The Jewel of Gresham Green

by Lawana Blackwell

  “I only suggest that you’re more gifted than you think. That you do not have to fear editors. Or critics.”

  Aleda bristled. “I’m not afraid of critics.”

  “Then I’m mistaken,” he said graciously.

  She loved him for it. They both knew the truth. Of what use to belabor it?

  “Just bear in mind, I’ll be happy to read it and give you my opinion any time you wish.”

  “Thank you,” she said, just as she said every time he made the offer.

  He shrugged, and asked why she had come to London. He was saddened when she told him. “I’ve envied you and Philip . . . having such a father.”

  It was rare that Gabriel spoke of his parents. But she had learned the family dynamics years ago, when fifteen-year-old Philip returned from a fortnight with the Pattersons in Birmingham. Doctor Patterson had praised her brother’s sports prowess and aspirations toward the medical field, while making barbs about Gabriel’s weight and desire to write.

  Mrs. Patterson was as bad in her own way, cautioning Gabriel against exerting himself physically as if he were fragile, pushing food and sweets upon him as if a famine were imminent. It was a wonder he was able to break free to attend Oxford, and no wonder that he moved to London straight after commencement.

  Later, over a simple but delicious lunch of asparagus soup, baked sole, crusty brown bread, and salad, and the anticipation of a not-so-simple chocolate cheesecake ahead, Gabriel asked about her cottage. She took him audibly from room to room.

  “You must come see it sometime.” She frowned. “I just hope my belongings are still there.”

  “Go on . . .”

  She told him of happening upon the coach, and Mrs. Libby and her daughter.

  “Brummies?” he said, referring to the nickname often given to Birmingham natives. “How interesting. But you just left them, knowing no one?”

  She slurped a spoonful of soup. “I was pressed for time.”

  “Hmm. What if this Mrs. Libby manufactured the whole situation? What if she’s an aspiring author, intent upon stealing your manuscript?”

  “But how would she know of my family’s friendship with Vicar Treves?”

  “Let’s see.” Gabriel mused for a second or two, then snapped his fingers. “She was a servant in his household and heard your family being spoken of as she served tea.”

  Aleda nodded. “And in the course of dusting his desk, she copied his signature and forged a letter.”

  “She’s so desperate that she stole an orphan from the streets. Who could turn away a mother and child?”

  “I’m not sure about that one. They both have very red hair.”

  “Orphans can’t have red hair?” Gabriel countered.

  “Touché.” They exchanged smiles of mutual fondness, and Aleda thought it was a pity that she did not live in London. With her determined nature, she could find him a good wife.

  Double pity, that she could not do the same for her brother.

  Gabriel’s voice cut into her thoughts. “Do you mind if I accompany you and Philip back to Gresham?”

  She straightened in her chair. “You’d be most welcome.”

  “Not to be in the way, mind you. But I’d like to be there for your father’s surgery. I’ll stay at the Bow and Fiddle.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Your parents don’t need houseguests. And you already have some.”

  Aleda sighed. “I’ll just put them up at the inn until we figure out what to do with them.”

  “Yes?” Gabriel’s brows lifted. “And have it bandied about that you’ve an unchaperoned gent under your roof? That would hasten your father’s recovery. I’ll be happy with the inn. That’s what it’s there for.”

  “Very well,” she conceded.

  “And as long as I’m there . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “You might reconsider allowing me to read a chapter or two of your book?”

  “Gabriel . . .”

  “Just give it some thought. You have to put a toe in the water sometime, Aleda.”

  Chapter 15

  After a simple lunch of potato soup and weak tea, followed by an hour-long nap, Andrew insisted he was in no pain and would read over his sermon. Julia finally felt confident enough to leave him in the care of Luke, Dora, and Wanetta.

  “Mother?” Elizabeth said, stepping back from her front door to allow entrance. “Is Father . . . ?”

  “He’s all right. He’s in his study. But you were so worried yesterday, I just wanted to be sure you’re all right.”

  Elizabeth embraced her. “You’re so dear, Mother. I’m fine. We had such fun after breakfast. Jonathan gave the ensemble permission to practice in the schoolhouse, and we all walked over to listen. They plan to start Sunday afternoon concerts on the green very soon. Danny Perkins is so gifted with his violin that we said he should try out for the London Symphony Orchestra. It’s hard to believe he’s but sixteen.”

  Her tone was too chirpy, too cheerful. Julia hoped Elizabeth was not acting brave for her sake. By then, the twins had heard her voice and rushed into the parlor. Julia planted kisses upon soft cheeks, listened to their plans for the day, and finally continued down Church Lane.

  As she neared the end of the path, she caught sight of pillows draped over bedroom windowsills. Aleda must have hired Mrs. Summers again to clean, she thought. She opened the gate and noticed a thin red-haired girl in a wicker chair, bare feet dangling halfway to the ground, a hand stroking the cat curled in her lap.

  “Why, good morning,” Julia said, entering the garden.

  “Good morning,” the girl replied, and grinned proudly. “The cat jumped up here when I sat down.”

