The Jewel of Gresham Green

by Lawana Blackwell

  Somehow, this did not surprise Aleda. But she ached for him no less. She threaded her arm through his and rested her head against his shoulder. “Oh, Philip.”

  “I know I’ve been a bad son. I promise to do better. But just the act of stepping into this house saps me of strength.”

  Aleda hesitated. “But what happened?”

  “Well . . . there’s someone else.”

  She gasped, raised her head again.

  “I don’t mean an affair. It’s someone she has never gotten over.” He blinked, twice, and said thickly, “I do love her, Aleda. How I wish to God I did not.”

  Loretta adored Gilbert and Sullivan. Not like stuffy Verdi. Which was why she consented to accompany her friends to the Savoy after dinner, even though she had seen Princess Ida twice already. She sang softly, peering from the coach window at the gaslit Strand.

  “Whene’er I spoke sarcastic joke

  replete with malice spiteful,

  This people mild politely smiled

  And voted me delightful!”

  Wryly, she thought, That’ll stick in my mind for days.

  She loved London, as well, with a passion. The fashions and culture, museums and restaurants, promenading at Hyde Park, rowing in the Serpentine. Friends.

  Distractions.

  Too soon the pair of horses came to a halt, rocking the coach slightly back upon its wheels. The house looked ghostly in the lamplight. The weight lifted by Gilbert and Sullivan and girlish chatter over dinner settled upon her shoulders again.

  Marry in haste, repent in leisure, she thought.

  Haste brought on by pain. Even when she marched up the aisle at Saint Peter’s on her father’s arm over four years ago, she had had to force herself not to look to the row where sat Conrad Lockhart and her sister, Irene.

  Six years ago, the young army captain had practically dominated her dance card at Aunt Helen’s birthday ball. Tall and bronze he was, with broad shoulders and high forehead from his English father, sensitive gray eyes and poetic soul from his French mother.

  He called at least twice weekly after the ball and wrote her wonderful letters filled with poetry. Her parents permitted them to take unchaperoned strolls up Park Lane, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm. Carriage rides on Rotten Row. He spoke in vague terms of their future, as if reassuring himself that she was of the same mind before approaching her father with a question. She was nineteen, and very much of the same mind.

  The question never got asked. At least not in reference to herself. Her sister, Irene, chose that inopportune time to return from Girton College for Easter holiday. Her younger sister, eighteen, whose wild brown hair, tanned skin, and tall athletic lankiness were no matches for Loretta’s platinum curls, ivory complexion, and petite frame. Irene, who was too high-spirited to give any man a second glance. Until her eyes locked with Conrad’s.

  It was as if a spell was cast upon the sitting room. Loretta had tried to break it, chatting frantically about anything that would jump into her mind. Conrad began inviting Irene to join them on walks, for games of whist in the parlor. And once Irene returned to Cambridge, his visits to the Park Lane house ceased.

  The memory of that spring was still a knife in her heart.

  She could neither eat nor sleep, losing so much weight that her parents spoke of sending her to a sanitarium near Salzburg. She had protested so adamantly that they abandoned the idea upon her promise to take regular nourishment. It was essential that she stay in London, for surely Conrad would come to his senses. She had to continue her morning watch from the library window so that she could meet the postman at the gate.

  A believer since early childhood, she had made promises with God. Make Conrad love me, and I’ll never complain of anything again, spend my life helping the poor, read ten pages of my Bible daily. Twenty!

  When Irene returned for summer holiday, she also looked drawn and undernourished. But for a different reason. Letters had traveled almost daily between London and Cambridge. She and Conrad were in love, she admitted tearfully.

  Their father had refused Loretta’s demand that he bring charges against Conrad for breach of promise. “There was no overt promise made,” he had said, and then drew her into his arms to add, gently, “You cannot make someone love you, daughter. And if you could, what sort of marriage would that be?”

