hair peppered with gray, and keys hanging from her waist. Aleda knew her to be Horatia Cooper, a relation of Philip’s school chum Jeremiah Toft, who now worked as the squire’s groomsman.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Cooper. May I ask a moment of the squire’s time?”

  Mrs. Cooper shook her head. “I’m afraid he’s not seeing visitors, Miss Hollis.”

  This was expected. He no longer accepted even Father’s calls.

  “But I’m not exactly a visitor. It’s more of a business matter.”

  “All business matters are handled by Mr. Matthews. He manages the factory.”

&nb
sp; “It doesn’t have anything to do with the cheese factory,” Aleda said while frustration gnawed at her insides.

  Mrs. Cooper shook her head again. “I’m sorry, but I have my orders, miss.”

  That quelled all argument. Desperate as she was, Aleda could not ask this woman to risk her position. It was an ill-conceived idea anyway. Caught up in a surge of disappointment, she said, “I so desperately wanted to buy the gamekeeper’s cottage.”

  “Titus Worthy’s? But he informed us but an hour ago it’s to be empty.”

  “Yes. And I practically ran all the way here. The thought of so much lovely privacy . . .”

  But what was the use of standing there, rattling like a pebble in a jar? Aleda sighed, took a backwards step. “Forgive me for taking you from your duties. But . . . if you ever hear the squire mention the cottage, will you put in a good word for me?”

  Mrs. Cooper pressed her lips together thoughtfully, glanced over her shoulder, and lowered her voice. “I’m very sorry, but the squire cannot be disturbed while he takes his tea in the conservatory. This very moment.”

  Dumbstruck, Aleda stared at her.

  Mrs. Cooper’s voice returned to its former level. “So as you can see, no visitors are allowed. I must ask you to leave.”

  “Yes, of course.” Aleda reached out for the woman’s work-worn hand, squeezed it. “Thank you.”

  She rounded the corner to the south side. In view were the stone smokehouse and dairy, barn and piggery, carriage house and stables. Some sixty feet away, a laundress pegged out wash, taking no notice of her.

  The glass-and-wood-frame conservatory jutted out from the west side, no doubt added midcentury or later to the Georgian house. Aleda and her mother and sisters had once taken tea with Mrs. Bartley here. Aleda braced herself at the glass door. A five-foot monkey puzzle tree hindered her view. She could not tell if the squire was indeed inside.

  “Miss? If you please?”

  Aleda held her breath, turned. The laundress was striding toward her.

  Oh dear. Aleda sent her a casual wave, as if perfectly in her place, and turned the knob in her hand.

  “See here, miss!” she heard, louder.

  Aleda flung open the door and hastened inside. In for a penny, in for a pound. Even as her heart hammered, she could appreciate the sweet musty scents of soil and living things: gardenias, mystic ferns, roses, orchids, hydrangeas.

  “Who is there?” That unmistakable voice. Vocal cords made of flint.

  “Aleda Hollis, sir,” she replied, edging around the tree.

  She met a pair of scowling gray eyes topped by tufts of white brows. The squire’s tall frame seemed to have shrunk, or perhaps the wheelchair and lap rug made it seem so. Otherwise, he seemed not to have aged in the five years since Aleda had last clapped eyes upon him. But then, he had always seemed ancient, with his bald head and lined face. A tray rested upon an occasional table beside him. Precisely arranged were a saucer and cup filled with what appeared to be more milk than tea, a small pink china teapot, and a dish holding two bland-looking biscuits.

  “Why are you here?” he demanded.

  Behind her, Aleda heard the door open, the maid’s voice. “Squire! There’s a woman came—”

  “I wouldn’t disturb you, but I desperately wish to buy your gamekeeper’s cottage.”

  “Miss, you must leave!” came from her right.

  “It would be the most tranquil place to—”

  “Shall I get Mr. Toft, Squire?” asked the maid.

  The squire stared up at Aleda as if trying to decide.

  “Please, sir.”

  “No.” He blew out a pained sigh. “Leave her be. For now.”

  Finally Aleda risked a look to the right, expecting a venomous expression. But the young maid seemed too stunned for anger. A second later she was gone.

  “Thank you, Squire.” Aleda cleared her throat, stepped closer. “How are you keeping?”

  “Marvelously. But you’ll forgive me if I don’t rise. I danced the night away, drank to excess, and now must pay the piper.”

  He was mocking her. Aleda nodded. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  A pale spotted hand lifted, dropped back to his lap. “Your stories are quite entertaining.”

  “You read them?”

  “I have subscribed to Argosy Magazine, among other publications, for decades.”

  “You’re very kind.”

  “How long have you wanted to write?” he asked, ignoring the compliment.

  “Since I was a girl.”

  “You write like a man. All those adventures. Not a lot of flowery words.”