  “Yes, I can see that.” Julia walked over to scratch between the animal’s ears. “She won’t go to just anyone. She likes you.”

  “It’s a girl?”

  “Yes. Her name is Tiger. My daughter said it’s easier to say twenty times a day than Tigress.”

  The girl tried both names, softly. She had a faint accent that Julia could not quite place. Perhaps the Summerses had family visiting from another part of Britain.

  “I’m Mrs. Phelps,” Julia said. “And you must be Mrs. Summers’ granddaughter.”

  “Who’s Mrs. Summers?”

  “My mistake. What’s your name, dear?”

  “My name’s Becky. Mummy’s cleaning the water closet. She said I could play outdoors if I stay inside the fence.”

  “I see. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Becky. Is Miss Hollis upstairs?”

  “No, ma’am. She went to that place where the trains stop.”

  The sink, bathtub, and floor shining, Jewel eyed the medicine cabinet again. There was a difference between cleaning and meddling, at least for a guest. While the oak door shone from her polishing, the inside was a mess. A half-dozen cakes of Pears soap, a box of Beecham’s indigestion pills, a jar of glycerine hand salve, four hairpins, and a comb lay helter-skelter. A tin of tooth powder sat open, with white powder spilling onto the shelf.

  She sighed, closed the cabinet door, and gathered cleaning rags into the pail. She had just entered the kitchen when a woman stepped through the kitchen door.

  “Good morning.”

  Jewel froze. The pail bumped the side of her knee.

  “I’ve startled you . . . forgive me,” the woman said, and looked around. “Everything smells so clean.”

  This was surely Miss Hollis’s mother, with her auburn hair and green eyes. Her open, friendly expression would have set Jewel at ease were she not bound to her hostess’s instruction to declare her unavailable.

  “Are you Mrs. Phelps?” Jewel asked.

  “Yes, I am.” She stepped closer with hand extended.

  Jewel set down the pail to shake her hand. “I’m Jewel Libby.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve met Becky. She’s quite smitten with the cat.”

  “She’s always wanted one. How is your husband?”

  �
�He’s fine for the moment, thank you.” Mrs. Phelps inclined her head thoughtfully. “I’m acquainted with two people who speak with your accent. Vicar Paul Treves is one. May I assume you and Becky are the subjects of his telegram?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jewel replied. “He didn’t realize your husband was ill. But we happened upon Miss Hollis on the roadside, and she offered to help us. So please don’t trouble yourself.”

  “She has a good heart. Pray tell . . . why is she at Shrewsbury Station?”

  Jewel swallowed and felt heat rise to her face. Did Miss Hollis’s demand for secrecy include her own mother?

  “Becky said she’s at the railway station,” Mrs. Phelps said, as if not certain Jewel had understood her question. “The closest is Shrewsbury . . .”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Phelps. But all I can say is that she’s not available.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Please forgive me, but I can’t take advantage of her hospitality and ignore her wishes.”

  “Her wishes . . .”

  Shifting her weight on her feet, Jewel endured the bemused scrutiny of the older woman.

  Seconds later, Mrs. Phelps said, “Why don’t we sit?”

  They pulled out chairs. Julia folded her hands on the table. “I try not to meddle in my daughters’ affairs. I seldom visit Aleda. But yesterday she was anxious over her father’s upcoming surgery. I’m only here to see if she’s all right.”

  “Yes. I’m quite sure she is.”

  Mrs. Libby’s evasiveness brought to mind Elizabeth’s artificial breeziness. Like game pieces lining up perfectly on a draughts board, the answer fell into place.

  Aleda had gone to telegraph Philip!

  She would know the folly of doing so from Gresham. It was so like her to take command of the situation, like her fictional Captain Jacobs.

  A weight lifted from Julia’s soul. Andrew would be angry, but he wasn’t the only person involved. She needed him. So did the children and grandchildren. So did Gresham.

  She smiled. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to say any more.”

  The young woman sighed. “Thank you, Mrs. Phelps.”

  “Now, what is it that brought you and Becky from Birmingham in such haste?”

  Mrs. Libby glanced toward the staircase. “I have a letter.”

  Becky was still in the chair, softly singing and stroking the cat. Jewel smiled and turned from the open door to light the stove jet beneath the kettle.

  “This is actually from Noelle Treves,” Mrs. Phelps said with a rustling of paper.

  Jewel returned to the table. As the letter was addressed to Vicar and Mrs. Phelps, she had not thought it proper to open the seal.

  “You were right to get far away from that man.”

  “Thank you,” Jewel said as gratitude for Mrs. Phelps washed over her. Gratitude for not taking the danger lightly, as had the police. For agreeing that Becky, as any child, was worthy of protection.

  At the stove again, she poured boiling water into the teapot.

  Mrs. Phelps surprised her by coming over to fish mismatched cups and saucers from the dresser and take a tray from the top of the cupboard. “And of course Aleda persuaded you not to contact us.”

