The Jewel of Gresham Green

by Lawana Blackwell

  “I cannot hand over his money without concrete proof of his consent. I suggest you speak with his attorney, Mr. Baker.”

  Donald leaned forward. “I was only seventeen. How long do you plan to nurse a grudge?”

  Horace’s eyes narrowed, condensing the hostility in them into hatred.

  “Leave now, Mr. Gibbs.”

  “You’re aware that this place will soon be mine?”

  “It is a fact I live with daily. But I’ll not dishonor the man who gave me this opportunity by going against his explicit rules.”

  “And what of your family? I will also own the cottage they call home. It would be a pity to see them turned out.”

  Horace’s hands curled. Donald waited for the rants and railings sure to come. But instead, the man said through tight jaw, “Unlike you, I have a skill that I may take elsewhere. And my family and I would live in a tent rather than submit to your blackmail.”

  Blackmail! Donald frowned. “I resent—”

  “But hear this, Mr. Gibbs,” Horace went on. “I’m no longer a frail thirteen-year-old! On the day you turn us out, it will be my pleasure to thrash you within an inch of your life!”

  Aleda bolted up in bed Wednesday morning with heart pounding. She had slept through Father’s return! She pulled in a deep breath. This was no frantic nightmare. She slipped out of bed, walked over to her desk, and looked at her watch. Twenty of eight. Plenty of time to dress and make it over to the vicarage, for Philip had said not to expect the coach before ten.

  But it did not roll up Vicarage Lane, slowly, until half past eleven, with Mr. Pool at the reins. Philip, Jonathan, John, and Luke carried Father just as slowly to the bed in the parlor.

  It was Aleda’s first sight of her stepfather since Sunday evening. And though he was dosed with laudanum for his pain and the journey, she pressed a hand to his bearded cheek and kissed his forehead.

  Elizabeth did the same, tears trailing down her face. Dora knelt by his bed and said a quick prayer. Luke touched his hand. And then Philip asked everyone to leave the parlor so that he could check him over.

  “Go home and write,” Mother said to Aleda in the foyer.

  “Philip says he’ll sleep most of the day.”

  “Will you not need me?”

  Her mother smiled. “I need for you to write your story.”

  Aleda embraced her. “Thank you. I’ll return tomorrow.”

  “I’ll pack you a proper supper if you’ll give me a moment,” Dora said.

  When Aleda stepped out into the garden, early risers John and Jonathan were relaxing in chairs while Elizabeth cut flowers under Claire’s and Samuel’s supervision.

  “We’re making a bouquet for Grandfather’s room!” Claire chirped to Aleda.

  “We’re making a bouquet for Grandfather’s room!” Samuel echoed.

  “How lovely. Grandfather is very fond of flowers.”

  “What do you have in the basket?” Claire asked.

  “Claire, let’s not be nosy,” Jonathan scolded gently, before Samuel could speak his line.

  Aleda did not mind. She had great respect for curiosity. “My supper.”

  “But it’s not dark,” Samuel said in a surprising show of improvisation.

  “I’m saving it for then.”

  “May I get the gate for you, Aunt Aleda?” John said sleepily, in a tone that begged refusal.

  “No, thank you.” She was switching the basket to her left hand so that she could unfasten the latch, and realized something was not as it should be. She pushed back her sleeve. Had she not worn her watch? But yes, she could remember fastening the catch after dressing.

  She was casting about in vain for any memory of removing it in the vicarage, when she felt a touch at her elbow. Jonathan stood near, face filled with concern. “Aleda? What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong, Aunt Aleda?” she heard Samuel say.

  Gentleman that he was, Donald had realized that he should not make another attempt to call on Miss Hollis until her father was on the way to recovery. She would be preoccupied and think him a cad. But when Mrs. Cooper informed him the vicar was to be home that morning, he realized the surgery must not have been as serious as he had thought. Desperation drove him to take another chance.

  After lunch, he picked his way up the path bearing roses. Now that Jewel Libby had been in his employ for a few days, he could not pretend not to know Miss Hollis was a published author. So his story today was that he was calling only for Becky Libby’s sake. Miss Hollis had kindly sent toys over, but shouldn’t a child also have books?

