“Not if you don’t speak it.” The water dimpled where Andrew’s hook sank.
“ ‘Our doubts are traitors,’ ” Ambrose said, “ ‘and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.’ ”
Andrew repeated the line. “That’s a great one, Ambrose.”
“Take all the time you need,” Ambrose said graciously.
Smiling to himself, Andrew thought how easily his friend fell into the acting role, for patience was not one of Ambrose’s virtues. It was a wonder that he enjoyed fishing.
“What have we here?” Ambrose said, and reeled in a bream, too meager for Mrs. Herrick’s table.
“You’ll be patronizing Temple’s after all,” Andrew said, just before a great wave of pain rolled through his midsection.
“It is no shame to contribute to the village economy.” Ambrose baited his hook, whistling Verdi’s “La Donna è Mobile” between his teeth.
Andrew clutched his stomach with his left hand.
“Say, old man, are you thinking?” Ambrose said.
Sweat trickled down Andrew’s temple.
Ambrose cast his line back into the water. “Would you care for a hint?”
A groan rose up from Andrew’s stomach, pushed through his lips.
“As you wish, but there is no shame in getting a hint.”
Andrew groaned again.
Ambrose jerked his head in his direction, threw down his rod and reel.
“What is it?” Ambrose asked, taking the rod from his hand, helping him sit on the grass.
“Tonic,” Andrew said weakly. “I need—”
“You need the doctor.” Ambrose crouched before him, felt his forehead. “You’re sweating like old cheese. Will you be all right while I get help?”
“Yes,” Andrew replied. And indeed, the pain was subsiding. “I think it’s better. I just need a minute.”
“Not on your life. I’ll be back.” Ambrose straightened, started toward the vicarage.
“Wait!”
Ambrose turned back to him, face tight with concern. “What is it, Andrew?”
“The line . . .”
“It’s over there in the grass. I’ll gather it all up after—”
“No.” Andrew shook his head. “Shakespeare.”
Ambrose gaped at him. “I can’t believe you! It’s from Measure for Measure! Act one! If you’re dead when I return, I shall carve it on your gravestone!”
Andrew chuckled, listening to the fading footfalls against the earth. Only a true friend would make such a morbid joke.
If he passed on this very moment, he would not hold it against God, for he had been blessed with good friends and loving family. A fulfilling vocation. The most loving wife a man could ask for.
Julia, he thought, and closed his eyes.
But if you would kindly grant me just a little more time . . .
“May I bring you up some tea, Mrs. Phelps?” Dora asked from the landing.
“No thank you,” Julia replied. “I’m sorry your lovely treats are wasted.”
“They’ll make a fine lunch later, anyway. How is the vicar?”
“I don’t know yet.”
What Julia did know was that it was absolutely useless to pace outside the bedroom door, but she could not tear herself away. She was grateful that Elizabeth and Fiona and Ambrose were downstairs to explain to the ladies arriving that the meeting would have to be postponed.
The door opened and Doctor Rhodes stuck his head through the gap. “Come back inside, Mrs. Phelps.”
Julia entered. Andrew sat on the side of the bed, buttoning his shirt. He smiled at her. “I feel much better. Don’t look so worried.”
“Over there! Directly east!” cried first mate Harris. He hopped to his feet and waved his arms. “We’ll gather sticks . . . build a fire!”
“Wait!” Captain Jacobs ordered. “We don’t know who they are.”
“Who they are? After two years on this blasted island, I don’t care if it’s Napoleon Bonaparte!”
Captain Jacobs drew his pistol, aimed it at Harris. Just two bullets remained. The rest rusted in the carcasses of Komodo dragons that had feasted on three of his men.
“Lay low, Harris, or I’ll plug you and leave you for the lizards!” That got the first mate’s attention. He dropped to the ground.
“There’s a good man,” Jacobs said. How could he fault Harris, with his young wife and two children waiting? Perhaps if he himself had someone to return to, he would not be so cautious.
He raised his field glasses to his eyes. The Union Jack flapped from the mast. Jacobs smiled.
