The Jewel of Gresham Green

by Lawana Blackwell

  “This was on the table.”

  “Thank you,” Philip said. “I forgot it was there. My parents brought it over with the soup.”

  “Will there be anything else?” Jewel asked in a tone that begged refusal.

  Loretta laughed. She had forgotten the previous night had been long for others, as well. “Yes, Jewel. Go to bed.”

  “Straightaway, ma’am.”

  “It’s from my father,” Loretta said, staring at the envelope. She rather wished he had not seen it, for even though she had admitted planning to borrow money to lend to Mr. Gibbs, the reminder could drive the pleasantness out of the room. While Philip poured the cocoa, Loretta took out the page.

  “Dearest Loretta,

  “That you would demand so outrageous a sum with no explanation convinces me of the notion that struck my mind after you left London; I have undermined your marriage by showering you with things not yet attainable by your husband. I have sold the horses and carriage and found another position for Tom. Most of London takes public transport. A brisk stroll down to the hansom stand will be tonic for your health.”

  The willful child in her rose up to say, “Mother and Father have a landau and coach.”

  Philip set her cup and saucer upon the dressing table before her. “They can afford them.”

  She took a sip of warm cocoa, then another, and made a face in the mirror. “We should give back the house, too. Move into some dismal little rooms in Whitechapel. That would show them.”

  “The house was our wedding gift. They’ll be hurt if we give it back.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. Besides . . . it’s a fine house.”

  She set cup onto saucer, twisted around to smile up at him. “It’s not too late to fill it with good memories, Philip.”

  He smiled down at her. “It’s not too late.”

  “That’s a hint to kiss me.”

  His eyes shone. Had she never noticed their rich blueness before? With a tender hand between her shoulders, he leaned down and kissed her, sweetly, with a restrained passion she had not realized how much she missed.

  “M-m-m. Cocoa,” he said.

  She touched the scratch upon her cheek. “I’m glad you shaved the beard.”

  He was starting to stand when she caught his head with her bandaged hands and whispered, “This place could use a good memory or two.”

  He raised back far enough to give her a stunned look. “No. Absolutely not.”

  “You no longer find me attractive?” she teased, knowing from the look in his eyes that was not the case.

  “You’re beautiful. But your ordeal . . .”

  “I’m fine, Philip.”

  “Jewel and Becky . . .”

  She tugged on his earlobe. “They’re not above your room.”

  “Loretta and I would like to make an announcement,” Philip said in the vicarage dining room three days later.

  “You’re returning to London,” Aleda said flatly.

  “Within the week. We can’t thank you enough for lending us your cottage. And we plan to visit here once a month. At the very least, take an early train on a Saturday.”

  “Now remember . . . you’ve just come from church,” Jonathan teased.

  Elizabeth touched her husband’s hand. “That would be very thoughtful, Philip and Loretta.”

  “Thoughtfulness has nothing to do with it.” Philip smiled at his father and mother. “We need you. All of you.”

  He laid out his plan to set up a private practice attached to Saint George’s Hospital. “I’ll help Doctor Rhodes find someone to take my place here. But already he has letters from some very qualified doctors.”

  Throughout his speech he tried to read his parents’ faces. Sadness? Resignation? Relief?

  “May I also make an announcement?” Loretta asked.

  “But of course,” Elizabeth said.

  She stood, looked at the faces around the table. “My husband has forgotten to mention that we hope you will visit us often, as well, and stay in our home.”

  Mother finally spoke. “Thank you, Loretta.”

  Loretta stared across at her with sheepish smile. “And the next time, we will treat you . . .” She cleared her throat. “I will treat you as honored guests, for I behaved very badly the last time you visited.”

  “Not so,” Father said charitably.

  An uncomfortable silence followed, broken by laughter when Loretta wrinkled her nose at him and said, “Now remember, Vicar, you’ve just come from church.”

