The Jewel of Gresham Green

by Lawana Blackwell

  “We’re pleased to meet you,” Jewel said. “Where in Birmingham do you live?”

  “Ah, but I fled Birmingham over a decade ago. It’s a good place to be from. If you’ll pardon me . . .”

  He turned toward the steps. Jewel realized she should follow, to open the door. Behind, she heard Miss Hollis ask, “Did you enjoy the shops, Becky?”

  “I liked the cows and the bridge more.”

  “Well, sit here and tell me about it.”

  Mr. Patterson set the parcels upon the table. Jewel was not quite sure what was expected of her, given her position as part servant, part houseguest. She thanked him again and offered her hand.

  Two fleshy paws engulfed it. “My pleasure.”

  He was not handsome in the classical sense, with his thinning, dun-colored hair, full cheeks, and girth. But the kindness, humor, and intelligence in his face were pleasing to the eyes.

  “Was there nothing about Birmingham that you liked, Mr. Patterson?” she found herself asking.

  “That’s a very good question. There was plenty to like, but I didn’t like who I was when I lived there. Does that make sense?”

  She thought of herself, one of a multitude trudging from factory to slums to factory, with only Sundays to brighten the weeks. “It does, Mr. Patterson.”

  “Will you join us in the garden?”

  “Thank you, but I must start making soup.” She would call Becky indoors, as well, and not take advantage of his courtesy. He nodded. “It was good to meet you, Mrs. Libby.”

  Miss Hollis came inside an hour later, as Jewel swept stray vegetable peelings from the kitchen floor, and Becky sat at the bottom of the staircase tying bows with string from the parcels.

  “My brother abducted Gabriel to go to Shrewsbury with him and look over the hospital.” She went to the stove and lifted the lid from the pot. “Soup?”

  “I’m afraid it won’t be ready until tonight. But there is still plenty of lamb stew left.”

  Miss Hollis patted her stomach. “I overdid breakfast.”

  “See, Miss Hollis?” Becky said, holding up one of her string bows. “You only have to pull an end to make it come apart.”

  “Clever girl. Do you like to draw?”

  “I do.”

  “Sit at the table. I’ll be back.”

  She went upstairs, and returned with a stack of paper about six inches thick.

  Surely not! Jewel thought, and was opening her mouth to protest when Miss Hollis peeled off four sheets from the top and placed them before Becky. She handed her two pencils, winked at Jewel, and left for the garden with the bulk of the stack.

  Lost in her story, Aleda was startled when Mrs. Libby appeared with a beaker on a tray.

  “What time is it?” Aleda asked.

  “After one o’clock. I thought you might care for some lemonade.”

  “What a coincidence. I was just reading about lemonade. . . . Here . . . my characters are drinking lemonade at a May Day picnic.”

  “Perhaps you’re a psychic?” Mrs. Libby lowered the tray.

  Aleda laughed, a little surprised, given Mrs. Libby’s factory and service background.

  Her expression must have revealed so, for Mrs. Libby explained with no rancor, “My first employer was a headmaster. They entertained often, and I learned much from discussions while helping in the dining room.”

  Aleda took a sip from the beaker. “Very good. But perhaps you’re the psychic. You knew I was thirsty.”

  “You don’t really believe in that, do you, Miss Hollis?” Mrs. Libby said carefully.

  “My stepfather’s the vicar. What do you think?”

  Mrs. Libby laughed, and was turning toward the cottage when Aleda said, “Where is Becky?”

  “Napping. Is there something you wish me to—?”

  “No, pour yourself some lemonade and join me.”

  She sent an uncertain glance toward the chair beside her. “Join you?”

  “To chat. You know, as people do. Don’t look so uneasy.”

  Minutes later, when Mrs. Libby had settled with her drink, Aleda asked, “Do you miss Birmingham?”

  “There are some things I miss. Saint Philip’s Chapel. Vicar and Mrs. Treves. Fidget pie. The places my husband and I took walks. Our first little house, even if it was a back-to-back.”

  “Do you hope to return one day?”

