The Jewel of Gresham Green

by Lawana Blackwell

  Philip could no longer restrain his tongue. “Loretta.”

  “—her wardrobe.” She paused. “What is it?”

  “Elizabeth and Jonathan shared incredible news just moments ago. After so many disappointments, they’re bravely trying for another baby. My heart is filled with joy, as well as fear that they will be disappointed again.”

  “I hope all goes well, too, Philip.”

  “But . . . it seems that you hope in the way one hopes for a distant acquaintance. No genuine emotional investment.”

  She gaped askew at him. “How can you say such a thing?”

  “Because you’ve spoken of nothing but the Clays since we set out. Elizabeth and Jonathan are your family. The baby is your niece or nephew. Yet their announcement appeared to make very little impression in your mind.”

  “You had to lend me your handkerchief.”

  “Indeed.” He had watched her dab at her eyes after the prayer. Three seconds later, she had been complimenting Fiona’s gown.

  “It’s painfully clear,” he went on, “how much you loathe being here. But it’s not my family’s fault. And they’re good people. If you got to know them better, you might enjoy their company.”

  “And that’s been the plan all along, hasn’t it?” she said with crimson staining her fair cheeks. “Separate me from my friends and family in the hopes I’ll throw them over for this place?”

  “Yes, Loretta. That’s why I made my stepfather ill, and made your father send you here.”

  Immediately he regretted stooping to sarcasm, the weapon of the weak. He blew out a breath, calmed his voice. “I shouldn’t have said that. But if you miss your friends, why not invite them for a visit? We could telegraph them in the morning, book a couple of rooms at the Bow and Fiddle.”

  She turned to face him as if he had lost his mind. “You think I’d allow Maud and Sharon to see where we’re staying?”

  Would it matter to true friends? he could counter. But he was weary of the whole argument. They turned up the path in silence; hers stormy, his resigned.

  He was relieved that Jewel and Becky were absent from the garden and ground floor. Perhaps they were visiting the squire. Loretta went to the staircase without a word. Not quite sure what to do with himself, Philip watched her hurry up the steps. He winced as her door slammed.

  Weeping sounds drifted downward. The old protective impulse nudged him up the staircase. But he paused at the top. The scenario would be the same. She would weep while he begged forgiveness for his insensitivity. She would eventually dry her eyes and forgive him . . . with a sulking, grudging forgiveness. There would be no mutual presenting of sides, no attempt to find a solution or at least a compromise. A little bit more of his manhood would be surrendered.

  And he had a depressing feeling she wept not for the state of their marriage, but because she had to endure Gresham and his company for three more weeks.

  “I’m going for a walk, Loretta!” he called through the door.

  A thump came from her side of the door. A shoe?

  He heard Jewel and Becky coming up the path. The girl, skipping ahead of her mother, spotted him first. “Mummy, here’s Doctor Hollis!”

  Odd, how being recognized with such delight by a child could make him feel better. How wonderful it must be, to be the hero to one’s own child! Would he ever know that feeling?

  “And where have you been, Miss Becky?” he asked, crouching to her level.

  “To the big house to see the squire.”

  “Good afternoon, Doctor Hollis,” Jewel said.

  He returned her greeting and asked about the squire.

  “He seems calmer than two days ago.”

  Perhaps Mr. Gibbs had some good in him after all. “I’m sure it’s because of your visits.”

  “Perhaps so,” she said with no false modesty.

  “Did you see me wave to you in church?” Becky asked.

  “Alas,” Philip replied truthfully, “I did not. Or I should have waved back. But next Sunday I’ll keep an eye out for you. Will you give me another chance?”

  That reduced her to shyness, but she smiled and nodded.

  “There’s a good girl.” He straightened to address Jewel again. “My wife feels unwell. Please bring her a cup of tea in a little while?”

  “Of course, sir,” she replied with no hint of a question in her eyes. Surely there were several in her mind.

  Such as, why would he walk away from an ailing wife? Why the separate rooms? Why were evenings spent in separate parlor chairs with polite conversation interspersed with pages of novels?

