The Jewel of Gresham Green

by Lawana Blackwell

  There was still the issue of the August mortgage payment, due in eleven days. Though he would have enough to take the house out of possible foreclosure when his hands closed about his inheritance, there was the chance some greedy investor would have snapped it up before then.

  And thus, he must step up the hints to Mrs. Hollis, though she bored him to tears with her complaints about her marriage and having to spend one whole month in Gresham. Some people had genuine problems.

  Just inside the gate she stood, stunning in a Wedgwood blue gown flowing from the waist with fluid movements. She usually waited in a chair, ofttimes reading, as if she had planned to be out in the garden anyway and was a little surprised that he happened by.

  “Mr. Gibbs!”

  The anxiety in her face unnerved him as he drew closer.

  “Is something wrong, Mrs. Hollis?” Was her husband aware of their little meetings? Had Jewel gotten her revenge after all? Not that they had committed any mortal sins, but he had heard of husbands so jealous that a tipping of a hat could invite a thrashing.

  “I must speak with you of something important. It kept me awake for hours last night.”

  “Pray, what is it?” he said, escorting her to a chair. “You’re obviously in distress. What may I do to help you, dear lady?”

  Her smile was a mixture of gratitude and relief. “And yet your first thought is for me. My doubts over this decision have vanished.”

  Decision? Donald thought, holding his breath. “They have?”

  She leaned forward earnestly. “Forgive my indelicacy for asking, but how much longer can your uncle last?”

  “You must be psychic, Mrs. Hollis. As we speak, Doctor Rhodes and others keep watch over his last breaths. I am only here because, even in my grief, I could not bear the thought of your wondering if”—he allowed himself a bashful shifting of his eyes away from hers—“if I had lost interest in our friendship.”

  “Dear Mr. Gibbs! I would never think such!”

  His eyes met hers again.

  Her face was positively glowing.

  She held up her palms. “Please hear me out. You mentioned your fear of not being able to meet your next mortgage payment.”

  He gave her a pained look. “Did I? Inexcusable! I was in dire straits, talking out of my head. No doubt you thought I was dropping hints.”

  “You’re too honorable for that.”

  He willed a blush to his cheeks. Could the mighty Mr. Clay do this?

  “I’ll ask Father to lend me the money. He never refuses me anything, as if to make up for siding with my sister. How much is your payment?”

  “Your friendship is more valuable to me than money,” Donald replied. “I fear I would be trading one for the other. It may be that I can buy back the house once it’s foreclosed.”

  He got to his feet. “And, kind lady, I must return to my uncle.”

  She rose, as well. “Friends bear each other’s burdens, Mr. Gibbs.”

  “Fifteen pounds,” he finally said, shoulders rising and falling with a theatrical sigh. It was more than the actual mortgage, but his purse missed the feel of crisp pound notes.

  “Now, was that so hard?” She smiled. “I’ll telegraph my father and ask him to send a cheque at once.”

  Already his wisdom in requesting extra money was becoming evident.

  “Dear Mrs. Hollis! Words cannot express what a difference you’ve made in my life!”

  Impulsively, theatrically, even gratefully, he took her into his arms and held her, murmuring into her hair how he would do anything for her if she ever found herself in need of help.

  At the sound of a twig snapping, he jumped back as if she were on fire. Both heads turned toward the gate. Not a soul. Donald drew closer, noticed a canvas sack propped against the fence.

  “What is this?”

  “Oh dear.” Mrs. Hollis rushed over and began wringing her slender hands. “The boy who delivers laundry. He had to have seen us! Philip said this village thrives upon gossip.”

  “But we’ve always been aboveboard.” Fatigued by all the emotion of the day, Donald wished very much to go back to the manor house and smoke a cigarette. “I was distraught over my uncle, and you were comforting me.”

  “Yes, perhaps.” She bit her lip, gave him a worried look. “If we end up divorcing, Philip could use even a rumor of . . . adultery . . . to his advantage.”

  “Ah.” Donald nodded understanding. “Then I should stay away. Just in case.”

