“Then what should we do?”
“I’ll ask Aleda if we may borrow her cottage and she move back into the vicarage. We would have separate rooms, but as it’s entirely remote, it would not set tongues to wagging.”
A clarinet had joined the disjointed snatches of melody in the distance.
“Remote?” Loretta said, expression uneasy.
Had he never noticed how transparent she was? Or had he become so cynical that he assumed her every thought of him was negative?
“I would be away most of the day . . . assisting Doctor Rhodes, seeing after my stepfather. You would still be within walking distance to shops. And you wouldn’t be alone. A young widow from Birmingham is keeping house for Aleda. We could ask her to work for us. She has a sweet little daughter.”
“Aleda would never agree. She dislikes me most of all.”
Philip could not debate that point. “I believe she would. She has a generous heart. The vicarage is quieter now. People are staying away, respecting my parents’ privacy.”
“For how long?”
He held in another sigh. Their marriage would now be reduced to dates circled upon a calendar. “One month? If you still don’t wish to be married, I shall go with you to speak with your father. Set a divorce in motion.”
“Very well,” she said after a hesitation.
He took her hand, tucked it into the crook of his arm. “Now . . . Mother is saving slices of snow cake for us, a heroic feat in my family. And we have some arrangements to make.”
“I do like snow cake,” she said as they left the privacy of the willows.
“Of course you may use the cottage,” Aleda said after Philip posed his question in the vicarage garden.
Loretta was resting from her journey upstairs in his room. Mother and Father were in the parlor, ostensibly reading newspapers, but probably wondering what was going on with Philip and Loretta. Elizabeth’s family had ambled over to the village hall, bearing rugs. She imagined Claire and Samuel succumbing to naps as the notes to Schubert’s Symphony no. 2 in B-flat Major floated over them.
He caught Aleda up in his arms, gave her a quick squeeze. “I can’t thank you enough.”
She smiled, and was truly glad for the relief in his countenance. What she would never say was that this favor was not for him, as much as she loved him. And certainly not for Loretta.
Father needed this rare peace and quiet to continue. As Philip had explained to her a couple of days after the surgery, the gallstones and heart murmur were not related, but physicians were beginning to wonder if nerves had some ill effect upon the latter.
Mother needed the tranquillity, as well. She and Father were like two connecting spheres, with common interests in the middle and their own energy-building interests in the outer spheres. Mother would never admit it, but she appeared to be wearing down a bit.
Loretta held her breath as she passed Elizabeth’s cottage late Tuesday morning. Fortunately, while children’s voices and other domestic sounds flowed past the flower pots in the windows, no one came out into the garden to invite her inside. She found Elizabeth’s company more tolerable than Aleda’s, but she was feeling too melancholy for idle chatter. Especially with Philip’s family members, with their loving cords binding him—and now her—to Gresham.
The school building appeared vacant. A dozen children played in the yard, kicking up heels on swings hanging from elm limbs, squealing with delight on a merry-go-round, and simply running off energy.
Loretta begrudged them their joy. She wondered what Irene and Conrad thought of her exile, for surely Father had informed them. Irene was probably relieved to have their parents to herself, without the tension that tainted every pleasantry. And it was unlikely that Conrad thought of her at all.
Was she the only person on earth to feel robbed of her youth and tormented by what might have been?
She turned southward down shady Market Street, toward the shops nestled cheek-to-jowl. A display of ladies’ hats in a bow window jogged a memory. She went inside Perkins’ Fine Millinery. The shop assistant behind the counter did not raise her eyes from her magazine.
Loretta cleared her throat. The woman held up a finger, read for another second, then looked up. She had a pleasantly rounded figure, soft brown eyes, and full lips. Her hair was swept up into a chignon, revealing garnet earrings. Her high-collared, low-waisted gown of navy tweed studded with red and white checks was the height of fashion. Loretta was so relieved to see someone in this village who was not three years behind London fashions that she forgave the snubbing.