  Loretta was forced to watch the courtship progress. Smile through their wedding, lest tongues wag that she was bitter. Hold back tears as the two stared up into each other’s faces and pledged their troth. Wonder if the stone that had replaced her heart would ever heal.

  A few months later, her father brought Philip home to dinner, touting him as the highest-ranked graduate of Edinburgh’s esteemed medical college and the latest member of Saint Bartholomew’s surgical staff. He was neither as dashing nor poetic as Conrad, but he was kind and seemed to enjoy her company.

  Her father continued inviting him over, throwing them together. It mattered not at all that Philip’s father, also a surgeon, had died with so much gaming debt that his family lost their home. Here was a balm for her wounds. The agonizing love she carried about for Conrad could be transferred. Or so she thought.

  “Mrs. Hollis?”

  She broke out of her melancholy thoughts and looked up at Tom, coachman and groomsman, holding open the coach door.

  In the foyer, Ines asked, “Did you have a lovely evening, Mrs. Hollis?”

  “Yes,” Loretta said. She felt a twinge of conscience for Ines having to wait up so late after a long day, but she could not unfasten the two dozen tiny pearl buttons running up the back of her satin gown without assistance.

  “I’ll sleep in the guest room,” she said with a hand on the balcony. “So as not to wake Doctor Hollis.”

  It was unnecessary for her to state her intentions to Ines, but acting the charade had become a ritual, like cleaning her teeth.

  “But Doctor Hollis is still awake, madam,” Ines said softly. “He only went upstairs minutes ago. He sat up and visited with Miss Hollis . . . who is in the guest room.”

  “Miss Hollis?” Loretta whispered. She was about to ask which sister until she remembered Grace had recently married.

  Aleda. Who wrote stories. A spinster, which was no wonder. Loretta remembered the open dislike in her expression four years ago.

  “You may retire now, Ines,” Loretta said.

  Philip sat with ankle propped upon knee, unfastening a half boot. He looked up when the knob turned and door opened. Loretta stepped inside, a vision in pearl gray satin, her flaxen hair bound up in ringlets that teased her bare shoulders.

  “I thought I heard you,” he said.

  She dropped bag and wrap onto the settee at the foot of the bed, then sat down herself. “Your meeting went well?”

  “Fairly. The annual look-over of applications. Paper never tells you enough about a person, but it’s a start. How was your night?”

  “Nice. We saw Princess Ida.”

  A shoe thumped softly to the carpet, and then he began on the second. “Again?”

  “But you see? It’s my dream that Leonora Braham and her understudy take ill one night and it’s announced that they have to cancel the show. I pop up from my seat and declare, ‘The night is saved! I know that part!’ ”

  He chuckled. “That’s a nice dream. As long as Miss Braham recovers the next morning, there’s no real harm done. I would pay to see you.”

  “I just have to find a way to get to their food.”

  He feigned a look of shock. “What sort of woman have I married?”

  They held the shared smile for a couple of seconds, and then she shifted her eyes and yawned. “But all the commotion has given me a headache.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. But he was not surprised. Funny how the headaches never prevented her from going out with friends. “Do you need some medicine?”

  “I’m sure a good night’s sleep is all.”

  “Of course. But I must discuss something importan
t with you first,” he said, setting the other shoe down by its mate.

  “Will you unfasten my dress and pearls at the same time?”

  “Of course.”

  He left the chair and crossed the carpet. She got to her feet and turned her back to him. First he unfastened the clasp to her pearl choker. A small cameo of onyx and ivory dangled from the front. It was a wedding gift from her grandparents that she wore often, while the jade and gold necklace he had given her had not seen the light of day for months.

  He never asked about it. Perhaps she did not care for the style. “Aleda’s here.”

  “Yes, Ines said so,” Loretta replied.

  “Did she say my stepfather needs surgery?”

  “No. Oh dear.”

  He could see the two of them in the cheval glass as his fingers gave the buttons the same concentration they gave to his work. Just touching her unyielding back brought on an ache that no light banter could heal.