  She was shaking her head, eyes filling. He put a finger beneath her chin and said softly, “Remember London? Where we shall both end up very soon? I will look forward to renewing our friendship . . . Loretta.”

  She sniffed and smiled up at him. “Yes, of course. You’re right. I’ll have Jewel deliver the cheque to you when it . . .”

  She frowned.

  “What is it?”

  “I’ll have to send it another way. Jewel . . . Jewel’s not so fond of you. She warned me that we shouldn’t be friends.”

  Donald chuckled. “Indeed? And did she say why I dismissed her?”

  “No.”

  “A small thing. Becky stole something valuable, but Jewel practically accused me of hiding it in her trunk for an excuse to dismiss her.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Becky. Or Jewel.”

  “No doubt Becky only meant to play with it for a while and forgot to return it. Young children are prone to plunder. But Jewel took offense. I’ve forgiven her for that. Why don’t you put the cheque in an envelope addressed to Mrs. Cooper? I’ll ask her to keep a watch for it, and Jewel won’t know what she’s delivering.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that.”

  He touched her cheek. “Is that all?”

  She smiled. “I’ll do that . . . Donald.”

  Whistling a jolly ditty below his breath, Donald tramped the path through the woods. His house was saved, and he no longer had to work for it.

  Chapter 30

  The squire lay with hands folded upon his sunken chest, face as white as his pillow, blank eyes half open. Doctor Rhodes sat on the opposite side of the bed, as if to make room for callers paying their respects.

  “May I?” Jewel asked.

  The doctor nodded.

  She leaned to press a kiss upon the dying man’s forehead. His eyes never moved.

  “Is he suffering?”

  “He has no apparent birthing pains. I’ve given him some laudanum to be sure.”

  “Birthing pains?”

  The doctor smiled tenderly. “I have sat by many bedsides, and have felt the difference in the room when a soul leaves it. My friend is being birthed into another world.”

  Jewel sat in one of a pair of chairs on the side of the bed nearest the door.

  Mr. Toft stepped inside. They traded grim nods. He advanced to pat the squire’s frail shoulder. Wiping his eyes, he asked Doctor Rhodes, “And where is Mr. Gibbs?”

  “Off praying for his soul,” the doctor replied in a voice tinged with doubt.

  But Jewel hoped it was so.

  After Mr. Toft left, Jewel nodded toward the copy of Around the World in Eighty Days on the bedside table. “We’ve but two chapters remaining.”

  “Vicar Phelps read Scripture,” the doctor said, “and his eyes never blinked. He has no knowledge of anything going on in this room.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Doctor Rhodes nodded wearily. “Very well.”

  She took up the novel, opened it to the Pears soap wrapper that served as bookmark.

  “ ‘It is time to relate what a change took place in English public opinion when it transpired that the real bank robber, a certain James Strand, had been arrested on the 17th of December. . . .’ ”

  Servants stepped in for reports, to touch his hand. Jewel hardly noticed them. The squire had never said an intelligible word to her, yet in her mind she felt his companionship as they traveled through the story.

  She was midway through the final chapter when Mr. Gibbs en
tered.

  “Mrs. Cooper is sending up tea.”

  “Thank you,” Doctor Rhodes said.

  Mr. Gibbs seemed composed, serene, if indeed he had spent the afternoon praying. He folded his long limbs into the chair beside Jewel’s.

  “How is he?”

  The doctor rose, put stethoscope into his ears, and listened to the sunken chest. “Growing weaker.”

  Poised to read another paragraph, Jewel glanced at the brass clock atop the squire’s chest of drawers. Four o’clock. She should have left a half hour ago.

  “I shall have to finish tomorrow,” she said with great reluctance.

  “Very well, Mrs. Libby.” The look in Doctor Rhodes’ aged eyes said she would not have that opportunity.

  She had hoped he would offer to read, but he was so obviously weary. She set the book back upon the table and touched the squire’s hand. As she turned for the door, she happened to glance to the side. Out of the doctor’s line of vision, Mr. Gibbs’ long fingers drummed upon his knee, as if he were a schoolboy sitting through a boring lecture.