“Godey’s Lady’s Book,” the woman said in a voice as high-pitched as Becky Libby’s. “I’ve got to keep up with the style.”
“This is your shop?”
“All mine. My mum and father bought it for me, to give me some direction.” She assumed a stern look and mocked a man’s voice, as much as her high pitch allowed. “Daughter . . . no more of this sleeping in while life passes you by.”
She giggled, motioned toward a half-curtained door behind her. “Father was miffed when I put a cot back there. I explained it’s just for propping my feet for a minute when I have the monthly. That shut him up. But it’s sort of nice, having my own business. One day ladies will be coming from all over Shropshire to buy from me.”
That’s debatable, Loretta thought. While the hat displays were reasonably attractive, the service was lacking. London shop clerks would have crawled over her as soon as she entered, like ants on an apple core.
“Do you block hats?” she asked. The gray straw capote she had purchased last week had gotten mashed after falling from its box on the train.
Without a word the woman disappeared through the curtained doorway. She returned with a circular wooden device and pursed her lips at it. “I believe that’s what this is for. I’ll ask my mum for certain.”
And then, oddly, she stretched out her hand toward Loretta.
Loretta stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”
She blew out an exasperated breath. “The hat?”
“Not this hat,” Loretta said, adding under her breath, You twit! “I shall have to bring it another day.”
The woman looked aggrieved at the device in her hands, turned again toward the curtained doorway. Loretta chose that time to exit.
She received a better reception in Trumbles. As soon as the bell tinkled over the door, a doughy-faced man with walrus mustache turned from dusting cans. “Good morning, madam. Unusually dry July we’re having, isn’t it?”
“I suppose,” Loretta said, approaching the counter. What did she know of Shropshire weather? “I would like some chocolates and something to read.”
The man smiled, hooked his thumbs through the braces holding up his trousers. “Ah . . . nothing like chocolate and a good book for a phlegm-matic day.”
Phlegmatic? Loretta wondered. She was quite sure that phlegm was mucus. Not a pretty mental picture.
“The only problem is,” he continued, “while I can order books for you, I don’t carry them, not since Mrs. Bartley—God rest her dear soul—added to the subscription library. You can’t fault folks for not buying what they can borrow. That’s just wise money mangerment.”
Management?
She left with a small tin of Cadbury Fine Crown chocolates and the directions to Bartley Subscription Library, northwards on Market Street and almost to the river. She was relieved to discover the bookshelves were indeed well stocked. At least she would have something to do during her month of exile.
“We just got this one in,” said a white-haired woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Jefferies.
Loretta paged through the copy of Henry James’ The Portrait of a Lady with some reservations, for she had heard that the plot included an unfulfilled marriage. It looked interesting enough, but she also selected Wives and Daughters by Elizabeth Gaskell, just in case.
On a whim, she also chose Wonderful Stories for Children, the Hans Christian Andersen tales, evoking fond memories of Nan
ny Miriam reading at bedside to her and Irene. Perhaps Jewel would care to read them to Becky? If she could read, that is. At least the pictures were nice.
Having had three days to observe her, Loretta did not believe that Jewel would take this as a narrowing of the God-ordained gap between servant and master. Thankfully, the housemaid went about her work quietly in her presence. The snatches of mother-daughter conversations Loretta had overheard through walls and windows were subdued and sweet, and caused her to smile. And sometimes brought tears.
Young women tending small children and older women tending gardens sent her curious stares as she returned to the cottage, but most were accompanied by amiable good mornings. Loretta returned the greetings, even while counting the days until she could leave, counting the minutes until she would seek comfort in a novel and chocolates, and counting her hurrying steps past Elizabeth’s gate.
Savory smells greeted her on the cottage path. Jewel turned from the kitchen stove. “I hope you like fried sole and potatoes and gooseberry pudding, Mrs. Hollis.”
“Lovely,” Loretta said.