  “Never.” Her red curls bounced against her shoulder with her headshake. “I do miss those things I mentioned, but I suppose if you grew up in a hole in the ground, you’d recall some things fondly, too.”

  Amused, Aleda said, “Such as dirt? Grubs? Worms?”

  Mrs. Libby smiled. “If that’s all you knew.”

  “It took great courage for you to leave your ‘hole in the ground,’ knowing so little of the place you would land.”

  “Thank you, but I never felt courageous. It’s just that my fear of the known was greater than my fear of the unknown.”

  They sat in companionable silence for a while, sipping lemonade. Mrs. Libby looked at the stack of papers on her lap and said, “I read some of your stories last night. They’re very good.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “Is your novel an adventure, too?”

  Aleda shook her head. “It’s set in a village, much like this one. A bit of humor, a bit of romance. And well, yes, some adventure, but no Komodo dragons.”

  Mrs. Libby smiled. “May I ask why you’ve written it in script, when you have a typewriter?”

  “Well, because it’s closer to my heart than my magazine stories. The pen is more personable than tapping it out on a machine.”

  “A labor of love?”

  Aleda sighed. “When it’s not a labor of hate.”

  Mrs. Libby’s reddish brows lifted.

  Aleda was astonished at herself for revealing so much. But having an impartial listener, with no emotional stake, was refreshing.

  “I wrapped up all plots and subplots into a tidy ending long ago. But I can’t bear the thought of bad reviews from critics . . . or worse, having it rejected, so I won’t submit it for publication until it’s perfect. Or at least as close to that as possible.”

  “Is it almost there?”

  “Every time I read it over, new flaws stand out. But it’ll be worth it in the end. Samuel Johnson said great works are performed not by strength, but perseverance.”

  “Has he read your story?”

  “He was a famous writer of the last century,” Aleda said, trying not to sound condescending.

  Nonplussed, Mrs. Libby said, “He must not have come up in the dinner conversations. So, no one else has read it?”

  “Heavens, no. Mr. Patterson has offered, which is why I brought it out here to look over. But I don’t think it’s ready, even for him.”

  “But wouldn’t he be kinder than the critics?”

  Aleda hesitated before admitting, “That frightens me more than their opinions. I don’t want his pity if it so happens that I’m meant only for magazine romps.”

  Mrs. Libby took a sip from her glass, chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Pardon me for asking, Miss Hollis, but . . .”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I don’t know anything about writing. But could it be that you’ve looked for the bad parts so many times that you can’t recognize the good? Like having a spot on your face. . . . It’s all you see in the mirror, but no one else does because they’re looking at the color of your eyes?”

  Aleda felt a tinge of annoyance. Mrs. Libby was obviously intelligent, but as she had just admitted, what did she know of the complexities of emptying one’s heart onto paper? “It’s not that simple.”

  “Of course. My apology.” Mrs. Libby got to her feet. “Would you care for more?”

  “No thank you.” Aleda handed over her empty beaker, gathered her manuscript into her arms, and rose. “And I must return to my story. Make up for time lost in London. Will my typing wake Becky?”

  “It won’t. She’s a heavy sleeper,
and her door’s closed.”

  But just in case, Aleda closed her own door, softly. Odd, but a sheet of paper lay draped over her typewriter carriage. She moved over to her desk, lifted the page, and smiled at the stick figure standing beside a stick cat. Miss Hollis and Tiger were spread across the top of the page in wavering letters, as if an adult hand had helped guide the pencil.

  Tiger was probably napping at Becky’s feet now. Aleda did not mind. Animals seemed to prefer children when they weren’t the sort who grabbed and teased. That would have been terrible, having a brat under her roof.

  She rolled a sheet of paper onto the carriage and began.

  Lady Kempthorne raised her chin, as salt breezes toyed with the golden ringlets about her face. “I owe you my life, Captain Jacobs. But not my affection. You forget how recently I was widowed.”

  “How could I forget,” the captain replied tersely, “when your husband was so eager to trade you to the pirates for his freedom?”

  “We’re not to speak ill of the dead.”

  “There is speaking ill, and there is speaking truth. And ofttimes they are the same.”

