The Jewel of Gresham Green

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Miss?” the driver said.

  “A moment please,” Aleda said to him, and turned again to the woman. “Why do you wish to see him?”

  “I’ve a letter from Vicar Treves in Birmingham asking him to find a job for me. I’m sorry he’s ill. Will he be all right?”

  “Miss?” the driver said impatiently.

  Aleda sent him a glare. He shrugged and took a pipe from his pocket. To the woman she said, “He needs surgery.”

  “Oh dear.”

  The concern in her voice seemed genuine. For herself and the girl, yes, but also for her stepfather.

  “Can you come back in a month or so, when he’s recovered?” Aleda asked.

  The woman’s face clouded. “I’ve nowhere else to go.”

  Aleda stifled a sigh. What to do? She looked about. Mrs. Shaw had apparently retreated to her cottage. Should she send the pair to Elizabeth’s? On her return from telegraphing Philip, they could deal with the matter without involving Mother and Father. Elizabeth was a member of the Women’s Charity Society, and Jonathan knew almost every person in Gresham.

  But wait, she thought. Elizabeth had enough on her hands, especially in her condition. No matter what she said about exercise, Aleda was quite certain mental strain was a detriment to pregnancy.

  Her spirits sagged. She would have to take charge. She opened the door, called up to the driver.

  “Please continue on until I call for you to stop.”

  The woman moved over, looking both frightened and hopeful. The girl, leaning against her mother, stared. Aleda gave both a resigned smile.

  “Good day. I’m Aleda Hollis.”

  The woman’s reddish brows lifted. “The writer?”

  “Yes, I am. Vicar Treves told you?”

  “Mrs. Treves did.”

  “She gives me peppermints,” the girl piped.

  Aleda had to laugh. “Is that so? And what might your names be?”

  “Where do you want this?” the driver grunted, bent under the weight of a battered tin trunk.

  “Just inside here,” Aleda replied, moving aside the umbrella stand, almost tripping over the canvas bag of laundry Vernon Moore had delivered three days ago.

  The driver set down his burden with a thump. Mrs. Libby had apparently already paid him, for he touched the brim of his cap and said to her, “Good day.”

  “Thank you,” she said. She stood in the corner of the cottage kitchen, holding her daughter’s hand. Thankfully, the day was still young. After telegraphing Philip, Aleda would figure out what to do with them.

  An idea came to her. She could make up for most of her lost time.

  “Wait!” she said to the coachman. “Will you drop me off at the crossroads?”

  “For a shilling.”

  “Very good. I just have to fetch something.”

  He pursed his lips. “A florin, then.”

  Halfway up the staircase, she thought of her temporary guests and turned to say, “The water closet’s through the back door. And please help yourselves to the gooseberries on the table.”

  She might as well mail her manuscript, too, Aleda thought. It was as she tied it with paper and string that a more potent thought struck her.

  If she sent the telegraph from Trumbles, her father would know within the hour. Given his stubbornness, he could possibly move up the date of his surgery. It depended upon which was more important to him, having to turn his pulpit over to a curate one Sunday earlier or having Philip not involved.

  Only a few yards away waited transportation to Shrewsbury. She should send it from the railway station.

  That thought led to another. Why not speak directly with Philip? Shame him for so neglecting his family that their stepfather would not even venture to ask his opinion about the surgery. If Philip was so cowed by Loretta as to refuse, he would have to do it looking in her eyes, not holding an impersonal piece of paper.

  She looked at her watch. If she hurried, she could make the five o’clock express to London and be back by tomorrow evening.

  You’re insane, she told herself, even while shoving her toilet kit, nightgown, and manuscript into her satchel. She changed into the same olive green cashmere traveling suit that had served her well for four years. She would simply wear the same clothes home tomorrow.

  Downstairs, the driver munched gooseberries at the table, while Mrs. Libby and Becky did not seem to have moved.

  “Will you drive me to Shrewsbury Station?”

  “Cost you a crown,” the driver said between chews.