  “If he suspects Aleda came for me, he may do something rash. The sooner I leave, the better. I hope tomorrow.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, obviously attempting to hide the relief in her voice. “Leave in the morning. I shall explain everything to Father.”

  His fingers briefly stopped. “No. I’ll speak with him.”

  “But he never refuses me anything.”

  “I’ll speak with him,” he repeated. A pause, while he unfastened another button. “And I hope you’ll come with me.”

  “To see Father?”

  He could not hold back a sigh. “To Gresham. It would mean a lot to my family. To me. Please.”

  Loretta turned, even though only half the buttons were unfastened. “How long do you intend to stay?”

  “Three weeks, at least. I want to make certain he’s healing before I return.”

  “I can’t possibly. We committed ourselves to the croquet party at the Allens’ on Saturday next. They have been so kind to us, sending flowers when I had that sore throat.”

  “They would understand.”

  “And I promised to call on Mrs. Dutton, Vera’s aunt. She becomes quite disheartened when the family’s in the country. And there is—”

  He shook his head. “Never mind, Loretta. I’ll go alone.”

  Feebly she said, “If I only had more notice . . .”

  “Well, sickness is like that. Turn around, please.”

  They stood in stilted silence while he finished unfastening the dress. He then scooped his slippers from beneath his side of the bed and took a folded nightshirt from his chest of drawers.

  “I’ll sleep in the drawing room.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Philip,” she said, but not forcefully.

  “It’s better for your headache.” He turned at the door. “By the way . . . gallstones.”

  She stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “That’s why my stepfather requires surgery. You didn’t ask, so I wanted to spare you from wondering later.”

  Chapter 14

  Short in stature, Principal Surgeon Reginald Trask sat high in his chair behind a massive oak desk. His prematurely white hair flowed back from his forehead like plumage on an officer’s cap. Philip had gotten on well with Doctor Trask from their first meeting. Both having received their medical training in Scotland had served as an immediate bond.

  “You do not trust any of the Shrewsbury surgeons, Philip? I daresay I may have trained some.”

  “Yes, sir,” Philip replied. “I’m sure there are competent ones. But none that will care so much about the patient as I do.”

  His father-in-law rested his chin upon steepled fingertips. “Is caring on the same level as skill?”

  “I don’t know,” Philip confessed. “I only know that I must go. I regret very much the hardship this will cause.”

  “We shall cope,” said the older man. “And I regret Florence and I were in Italy that time your parents visited. I enjoyed my chats with Vicar Phelps during the festivities surrounding your wedding. He must have been a good stepfather to you.”

  Philip nodded as a memory swept over him. “Did you go to boarding school, Doctor Trask?”

  “Of course.” He frowned, grew pensive. “A breeding ground for bullies. I was, naturally, smallish. I may as well have painted a target on my jacket. I wept into my pillow every night. They were the darkest years of my boyhood.”

  “I had the same experience,” Philip said, “and was ashamed to tell my mother, when she had sacrificed so much to enroll me. One day I was out running laps around the building for simply defending myself, and a carriage pulled up in front of me. Andrew got out, said he was taking me back to Gresham.”

  Doctor Trask’s brows raised. “What a wonderful kindness.”

  “He wasn’t even my stepfather yet. Do you see now why I must be there for him?”

  “I do,” Doctor Trask replied, his eyes actually watering behind the spectacles. He glanced away for an instant, cleared his throat. “Then I’ll detain you no longer. I know you want to look in on your cases. I’ll need to send a messenger to Florence. She’ll want to bid Loretta farewell.”

  Philip hesitated. “Loretta isn’t coming.”

  “But why not?”

  “She has several appointments in place.”

  Doctor Trask opened his mouth, closed it. Just when Philip was wondering if he should himself break the stilted silence, his father-in-law said, “Perhaps the time away will benefit you both. My prayers for Vicar Phelps go with you.”