  Should he kiss her now? Probably not, Aleda thought. Even though her late husband had been a scoundrel, she was indeed a recent widow, and Captain Jacobs, a gentleman.

  But what would her readers want?

  She sighed. A kiss, passionate and fierce. Followed by a slap from Lady Kempthorne’s soft white hand. Leave any reader under the age of twelve assuming she hated him.

  Her eyes strayed to the stack of hand-scripted pages.

  Gabriel would be kind in his critique, but he would also be honest. He would love her no less if the book was no good. She thought of Mrs. Libby setting out with no more than a letter and a little money, a battered trunk and a daughter depending upon her. What had she said? My fear of the known was greater than my fear of the unknown.

  By clinging to her manuscript she was staying in Birmingham. Or worse, in the hole in the ground. She could see herself years from now, still pruning and grafting and fussing over her story, until she became an odd little woman hiding her treasure away in a cupboard until the pages yellowed.

  But at least it would be safe from criticism, she thought wryly.

  I have to do this.

  Remarkable, that someone she barely knew had nudged her out of her inertia.

  She had to thank her. She opened the door, softly again, and went downstairs. Savory aromas drifted from the pot on the stove. Mrs. Libby stood at the table over the assortment of household lamps, drying their globes with a tea cloth.

  “You’ll work yourself to death,” Aleda said.

  The streak of soot on her cheek curved with her smile. “I’m not tired.”

  “You’re not my slave, either. I’m beginning to feel I’m taking advantage of you.”

  “Advantage?” Mrs. Libby waved a sooty hand. “You’ve given us shelter.”

  “I’m happy to do so.” She would be happier when that was no longer necessary, but that was beside the point. “Just promise me you’ll do something with Becky when she wakes? She obviously enjoyed your morning stroll.”

  Opening her mouth as if to offer more protest, Mrs. Libby leaned her head in thought. “If I’m making you uncomfortable . . .”

  “You are.”

  “I’ll take Becky for another walk when she’s up.”

  “There you are. Explore the woods a bit. They’re quite lovely, and you can’t get lost if you stay on the path.”

  And as long as she was having her say, Aleda thought, she may as well address another issue.

  “And you mustn’t buy any more food. Make a list of what we need, and I’ll have it delivered.”

  Mrs. Libby’s blue eyes clouded.

  “Now, no more of that.” Aleda smiled. “You think you’re doing all the taking, but it’s just not so. Besides giving me the cleanest house in Gresham, you’ve helped me come to a major decision.”

  “I have?” Mrs. Libby gave her a hopeful look. “You’ll allow Mr. Patterson to read your book?”

  “With fear and trembling, but yes.”

  Chapter 18

  “He could hang on like this for weeks,” Doctor Rhodes said in the corridor with lowered voice.

  Why whisper? Donald thought. His uncle’s mind was gone. Circus acrobats bouncing over his bed would have been met with the same drooling, blank stare.

  Doctor Rhodes surely accepted this, too, for he no longer pressed him to allow visitors other than Mary Johnson, who napped in a cot when not attending to his needs.

  “I appreciate your concern over germs,” the doctor went on, “but it would do him good if you stuck your head in the room more often.”

  Donald’s teeth clenched. Mary and her big mouth! But what could he say? He needed Doctor Rhodes on his side, should the will be contested. He put a hand upon the old man’s shoulder. “It’s just that it pains me so to see him that way. But you’re right, and I shall.”

  That should have satisfied him, but maddeningly, the doctor went on. “One thing more. Miss Johnson looks exhausted. She cannot possibly be giving him decent care with so little sleep. You must get her some help.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  When he was gone, Donald ambled out to a bench in the rose garden. Fragrant breezes pawed at his hair. Like his uncle, his mother had loved roses. If he closed his eyes, he could picture her bringing a tray of milk and biscuits out to the garden when he was a boy, coffee when he was older. With biscuits. How many British childhood memories were centered around biscuits?

