The Jewel of Gresham Green

by Lawana Blackwell

  “You’re very kind, sir,” Jewel said as he washed his hands.

  “Not at all.” Drying his hands, he smiled at her. “I’ll leave the salve. Keep it somewhere handy for future nicks—perhaps a shelf in the water closet. You may remove the bandage tonight and dab a little more on, then again in the morning.”

  He took up his bag and left. The air on the path was scented with sweet woodbine, dew-damp grasses, and trees just waking. He wondered what Jewel thought of the separate bedchambers. Fortunately, she went about her business with no indication of curiosity. Aleda had said she and the girl had suffered hard lives in Birmingham. He was glad his family was able to help them.

  A new framed watercolor of Saint Jude’s hung on the vicarage parlor wall. About the size of a hymnal cover, it was quite good, with muted impressionist-style lines. “Horace Stokes dropped that by yesterday evening,” his stepfather said proudly. “Their adopted son Gerald painted it.”

  “The lad with the clubfoot?” Philip had noticed at church that the Stokes brood had gained a few more members since his last visit to Gresham.

  “Why, yes.”

  “How did you guess?” Mother asked, tying off thread from a button she had sewn onto a shirt.

  “Because doesn’t it seem to follow that the most gifted artists have obstacles?” He took stethoscope from bag and listened to his stepfather’s heart. “Speaking of obstacles . . . what do you think of giving the staircase a go after lunch?”

  “A bath and the stairs, all in one week?”

  “Only if you’ll rest this morning.”

  “Very well. What joy!”

  Philip smiled. “You’re a man of simple wants, aren’t you?”

  “It takes illness to make us realize just how little we need to make us happy.”

  “I feel a future sermon in the works,” Mother teased gently while folding the shirt.

  “Not a sermon,” Father said, and gave her a loving smile. “Just a request.”

  “What is it?”

  “While I’m resting, will you go potter in your garden?”

  Philip packed his stethoscope and closed the drapes. He and his mother happened to meet in the hall, she buttoning a gardening smock over her dress. They walked onto the porch together.

  “Mother?”

  “Yes, son?”

  He hesitated. “Did you have an inkling how good you would be for each other, before you married?”

  “Well, yes. Because we had become such good friends. When romance came, we had a solid foundation to build upon.”

  “I guess Loretta and I skipped over the friendship part.”

  She laid a hand upon his shoulder, her expression filled with maternal understanding. And pain. “It’s not hopeless, Philip. She’s here.”

  “Her father ordered her.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Please don’t tell anyone.”

  “Very well.” She shook her head. “I wish I could make it better.”

  “I shouldn’t have brought it up. You have enough on your hands.”

  “No, I’m glad you did. Maybe now is the time you should devote to building a friendship.”

  “You don’t think it’s too late?”

  “It’s never too late to try,” she said. “Perhaps it’s good that you spend most of your day away. Forget rekindling your romance for the time being. She’ll think more clearly without that pressure, and surely remember your good qualities.”

  He chuckled dryly. “I don’t feel I have any good qualities at the moment.”

  She patted his bearded cheek. “Shall I make a list?”

  He kissed the top of her head. And felt better. It was not right to burden her with his problems. But even grown men needed nurturing at times. He wondered if Squire Bartley, in his dreadful isolation of mind, longed for the touch of a maternal hand upon his forehead.

  He went on to the surgery, where he and Doctor Rhodes played cribbage between his lancing a boil, setting a broken arm, and walking over to Walnut Lane to check on an infant boy he had treated for croup the day before.

  “The baby’s much better,” Philip was pleased to report upon his return.

  Doctor Rhodes yawned. “Very good. It’s about time for my nap. Will you look in on the squire this afternoon?”

  “My pleasure.”

  After lunch, his stepfather took to the stairs like a racehorse let out of the gate, until Philip warned him to slow down. “You can still burst your stitches.”

  That cooled his pace. He allowed the banister to take much of his weight, as instructed. “Does this mean no more sleeping in the parlor?”

  “That’s what it means,” Philip said.

  “Oh joy!”