  Highway robbery, given that if she didn’t go, he stood to make nothing for the return journey. But her only alternative was to inquire if Mr. Pool’s coach was available, and his nephew sober enough to drive. And of course, the whole of Gresham would know, and Father would suspect her mission.

  Aleda approached Mrs. Libby. “I apologize for running out on you like this, but I’ve an important errand. We’ll figure out what to do with you when I return. But for now, make yourselves at home.”

  “Oh, thank you!” Mrs. Libby gushed with shining eyes.

  But there was no time for sentiment. Aleda went on. “There’s a guest room upstairs. You’ll find some bread and jam and cheese and an egg or two in the larder. The potatoes may still be good. The cat fends for herself, but give her some cheese and change the water bowl. And there are lots more gooseberries on the bush at the bottom of the garden. I’ve meant to shop for days. But that should do until I return tomorrow evening.”

  “I’ve some money. We can buy—”

  “No,” Aleda said. “Stay away from the shops. I doubt anyone will stop by here, but if so, you’re to say I’m not available. It won’t be a lie, and will be absolutely believed.”

  Once settled back in the coach, Aleda closed the curtains lest even Elizabeth spot her. The fewer people involved, the better.

  “Was that lady angry?” Becky asked on the way to the water closet.

  “Oh no, mite,” Jewel replied. “Just in a hurry.”

  “Where did she go in the coach?”

  “To Shrewsbury Station. You know, where we left the train?”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. But she’s to return tomorrow.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She’s the daughter of the vicar we came to see. Her name is Miss Hollis, remember?”

  The girl had more questions as they came back through the parlor. “Is this our new home?”

  Her young voice begged reassurance. She had been uprooted too many times of late. But any false assurances would later chip away at the small bit of security she possessed.

  “No, sweetheart,” Jewel replied. “At least not this house. But Miss Hollis didn’t send us away, so I think we’ll be allowed to stay in the village.”

  She did not wish to raise her own hopes, either. But she had seen enough from the coach window to believe that Gresham was a harbor of peace and serenity, with its cottages and gardens, blue sky and dainty shops, leafy trees stretching branches across quiet lanes.

  And most pleasant of all . . . no Mr. Dunstan lurking about with a lewd eye on her baby.

  Thank you, Father. I’ll work very hard to deserve this.

  Becky yawned, looked about. “What will we do now?”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No.”

  “Then it’s high time for a nap.”

  “I’m hungry,” Becky amended quickly.

  Jewel smiled. “After your nap. Help me find our bedroom.”

  That piqued her interest. Her boots made eager little clicks on the wooden staircase. She disappeared through an open doorway off the landing.

  “A cat! Here, kitty!”

  A tabby cat scampered from the room just as Jewel went through the doorway. Bed sheets, pillows, and coverlet were twisted into a heap. Dust particles danced in sunlight slanting from the window to a desk boasting a typewriter and littered with papers and teacups. Stockings lay heaped upon a chair cushion. The dress Miss Holl
is had changed from was draped over the chair’s back. A lone slipper lay on its side on the rug.

  “Doesn’t the lady know how to tidy up?” Becky asked, leaning to peer under the bed.

  “We mustn’t say that. She’s probably very busy writing her stories.”

  “There’s dust under here, Mummy . . . and a shoe!”

  “Come away from there now,” Jewel said as Becky’s head disappeared beneath the mattress.

  She obeyed, bringing out a kidskin slipper. Jewel brushed the dust from her bodice, then the slipper, to set it beside its mate near the bed’s edge. She picked up the gown from the chair. It seemed hardly worn, so she hung it in the wardrobe.

  “What’s in there?” Becky asked, weaseling beside her to see.

  “Clothes, Miss Nosy.” Jewel closed the wardrobe and led her daughter by the hand back onto the landing.

  Becky pointed to the only other open doorway. “Is that our room?”

  “We shall see.”

  The second bedchamber was simply furnished, with iron bed, table, chair, rug, and cupboard. A fine layer of dust covered everything. Jewel folded the coverlet, set it upon the chair to take outside and shake later, stripped Becky to chemise and drawers, and tucked her between the sheets.