Becky, playing with her doll at the foot of the stairs, looked up with brown eyes bright. “I helped pick the gooseberries. I was mindful of the thorns, just like Mummy said. You just have to be very careful.”
Loretta laughed in spite of her heavy heart.
“You must pick up your blocks from the table so I can lay the cloth,” Jewel said to her daughter. “Remember what I said about leaving your things lying about?”
The girl went over to the table at once. Intent upon helping her—for Becky was not a servant—Loretta picked up a block.
Jewel gave her an uneasy look. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but she’s got to learn to pick up after herself.”
Loretta replaced the block and shrugged at the child.
One compensation for living in the cottage was that Philip took lunch at the vicarage or Doctor Rhodes’. Evenings after sharing supper, they gave each other dutiful kisses in the landing between their separate rooms. He was keeping his word, not crowding or pressuring her. Yet she knew that if she should receive a letter from Father tomorrow, giving her permission to return to London, she would be finding a way to Shrewsbury that same day.
Chapter 24
In her vicarage bedchamber late Wednesday morning, Aleda was halfway through another episode of Captain Jacob’s adventures when Wanetta knocked and stuck her head around the door.
“There is a gentleman downstairs to see you, Miss Hollis.”
“Me? Who is it?”
The maid gave her an enigmatic smile. “I’m not allowed to say.”
Heart swelling with happiness, Aleda swung her chair around to face her. “Only Gabriel would try a stunt like that.”
Wanetta blew out her cheeks. “Now, I didn’t say . . .”
“Don’t worry,” Aleda laughed. “I’ll pretend to be surprised.”
It was as she fished her leather slippers from beneath her desk that she thought to wonder why Gabriel would pop out of the blue with no advance notice. He disliked writing letters, with so much energy going into his books, but even so, he’d always managed to send at least a telegram before one of his rare visits.
She could interpret this one of two ways. He had finished her novel, loved it, and could not wait to tell her. Or he was halfway finished, hated it, and must get the unwelcome chore of informing her over with immediately, as one pulls a splinter.
Worry accompanied her down the staircase. Perhaps Gabriel wasn’t even the visitor after all, she tried to tell herself. Three feet before the parlor doorway, she stopped to listen.
“I’m glad to see how well you’re recovering, Vicar.”
Gabriel’s voice. She said a quick prayer and stepped through the doorway. To enhance her air of unawareness, she looked immediately over to her stepfather’s chair—pushed closer to the sofa to make room for his bed.
“Father, I wonder if I may bring you any—”
It was then that she allowed herself to glance at the sofa, where Mother and Gabriel sat, beaming.
She put a hand to her heart. “Why, Gabriel!”
He got to his feet. Smiling, she crossed the carpet to embrace him. “What a wonderful surprise!”
But when she stepped backwards, he studied her face and rolled his eyes. “You figured me out.”
Aleda forced a laugh. “Guilty. How did you know I was staying here?”
A silly question, under ordinary circumstances, for he could very well have come to visit Philip. But these were not ordinary circumstances. Surely this had to do with her novel.
“Mrs. Pool informed me, when I dropped my satchel off at the Bow and Fiddle.”
“You’re most welcome to stay here, Gabriel,” Mother said.
Gabriel gave her a tender smile. “Thank you, but I’m quite comfortable there.”
Anxiety gnawed at Aleda’s stomach. But the etiquette taught to her from childhood was so ingrained that she could not ask even such a good friend why he was there. And even if she could, moments later Philip arrived, and immediately engaged Gabriel in the male pounding-on-the-back and bantering ritual.
“London’s not the same without me?” Philip said.
“Oh, have you been away?” Gabriel replied.
And then Dora announced lunch, and they were trooping down the corridor to the dining room.
Mercifully, Gabriel spared her suffering, once plates of roast beef and vegetables were filled from the sideboard and Father had prayed.
“I hope you’ll forgive my springing myself upon you without an invitation. . . .”