  On his walk to the manor house, Philip was tempted to make a small detour by the cottage to see how Loretta’s day was going. His mother’s advice rang in his ears, and he turned down Bartley Lane instead. He met Jeremiah Toft, sitting astride a black Cleveland Bay. His old friend dismounted.

  “How good to see you!” Philip exclaimed, clapping his back as they embraced. “I hear you’re a family man.”

  Jeremiah flushed with pleasure. After what seemed like perpetual bachelorhood, last year he had married Beryl Worthy, one of Grace’s former playmates. “Little Jenny’s three months old . . . and already she laughs when she sees me.”

  “Ben and I did that years ago,” Philip teased.

  Jeremiah cuffed him on the shoulder. “I should have thrashed you both when I had the chance.”

  Philip smiled and stroked the horse’s neck. The animal snorted, but not in a panicked way.

  “The squire sold off most of his horses a couple of years ago,” Jeremiah said. “He was no longer taking the coach out. I’m just giving her a bit of exercise.”

  “Why don’t you and your family come to dinner tomorrow night?” Philip said as his friend swung up into the saddle again.

  “We’d like that,” Jeremiah said.

  Mrs. Cooper, whom he well remembered from church, asked Philip to wait in the foyer of the manor house. Presently a tall man appeared, with dark mustache and puzzled expression.

  “And where is Doctor Rhodes?”

  “He’s resting,” Philip replied. “I’m his associate for now.

  May I see the squire?”

  “Very well.” Mr. Gibbs nodded to the housekeeper. “I’ll escort him upstairs.”

  “Are you any relation to Miss Hollis the writer?” Mr. Gibbs asked amiably on the staircase.

  “She happens to be my sister.”

  Mr. Gibbs opened the bedchamber door and followed him inside. A thin young woman, whom Mr. Gibbs said was his day nurse, put aside some needlework and rose from a chair. Philip approached the bed, saddened by the state to which the old man had been reduced.

  “Good afternoon, Squire,” he said, leaning close. “Do you remember me? Philip Hollis?”

  “Amm-grabeel,” Squire Bartley growled, staring up at Philip as if wishing his eyes could speak.

  “I wish I could understand what you’re trying to say. It must be terribly frustrating. But I’m here to examine you.”

  “Grabeel.”

  Philip took his temperature, then listened to his chest with the stethoscope. “No fever. And your heartbeat’s strong.”

  “My servants turn him every two hours, day and night,” Mr. Gibbs said. It seemed he was speaking more to his uncle, as if wishing him to understand all that was being done for him.

  “Very good,” Philip said. “There is no sign of bedsores.”

  “MM-gale!” the squire said.

  Philip smoothed the lined forehead. “I’m so sorry, sir. I wish I could understand. But it’s good that you’re exercising your tongue, making syllables. The more you keep at it, the more control you’ll gain.”

  An idea struck him. He turned to Mr. Gibbs. “May I have a sheet of paper?”

  The nephew nodded to the nurse, who left the bedchamber. “What is it?” Mr. Gibbs said.

  “An exp
eriment,” Philip said, taking his pen from his bag. “He seems desperate to communicate. I’m not sure how much of his cognitive ability was affected, but if he can recognize the alphabet, he may be able to spell out words by grunting or blinking.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a miracle, Uncle?” Mr. Gibbs said to the man, fidgeting with his own shirt button.

  Philip jotted down the letters of the alphabet and held them close to the squire. The experiment was a failure. The squire either lay listlessly while Philip pointed to letters, or grunted at random for those which formed no words.

  “What a pity,” Mr. Gibbs said.

  Feet propped onto a parlor footstool, Donald smoked two cigarettes in a row. He had not stuck his head into his uncle’s room for a week, and was stunned by his intense drive to speak. If he had thought getting rid of Jewel and Becky would cause him to give up trying, he had not reckoned with the power of pure, unrefined revenge.

  What were you thinking? Donald asked himself. You imbecile.

  He had to appease the old man. Get him to sink back into complacency. He feared having Jewel at his bedside every day, as before. But would he calm down if she visited occasionally?