  “Sleep tight.”

  Becky yawned. “What will you do, Mummy?”

  “Oh, I’ll find something.”

  “Will you leave the door open?”

  “I will.”

  What Jewel found to do was stand before a fireplace begrimed with soot and wonder if she should obey the impulse to clean.

  There were three reasons she should. Gratitude was foremost. Secondly, it would prove that she was a hard worker so that Miss Hollis could enthusiastically recommend her to others. Thirdly, she could not stand to be idle for too long.

  The lone reason against it would be that her hostess might take offense. Three outweighed one, so she looked through the kitchen cupboard for some rags.

  Chapter 13

  At seven o’clock in the evening, when Gresham lanes would lie silent, London’s streets were thronged with carriages and coaches, horses and wagons, omnibuses and hansoms. On the pavement, clerks streamed from offices, hawkers sold wares, beggars held out hands, and shop assistants fastened shutters onto windows.

  The frantic pace became calmer once the horse-drawn hansom cab turned up Notting Hill Gate onto Pembridge Gardens. The ecru stucco terrace houses presented a unified front of anonymity: three narrow storeys, bow windows, service entrances, and cast-iron railings.

  The horse stopped before number twenty-three. Aleda stepped down to the pavement and paid the cabby. A woman answered, wearing black alpaca and a white apron. Olive skin and dark eyes hinted of Spanish ancestry.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Doctor Hollis’s sister Aleda. May I speak with my brother?”

  The maid welcomed her into a foyer papered with greens and golds. Ahead rose a staircase; to the left, an open arched doorway revealed a drawing room.

  “Doctor Hollis is at hospital,” she said with an accent that confirmed Aleda’s guess. “And Mrs. Hollis is at dinner with friends. I think the Grand Hotel.”

  Aleda did not give a fig at which trough Loretta dined and could only imagine her friends as shallow and slavish to fashion as she.

  “Do you know when to expect Doctor Hollis?”

  The maid shook her head. “Would you care to wait?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “May I take your bag?”

  “No thank you.” She set her satchel to the side, out of the way. “I’ll find a hotel after I speak with my brother.”

  “A hotel? But Doctor Hollis would expect you to stay here.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  The maid nodded, motioned toward the drawing room. “This way, please?”

  To Aleda, drawn to simplicity, the drawing room was as oppressively frantic as the streets, with its floral wallpaper and tables laden with bric-a-brac. She sat on a chesterfield sofa upholstered in tufted red velvet, folded her hands in her lap.

  “May I bring you tea?” the maid asked.

  “That would be nice,” Aleda replied. “And . . .”

  “Yes, madam?”

  “I’m quite ravenous.”

  “Rav-in-ous? Does that mean you are hungry?”

  “No. Hunger means your stomach moans because it’s empty. Ravenous is when your stomach howls like a banshee, and you may just start gnawing on your shoes.”

  The maid laughed, a rich sound. “I do not know what a banshee is, but it does not sound pleasant. Cook is out, too, but I will find you something in the kitchen better to eat than shoes.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Aleda said. “No sense in your having to go back and forth.”

  “Oh, but you must not—”

  “I insist.”

  “Doctor Hollis has a picture of you in his study,” the maid said, leading Aleda past a dining room and into the kitchen in back of the house.

  “He does?”

  “When you were a girl. With your sister . . .”

  “Grace.”

  The maid turned, smiled. “Is it she who married last month?”

  “Yes. And we have two stepsisters.”

  “One is in Ceylon.”

  “Laurel.” She could only have gotten this information from Philip, for Aleda could not fathom Loretta chatting about the peasants related to her husband.

  Aleda would have starved rather than ask Loretta for food, but the kitchen belonged to Philip, as well, no matter that Loretta’s parents had paid for it. The fact that the maid was friendly did not hurt.

  Aleda asked her name.

  “Ines,” she said, pouring Aleda a beaker of milk to accompany a generous slice of cold rhubarb tart.