“Build your fire, Harris.”
What Captain Jacobs could not know was that Indonesian pirates had commandeered the ship. Another one in the oven, Aleda thought, unrolling the page and its carbon copy.
She would not trade places with anyone. In what other vocation could one be paid for sitting in the cool window breeze, sending daydreams to the fingers to type? For changing from nightgown at one’s leisure, sometimes not at all when a deadline loomed near.
As she wrapped and tied the original pages for mailing, she wondered how long she could stretch out the story. She would send the hapless crew of the HMS Sphinx home eventually—minus the poor trio eaten by Komodo dragons and however many would perish battling pirates. But Harris and Captain Jacobs would come out alive. Readers would want Harris reunited with his wife and children and Captain Jacobs to find romance.
That gave her pause. What if in next month’s installment those same pirates had on their ship a beautiful daughter of a lord, captured for ransom?
Hmm. Aleda chewed her fingernail. Captain Jacobs would have to be over forty to have participated in the siege of Petropavlovsk. The woman should be in her thirties.
She could be the widow of a lord . . . who was recently murdered by the pirates.
But this lord would have to have been corrupt, perhaps have attempted to do business with the pirates. He would have mistreated his wife, or readers would not accept her falling in love with Captain Jacobs so soon into her widowhood.
She had a month to sort it all out. She pushed back her typewriter on her desk, filled her Waterman fountain pen. Whatever time her bread-and-butter stories did not demand was devoted to her novel. Wharram Percy was set in an actual abandoned village in the Yorkshire wolds, and filled with stories of characters who might have lived there. She had visited the site and surrounding area five times over the past four years. Last year, she had tied plots and subplots into a proper ending. Even so, the story stretched out before her like a road dipping over the horizon.
Her pen was the tortoise on that road. The typewriter was too impersonal. Completion was impeded by such things as side trips to chapter six to enhance the dialogue between the constable and his errant child, chapter ten to trim superfluous adjectives from a sunset.
Critics, somewhat forgiving with newspaper serializations for the masses, could be brutal with novels. Aleda had felt just enough critical jabs from her stories to know that she would not surrender her heart, her passion, for public viewing until every word, phrase, and paragraph was the best it could possibly be.
Knocking sounded downstairs. She picked up her watch from her desktop.
Twenty past nine?
Mrs. Moore’s grandson, Vernon, would be delivering clean laundry today, but he usually came just before noon. She pushed out of her chair and slipped dressing gown over nightgown. She could only find one slipper, so padded downstairs in bare feet.
“Aunt Aleda?”
She recognized John’s voice through the door.
“Come in!” she called, halfway across the kitchen.
He opened the door and entered. The eleven-year-old had inherited Jonathan’s dark hair and compact build, but the good-natured hazel eyes were handed down from Andrew. Today they were filled with worry.
“Is it the squire?” Aleda asked.
He shook his head. “Mother says come. It’s Grandfather.”
<
br /> “Well, it’s an ill wind that blows no good,” Father said from his parlor chair. “It’s good to see you, daughter. Did you finish your story?”
But for paleness to his cheeks, he seemed well. There was more distress in the faces of the other occupants of the parlor— Mother, Elizabeth and Jonathan, Ambrose and Fiona Clay.
“Yes. John says you’re ill. What is it?”
“Gallstones,” her mother said gently, sitting on an ottoman at his side, holding his hand.
“What does that mean?” asked John.
Father smiled at him. “That I’ve got too much gall, John. Can you believe it?”
“Grandfather will be fine,” Elizabeth assured her son. “The stones just need to . . . come out.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “How?”
“Well, in hospital.”
“It’s done all the time now,” said Mr. Clay, but the assurance in his voice did not travel up to his eyes.
The parlor table was set with teapot and two trays of sandwiches and assorted treats. They looked barely touched, and must have been intended for one of her mother’s charity meetings. Aleda was famished, having subsisted on bread and cheese and gooseberries for the past week. But nothing could have induced her to eat. She crossed the carpet and stood before her stepfather with arms folded.