  She realized two things in that moment. That he cared even less for his uncle than she had thought. And that she had no reason to fear him. She picked up the book again, carried it to him.

  “Mr. Gibbs, please finish this for him,” she said in a tone that begged no refusal. He owed it to the dying man. And even to her.

  His mouth twitched as if to refuse, but then he shrugged. “Very well. Show me where you left off.”

  She pointed out the paragraph and left the room with the sound of his voice behind her.

  “ ‘Phileas Fogg had, without suspecting it, gained one day on his journey. . . .’ ”

  Becky skipped by her side, chirping over the fun she had had with the Raleigh twins. The laundry bag sat inside, a reminder that life goes on. She would be ironing tomorrow, no matter who passed on.

  Mrs. Hollis was apparently napping.

  “I must cook quickly,” Jewel said to Becky. “And I don’t need any help today. Play quietly.”

  She chopped lettuce for salad, brushed four lamb cutlets with egg and dipped them in breadcrumbs, as Mrs. Beeton’s book advised, and put turnips into a pot to boil.

  At the sound of footsteps on the staircase, she automatically glanced over her shoulder. Mrs. Hollis was descending, her blue gown appearing to have been slept in, her ringlets crushed on one side.

  “You’re back.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Jewel scooped a chunk of clarified butter into the skillet for browning the cutlets.

  Mrs. Hollis came into the kitchen. “That young man who delivers the laundry . . .”

  “Vernon Moore.” Jewel struck a match, lit the burner.

  “Doesn’t he usually deliver in the morning?”

  Jewel realized the reason for the question. She turned and saw the worry in her eyes. “I meant to mention that he was late.”

  “You should have.”

  Jewel’s blood chilled.

  But there was a meal to finish.

  As the evening wore on, Mrs. Hollis became increasingly restless, even more so than that morning. There was blessed relief when she went upstairs. Jewel was clearing away hers and Becky’s dishes when Mrs. Hollis came back downstairs in a simple dress of faded rose muslin, her hair repaired.

  “The peas and salad will keep,” Jewel said. “But if I hold the lamb cutlets any longer, they’ll dry. Wouldn’t you care to take your supper now?”

  Staring yet again through the kitchen window, she waved a hand and said, “No, no, I’m not hungry. Just put them on a platter. You can warm them later for Doctor Hollis. Or perhaps he took supper at the vicarage?”

  “Probably so.”

  Mrs. Hollis turned from the window, eyes wide. “But surely he would have sent word, don’t you think?”

  “But perhaps he was called to the manor house? Doctor Rhodes was fatigued.”

  She snapped up that hope like a frog would a moth. “Of course.”

  That was the case. Doctor Hollis arrived, full of apologies, after Jewel had put Becky to bed. Mrs. Hollis helped him out of his coat, something Jewel had never witnessed. He seemed surprised, and even more so when she said, “I was worried.”

  “I should have sent word.” He loosened his collar. “But it did seem unkind to send one of his servants out when . . .”

  He glanced toward the parlor.

  “Becky’s asleep,” Jewel assured him. “He’s gone?”

  “I’m sorry, Jewel.”

  “He’s in a better place. I wish I had had the chance to meet him before his illness. He must have been a sweet tender man.”

  Doctor Hollis smiled. “Let’s just say he was a diamond in the rough. It was kind of you to visit so often.”

  He looked toward the platter and pots sitting upon the stove. “And I’m sorry, but they brought up a tray.”

  “It’s all right, sir.” She would clear the things away later. It seemed best to go upstairs and allow the two time to sort out the day.

  On her way up the staircase, she heard Mrs. Hollis say, “Mr. Gibbs, the squire’s nephew, came here earlier, quite distraught, asking if Jewel would hurry over there. Of course I gave permission. He was overwhelmed with gratitude. He hardly seemed to know what he was doing!”

  He knew, all right, Jewel thought on the landing. And Mrs. Hollis was a foolish woman. But if today’s fright had caused her to realize what she stood to lose, perhaps some good would have come of it after all.