  Saying farewell to Ines and slipping out of the house before Loretta could wake, Aleda walked down to Notting Hill Gate and found a hackney cab. After dropping off her manuscript at the Argosy office on Oxford Street, and staying there much longer than she had intended, she gave the cabby an address on Bloomsbury Square, one block east of the British Museum.

  Gabriel’s butler answered the door to the terrace house. “Why, Miss Hollis, is it?”

  “In the flesh, Mr. Smithson,” Aleda replied.

  “Mr. Patterson’s in the garden. Shall I lead you to him?”

  “How about if I make my own way?”

  “I shall bring out tea.”

  “And some toast or cheese, perhaps?”

  “Very good, madam.”

  She was getting good at asking for food. Perhaps she was a beggar at heart. She walked through Gabriel’s tastefully appointed home, past a drawing room with overstuffed chairs and landscapes on serene teal green walls, a dining room with Belgian rug, oak table and chairs. Double French doors opened into a cozy world of greenery and trellises, flagstones and wooden benches, fish pond and vines creeping up stone walls.

  She saw Gabriel Patterson’s thinning brown hair first, then the back of his portly frame, swathed in dressing gown and ensconced in a lawn chair. As she drew closer she could see his left hand penning lines across a folded sheet of foolscap.

  “Gabriel?”

  His shoulders jumped a little before he turned to face her. He smiled and rose, drawing the sash tighter around his middle.

  “Aleda! I had the oddest feeling last night that I would see you soon, and here you are. Are you visiting Philip and Loretta?”

  “Philip,” she replied. “And just last night. I slipped out of the house this morning before the duchess came down.”

  He winced. “Aleda . . . she’s Philip’s wife.”

  For how long? she thought. But not wishing to waste precious time with Gabriel on the subject of Loretta, she said, “I spent much of the morning in the Argosy offices. When my editors realized I was there to drop off my manuscript, they wanted to discuss extending the serial—about sending Captain Jacobs off to some new adventure.”

  “Well, good for you.” He opened his arms. “And it’s wonderful to see you.”

  She fit comfortably into his arms, then stepped back, lest she give him false hopes. They had gotten all that business settled two years ago.

  “Don’t grieve yourself, Aleda,” he said lightly. “Friends embrace,
too.”

  Embarrassed and relieved at the same time, she said, “Then I’ll have another.”

  But instead he smacked a kiss upon her forehead and said, “Naughty girl. You’ve caught me in my dressing gown. Can you entertain yourself while I change?”

  She strayed a glance to his manuscript pages. “I’ll think of something.”

  “Sorry, no peeking before it’s polished. I don’t want you to think I’m a hack.”

  As if, Aleda thought. Gabriel could write circles around her. And the popularity of his novels, adventures set in Roman Britain, proved it.

  He was wealthier than Croesus, and generous to a fault. Representatives of charities called often, well acquainted with his philanthropy. Sometimes she thought she was foolish for not accepting his proposal of marriage. He would make a wonderful husband.

  But just as Brutus had said of Caesar and Rome, it was not that she loved Gabriel less, it was that she loved independence more.

  Was there not any sharp London woman willing to look beyond the less-than-perfect physique and value the gold of his heart more than his bank account? But where would he have met her? His forays beyond his house were limited to Bloomsbury Chapel and occasional ambles through the museum or an art gallery. Philip was practically his only caller, besides the charity representatives and his editors from Macmillan Publishers.

  He returned in black trousers and white shirt, as she was munching happily on a croissant with a generous slice of ham tucked inside.

  “You’re still against typewriters?” she asked.

  He settled into a chair beside hers. “Shakespeare never owned one.”

  “He never owned a water closet, either,” Aleda said, grateful for the opportunity to use the quip a second time.

  Gabriel made a face at her. “Besides, you use a pen for your novel yourself. You’ve admitted such. How is it progressing?”

  “I’m still polishing.”

  “How many polishings does this make now?”

  “Um. . . . I don’t remember.”

  “Interesting,” he said.

  “You’re not going to suggest that I don’t want to finish.”