“I was turned away at the door,” he said.
I shall die of boredom! Donald thought, pacing the library rug.
Aside from a few current magazines, nothing but ponderous old books. The conservatory was quite pleasant for sitting and smoking Gold Flake cigarettes, but a man could not spend all his hours so engaged. The stables still boasted four fine horses, but he did not ride saddle, a secret he guarded closely. When he was eight, his own horse had bolted with him at Hyde Park, eventually rearing up and tossing him off as if he were a rag doll. His broken shoulder had healed, but now thirty years later, he still suffered limited range of motion in his left arm.
When Mrs. Cooper brought tea, he asked, “How would I go about buying a billiards table?”
“You would have to go to Shrewsbury,” she replied. “I’ve never seen one in the local shops.”
“Hmm.” He stirred milk into his tea. “Is there some household money put away somewhere?”
“Why no, sir. Anything we need from the shops is put to the squire’s account, to be paid by Mr. Stokes at the factory.”
“Horace Stokes?”
“Yes, sir. He pays our wages, as well. Perhaps you could ask him for the funds to buy the table?”
Donald studied her face for any sign of mockery. Her expression was as guileless as a baby’s. Uncle Thurmond had had another housekeeper twenty-one years ago. Perhaps the old gaffer had indeed managed to hush up the incident that sent Donald repacking for London.
And obviously Horace had benefited.
Even so, Donald would have to be completely desperate to ask him to advance him so much as a shilling.
An idea struck him. Perhaps he could persuade one of the local shopkeepers to order the table and put it on account. It could not hurt to drive the dogcart into the village and inquire. He had a way of charming people into doing what he wished.
He sighed, remembering he was housebound, for he expected a visit from the vicar sometime today. Tempting as it was to hide from confrontation, it was best to get it over and done with.
“Vicar Phelps is at the door, Mr. Gibbs,” Mrs. Cooper informed him a half hour later.
In the foyer, Donald was satisfied to see the housekeeper had followed his instructions not to ask for his hat. The sooner this affair was concluded, the better.
“It’s good to see you again, Vicar,” Donald said, pretending surprise, offering his hand. He was still a gentleman, after all.
“Thank you,” said Vicar Phelps as the housekeeper slipped away. “But I’m afraid I don’t understand. Mr. Raleigh, my son-in-law, wasn’t allowed to see the squire.”
“Yes, yes,” Donald said. “Nice fellow. I hope he wasn’t offended. I fear I did not explain myself satisfactorily to him.”
“I believe that to be the case.”
“You see, after you and Mrs. Phelps left yesterday, the thought struck me that I could read just as well to my uncle. Why inconvenience you and everyone else?”
“It’s no inconvenience.”
“But it is less of an inconvenience to me. What else have I here to occupy my time?” He smiled. “Or is it my reading ability that troubles you? Shall I fetch a book from the library and prove my literacy?”
“No, that’s not necessary,” the vicar replied with a polite little chuckle. “But I had also hoped having a variety of visitors would stimulate your uncle’s mind.”
This was something Donald had not considered, forcing him to think fast. Fortunately, he had always been skilled at landing upon his feet—not counting the time the horse threw him.
“At what cost to his body? As you have witnessed, he hangs on to health by a thread. His resistance is obviously low. I should think the less exposure to visitors, the better. Can you not see my reasoning?”
Vicar Phelps hesitated. “Ah . . . well . . .”
Weary of standing there, Donald decided it was time for the coup de grace. “It was so good of you to come. Please tell Mr. Raleigh I meant no disrespect. And if you’ll excuse me, I must see to my uncle.”
He reserved his chuckle for the staircase.
Poor vicar, he thought. Mr. Phelps seemed a decent fellow. Down to earth, not lofty like his predecessor, Vicar Wilson.
His smile faded. Vicar Wilson, whose letter to Saint John’s College had made him unwelcome at Oxford.