  She would pray for them tonight. And she would thank God for giving her an appreciation for Norman for the few years she had him. That none of her memories were tainted by guilt.

  “Are you all right?” Philip asked. They sat at the dining table, he holding a beaker of water, she mashing butter into a bowl of turnips.

  She chewed, swallowed contentedly as if dining on cheesecake at the Berkeley Hotel. “I’m fine. But when you didn’t come home . . .”

  “You were worried?”

  “Terribly.” She licked a stray bit of turnip from her finger.

  That reply would have sent him to his knees just days ago. But it rang flat in his ears. But why would she even say it if she did not mean it? She had never been generous with compliments, even in the best days of their marriage.

  They had danced around each other for over a week. But now that she had broached the subject of their marriage—in a way—perhaps this was the best time to ask what he had wondered for days.

  “Did you write to your mother, Loretta?”

  “No. Or rather, I did, but I tore it up.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I agreed to a month. It’s not right to back out.”

  His hope dissipated, like ether in air. But why was he surprised? She had said that it was over.

  So what kept him there in the cottage with her? Besides the desire to spare his family from humiliation, he supposed it was inertia. Just as after investing the time and trouble to see a play that was not as good as expected, it was easier to sit in the theatre and hope it improved than to get up and walk out.

  Chapter 31

  Black-garbed cheese factory workers, farmers, and shopkeepers entered Saint Jude’s beneath tolling bells. Through the gap between two servants on the second pew, Loretta watched the back of Mr. Gibbs’ dark head.

  He sat alone, the last of his family. How she longed to provide some support and comfort, if only by assuring him that any day now the cheque would arrive that would save his house.

  Vicar Phelps conducted the sermon. A woman who Philip whispered was Grace’s mother-in-law sang “Abide With Me” in a sweet clear voice.

  After the burial everyone trooped over to the manor house. Past the foyer, Loretta could see tables set up in an oak-paneled hall already jam-packed with humanity. Donald stood to the right, wearing a black armband. He shook hands with those entering, expressing gratitude for their condolences.

  With Philip at her side, she slipped her gloved hand into his and said
in sympathetic tone, “Do you remember me, Mr. Gibbs? Mrs. Hollis. You came by asking for Jewel the day . . .”

  He smiled sadly at the two of them. “You must have thought me a wild man, madam. I owe you a debt of gratitude for helping me clear my thoughts.”

  Even when Donald’s greeting duty was finished, she could not speak with him privately. Philip was always nearby, or members of his family. Only Aleda was not present, though she had attended the funeral. Jewel and Becky had disappeared afterwards, too, which surprised her, given their affection for the squire.

  Finally, opportunity presented itself for her to speak with Donald. An older man who introduced himself as the late squire’s solicitor, a Mr. Baker, asked Philip if he was owed any fee. As the two men conversed, she noticed a white-haired woman offering Donald a slice of cake at the end of a long table.

  She threaded her way through the crowd and was halfway there when Vicar Phelps turned from chatting with a farmer-type man. Speaking over the chatter filling the hall, he said, “I’m glad you’ve recovered from your headache, Loretta.”

  “Thank you.” She returned his smile while attempting to edge by.

  His brow furrowed in thought. “You know, Mrs. Phelps once had a lodger who used feverfew. It’s an herb, in case you’re not familiar with it.”

  “I didn’t have fever,” she said as the corner of her eye watched Donald shake his head politely at the woman with the cake.

  Vicar Phelps chuckled. “For headaches. It grows at the foot of the Anwyl. I should be happy to collect you some, now that I’m out and about.”

  Over his shoulder, she saw Philip and Mr. Baker part, and Philip move over to Jeremiah Toft and his wife.

  “Thank you,” Loretta said. Now, how to rid herself of her father-in-law?

  “You should get some food before it’s all gone,” he said with a step backwards, still smiling, as if he had read her mind and had not taken offense.

  “Thank you,” she repeated, and resumed her mission. Donald was on the other side of the table now, moving in the opposite direction. She watched him draw aside Mr. Baker. They spoke briefly and exited the hall into some inner part of the house. When Mr. Baker returned, he was alone.