The dozen or so denizens of the basement were friendly. Those closest to her work station were Mrs. Macey, who talked a blue streak while unpacking housewares, and Miss Hill, who went into long stories of her childhood while unpacking toys. Jewel found the chatter refreshing, after so many months of silent fixation upon a sewing needle.
“It’s best if you’ve got a slice or two of bacon,” Mrs. Macey said five weeks into Jewel’s employment, while wiping sawdust from a Blue Willow teapot. She claimed her green pea soup recipe, clipped from a magazine, was the same served to the queen in Buckingham Palace, and Jewel was extremely fond of soup.
“The more bacon the better, to give it a bit of smoky flavor.”
“That’s so,” Miss Hill said. “My mother added it to hers, whenever we could afford it.”
Miss Brent from the Ladies’ Department entered the basement and looked at Jewel.
“Mr. Clements is asking for you.”
“Me?”
“Yes.” Miss Brent turned, expecting her to follow.
Shop assistants were, as a rule, snooty when they came downstairs to collect merchandise. This had never distressed Jewel, for she only had contact with them those ten minutes daily. But today, the aloofness in Miss Brent’s manner was almost devastating. Swamped with nervousness, Jewel did not risk a look over at the other workers lest she see pity and give way to the threatening tears.
What have I done? Please, Father, I can’t lose my job, she pleaded beneath her breath while leaden feet climbed the service staircase.
“We’re impressed with your work, Mrs. Libby,” said fatherly looking Mr. Clements in his office. “Would you be interested in filling a vacancy in Ladies’ Leather Goods?”
When Jewel could speak, she assured him that she would indeed. She was turned over to Miss Brent again, whose frozen haughtiness thawed somewhat as she fitted Jewel into a white blouse and brown poplin skirt, the uniform of all female shop assistants.
“You’ll be given two sets today,” Miss Brent said. “And you might think of buying another blouse or two later, to keep ahead of the laundry.”
Thank you, Father, Jewel prayed, carrying the parcel containing her uniforms back downstairs. Her joy was tempered at the sight of her co-workers. Poor Mrs. Macey, nine years in the basement. Five years for Miss Hill.
She did not anticipate their congratulatory smiles.
“So, they’ve promoted you!” said Mrs. Macey.
“To Ladies’ Leather Goods,” Jewel said uneasily. “But how did you—?”
“You think you’re the first?” Miss Hill asked. “And when they sack one of us, they just send a messenger down with wages in an envelope.”
“I’m so sorry . . .”
“That it’s you and not us?” Mrs. Macey shook her head. “We would trade places with you in a heartbeat and have your red hair to boot, but we don’t have it so bad. They want the pretty people toutin’ their wares upstairs.”
Miss Hill nodded. “Just don’t turn all uppity when you come down here.”
“Never,” Jewel promised, embracing both.
Sunday morning, she roused Becky earlier than usual. “Good morning, mite.”
Becky’s eyes opened. Her lips formed a half smile that faded as her eyelids drifted downward again.
Jewel stroked her hair. “Would you like to take an omnibus ride?”
This time the eyes opened and stayed open. “Yes, Mummy! Where will we go?”
“To church. Our old church.”
Just this once. She was bursting to tell the Treves her good news.
She ignored the little warning voice in her mind. Never had she seen Mr. Dunstan in the vicinity of Saint Philip’s. Even if he had known of their attendance, five weeks’ absence would have told him that they were gone.
She took precautions. She bound up their telltale red hair into the same bonnets they wore on the way to school and work. They sat on the lower, enclosed level of the omnibus, even though Jewel would have loved showing Becky the city from the upper level. As they alighted and walked the half block more, she scanned the faces of passersby, even those in the distance.
“How good to see you,” Mrs. Treves said, drawing them aside in the vestibule.
“May I have a peppermint?” Becky asked.
“Becky . . .” Jewel scolded.
The vicar’s wife laughed and produced a sweet from her bag.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Becky said, redeeming herself.
“I just want to thank you and the vicar,” Jewel said. “The Turners are kind, and Becky likes school. And . . . I’ve been promoted to shop assistant.”