As irony would have it, the seeds of his piety and his bitterness were planted in the same ground when his parents sent him to Gresham at age seventeen. Uncle Thurmond had insisted he accompany him to Saint Jude’s. Under Vicar Wilson’s preaching, Donald found himself swept up in the desire to serve God. He became quite pious, devoting long hours to the Bible.
But that desire did not replace the other one, the reason he was banished briefly from London. And it was not long before that desire crept back from the mental closet to which he had confined it.
His problem, as in London, was choosing the wrong recipient of that desire. Haste and lust, yoked together, always outpaced judgment.
Chapter 9
“Liver and bacon, carrots and peas,
Bread pudding too, as rich as you please,
We must keep Aleda fat and well fed . . .”
Singing to the tune of “The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze,” Aleda waltzed into the larder on the nineteenth of June with a covered pot sent over from the vicarage. Full to the brim, she was, and here was enough left over for supper.
She paused on her way back into the kitchen.
Bed? Said? Red?
Finally something came.
“So stories will grow in her head . . .”
Not quite Gilbert and Sullivan. But she’d like to see those two pen a story about shipwrecked survivors and Komodo dragons.
A knock sounded at the door. All windows were open. Heat flamed her cheeks; she thought of easing her way back into the larder.
“Aleda? It’s Jeremiah.”
Aleda blew out her cheeks, went over to the door. You laugh once, Jeremiah, and I’ll box your ears.
The distress in his usually placid face sent that thought flying.
“What is it, Jeremiah?”
He looked over his shoulder, to where one of the squire’s black horses was tied to the gatepost, and raked a hand through his brown hair. “I’m meant to be giving Shadow a run. If anyone asks, I stopped to ask for a drink of water.”
She reached out and took his arm. “Come in, come in. What’s wrong?”
He waited until she had closed the door. “It’s Mr. Gibbs. He’s mistreatin’ the squire.”
“How?”
“Well, he allows none but Doctor Rhodes to visit. . . .”
Aleda was aware of that, having been turned away by Mrs. Cooper four days ago. She had thought it might do the squire some good to hear her latest short story, “The Stowaway.”
“Father says Mr. Gibbs is worried someone might infect him with a cold or something worse,” Aleda said.
“Ha!” As if shocked at his own outburst, Jeremiah glanced at the door, lowered his voice again. “Mr. Gibbs has put Mary back to cleaning rooms that ain’t even used. She’s only allowed to change the squire’s nappy and bathe and feed him, in the mornings and at night. We take turns flopping him over every two hours. But as soon as that’s done, we’re to leave. The curtains are open only when the doctor’s expected. The squire spends most of his days and nights alone in that dark room.”
His voice broke. “Mr. Gibbs says the squire needs his rest, that he ain’t aware of what’s going on about him, but how does he know that? What if the squire’s mind’s working fine, and he’s trapped by his body?”
“That’s . . . so sad,” Aleda said.
“We’ve been warned that anyone who carries tales will be sacked without pay. Can you get word to the vicar, without saying who it came from?”
“Yes. I’ll leave now.”
“No! Give me ten—fifteen minutes.”
He gave her a miserable, helpless look. “We need our jobs. All of u
s. I’ve a wife and baby.”
“Of course.” She rested a hand upon his shoulder. “You did right, Jeremiah. I’ll wait. Now go, before you’re discovered.”
The manor house boasted eight bedrooms. Donald had chosen the last chamber in the west corridor. He wished to be as far away from his uncle as possible when death came creeping up the staircase. It was a smallish room, perhaps originally intended for a child, but had a comfortable bed and good-sized writing desk. It was here that he penned a letter, the second in the eleven days since his arrival.
Enclosed you will find a cheque for twenty-three pounds, the remainder of my bank account after this month’s mortgage. My uncle’s end is imminent. I ask you again to be patient. I regret you’re bored. When I come into my inheritance, we shall have all the money we desire. How does a tour of the pyramids strike you? But again, you owe me patience. I shall be very angry if you persist in visiting those dark little places on Cleveland Street. Think back to from whence you came, before I rescued you.
Lips pressed, Donald penned one final line.