“You never need one,” Mother said.
“Thank you, Mrs. Phelps.” He sent her another tender smile.
“Never,” Aleda echoed, in the hopes he would turn his attention to her again and give her any scrap of information about her novel.
As it turned out, that was what was in his mind, for he winked at her and said, “As to why I’m here, I’ve had only two hours’ sleep. On the train.”
While Aleda held her breath, Philip said, half seriously, “Are you in need of a doctor, Gabriel?”
Gabriel laughed, and continued smiling at Aleda. “I received the copy of your Wharram Percy from the typist yesterday morning. I literally could not put it down. And I couldn’t wait to tell you in person.”
“Are you serious, Gabriel?” Aleda said in the hush that followed.
“Most serious. I’d like your permission to submit it to my editors at Macmillan’s.”
From childhood, any public display of tears was embarrassing to Aleda. But she found herself weeping into her hands, and happily so, as parents and brother took turns cradling her shoulders and congratulating her.
“There is no guarantee they will ask to contract it,” Gabriel said softly, to bring everyone back down to earth.
Aleda smiled at him through her tears. While that mattered, it didn’t matter so much as the fact that an expert and honest pair of eyes had traveled the length of her story and deemed it worthy.
Somehow they plowed through the rest of lunch, if only not to hurt Dora. Then Gabriel expressed need for a nap and insisted upon taking it at the Bow and Fiddle. Philip offered to accompany him on his return to Doctor Rhodes’.
For her part, Aleda went upstairs and fell to her knees. The only prayer she could utter was Thank you, thank you, thank you. . . . Over and over. But it rose from such a deep part of her, so connected her to God, that she knew He forgave her lack of originality.
“You have to return tomorrow?” Aleda asked in the vicarage garden three hours later, when Gabriel had returned. She had hoped for at least several long conversations in which he would point out exactly which parts of her novel he had most enjoyed.
“First thing in the morning. Alas, I’ve got to get back to my own story before it grows cold.”
“I understand,” she sighed. “And I do appreciate your devoting so much time to mine.”
“It was my pleasure.” H
e began fumbling with his cuff link. “Philip said Mrs. Libby now works for him and Loretta.”
“I’m glad she got away from the manor house,” Aleda said. “True to form, Mr. Gibbs was a horse’s—”
“When will you tell her?”
“Why? If anyone knows it, she certainly does.”
“Not about Mr. Gibbs.” He shook his head. “About your novel. After all, she did influence your decision to have me read it.”
His eyes shifted toward the pear tree. Aleda smiled to herself. He may be creative, but he should never try for the stage. So, the little spark she had sensed around the table in June had not been extinguished.
Adore him as she may, grateful as she was, she could not resist throwing a little torment his way.
“Hmm. I’d forgotten.” Aleda nodded. “I’m sure I’ll see her Sunday.”
His voice fell flat. “Sunday.”
“Or, we could do that now. If you’re not fatigued.”
“I’m not fatigued.”
Arm-in-arm, they strolled down Vicarage Lane.
“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” he asked.
“Could you have resisted, if the situation were reversed?”
“No.” He chuckled. “We’re woefully immature, aren’t we?”
“That’s why we need mature people in our lives.”
Elizabeth waved from her parlor window, then came out through the gate as they passed. She embraced Gabriel, and upon hearing Aleda’s news, embraced her, as well.
“We’re on our way to the cottage,” Aleda told her.
“Will you invite Mrs. Libby to bring Becky over? The children will be waking from their naps any minute, and she’s such a calming influence on them.”
“Certainly,” Aleda agreed. And then a better idea came to her. She could only hope Loretta had not chosen that day to repent of her antisocial ways.
And it was Loretta whom Aleda spotted first, seated in a wicker chair. Becky, arranging blocks on a bit of bare earth, hopped up from her knees and hurried over.
“Miss Hollis! Mr. Patterson!”
The Jewel of Gresham Green Page 21