“Wonderful! I can’t wait to tell Paul . . . or rather, you must after service.”
Jewel smiled. “I was afraid you would be upset at our being here.”
Mrs. Treves gave her a quick embrace. “Not at all, dear.”
“We won’t make a habit of it.”
“That would probably be best. The man would have to be insane to hang on this long. Still . . .”
Jewel nodded. It was the stills you had to watch.
Patrons ambling toward the east corner of Stillmans’ ground floor caught the aroma of fine leather before catching sight of tables of purses and card cases, satchels and valises, skate bags and pocketbooks.
“The buckles on this Gladstone Bag protect it from flying open in the hands of even the clumsiest porter,” Mr. Houghton, head of Ladies’ Leather Goods, said to Jewel on Monday. “The inside is lined with satin.”
“I’ve never seen anything so nice,” Jewel said, running a hand along the fine leather.
Mr. Houghton gave her a sober look. He was not much older than Jewel, though his authority made him seem older. “Remember, Mrs. Libby, you are selling, not buying.”
“Ah . . . sorry, sir.”
“Don’t be.” He winked. “Enthusiasm is contagious. You’ll do fine.”
Indeed she made her first sale that afternoon, a calfskin toilet case containing scissors and comb, plate mirror and nail cleaner.
She fairly skipped the block over to Cornwall Street. Mrs. Mitchell’s stucco terrace house was conveniently situated across the street from Cornwall Square. A house servant escorted the children there twice daily for play and, Jewel suspected, to give Mrs. Mitchell a moment to prop her feet up. As Vicar Treves had explained, she charged such a low fee because she considered her school a mission. Becky had already memorized five Scripture verses and her alphabet, and absorbed lessons in manners and hygiene.
Jewel smiled at the memory of her daughter’s demonstration of the proper way to clean teeth. Who knew that the toothbrush was supposed to go up and down, not side to side? Even the Turners were impressed, except for little Carl, who happily drooled upon Jewel’s sleeve.
Her happy reverie dissolved at the sight of Mr. Dunstan, loitering at the pillar-box outside Mrs. Mitchell’s.
“Why are you here?!” she demanded, trembling.
His brows raised with his smile. “Why, Mrs. Libby, is it? Fancy meeting you! Ain’t it a small world?”
Anger, fear, and nausea churned inside, so that every step drawing her closer took every ounce of courage. “Why won’t you let us be?”
He put a hand to his chest. “I’m doing naught but standing on the pavement, Mrs. Libby. My right as a taxpayer. You know about taxes, don’t you? They pay for roads and pavement. And the police.”
Tears filled her eyes. “I wouldn’t have gone to them if you would have stayed away from my daughter.”
“What did you do? Weep to them as you’re doing now?” His mocking smile took a downward curve. “I never did no harm to her.”
“You were looking for the chance.”
“Well, what means harm might be different for you and me.”
Jewel’s blood chilled. “I’ll go back to the police!”
“And what? Try to get me sacked again? My employer won’t care, long as I do my job.” His eyes narrowed. “I’ve had enough of this conversation, Mrs. Lib
by. Just remember, you spoke to me first, so you can’t accuse me of harassment.”
Jewel had had enough as well. She needed to make sure Becky was all right, get her home, figure out what to do next.
She was three steps away when he said to her back, “By the way, that’s a pleasant little park across the street. It does a man’s heart good to see little ones romping out in the sunshine.”
“Did the woman who kept Becky at your former place know you were a parishioner here?” Vicar Treves asked in the vicarage garden. Becky was indoors, playing with the children.
“Mrs. Platt. She did.” Jewel’s throat ached from weeping herself dry. “After all you did to keep us safe . . . to give us a better life. I had to ruin it. I’m so sorry.”
“Now, now,” Mrs. Treves consoled, but with worried expression. “You mustn’t blame yourself. But we have to assume he knows where you live, as well. You must stay here tonight.”
“I’ll ride over and inform the Turners,” Paul said, rising. “Tomorrow morning we’ll visit the police, and then I’ll drive you on to Stillmans.”