Would you rather go back to shoveling out stables?
By then, his ire was so great that he did not sign the page, but stuffed it into the envelope and addressed it.
He should have forced Reese to accompany him there, he thought. As a friend. But his uncle, should he recover, would figure out the score in a heartbeat. He was almost disinherited at seventeen. He could not risk it again.
He was just as angry at himself. His inability to turn down a game of cards had landed him in this quagmire of debt, forcing him to mortgage his family home in Kensington Gardens and sell off most of the furnishings—even coach and horses, and the double box in the Lyceum Theatre. Once he returned to London for good, he would never go near the gambling salons again.
He opened his door. Mary was lugging mop and bucket up the corridor. He cleared his throat. She looked at him, her face a mask.
“Mary. Have I missed the postman?”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
Donald blew out a breath. “What time does the post office close?”
“Five o’clock, sir.”
“Please go have someone bring around the dogcart. I shall be downstairs in ten minutes.”
She blinked at him. “Jeremiah or Osborn can deliver your letter.”
“No. I can use the drive.”
Ten minutes later he was crossing the porch. Black horse and dogcart waited, tethered to a carriage post. No sign of the two groomsmen. The staff had their ways, but dared not risk outright hostility.
He regretted their sullen disapproval. Who wanted to be the object of so much dislike, even from servants? He could not enjoy meals without wondering if they had been tainted. In his imagination, cutlets were dropped upon the floor, spittle stirred into the gravy. Or worse. Yet he had to eat. He did not even possess the funds to take regular meals at the Bow and Fiddle, for the old miser had not been a patron and thus had no account.
His mistake was underestimating the affection the servants felt for his uncle. In his memory, the man was a sharp-tongued old blister who kept the servants hopping. Never did he say please.
Perhaps he should call them all together when he returned from the post office. Announce that when the estate was settled he would double their wages. He untied the tether and smiled. Triple. Quadruple. Hundredfold. What did it matter?
So deep was he into his thoughts that it was only as he swung up into the seat and picked up the reins that he realized a carriage drawn by a pair of horses had turned down Bartley Lane. He frowned as it drew closer. Vicar Phelps and Doctor Rhodes sat in the front. He caught only small glimpses of the two in the rear seat. If he were a betting man—and he was—he would wager this meant bad news.
“We need to examine the squire, Mr. Gibbs,” Doctor Rhodes said without formality as the men alighted the barouche. He introduced a graying bearded man in dark suit as Mr. Baker, the squire’s solicitor, and a ferret-looking man in tweeds as Constable Reed.
No one offered a hand, so Donald did not offer his. He suspected it would be refused.
Stand your ground, he ordered himself. You’ve done nothing.
The longcase clock ticked a thousand seconds. Finally the four men filed into the library. Donald ceased pacing the carpet.
“Please have seats, gentlemen.”
They took to the sofa and chairs. Without preamble the solicitor, Mr. Baker, said, “We suspect you of neglecting Squire Bartley. In light of our concerns, Constable Reed intends to order a postmortem when he passes on.”
A nerve flicked in the corner of Donald’s mouth. He hoped they had not noticed.
“And I intend to file a motion against the will, accusing you of hastening his death. Even if the postmortem clears you, I assure you the motion will tie up your inheritance for months and months. The Shropshire courts are notoriously slow.”
“Gentlemen.” Donald dropped into a chair and put a hand upon his chest. He could feel his heart thumping against his breastbone. “I fear you are correct. I’ve done my uncle grave harm.”
Four sets of eyes traded glances.
“What do I know of nursing the infirm? I never had the opportunity to take care of my sainted mother and father, who drowned when the Atlantic sank eleven years ago. I only thought a quiet room, peaceful surroundings, would induce my uncle—my only living relation—to health.”
It was difficult to tell if they believed him. But at least no more accusations came forth.
“I’m grateful to you for drawing this to my attention,” he went on. “Please tell me . . . what can I do to atone for my error?”
Constable Reed spoke up. “We insist Doctor Rhodes examines him three times weekly.”