  Why can’t Loretta be more like her? he thought, continuing down the path. Jewel Libby radiated serenity, an evenness of mood, in spite of a cruel past.

  Philip repented of the thought. He was married and had no business straying, even mentally.

  Reaching Church Lane he turned eastward, avoiding the village proper. The lane narrowed, a cool shady tunnel embowered by meandering leafy limbs.

  Three weeks, he thought, wishing he could see the future.

  But God knew it, and could even affect it. He veered off the lane, found a patch of grass, got to his knees, and prayed for his marriage.

  I beg you for a miracle, Father.

  That was what it would take at this point.

  Standing, brushing off his trouser knees, he turned again toward the cottage. Whether or not God would choose to grant his prayer, there was something he felt nudged to do.

  Loretta sat in the garden, holding saucer and cup of tea balanced upon her knees. Her face appeared as one who had been beaten, face splotched and eyes swollen into slits. A pang stabbed his heart. To cause a loved one so much misery, just by the nature of his existence!

  She turned her head as he came through the gate. He lifted another wicker chair, placed it adjacent to hers so that the arms almost touched.

  “Loretta,” he said gently. “Why don’t you have Jewel pack your things?”

  She turned her face to him.

  “I’ll take you home, help you face your father.”

  He could see the temptation in her swollen eyes. Mingled with worry.

  “You mean, you would stay there, too?” she said with voice raspy.

  “No. Not the way things are between us now. Just long enough to help explain to your father that it’s over.”

  The fact that she even had to think about it was another stab to his heart.

  She sighed. “You know how he is. He’ll drag the vicar over, talk us to death to where we can’t think straight.”

  Philip could picture him doing that. It was Doctor Trask’s need to be in control at all times that made him a superior surgeon, but caused him sometimes to ignore the boundaries in his daughters’ marriages.

  “Then write to your mother. She has some influence with him. Ask her to plead your case and telegraph when it’s safe to go home.”

  After several long seconds of thought, she stretched out her hand. He took it, but there was no warmth to it. It lay in his palm like a dead fish.

  “I’m sorry, Philip.”

  Her image blurred as tears stung his eyes. He wished so much to tell her how much he loved her. But that would only distress her. So he simply nodded and held her cold hand, wondering if it would be his last time to do so.

  Chapter 28

  “No one’s come forward yet,” Mr. Trumble said with a nod toward the window, where Aleda’s notice was propped along displays of lamps, cooking pots, and packets of flower seeds. “Perhaps if you upped the reward? Might give someone an inceneration to look for it?”

  “I’ll do that,” Aleda said resignedly, for after almost three weeks, she held little hope. She borrowed Mr. Trumble’s pen, crossed through the amount, and wrote in a new amount above it. A steep price, but worth every penny if the watch would be returned.

  She purchased the tin of baking soda Dora had requested, the jar of Muscovite Lustre shoe polish for Father, and a half-dozen cakes of Pears soap for mother.r />
  A tall man entered just as she turned from the counter.

  “Good morning, Mr. Gibbs,” Mr. Trumble said.

  “Good morning.” The man removed his hat for her sake. She pretended not to notice, and gave him wide berth. As she headed toward the door, she heard him ask Jack in a tone of faint desperation, “Is there a letter for a Donald Gibbs?”

  Why would he come for the mail, when Mr. Jones delivered to the manor house?

  I’m here for the same reason, she reminded herself. Wryly, she thought that perhaps Mr. Gibbs had also written a novel and asked someone to read it.

  She turned northward outside, to head for the lending library for the copy of Ben-Hur Father had requested. Her eyes caught a flash of raspberry-colored movement ahead as a woman disappeared into Perkins’ Fine Millinery. Loretta?

  She paused to look through the window. Loretta indeed was setting a hatbox onto the counter while looking about. Her raspberry-check silk gown was more suited for London theatres than Gresham’s shops. But then, Aleda was the last person to criticize another woman’s wardrobe.

  As if sensing she was being watched, Loretta turned and looked at her.