  Perhaps as a writer herself, Miss Hollis would be so kind as to advise him on some good picture books he could purchase. And of course, he would ask how the vicar came through surgery.

  The roses? Why, they were a mere neighborly gift, but hopefully would continue to work on his behalf when they parted; a fragrant reminder of his thoughtfulness.

  His right foot was closing down when a glint caught his eye. He pulled back, almost losing his balance. A gold watch! He picked it up, brushed it against his tweed sleeve. A segment of fine chain dangled from one end of the open catch. Surely it was Miss Hollis’s. And there was nothing like gratitude to hurry along a courtship.

  Carefully he dropped the watch into his pocket, took another step.

  It would command a pretty penny at a pawn lender’s.

  He was not a thief. He could redeem it once he came into his inheritance. Combing the house for his uncle’s valuables was one thing—they were days away from becoming his. While he had cheated at cards before—but only when he was certain he could get away with it—he had never overtly stolen. Dare he do this?

  While his mind wrestled with the question, his feet did a reversal and hurried back up the path.

  Early that afternoon, Jewel’s chair was pulled close to the squire’s bedside. On the rug nearby, Becky held a tea party for her doll, with small china dishes, using toy blocks as a table. The squire’s bedchamber door opened, and Mr. Gibbs walked inside.

  “What are you doing?” he asked Jewel.

  “Trimming his toenails.”

  He grimaced and looked away. “I’ve been called to London on urgent business. Remember, when Doctor Rhodes comes, you’re to mention I look in on my uncle daily.”

  Which was true, though his visits lasted less than a minute.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And again, remember you’re not to gossip.”

  His face lost some of its sternness when he looked at Becky.

  “Are you enjoying your toys?”

  “Yes, sir. I named my doll Lucy.”

  The sound of coach wheels and hoofbeats had barely faded from the open window when Mary Johnson opened the door and stuck her head round it. The chambermaid did not begin housework until after noon, after catching up on her sleep from sitting with the squire the night before.

  “How is he?”

  Jewel looked up at his face. On his left side, he stared listlessly across at Becky. But because she had no idea how much his mind retained, she said, “He’s doing well. Aren’t you, sir?”

  Mary nodded grimly. “Would Becky care to help me change sachets in the linen cupboard?”

  The girl sprang up from the rug. “Please, Mummy?”

  “After you put your toys away.”

  “I’ll help her,” Mary said.

  Perhaps because the atmosphere in the house was more relaxed with Mr. Gibbs away, that was the beginning of so many kindnesses by the other servants. Jewel had felt tremendous guilt over keeping her daughter cooped up in the room or waiting in the hall whenever she bathed or changed the squire.

  Mrs. Wright invited Becky to help in the kitchen the following morning. Mrs. Cooper escorted her out to feed the goldfish, and then to pick strawberries from the kitchen garden. Parlormaid Annabel Tanner allowed her to move figurines while she dusted. Mary Johnson plaited her hair.

  They popped in often to see about the squire, as well, sometimes pray at his beds
ide, though he merely gaped at them. Jewel allowed it because she had not been instructed not to. Surely the displays of caring were good for him. As were surely the frequent absences of a chattering four-year-old.

  “One last bite, if you please?” Jewel said soothingly on Friday while holding a spoon of porridge over the bowl.

  Propped up on pillows, the squire opened his mouth like a baby bird, and watched her as he chewed.

  “Very good, sir.” She set bowl and spoon upon the table. She moved the napkin from his chest and dabbed the corner of his mouth. “I’ll just put the tray outside.”

  The wiry brows shot up, as if this distressed him. There seemed some question in his eyes.

  “You don’t wish me to leave? Very well. I’ll do it later.”

  The eyes faded a little.

  “You’d like more porridge? Is that it?”

  If a sigh could be written on a face, it was upon his. His mouth opened to make the only syllable within his power. “Auh.”

  Jewel studied his beseeching eyes. “Shall I close the window? Are you cold?”