  Chapter 36

  Anxious to hear from Gabriel, Aleda had taken to waiting at the letter box, usually with Becky accompanying her. Aleda was glad for her company. The girl’s questions about beginning school soon distracted Aleda from checking the time every half minute.

  “What if the other children don’t like me?”

  “They’ll like you. If there are some who don’t, you must remind yourself of all of us who do like you, and that eventually they let you out of school.”

  It was so good to have her watch again. God bless Mr. Trumble, for asking Mr. Stillman to keep an eye out for it as he visited pawn lenders for war medals. She had had to pay almost the full value to redeem it, but hopefully, that would be returned soon.

  Mr. Gibbs had obviously found it. And he obviously thought he was clever for pawning it in Shrewsbury. But how arrogant, and even silly of him, to sign the ticket Ronald Tibbs.

  The sight of Mr. Jones trundling toward them with his letter sack pushed all thought of Mr. Gibbs from her mind. She hurried to meet him.

  “I believe this is what you’ve been waiting for,” he said, handing her an envelope with Gabriel’s familiar script.

  12 August 1884

  Dear Aleda,

  I am pleased to inform you that my editors at Macmillan’s would like to meet with you on Tuesday, the twenty-sixth of August. We will have the house prepared for your and Mrs. Libby’s and Becky’s arrival on Monday.

  Very truly yours,

  Gabriel

  Aleda turned over the page, looked in the envelope. True, Gabriel was concise, but this was maddening. Meet with her? To offer a contract? If so, could he not spare the few extra words?

  “Is it good news, Miss Hollis?”

  Aleda gave her shoulder a squeeze. “I think so.”

  Back at the cottage, she carried the letter up to the guest room, where Jewel was putting fresh sheets upon the bed.

  “How wonderful!” Jewel cried, throwing her arms about her.

  “But it says nothing about a contract.”

  “But why else would they want to meet with you?”

  “Well, yes.” Aleda felt better.

  “But why does it say Becky and me?” Jewel asked.

  “You’re to come with me. Wouldn’t you like to see London?”

  “We’d love to, but . . .”

  “As my traveling companions,” Aleda explained.

  She could say more, but thought it best to allow the courtship— for certainly this was what it was—to flow along naturally for now. And besides, Gabriel had not given her the liberty to express his feelings.

  “I wish he would have said more,” she said. “Did all the editors like it? Are there parts they’ll want me to rewrite? He’s so maddeningly concise.”

  Jewel gave her a wry smile. “So, you’re not happy?”

  Aleda smiled back. “I’m overjoyed! In fact, I’ll probably run all the way to the vicarage to show my parents.”

  That night, with Becky curled into the curve of her side, Jewel thought again what a pity it was that Miss Hollis did not wish to marry Mr. Patterson. He would revere a wife, as Doctor Hollis revered Mrs. Hollis. As Norman had revered her.

  But few emotions were set in stone. She prayed again for a miracle.

  On the Thursday morning of the twenty-first of August, Aleda unlatched her garden gate and set out on the path. Notices were posted all over Gresham, asking villagers to act as witnesses to the reading
of Squire Bartley’s will. Unnecessary, for all Mr. Baker would have had to do was inform Mr. Trumble in the hearing of some of his customers.

  She pushed back her sleeve to look at her watch. Half past nine. The meeting was to begin at ten o’clock. There were no signs of Elizabeth and her crew as she passed their cottage. She would hurry to the vicarage and walk over with her parents, if they had not left.

  Dismissing Horace Stokes would be his first action, Donald thought as the coach rumbled down Church Lane. He already had buyers interested in the cheese factory. He would even make it a condition of the sale that Horace not be rehired. He would rue the scene he made twenty-one years ago over attempts at innocent fun.

  The horses were slowing in preparation for Bartley Lane when he spotted Aleda Hollis. She turned her head to send a puzzled look his way. When the coach was even and his eyes met hers, she held up her fist in an unladylike manner.

  Go on, behave like a pig, he thought, scowling at her through the glass. Just before her image slid from sight, he noticed a glint of metal at her upheld wrist.