  “I’ve also had stories in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine and The Cornhill Magazine.”

  “I have seen some. How does that happen to a girl from Gresham?”

  “Well, I did graduate from Newnham College. But I got my start in Argosy. A dear friend introduced me to the editors.”

  “Ah . . . connections.”

  Defensively, Aleda added, “Even they wouldn’t publish them if they were inferior.”

  “Of course not. Do sit. My neck grows weary. There is a stool somewhere to your left.”

  Aleda located the stool near a small apricot tree, placed it three feet directly in front of the squire so that his neck could be relieved of turning duty, as well.

  “So you’re here to inquire about the gamekeeper’s cottage. Why do you wish to live in the middle of the woods?”

  “It’s not in the middle of the woods.” The path from East Church Street to the cottage meandered only about a hundred feet. Far enough for seclusion, yet close enough to the manor house to ensure no poachers with guns. “But I would relish the privacy.”

  “For writing.”

  “Yes. The vicarage has too many callers. It’s time I left the nest anyway. And I’ve loved that cottage since I was a child.”

  “Slipping out to play in my woods, no doubt?”

  The worst he can do is order me away, Aleda reminded herself. “All children play in the woods, sir. Didn’t you?”

  He snorted a sharp laugh. “When I last set eyes upon it, it was not fit for a lady, due to Titus Worthy’s slovenly ways. I can only assume it has declined since then.”

  “I like rustic. And I can hire any cleaning necessary.”

  “It has no water closet.”

  “A privy was good enough for Shakespeare.”

  Again he chuckled. “Why do you not stay at the Larkspur Inn? Your mother still owns it, correct?”

  “Yes. I gave that a try. Too many people. It was not conducive to writing.”

  “Why not take rooms in the city?” the squire asked. “No one bothers another person in the city.”

  “On the occasions I come up for air, I want to be with family. It has to be Gresham.”

  His eyes scowled under their thatching of white brows. Yet his voice was amiable as he said, “You are tenacious, Miss Hollis. You should consider going into business if you ever tire of writing.”

  Aleda smiled, any remnants of fear gone. “I take that as a compliment, Squire Bartley. Now, as to your cottage . . .”

  “How is your family?”

  She was at his mercy. “They’re well, thank you.”

  “I’ve heard something from my servants about a wedding.”

  “Yes, sir. Grace marries Thomas Langford on the seventeenth of May.”

  He shook his head wonderingly. “Little Gracie.”

  “She’s twenty.”

  “Ah, time flies.”

  Not quickly enough. Aleda risked a glance to her watch. A gift from her parents upon graduating from Newnham, it was of pure gold with tiny diamonds circling the face.

  “You would be more than welcome at the wedding,” she said.

  “I think not. I tire too easily. But give her my best wishes. Grace was Octavia’s favorite.”

  “She’s everyone’s favorite.”

  “Does that make you envious?”

  “Not at all.” Aleda gave him a
sincere smile. “She’s my favorite, too.”

  “And your brother? Philip?”

  Aleda was not so pleased with him. But that was not for public consumption. “He’s a surgeon at Saint Bartholomew’s.”

  Squire Bartley tapped his temple. “Bright young man, he always was. Any children?”

  Just his wife. “None so far.”

  “And Vicar Phelps’s daughters?”

  “They’re well. Elizabeth is busy with three children. Laurel’s in Ceylon, where her husband, Ben Mayhew, is building a hospital.”

  “Ceylon.” He shook his head. “Humidity and mosquitoes, I should imagine.”

  “They write that they’re happy. They have a baby girl. Abigail.”

  “Indeed. Everyone starting families but you.”

  Give me patience, Lord, Aleda thought, shifting on the stool.

  On the heels of that thought came awareness. There was only one reason he would drag out the conversation. Loneliness. But why, then, the self-imposed exile? Was the sympathy of friends so odious that he preferred to grieve alone?

  “Yes. I’m not married,” she confirmed.

  “And how old are you?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “Are there any prospects?”

  “Just the prospect of happy solitude.”

  He actually cackled. “And what has soured you on men?”

  “I’m not sour on men. Half of my favorite people are men.”

  “And children?”

  “I adore them,” she replied, and thought, Even those who hide in linen cupboards.

  “Then why do you not wish to marry?”

  “Well . . . autonomy.”

  “Explain?”

  Aleda drew in a deep breath, eased it out. “I’ve become too fond of coming and going as I please. Saving or spending my wages at my own discretion. Traveling at my own whim. And if I shut myself up to write for three days running, I don’t have to worry about a husband getting into a huff over being ignored.”

  “In other words, you’re selfish.”

  “I’m realistic, sir,” she argued. “Why embark upon a venture that is contrary to my nature? That will ultimately make not only myself miserable but some other innocent person.”