“But of course. I welcome that.”
“His bedchamber must be aired out,” Mr. Baker said. “And he must have around-the-clock care. That means overnight as well.”
“I’ll see to it.”
Through the whole visitation, Vicar Phelps had sat with tight lips set into a face that seemed a little pale. Finally he spoke. “That will benefit you, as well, Mr. Gibbs. Doing unto others as we would have them do unto us does not exclude family.”
“Yes, thank you,” Donald said humbly.
After a stilted silence, the men rose as one and started for the door.
“Good day, Mr. Gibbs,” said Constable Reed.
“Good day, gentlemen.” Donald turned to the solicitor. “Ah . . . Mr. Baker? May I have a moment?”
When they were alone, he said, “I realize this isn’t the appropriate occasion to address this. But I have no idea when we shall meet again. I’m completely strapped for funds.”
Mr. Baker’s brown eyes were devoid of any warmth. “You’re free to charge against your uncle’s account in any shop in the village.”
“Yes, yes. I understand that. But I . . . left behind some debts in London. Is it possible to have an advance . . . against my . . .” He cleared his throat. This was not the best time. But what choice did he have?
“Against your expectations?” Mr. Baker said flatly.
Donald hung his head. “Yes.”
“I believe you have already borrowed against them.”
My uncle and his big mouth! “Yes, some.”
Mr. Baker shook his head. “Squire Bartley’s instructions concerning his will were very clear. Not one inch of land, not one stick of furniture, not one penny is to be transferred until his death.”
“But I stand to lose my house in London! The house my parents—” He jerked a nod toward the ceiling. “The house his own sister lived in for over thirty years.”
And he stood to lose even more.
The solicitor shrugged. “I can only do as my client demands. Perhaps he’ll rally, now that you’re to be taking proper care of him. Then you may have a long conversation over your debts.”
Donald did not miss the sarcasm in his voice, however impassive the solicitor’s face.
Chapter 10
&nb
sp; All things work together for good to them that love God. Jewel had heard the Scripture read in church several times over the years, but never understood it until she landed in the vast basement of Stillmans, the largest emporium in Birmingham, boasting twenty-thousand feet of floor space, electric lights, and, wonder of wonders, an elevator.
Her responsibility was to unpack and press dresses, blouses, and skirts for the Ladies’ Department, hanging them with wooden hangers onto a rack on wheels that the shop assistants came for at the end of the day. She earned seven shillings and sixpence more than the corset factory had paid, enough to enroll Becky in Mrs. Mitchell’s Infant School on Cornwall Street, just two blocks from the department store. For an extra two shillings weekly, Mrs. Mitchell kept the children of employed mothers past six o’clock, and fed them a substantial tea at four.
The housing situation had improved, as well. Vicar Treves had found her and Becky a room in a small back-to-back cottage on Waterloo Street. Mr. Turner was a night-shift worker at the gasworks, and Mrs. Turner feared being alone with only her five-month-old son. Kitchen privileges and the use of the water closet and tiny garden were included, and the rent was lower than at the previous flat.
Furthermore, Mrs. Turner was delighted to have Becky home Saturdays to help amuse Carl, a pleasant baby who smiled and pumped his chubby legs into the air whenever anyone spoke cooing noises to him.
Jewel even had new clothes. Or at least, new to her. Because she would be working somewhat in the public view, Mrs. Treves had given her five lovely dresses, a cashmere wrapper, and two nightgowns from a wardrobe she had decided to hoard no longer.
“If I’m ever slim enough to wear them again, they’ll be woefully out of style,” she had said. “Others can put them to use now.”
The only fly in the ointment was that in order to be out of Mr. Dunstan’s range, they had had to resettle across town. Vicar Hansford’s sermons at Saint Martin Church were almost as inspiring as Vicar Treves’, if his demeanor was not as warm, with his impersonal “Good day” at the church door. But this was a fair price to pay for safety, and Jewel would never feel comfortable near her former neighborhood.
The Jewel of Gresham Green Page 9