  Aleda sighed. The longer she dallied around the shops, the greater her chance of encountering Mr. Gibbs again. So she simply waved and pushed on.

  As little as she cared for Philip’s family, it stung to have his sister brush her off so quickly. All the more reason to mail the letter to her mother that was in her bag.

  Finally, a hand moved aside the curtain behind the counter. Priscilla Perkins entered, not bothering to cover a yawn.

  Loretta took the injured hat from its box. “You said you could block this.”

  Miss Perkins shrugged. “I’ll give it a try.”

  Stunned by the disinterest, Loretta noticed pillow markings upon one side of the shopkeeper’s face. “It’s an expensive hat. And I shall need it back within a day or two.”

  “Don’t get your knickers in a knot. I said I’d try.”

  “Never mind!” Loretta dropped the hat back into the box. Tears blurred her eyes, from the frustration of dealing with unrefined people. She hurried through the door, holding the box by the string, and collided with a man in a tweed suit. The box flew to the ground and the lid popped open.

  “Pardon me,” he said, snatching the hat from the cobbled stones.

  Mr. Gibbs!

  He smiled down at her. “How lovely to see you, Mrs. Hollis. Or shall I say, ‘to bump into you’?”

  “It’s good to see you, as well,” she said. “How is your uncle?”

  “Physically . . . no better. But his spirits have improved, thanks to you.”

  “To me?”

  “For kindly allowing Jewel and Becky to visit. He’s become much less agitated, even when they’re not with him.”

  They stood before the millinery shop window. He handed her the hat. “Did you just buy this? I’m afraid the fall has dented it.”

  “That happened on the train,” she said, setting it into the box he picked up and held out. “I meant to have it blocked, but . . .”

  Inches away, the door was flung open and Miss Perkins rushed out.

  “I’m so sorry, miss! I didn’t understand what you meant. Please forgive my rudeness. I was feeling out of sorts.”

  “That’s no excuse for what you—”

  “No excuse at all. And I shall be happy to block your hat. At no charge.”

  She snatched the box from Mr. Gibbs and tucked it under her arm. Too bewildered to respond, Loretta watched her extend her hand to him.

  “I’m Priscilla Perkins,” she said with lashes fluttering like hummingbird wings. “You must be Mr. Gibbs. I’ve heard of you.”

  “You have?” he said, sending Loretta a dry smile. “Then you know what an ogre I can be if my friends are not given proper service.”

  “Yes, of course, I shall do my best. And I’ll give you a discount on a man’s hat, too.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.” He took a backwards step to open the door. “And you’d best be at it if you’re going to repair that hat, yes?”

  “Ah . . . yes.” Halfway through the door she turned. “Remember the men’s hats.”

  “I shall think of nothing else.”

  Loretta held in her laughter until they walked a few paces to Johnson’s Baked Goods. Not out of respect for Miss Perkins, but in case she was the vindictive sort who would damage her hat. Mr. Gibbs’ laugh was as rich as his voice.

  “She wouldn’t last a day behind a counter on Regent Street,” he said.

  “She’s the owner,” Loretta said.

  “You jest!”

  “I’m serious.”

  He laughed again, sobered. “Don’t you wish you were there now?”

  “In my fondest dreams.”

  An older woman came out of the bakery, smiled, and said in passing, “Good day, Mrs. Hollis.”

  Probably someone who saw her at Saint Jude’s with Philip yesterday, she thought.

  “Are you heading homeward?” Mr. Gibbs asked. “I should be honored to escort you.”

  She happened to glance through the bakery window. A white-aproned man was wiping the counter, and lifted his hand in greeting. The friendliness of villagers—Miss Perkins notwithstanding— was increasingly annoying. While they could stroll down most London streets and passersby would neither know nor care about her business, she was in Philip’s domain. Why, Aleda could pop out of one of the shops any minute!

  What will he do? Divorce me?

  She was not engaged in any immorality, simply enjoying the company of a friend with common interests. But she could not hand Philip ammunition to present to Father, should their marriage reach the bitter end it was racing toward.