“You’re too kind,” Jewel said thickly, despising herself for causing so much trouble. And another, terrible, thought struck her. “We took a hansom here, but what if Mr. Dunstan followed? He surely knows you’ve helped me. What if he tries to hurt your children? What have I done?”
“We’ll keep an eye on them,” Mrs. Treves said, and put a hand on her shoulder. “You need to calm yourself, Mrs. Libby. God will not fail us.”
Jewel held Becky close and slept not one wink, though the small bed in the garret room was comfortable. Attempts at faith were overwhelmed by the sick feeling that, even with Vicar Treves beside her, the police would be as ineffectual as before.
Sure enough, Constable Whittington said, wearily, “We’ll send an officer ’round to give him a stout warning. But standing on public property’s not a crime.”
“So we must wait until he harms Mrs. Libby’s daughter?” said Vicar Treves.
“No offense, Vicar, but I’d wager my last farthing he’ll not harm her, not with our knowing his identity. He just wants to frighten Mrs. Libby.”
“Intimidation is harmful, too,” Vicar Treves argued, but to no effect.
“We’ll never be free of him,” Jewel said with bleak voice back in the carriage. “He’s twisted. We can’t hide ourselves at your house forever. And there’s no place in Birmingham where he won’t find us.”
As he reined the horse up Great Russell Street, Vicar Treves gave her a thoughtful, but odd, look, and then another. Finally he spoke.
“This Mr. Dunstan is employed somewhere as a night watchman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So that’s his Achilles’ heel.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, that he has a weakness.”
“I know what it means, Vicar,” Jewel said respectfully. Her former employer, the headmaster, had loved to speak of the Greeks.
The vicar looked a little sheepish. “I beg your pardon.”
Jewel shook her head. Of all people, he owed her no apology. “But how is his job a weakness? If anything, it gives him power, to lurk in the streets while I’m at mine.”
Vicar Treves reined the horses to a halt near the department store entrance. “I have an idea. I’m not completely certain it has merit, so I must first speak with Noelle.”
“What should I do?”
“Sell pocketbooks, Mrs. Libby. For today. But I must ask you this. How attached are you to Birmingham?”
“I’ve . . . never lived anywhere else.”
Birmingham was home, for all its frantic pace, smokestack-tainted air, slums jostling for space with factories. But that was not his question.
“I would live on the moon to keep Becky safe.”
The vicar smiled. “I don’t know about the moon. But we shall see.”
The moon factored into Vicar Treves’ plan after all. It was after sunset Wednesday that a hired coach, better equipped for gaslit streets, stopped by the Turners’ for Jewel’s battered tin trunk, then made the journey to the Queen’s Hotel across from New Street Station. Jewel and Becky followed the Treves through the arched entrance with eyes wide. The foyer was a palace, with shining marble floors, red velvet draperies, high columns, and chandeliers.
“Does the queen live here?” Becky breathed.
Vicar Treves chuckled, and Mrs. Treves replied, “No, dear.”
“It’s too grand,” Jewel said. “We’ll wait in the station.”
“You’ll not spend the night on a bench,” Vicar Treves said, nodding toward the reception desk. “My parents are paying for this.”
“Why should they—”
“We told them of your situation,” Mrs. Treves said. “They wanted to help. You wouldn’t want to rob two dear old people of a blessing, would you?”
The young man behind the desk wished them good evening and asked Jewel to sign the registry, as if she were as entitled to a room as any upper-class guest. The porter who had brought in the trunk politely waited to the side for farewells.
“Tickets . . . instructions . . . money for meals and a coach . . . it’s all enclosed,” said the vicar, handing Jewel a packet.
Mrs. Treves embraced her. “Godspeed, Mrs. Libby . . . Becky.”
Words were inadequate, but they were all Jewel had. She thanked them with a voice thick with emotion, promised to pray for them every remaining day of her life.
“This way if you please, miss?” the porter said as the Treves left to return to their home and children.