  He sighed and rubbed his eyes. There was no use scolding Mary Johnson, and have another episode of his private business spread all over Gresham. But Doctor Rhodes was wrong. He had once stuck more than his head through his uncle’s door when Mary was at lunch. He had combed every inch of chest of drawers and wardrobe. No money was tucked away. Not even a ring or watch, cuff links or tie pin that he could slip over to a pawn broker in Shrewsbury.

  Was the old man really that tight? Or had the servants beaten him to the goods? Frustrating that he could not level any charges without revealing just how he knew the valuables, if they existed, were absent.

  Just before coming to Gresham, he had lost his watch and jewelry in a game of twenty-one in one of the lesser salons, a foolish attempt to raise enough stakes to save his house.

  He could not carry off any household treasures—such as the ten-inch jade statuette of a Japanese geisha in the library—from under the eyes of servants who dusted daily. The housekeeper kept the silver locked when it wasn’t being used, polished, or counted. Pathetically, he had almost been reduced to stealing the spoon from his uncle’s tray outside the door and allowing Mary to take the blame. But how much would that have landed him?

  Smothering his uncle with a pillow would have been a mercy. Who would wish to live that way? But firstly, the threat of a postmortem hung over him. Secondly, as his luck was running of late, he was certain he would be caught. Thirdly, he was not sure his hands could perpetrate the act. Wishing someone to die was one thing. Overt murder was another.

  He blew out his cheeks. Poverty was no less grinding when it was temporary. He had to get to London for a couple of days, which not only required train fare but enough for theatre tickets and lobster dinners, perhaps a bauble from Harrods’ jewelry department. He would need to leave some money, too, lest Reese grow restless again.

  He heard some tune being whistled and spotted the postman walking up the carriage drive with sack slung from his shoulder. Here would be another to benefit from his uncle’s shuffling over to The Other Side. It seemed Uncle Bartley subscribed to every magazine in England. The unread stack in the library grew taller every week. Too bad he could not sell those, but even so, how much could one earn from out of date, and soon-to-be out of date, publications?

  A thought sparked in his mind. He sat up straight. On his second morning in Gresham, before the servants had begun to dislike him, Mrs. Cooper had offered him a magazi
ne to read, saying that the author of one of the serialized stories rented the old gamekeeper’s cottage. That she was Vicar Phelps’s daughter, a spinster with a cat.

  An author. Having serials published, which meant steady income. And no one to spend it on but her spinsterish self and the cat.

  He knew he was handsome. The mirror did not lie. Nor did the looks sent his way whenever he strolled down the London pavement. Or drove his barouche, before he lost it, along with the team of ash gray Welsh cobs.

  He groaned, shook the thought from his head. No sense beating himself up over that again. He had used his looks and charm in the past for financial gain. It could be a tedious process, depending upon the particular whims of the object of his attention. And he took no pleasure in it. But for now in his desperation, it seemed Miss Phelps was the only game in Gresham.

  “Miss Phelps?” Mrs. Cooper said to his query. “There’s no Miss Phelps in Gresham, sir. The two girls married some years ago.”

  “But did you not say one of the vicar’s daughters leased a house from Uncle Thurmond?”

  “That would be Miss Hollis. She’s actually his stepdaughter.”

  Apples and oranges, Donald thought. Still, she had something there. Women were flattered when a man took pains to learn a little something about them. Should he not read some of her stories before introducing himself?

  He was on his way into the library when another thought struck him. If he were to pretend surprise at learning of her profession, she would have no reason to suspect he was interested in her money. And for that reason, he chose his plain tweed coat, though he did clean his teeth and comb his hair.

  He set out without informing the servants where he was going. Let them wonder! But then again, they were probably dancing, thinking of new ways to taint his food. How satisfying it was going to be to sack all of them!

  The path wound through the woods across Church Lane, just as he remembered. He saw movement and stopped to peer through the branches of a yew. Over the picket fence, a glimpse of red hair. That made him feel better. He adored red hair, the contrast it made with fair skin. Miss Hollis wore an apron over a dress of violet-and-pink checks, and was sweeping the cottage steps. Not a very writer-worthy activity, but when one chose to live alone, one had to look after oneself.