  Uneasily he thought, But how did she get it back?

  Most probably, this was a new one. She should never play with cards, if that was her bluff, he thought, propping hands against the seat on either side as the coach turned.

  Just because he was bound to his uncle’s agreement with Miss Hollis didn’t mean the person to whom he sold the estate would be bound to it. Another condition of sale.

  It was good to have power.

  And Reese had even returned last week, as if able to smell that power in the air. All the suffering Donald had been through made this victory all the more sweet.

  Mr. Baker rose from a library chair as Donald entered.

  “You’re late,” Mr. Baker said, not offering his hand.

  Donald shrugged. This little old man could no longer intimidate him. In fact, he would hire another solicitor to handle disposing of the property.

  Power.

  A document that appeared to be the will, and one other page, lay upon the polished oak table before him.

  Which was surprising. His parents had only owned a house, bank account, and some stocks, and he had spent an hour signing papers.

  “We must do this quickly,” Mr. Baker said as Donald pulled out a chair.

  “Why aren’t the others here?” Donald asked, barely daring to hope. Had his uncle left out the servants? It did not seem fair, for many had worked there for decades, and deserved at least small legacies. But who was he to argue with his uncle’s wishes?

  “They will be leaving soon to the village hall for the other reading.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your uncle has left you five hundred pounds.”

  The words assaulted Donald’s ears like a curse.

  “You jest.”

  “I’m aware you had hoped for more, but if you’ll pay off your debts and invest the remainder, you may live in modest comfort for the rest of your life.”

  Modest comfort?

  “You’ll do even better if you find some sort of profitable employment.”

  Donald sneered at him. And do what? Dig ditches? He was a gentleman, from a long line of gentlemen whose forebears had had the wisdom, or craftiness, to be on the right side of some king or another. Labor was for peasants.

  “There is a mistake here. Surely he didn’t leave the rest to the servants?”

  The solicitor uncapped a pen. “I’m not at liberty to say until all other recipients have been informed. I assure you, everything is in order with the courts.”

  Donald’s chair fell backwards with a thud. He shot to his feet and pounded his fist upon the table. “You’ve cheated me, you old snake!”

  “I understand your disappointment. You may, of course, retain your own attorney to look over the will.”

  “I shall do just that! You’ll not get away with this!”

  Mr. Baker brushed the insult off as if it were a piece of lint. “Two small but significant liens have been filed against your inheritance. I can deduct them from the cheque I am about to write, or you may battle it out in court.”

  “And who are these two people?”

  “Miss Aleda Hollis and Mr. Amos Perkins.”

  Donald barked a laugh. “Let them take me to court.”

  “Very well.” Mr. Baker began gathering papers.

  “Wait. You mean I can’t have the cheque until it’s settled?” “That’s exactly what it means, Mr. Gibbs.”

  Grinding his teeth, Donald snatched the pen from his hand.

  There would be a battle over this whole fiasco. But not today. Not when he had to make the five-o’clock express to fulfill his promise to Reese of a night out on the town.

  Chapter 37

  More children than usual played on the green, for only adults were invited to the meeting in the village hall, in the interest of chair space and decorum. Older children or maids minded the few younger ones toddling about.

  Claire and Samuel sprinted toward Julia, Andrew, and Aleda, with John following patiently.

  “Grandmother!” Claire chirped, throwing arms around Julia’s waist. “Father says Aunt Aleda is going to sell her book and be rich!”

  Samuel, caught up into Andrew’s arms, naturally opened his mouth. “And Mother hopes she’ll buy some decent clothes!”

  “Samuel!” John scolded with an apologetic look to his aunt.

  But Aleda was howling with laughter. Julia and Andrew laughed, as well.

  Inside the hall, Mr. Sykes shifted over in the second to last row so the three could sit together. Elizabeth sent a wave from across the aisle. The hum of conversations faded to silence as Mr. Baker stepped up to the platform. Only the sounds of children at play came through the open windows, but they were not intrusive.