  He rang for Mrs. Cooper. “I’m thinking I was too harsh with Mrs. Libby. And my uncle does seem to miss her and Becky.”

  “Yes,” the housekeeper said crisply, as if to both statements.

  Donald squelched his irritation. “Do you know what’s happened to her?”

  “She’s housemaid for Doctor Hollis and his wife, while they’re staying in the cottage.”

  “Indeed? Well, please ask her to visit my uncle now and again. I think it would calm him.”

  “I think so, as well,” Mrs. Cooper said with hands clasped. “But I’ll not ask.”

  Gaping up at her, Donald said, “I beg your pardon?”

  “You discharged her. You ask her.”

  “You seem to forget that I can discharge you.”

  “Do what you must, Mr. Gibbs. I can move in with my sister, where I don’t have to walk on eggshells.”

  She turned and left the room. Cheeks flaming, Donald was sorely tempted to act upon his threat. And then what? Run the house himself? Endure even more hatred from the other servants?

  He went to his chamber for his tweed jacket and a hat, and set out on foot.

  From the gate he saw Becky, using twigs to form squares upon the ground. A cat nuzzled its head against the girl’s side, demanding attention.

  “Hallo, Becky.”

  She stood and walked over to the gate. “I’m making a house, Mr. Gibbs.”

  “It’s a fine house,” he said, and for an instant regretted that he would never have children. “Will you ask your mother to come out here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She turned and trotted for the cottage. Only seconds later, Jewel stepped out, brushing hands upon her apron. She stared out at him, narrowed her eyes, and crossed the garden.

  “What is it, Mr. Gibbs?”

  He removed his hat. “I’ve come to apologize for . . . what happened. I was very wrong to think you capable of . . .”

  “Stealing,” Jewel said, blue eyes cold upon him.

  “Yes. It was simply a misunderstanding.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but misunderstandings don’t hide statues in trunks.”

  His temper sparked, and he had to remind himself why he was there. “You’re right. I . . . should have investigated more thoroughly. Perhaps one of the other servants was jealous of your closeness with my uncle. But that’s water under the bridge. My uncle misses you and Becky. Terribly.”

  Her voice softened. “The poor man.”

  “It would help so much if you would visit him.”

  “I have Sundays off. We will come after church.”

  “I was hoping you could come today. Wouldn’t Doctor Hollis allow you to slip away for an hour or so? He’s aware of my uncle’s condition.”

  She hesitated, nodded. “Mrs. Hollis is napping. I’ll ask her when she wakes.”

  He thanked her and turned for the path. He had taken only six or seven steps when he heard, “Jewel?”

  Through the trees he spotted a woman with curls the color of corn silk walking toward a garden chair. He studied her for several seconds, watched her sit gracefully. She wore a simple yet elegant summer nautical costume of pale blue trimmed in white. Even from the distance, he could tell it was expensive.

  “Will you make some tea?” Mrs. Hollis said from the chair nearest Becky’s twig-house outline. A copy of The Portrait of a Lady rested in her lap.

  “Right away, ma’am,” Jewel said.

  “And afterwards, will you go to Trumbles? Doctor Hollis and I have finished the Cadbury’s. Of course, we had some assistance in the form of a four-year-old.”

  This was the most personable Mrs. Hollis had ever been with her. Jewel had to smile. Twice she had seen the doctor slip Becky chocolates.

  Mrs. Hollis pursed her lips. “Actually, my taste buds are nudging me toward cake.”

  Jewel was about to suggest Johnson’s Baked Goods when the gate squeaked open behind her. She looked over her shoulder. Mr. Gibbs was advancing.

  “You must not entrust your taste buds to the local baker, Mrs. Hollis. Not when the manor house cook bakes a chocolate-plum torte that puts Bertolini’s to shame.”

  Her whole countenance brightened. “Bertolini’s? On Leicester Square?”

  “Where else? It’s my favorite after-theatre restaurant.”

  “You enjoy the theatre?”

  “Was Guy Fawkes fond of gunpowder?”

  Mrs. Hollis laughed. “You’re from London!”

  He made a little bow. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Donald Gibbs, presently of Gresham, but my roots are firmly planted beside the Thames.”