  “On second thought, why don’t you come for tea this afternoon?” he said with understanding tone. “We can tell more London stories.”

  “Why don’t you come to the cottage instead?” She nodded toward the bakery. “And this time, I’ll provide the cake.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.” He smiled, tipped his hat, and left.

  On her way into the bakery, Loretta realized she had not mentioned a time. After two o’clock would be best, she thought. Becky would wake from her nap, and Jewel would take her with her to the manor house. She wondered if she should go back outside and try to wave him down.

  But some instinct or intuition told her that he knew exactly when he should arrive. She smiled to herself. Just as she had when she’d slipped away to Limehouse for Chinese food, she was being daring without being naughty. Having an innocent adventure, in a place where few adventures existed.

  “Mummy, when will we live in the big house again?” Becky asked after her nap, raising her arms for Jewel to slip her dress over her chemise.

  “Probably never, mite.” Jewel began fastening buttons. “We only go there to visit Squire Bartley.”

  “No, not that house. The big house where Mrs. Platt lived.”

  “Never, Becky. Do you miss it?”

  “Not the house. Just Ricky. He was nice.”

  Jewel’s insides froze. “Who is Ricky?”

  “Baby Ricky. Mrs. Platt let me give him the bottle sometimes. He pulled my hair, but he didn’t know any better.”

  Relief eased through Jewel. She even remembered Becky speaking about the baby. For how long would Mr. Dunstan’s crimes make her view every male in her daughter’s young life through a cloud of suspicion?

  They descended both staircases, and had just reached the kitchen when Mrs. Hollis charged around from the parlor. She had changed into a silvery-blue gown with scooped neckline. Her pearl choker wound elegantly around the base of her long neck.

  “Ah, there you are. You’d best be setting out. The squire needs you.”

  That was so, but some needs were more urgent than others. Jewel nudged Becky toward the parlor. “As soon as she goes to the water closet, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Hollis glanced at the kitchen door and sighed. “Very wel
l.”

  Five minutes later, they were trooping up the path toward Bartley Lane, Becky struggling over the alphabet.

  “H-I-J . . .” She looked up at Jewel.

  “K. It makes this sound: ca . . . ca . . . ca. . . . ”

  “K.” Becky nodded. “L-M-O-P.”

  “L-M-N-O-P,” Jewel said gently. “Remember the N.”

  “What word starts with N?”

  “Nose . . . nice . . .”

  “Knees?” Becky asked.

  “I’m afraid not, mite. There’s a K in front.”

  “Why?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest,” Jewel admitted.

  They were on to S-T-U when they reached the gravel carriage drive. Mr. Gibbs advanced from the rose garden.

  “Ah, there you are! Thank you for coming. And for goodness’ sakes, go through the front door. You’re visitors, not servants.”

  “I poured my heart out,” Loretta said, “begging my mother to convince Father to allow me to come home. But then after all that business with Miss Perkins, I forgot to mail it.”

  They sat in the garden, as would any respectable married woman entertaining a man who was not her husband. Crumbs from a fairly decent almond cake and empty teacups rested upon the garden table.

  “Perhaps it was fate,” Mr. Gibbs said.

  “Perhaps so. Anyway, I may not even mail it tomorrow. What good would it do? My father assumes his sheer resolve can force me to be happy again.”

  Mr. Gibbs listened thoughtfully, hat propped upon a crossed knee and elbows propped upon chair arms. “Forgive me . . . but is that a bad thing? Wishing to make you happy?”

  “It is when it stems from guilt.”

  Because he was such an attentive listener, she found herself pouring out the story of Conrad and Irene.

  Mr. Gibbs shook his head. “How sad. Having your heart broken in such a cruel way. There is no worse feeling.”

  “You know?” she said.

  His eyes filmed over. “Quite recently. It rips your heart out.”

  The poor man. And yet, as sorry as she was for him, she was relieved that he understood her pain.

  “Back to fate,” he said when he had composed himself. “It’s good that you did not mail the letter. If you decide for divorce, your parents will be more apt to understand and support you if you are able to prove you gave it a try.”