  His aged eyes closed. Tears stung Jewel’s. To be mute, and so helpless. Not even able to scratch an itch.

  “Have you an itch somewhere?”

  A faint moan rose from his throat.

  He was almost totally dependent upon her. Mary’s only duty was to turn him every two hours. He was so frail that a woman could do it easily.

  She looked around the room. What was different?

  “Becky?” she guessed.

  His eyes opened again.

  “You wish to know where Becky is?”

  “Auh.”

  Jewel smiled. “She’s helping Zinnia at the wash line. She hands her the pegs.”

  Everything clicked. She had assumed the squire’s eyes followed Becky simply because she moved about so much, exploring the vast room, going from window to window, playing with her toys.

  Was he fond of children? Or was there more to it? Did watching Becky ease the tedium of lying motionless, the humiliation of spoon feedings and nappy changes? She had never considered boredom as one of the trials of illness.

  “You’re bored to tears, aren’t you?”

  His mouth sagged, speechless, but the eyes said it all.

  Dear Vicar and Mrs. Treves,

  Jewel wrote that evening in the cozy attic room she shared with Becky.

  I hope you and your children are well. Becky and I pray for you every night before we retire, and I add a silent prayer that Mr. Dunstan has not troubled your family.

  You will be pleased to know that I was offered a position two days after arriving in Gresham. I tend an elderly man you may remember from your time here, Squire Bartley. His health is sadly deteriorated so that he cannot speak. This afternoon, I thought reading aloud might cheer him. I intended to ask permission to seek a book in the library, but while looking for a warmer pair of stockings in his chest of drawers, I came across a copy of Around the World in Eighty Days by a Mr. Jules Verne. The spine is creased as if it has been read before, but he seems to be enjoying it.

  I do not know if you have been informed, but Vicar Phelps had surgery for gallstones on Monday past. I hear that he is recovering very well. His daughter, Miss Aleda Hollis, took us in when we first arrived in Gresham. They are a fine family.

  Again, I thank you for rescuing us. The other servants are kind here in the manor house, and the meals are filling. Already I can see blooms in Becky’s cheeks. May God reward you a hundredfold for your kindness to us and to others.

  Chapter 20

  Dear Loretta,

  I received a kind letter Saturday from your parents, asking after my stepfather. I have just answered that he is recovering. Five days from surgery, he is still confined to bed. This morning I allowed him a slice of bread soaked in milk instead of the usual broth. He savored it slowly, as if it were ambrosia.

  I am leaving him in Mother’s care this morning, to watch over Doctor Rhodes’ practice so that he may drive his wife to Shrewsbury, as she has dropped and broken her eyeglasses. He has asked again if I would take over his practice. I have asked for some time to consider this. I should like to know your wishes.

  Since our marriage I have made excuses for your coldness to my family, believing the root lay in your fear that I might wish to move us to Gresham; something I would never do without your consent. I have come to understand that I am the only barrier to your happiness, even in your beloved city. How do you think that makes me feel, as a husband?

  And so I must ask . . . Shall I accept Doctor Rhodes’ offer? Should I write a letter of resignation to your father? Will my absence bring you the happiness my presence obviously does not?

  Please let me know your wishes.

  Philip signed and sealed the letter. Even though his heart ached terribly, a burden lifted from his soul. He scratched his fledgling beard. At least there would be a decision.

  He dropped the envelope into the letter box and carried his black bag across the green to Walnut Tree Lane, the farthest north-south road to the west of Gresham. The Rhodes’ cottage was a snugly thatched mixture of stone and cob. His knock was answered by housekeeper Mrs. Grimly, whose name was at odds with her jolly round face.

  “Aye, they’ve already left,” she said, allowing him entrance into a parlor filled with a comfortable but eclectic mixture of old furniture and scattered medical books. “And you’ve got Willet Sanders waiting.”