“We will not allow Doctor Rhodes to put a knife to you!”
A gasp came from behind. She twisted around and realized John had followed her across the room. Jonathan got up from the sofa to put an arm around the boy’s shoulders. Elizabeth, rising too, shook her head at Aleda as if to reassure her that she had done nothing wrong.
“Why don’t you take him home?” Mother said gently. “See about the twins. Mrs. Littlejohn and Hilda will be tired.”
Jonathan and Elizabeth looked at each other. The message traveling between the two sets of eyes was as distinct as if spoken. When Jonathan did speak, it was simply confirmation for the rest of the people in the room.
“We’ll go,” he said softly to Elizabeth. “Stay here awhile.”
She touched his sleeve and returned to the sofa. Aleda moved to sit beside her.
“Doctor Rhodes recommends a well-reputed surgeon at Saint John’s Hospital,” Mother said. “He’s telegraphing to inquire for Monday.”
“Monday?” Fiona Clay said.
“That was the first attack I’ve had in a couple of weeks,” Father said. “I feel right as rain now.”
“Right as clouds, you mean,” Aleda said. “You’re white.”
“Mother?” Elizabeth pleaded.
“I agree he shouldn’t wait,” she said with pained tone. “But we may as well argue with a gatepost.”
Father nodded. “I appreciate all of you. And I don’t wish to cause you worry. But I’ve had these attacks for months now. Four days will make no difference. I’ve promised to baptize the Coggins’ grandchild, and have already written my sermon. As I shall be laid up in bed for weeks afterwards, I intend to be in the pulpit on Sunday.”
It was useless to argue. Aleda could hardly blame him. If she were told she required immediate surgery, she would argue for a couple of days to get her manuscripts in order, adjust to the idea. But there was another question no one had asked—at least not in her hearing.
“What about Philip?” she asked.
“Yes, Andrew,” Mr. Clay said, starting to rise. “I’ll telegraph him at once.”
“No,” Father said. “Doctor Rhodes says this other man is good. I’m satisfied.”
“But, Father,” Elizabeth said, “Philip was at the top of his class.”
“And you have that heart murmur,” Aleda reminded him.
“He wouldn’t have time to arrange for someone to cover his absence.”
“Shouldn’t that be his decision?” Mr. Clay said, seated again but looking prepared to hop up at a moment’s notice.
“No. It should be mine.” Father looked from face to face. “I appreciate all of you. More than I can say. But I shall be very hurt if any of you go against me and contact him.”
Silence followed, with most eyes staring down at hands.
This is insane. Aleda cleared her throat. “Will you even inform him, Father?”
“Of course. Tonight I’ll write to him, as well as to Laurel and Grace. Now, noon is only forty minutes away. What say we pass those dishes around and have lunch?”
“Yes,” Mother said, rising. “We have so much here. Oh, but Jonathan and the children . . .”
“I’ll just pack a hamper and join them at home,” Elizabeth said.
“I’ll help you.” Aleda got to her feet and gave her mother a regretful look. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
Chapter 12
Aleda and her sister walked in silence, holding the hamper between them, until out of earshot of the vicarage.
“What do you think?” Elizabeth asked.
“I think Philip ought to know.”
“But Father would be incensed.”
“And to what end?” Aleda gave a dry chuckle. “His sermon Sunday past was on forgiveness.”
Elizabeth’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, Aleda! Are you thinking of telegraphing him?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’m so relieved. I won’t tell anyone.” A little sob broke her voice. “I couldn’t do it myself. I’ve always been afraid of disappointing Father. Not that he’s harsh, but because his opinion of me matters so much. When you lose one parent . . .”
She hesitated. “Forgive me. You lost a parent, too.”
“You have nothing for which to apologize,” Aleda assured her. “I barely knew my father.”
“Was it the same way, having only a mother? Did you care terribly what she thought?”
Aleda mulled over that one. “I cared. I’ve always adored my mother.”