  “This is so good,” Aleda said between bites.

  From up front came the sound of the door opening and closing, footsteps. In spite of her professed courage, Aleda froze in mid-chew. Even Ines seemed uneasy.

  “I hope I haven’t gotten you into trouble,” Aleda said. But then the footsteps seemed decidedly male. Aleda smiled at the maid, went through the dining room, and called, “Philip?”

  There was a pause, and then, “Yes? Is that . . . Aleda?”

  They met in the hall. He looked weary, with shadows beneath his eyes, black coat open and white shirt collar unfastened. Every lecture Aleda had rehearsed during the journey, every biting sarcasm died inside, and she threw her arms about him. “Oh, Philip! We need you!”

  “Of course I’ll go,” Philip said as Ines sliced another wedge of tart. “I shall speak with Doctor Trask and hopefully be ready for the four o’clock train tomorrow.”

  He looked at Ines. “Please pack for me in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied, handing him the dish. “How long will you stay, Doctor Hollis?”

  Philip looked at Aleda. “At least three weeks. I want to see that he’s well recovered.”

  Almost weak with relief, Aleda would have gotten up and embraced him again if Ines had not placed another slice of tart in front of her.

  But there was a question that begged to be asked. “What of your patients?”

  “Saint Bartholomew’s is a teaching hospital. There is no lack of surgeons.” He gulped down a long drink of milk, and said, “Are you settled in? Am I needed to carry any luggage upstairs?”

  “All I have is a satchel,” Aleda replied, and traded glances with Ines. “And I’ll find a hotel room.”

  “But why?”

  “I . . . don’t want to be a bother.” She could not bring herself to say, Because your wife treated our parents coldly when they visited and I’ll not allow her to do the same to me.

  Philip chuckled. “Bother? You’re my sister. I insist you stay, silly goose. Anyway, it’s dark outdoors.”

  She did not fancy waving down a hansom so late, and besides, how long had it been since she and her brother had had time to themselves? If Loretta
turned up with her nose in the air, Aleda could stomach it for the short time she would be there.

  They sat upon the drawing room sofa later, their feet sharing an ottoman.

  “Do you remember when everyone thought the Larkspur was haunted?” Philip asked.

  “Jake Pitt,” Aleda said, smiling. “The spirit of some poor knife sharpener who had died there, I think.”

  Philip chuckled, then sobered. “Why didn’t Mother telegraph me? Why did you have to come? Not that I’m not overjoyed to see you . . .”

  She frowned. How to answer? How would she want unsettling news put to herself? With all frankness.

  “Because Father forbade it.”

  “But why?”

  She took a breath. “He said he doesn’t want to burden you. But I believe he resents how you’ve slighted Mother. He’s very protective of her.”

  To her brother’s credit, he made no denial. Only sighed and said, “He’s right. I’ve never been good about writing.”

  “And that’s your reason?” Aleda said, irritated. “So a wastrel who bankrupts his family is excused by saying he’d never been good at paying bills? A mother with malnourished children may simply declare she was never good at cooking?”

  He groaned. “Aleda . . . you cut me to the core.”

  “A few lines once a week would work wonders. It’s not the length of the letter that counts as much as the proof that you care.”

  “Yes, you’re right. I promise, Aleda. I’ll do better by them.”

  But she was not finished. She had gone beyond warming to the subject, to absolute heat. “And with the express train, you’ve no excuse not to make at least an overnight visit. Do they chain you to the surgery table at that hospital?”

  “No, of course not.” He swallowed audibly, turned his face toward her. “Believe it or not, sister, I seldom visit because I don’t wish to hurt them. Every time I go alone, I have to make excuses for Loretta. Eventually they’ll assume she doesn’t care for them.”

  “Assume?” Aleda barked a bitter laugh.

  He closed his eyes for several seconds.

  Had she gone too far?

  When he opened them again, they stared into hers, shining with tears and misery. “My family . . . all of you . . . you’re an extension of me. And it’s me she doesn’t care for.”