  Philip had forgotten how early dairy farmers rose. Mr. Sanders would have already done the morning milking. The odor of pipe tobacco wafted down the hall from the surgery, which had its own outdoor entrance beneath a fading green canopy. Sure enough, Mr. Sanders rose slowly from a chair in the waiting area, peered at him through thick-lidded eyes, and pulled his pipe from scowling lips. “Where’s Doctor Rhodes?”

  “I’m taking his place this morning, Mr. Sanders.”

  “Took you long enough to get here.”

  He’s family, Philip reminded himself. His daughter, Mercy Langford, was adoptive mother to Grace’s husband, Thomas. Still . . .

  “You may not smoke in here, Mr. Sanders. There is an ash barrel in the corner.”

  The old man’s leathery brow furrowed, as if he were considering returning later to more amiable doctoring. And it seemed he would do so, for he went to the door. “I just put in a new wad of tobacco. I’ll leave it on the step. You ain’t gonter be too long, are you?”

  Not a moment longer than I have to, Philip thought.

  “My knees,” the old man said in the examining room. “Can’t hardly sit on the milking stool. Worse in the mornings.”

  Philip had him remove his trousers and boots and stockings. Mr. Sanders cried out as he probed a swollen knee.

  “Sorry,” Philip said, and moved down to his feet. Gingerly he moved the right big toe. Mr. Sanders let out an oath. Philip ignored it. Pain could sometimes thrash self-control, especially when the latter was weak from underuse.

  “You have gout, Mr. Sanders,” he said after helping the man dress himself.

  “Gout? But thet’s for rich folk.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Sanders. It affects mostly older men whose diets contain purine-heavy foods.”

  Another scowl. “You wanter say thet in English?”

  Philip nodded, apologized again. Most of his surgery patients were unconscious. He would have to work on his bedside manner. “Do you eat a lot of organ meats? Brains, liver, kidneys?”

  “Well, yes. All the time.”

  Philip went over to Doctor Rhodes’ medicine cabinet. “I’m going to give you some colchicine, which will help. But you must change your diet or this will not go away. I’ll write you a list of foods to avoid, and those you may have in moderation. And, by the way, no beer.”

  Mr. Sanders looked as if he’d been punched. “None at all?”

  “Is it worth the pain?”

  He expected more argument, but the old man shook his head, even squeezed out a tear. “Nothing’s wor
th this pain. I don’t wanter spend my last days like this.”

  Philip patted his shoulder. “I think you have many years left in you. Let’s just make them good years.”

  Later, he flipped through one of Doctor Rhodes’ medical texts, between treating Mrs. Winters’ sty on the eye with a warm compress and citron ointment, and setting twelve-year-old Alger Sway’s left index finger, broken while trying to catch a rounders ball.

  The best call of the morning came when young Boswell Jefferies carried his near-hysterical wife, Sally, in because the infant she had carried in her womb for eight months had not moved in over a day. Philip picked up a faint but healthy heartbeat with his stethoscope, and allowed the parents to listen. The tears in both sets of eyes caused his own eyes to blur and sting. He certainly never got that from a surgery patient.

  Mr. Nicholls of Whitchurch was an earnest-faced young curate whose barely audible sermon on Elijah and the widow put some of the elderly people to sleep, but at least none had the indecency to snore. There were a couple of snorts, which ended abruptly on up notes brought on by neighborly elbows.

  When a marble rolled down the aisle, Mr. Nicholls took the hint and began the closing prayer. Some child—probably a boy—would get a paddling later. Aleda would have given him a shilling for his sacrifice.

  “You can only strain to listen for so long before your ears give up trying,” Elizabeth said in a hushed tone as the family strolled toward the vicarage. Jonathan was absent, having volunteered to sit with Father.

  “He said Elisha twice,” John said.

  “Are you quite sure?” Philip said.

  “I am, Uncle Philip.”

  “Young people have sharp ears,” Aleda said. “He could have said Father Christmas for all I could hear.”

  “Father Christmas,” Claire twittered sociably, for she and Samuel had been chattering on and paying no attention.

  “Father Christmas,” Samuel chortled.

  “That’s enough,” Mother said firmly. “It’s not fair to make comparisons. He was nervous. And your father has been a minister for thirty years.”