Again, Jewel did not expect to sleep. Too much had happened today. She had had to turn in her uniforms at Stillmans and suffer the disappointment in Mr. Houghton’s face. Explain to Mrs. Mitchell why Becky had not returned to school and caution her to keep an eye out for Mr. Dunstan, for revenge was not his sole motivation for stalking little girls. Apologize to Mrs. Turner for leaving with so little warning, give Carl one final cuddle. And there was the unfamiliar future rushing toward her.
But she had not reckoned with the power of lavender-scented sheets on a goose down mattress in a half tester bed.
Early the following morning, she and Becky stared out of the train window at passing farmhouses and pastures, cottages and hills, hedgerows and trees, as the Severn Valley Railway chugged westward.
“Mummy, why is it all so green?” Becky asked.
Jewel gave her a squeeze. “This is what God intended summer to look like, mite.”
Chapter 11
Julia and Elizabeth were preparing the vicarage for a morning meeting of the Women’s Charity Society. As a man would be in the way, even shut up in his study, Andrew decided it was his duty to go fishing. Jonathan and John were at archery practice, but he found a willing accomplice in Ambrose Clay.
The waters of the Bryce slipped along with patches of reflected sunlight mingling with shade from the willow trees. The two men stood on the bank, engaged in a favorite guessing game while watching their lines.
“ ‘The robbed that smiles steals something from the thief,’ ” Ambrose said.
“Give me a minute,” Andrew said.
“No one’s rushing you.”
Andrew made a tentative guess. “Hamlet.”
“Not Hamlet.”
“Hmm.”
In a silence enhanced by birds calling to each other in the branches, faint lowing of cattle being led to pasture across the river, the clicks of the reel as he wheeled in his line, Andrew mentally traveled back in time to his university days.
At length he turned his head to smile at his friend. “Othello.”
Ambrose smiled back. “Correct. Your turn.”
“Very well. ‘Let your moderation be known unto all men.’ ”
Ambrose’s brow furrowed over his slate gray eyes. “Did you not preach that one a few months ago?”
“January past.”
“It sounds New Testament.”
“You’re warm.”
&nbs
p; “Saint Paul to Timothy.”
“Very good.”
The game was interrupted when Ambrose’s cork disappeared beneath the water. He let out a whoop and reeled in a grayling of at least three pounds. As it flipped about in the pail, he said, “Now I need at least two more. I promised Mrs. Herrick I would bring back enough for supper.”
“Weren’t you being rash?” Andrew asked.
“Not at all.” Ambrose grinned. “If I don’t make my quota, I’ll stop by Temple’s for some salmon.”
“Crafty you.”
“Fish is fish. Now, whose turn?”
“Yours.”
“Hmm.” Ambrose pursed his lips thoughtfully, but not from any strain of memory, Andrew knew. He had played so many Shakespearean characters that the library in his mind was vast. The pause came from finding a quote that he had not already mentioned in their game.
Andrew checked his line. The hook had been stripped clean by some crafty fish. He could smile, just as Shakespeare had advised. He was having a good time.
Later that day he would step back into the role of minister. Ezra Towly lay dying of lung cancer, and his five grown children were already dividing up the cattle and household goods. Jessie Sykes’ wife, Nora, had delivered a fine baby girl yesterday, the first after three boys. The Hayes were spreading word all over Gresham that the Sloans’ Labrador retriever, Dusty, had killed two of their chickens, when their own Alsatian, Bob, padded about the village with a knowing canine smile.
And there was the matter of yesterday’s telegram from Birmingham.
Woman daughter need job home escape. Can you help?
Escape? Had the woman broken out of prison?
Of course not. He trusted Paul Treves not to involve him in a crime. And so there was naught he could do but reply yes, until Mr. Trumble pointed out that he should add two more words, for the minimum price was set at three.
Yes of course.
He expected a reply from Vicar Treves soon, hopefully with meatier details. But for this moment, he was simply a man with a fishing rod, a good friend, and a cloudless morning.
Ambrose gave him a gleeful smile. “You’ll never guess this one.”
The Jewel of Gresham Green Page 10