  “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Gibbs.”

  She extended her hand. Mr. Gibbs stepped forward to scoop it up as if it were a delicate orchid.

  “If I may be so bold to ask a favor, my ailing uncle misses Jewel’s company. If you would allow her and little Becky to visit the manor house, she could deliver a message to Mrs. Wright. Within a couple of hours—no less than three—you could be feasting on cake warm from the oven.”

  “Yes, of course,” Mrs. Hollis said with a little wave in Jewel’s direction. “Of what part of London are you from, Mr. Gibbs?”

  “I own a lovely house on Kensington Square.”

  “Indeed? I live in Pembroke Gardens.”

  Waiting for a pause in the conversation, Jewel noticed the word I. In fact, she had not seen Mrs. Hollis so animated the entire week.

  “Mrs. Hollis?” Jewel asked.

  “What is it, Jewel?” she asked with a little dent between her brows.

  “Shall I make the tea first?”

  Now it was Mr. Gibbs who waved her on. “You must embark on your mission of mercy straightaway, Jewel. I shall make the tea. And then we two expatriates will reminisce.”

  Chapter 26

  Annabel the parlormaid, happy for a break, gave Jewel and Becky quick embraces before exiting the room.

  No matter what her misgivings were over Mrs. Hollis and Mr. Gibbs, Jewel was pleased to see the squire.

  “You dear man,” she said, holding his papery hand as Becky stroked his bald head.

  He seemed pleased to see them, though the sounds he made were still unintelligible.

  “Shall I fetch your book and continue where we left off?”

  His eyes filled with dismay. Jewel squeezed his hand lightly. “Then we’ll stay right here.”

  She told him whatever came to mind. Their train journey from Birmingham. Her duties at the cottage. She even confessed to laboring over Mrs. Beeton’s Victorian Cookbook evenings to plan each day’s meals, for she was used to plain cooking. Becky sang several songs.

  Mrs. Cooper appeared.

  “Would Becky care to look at the fish pond with me?”

  Jewel was grateful. However m
uch the child cared for the squire, the bedside vigil was too much for her tender age. When they were gone, Jewel got to her knees.

  “Please heal our dear Squire Bartley, Father, or take him on to the place where he will be whole again. And above all, please grant him peace. Your will be done.”

  She could not be sure, but imagined she felt faint pressure of the squire’s hand squeezing hers. Standing again, she did not imagine the tears filling his eyes.

  When Mrs. Cooper returned with Becky and a basket containing the cake, Jewel kissed the old man’s forehead and promised to return Sunday afternoon. She did not want to give him false hopes by promising any sooner.

  “While I’m as fond of the Bard as any Englishman, I confess to preferring modern comedy for an evening’s entertainment,” Mr. Gibbs said over a third cup of tea.

  “You’re not alone,” Loretta said. “Or else the Savoy operas would not be so popular.”

  “Um, indeed. But then there is all that singing.” He hesitated. “I hope this doesn’t offend you. . . .”

  Loretta smiled. Entertaining her with talk of London and the theatre as he was, she would not take offense if he spit in her eye.

  “I admire frankness.”

  “I sensed that deepness in you,” he said, studying her face.

  Which was unfortunate, because the compliment made her blush like a schoolgirl. To cover her embarrassment, she said quickly, “Are you aware that Ambrose Clay lives part of the year in Gresham?”

  “The actor? In this stodgy old village?”

  “I met him and his wife at our London wedding. They’ll be at the vicarage for Sunday dinner. Perhaps I could wrangle you an invitation?”

  He shook his head. “You’re very kind, but I shall have to decline. My uncle becomes very moody when I’m not there to feed him his meals.”

  “It’s good of you to care so deeply for him.” Loretta had heard stories of heirs so overcome by greed that they lost all compassion.

  He fell silent, as if battling some emotion. At length he said, quietly, “It’s very kind of you to say so, Mrs. Hollis. I can hardly think what I shall do with myself when he’s gone.”

  “I’ll send Jewel and Becky over for a short visit every day. If you think it will help.”

  He pressed his hand to his heart, nodded.