  With no preamble besides introducing himself, the solicitor got down to business: “Squire Bartley leaves the manor house with its outbuildings and orchards and parks, and the sum of one thousand pounds sterling, to Mr. and Mrs. Horace Stokes.”

  Stunned silence, then gasps and chatter filled the hall, followed by applause. Julia lifted a bit in her chair and followed other gazes toward Horace and Margery, weeping profusely in each other’s arms. She felt the sting of tears herself. So the orphans would have room to romp and grow. And knowing the Stokes, there would surely be more of them now.

  Andrew, smiling, but with a worried dent between his brows, turned to Julia and said, “But what of the squire’s servants?”

  “Perhaps he left them some money?”

  He did better than that, for the next item was the enormously profitable cheese factory. As Mr. Baker read the names of the servants, there were whoops of joy, and happy sobs.

  It was a matter of fact that the squire was wealthy. But the vastness of this wealth surprised Julia as Mr. Baker continued reading.

  Cheese factory workers were left the cottages that housed them in the three rows, a stone’s throw from the factory, as well as forty pounds each for improvements. Dairy farmers were left their farms; villagers who had leased from the squire, their cottages. Two thousand pounds went to the parish mission fund, and one thousand to Saint Jude’s charity fund.

  Gipsy Woods was left to the whole village, with the exception of an acre surrounding the gamekeeper’s cottage, which went to Aleda along with the cottage. Julia patted her back as her daughter wiped her eyes.

  There were various smaller amounts. One hundred pounds for each school. Twenty pounds for the archery team. Thirty pounds for the subscription library. Ten pounds for a signboard to be erected at the entrance to the village reading Welcome to Gresham. Home of Anwyl Mountain Cheeses.

  The latter brought laughter. Leave it to Squire Bartley to carry entrepreneurism to the grave.

  The celebration spilled out onto the green, while individuals or heads of families stayed to sign legal documents. Andrew, representing Saint Jude’s, took up the last spot in the queue that had formed, with Julia at his side.

&n
bsp; They were in no hurry. They had questions.

  “When was this will drafted?” was Andrew’s first.

  “Squire Bartley expressed the desire to change his will during one of my regular visits in early May,” Mr. Baker replied. “Due to his wish for secrecy, I brought up two legal clerks from Shrewsbury four days later to witness the signing.”

  “But it was in early June that he asked me if it would be moral to break his promise to his sister. Just hours before he was struck ill.”

  “I’m not surprised. He was tormented over what he had done, as much as it pleased him to help so many deserving people. He clearly wanted absolution from you. But for having done it . . . not for planning to do it.”

  Mr. Baker paused. “How did you respond?”

  “I suggested he give it all away beforehand,” Andrew replied, “except for however much he would wish to leave to Mr. Gibbs.”

  “Clever. You would make a good attorney.”

  “He makes a better vicar,” Julia said, taking Andrew’s arm. And she voiced her question. “Was Mr. Gibbs left anything?”

  “I’m allowed to tell you, now that he’s been informed. Five hundred pounds. Squire Bartley could not bring himself to disown him. He did love his sister. But if anything remains of it a year from now, I will be the most surprised man in England.” Conversation over supper at the vicarage centered around the squire’s legacy to Gresham.

  “I doubt anything like this has ever been done,” Jonathan said, and turned to Aleda. “You should write a story about it.”

  Aleda shook her head. “I can’t. Fiction has to be believable.”

  Mother gave her a perplexed look. “Shipwrecked seamen battling pirates and giant lizards is more believable than something that actually happened before witnesses?”

  “I’m afraid so, Mother. Readers are willing to accept all sorts of fantasy, as long as the story line follows the basic laws of God and nature. For example, I can’t have my characters defy gravity and float out of harm’s way . . . unless they were written about as some sort of cosmic aliens or elves with those powers already mentioned.”