“Of course.”
“But I don’t know if I had the overwhelming drive to please that you describe. That seems to be more particular to daughters and fathers.”
“Thank you for doing this for him,” Elizabeth said hoarsely. “I know you and I haven’t been terribly close because of the age difference. But I’m so glad you’re my sister.”
“It’s nothing,” Aleda said, embarrassed by the sentiment while blinking the sting from her eyes.
As they reached the cottage gate, Aleda smiled at the sight of Jonathan romping with the children in the garden.
“Jonathan’s a good father, too.”
“Yes, he is.” Elizabeth took the hamper and reached for the latch, but then turned back around with a knowing smile.
“What is it?” Aleda asked.
With lowered voice, her sister said, “Can you bear another niece or nephew?”
Aleda stared at her, noticed the bloom in her cheeks. “Are you serious?”
“I’m three months along. We haven’t broken the news to anyone yet. We want to give the baby time to grow. I’ve not even written to Laurel.”
The fact that she had just been honored did not escape Aleda. “Thank you for telling me.” She reached for the hamper. “But here, you shouldn’t be carrying that.”
Elizabeth moved it aside. “Exercise is good for me. That’s been my mistake, coddling myself, taking to bed. I started reading up on childbearing after the last—”
Aleda nodded, stepped over to embrace her. “I’m happy for you.”
“Aunt Aleda!”
The twins were sprinting toward the gate. Aleda surrendered to both sweaty embraces and smiled when their attention leaped from her to the hamper.
“Ooh, what have you, Mother?” Claire asked.
“Lunch!” Elizabeth said, producing more exclamations of ecstasy.
Aleda waved at Jonathan and John, and set out again. Her ears barely registered distant hoofbeats and the rumbling of wheels. Her mind was going over her conversation with Elizabeth.
She had noticed the unique bond between daughters and fathers long ago. She suspected most writers were lifelong people watchers. Living in t
he Larkspur as a girl, the vicarage later, and Newnham College as a young woman had provided a wealth of material for her ink-drawn characters.
That habit of studying people was what propelled her toward Trumbles. She was quite certain she had seen through her stepfather’s refusal to telegraph Philip.
Andrew was the most decent man she had ever known, but he was not above a little vindictiveness when a loved one was hurt. Aleda had heard the stories of how he had tormented a younger Jonathan when he came to Gresham seeking Elizabeth’s forgiveness for his indiscretions.
What better way to bring Philip up short for hurting Mother, for not taking the time to write a single letter during the five weeks since Grace’s wedding, than to have him receive Andrew’s letter after the surgery? Even she herself found some smug satisfaction over the notion.
But teaching a lesson was one thing. Safety was another. Philip would go the second and third miles to see that their stepfather got proper care.
At least the old Philip would. The pre-Loretta Philip. She could only hope that part of him would not have changed.
“How is the vicar?” Mrs. Shaw called from her garden, pushing back her bonnet. She wore the look of someone about to amble over to the gate.
“He’s better, thank you,” she replied with a little wave, to get the point across that she would not be stopping.
“Too bad about the surgery. But he’ll come through fine.”
Aleda’s steps faltered briefly. But of course. Doctor Rhodes’ telegram to his colleague. Trumbles was a cake of yeast in Gresham’s lump of gossip dough. “Yes, thank you,” she said with another wave.
A pair of horses and coach broke into sight beyond the elm trees. She paid it no mind, but then the horses slowed to a halt. The driver doffed his cap.
“Pardon me, miss, but will you direct me to the vicarage?”
“The vicarage? Why?”
“My passengers here say they’re to report to Vicar Phelps.”
A young woman stared from the window, seeming so much like a frightened rabbit that Aleda stepped close and said with softened voice, “My stepfather is the vicar. But he’s not well.”
“Oh dear,” the woman said.
“What’s the matter, Mummy?” came from inside. Another head squeezed into view, smaller, with the same red curls peeking from a straw hat.
The Jewel of Gresham Green Page 11