  “She was only thinking of you. Your husband . . .”

  “I believe that.” Mrs. Phelps paused from scooping sugar from crock into bowl. “And it’s true. We’re self-absorbed for now. But once the surgery is over and he’s on the mend, I’ll be happy to help her find you a position.”

  God is so good, Jewel thought. The decent people He had put in hers and Becky’s lives outnumbered the bad. “You’re very kind.”

  “Only on my good days,” she quipped on her way into the larder, causing Jewel to smile again. A second later she came out. “I’m afraid there’s no milk.”

  “I usually drink mine plain,” Jewel assured her.

  “But what about your supper? There’s not much of anything in there.”

  Jewel had boiled the eggs for their breakfasts, and made cheese sandwiches for lunch. But she was used to making meals from dabs of this and that. “Please don’t worry. We’ll make do.”

  “Perhaps Aleda plans to bring something from Shrewsbury. What time did she leave?”

  Heat returned to Jewel’s face. If only Miss Hollis would return and put an end to this confusing secrecy.

  The vicar’s wife nodded. “Being caught in the middle is never pleasant. But for the sake of Aleda’s safety, I must ask how long she’s been away.”

  “Since yesterday, just before noon,” Jewel murmured, crumbling in the face of this motherly concern. After all, she was a mother, too. “She’s to return sometime today.”

  The kettle hissed. Jewel turned off the jet.

  Mrs. Phelps stared at the cloud of steam continuing to rise. Seconds later she said, “I’m afraid I can’t join you for tea after all.”

  Dora’s rolling pin made muffled whumps as it swooped down upon the dough at all angles. A smile widened her round face as Julia entered the kitchen.

  “Did you enjoy your stroll, missus?”

  “It wasn’t quite a stroll. I met the mother and daughter of Paul Treves’ telegram. A Mrs. Libby and Becky.”

  “Ah. But where are they?”

  “They’re staying with Aleda for now.”

  “Indeed? Did you learn why they had to leave Birmingham?” Dora was practically family. Julia told her, briefly.

  The cook clucked her tongue. “I’d like to introduce his head to my rolling pin!”

  However much Julia would enjoy hearing the ways Becky’s tormentor should be punished, she had a more pressing task outside the kitchen.

  “Will we have enough supper to share?”

  “But of course. You know I always cook enough for dropins. And with the vicar limited to soup, there’s to be even more.” The cook raised sparse brows. “Are the mother and daughter here now?”

  “No. I’ll ask Luke to carry it over. Aleda asked them not to stray from the cottage until she returns.”

  “Returns? But where is she?”

  “Unless I’m very, very wrong . . . London.”

  Though she had the right to open the door to the study at any time, Julia always knocked. Privacy was worth little when it could be barged in upon without warning. Besides, Andrew counseled the occasional parishioner, who would need to know that his privacy was respected, as well.

  She knocked softly and heard “Come in” from the other side.

  Andrew’s absorbed voice. Julia could picture him reading his sermon notes, his mind only half aware of his mouth speaking the invitation.

  Sure enough, when she entered, he looked up from his sermon notes as if surprised.

  “Why, Julia. I didn’t realize you’d returned.”

  “Only a little while ago. Is your studying going well?”

  His smile made shadowy dimples behind his beard. “I’ll be preaching from the third chapter of Saint John. Jesus and Nicodemus.”

  Julia closed the door and sat in the horsehair chair facing the desk. “But wasn’t your sermon to be on loyalty? David and Jonathan?”

  “I’ve put it aside for another time. I felt a strong urging from God to give a Gospel message. Just in case . . .”

  He hesitated, as if expecting her to chide him for his morbidness. “Very good,” she said simply, earnestly. “For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve kept an ear turned up to heaven.”

  He gave her a grateful smile. “I’m afraid I don’t always hear Him.”

  “But you try.” She moved up to the edge of the chair to reach across his desk.

  Automatically he clasped her hand. “Are you all right, Julia?”

  “That depends upon you.”

  “It does?”

  “I believe Aleda went to London to speak with Philip.”

  His cheeks flushed above his beard as his smile faded. Softly but firmly he said, “I made my wishes quite clear, Julia.”

  “Perfectly clear. And yet
Aleda chose to defy them. How she must loathe you.”

  He blew out his cheeks. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate her concern.”

  “But you want to show Philip just how much we don’t need him.”

  “That’s not why—”

  “Isn’t it?” Julia shook her head. “Vindictiveness is unbecoming in a minister, Andrew. Or in any Christian. Yes, he’s hurt us. But not from any malice. I suspect any energy not consumed by his job is drained by his marriage. I’m asking you to listen to your own sermons and forgive him.”

  Andrew looked wounded. “You think I’m trying to punish him?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  He shook his head. Tears lustered his hazel eyes. “I’m . . . afraid that if anyone asks, and he refuses, I shouldn’t be able to bear it.”

  He was unconsciously squeezing her hand to a painful degree. With her other hand, Julia touched his, and he released her. She rose, went around the desk, and cradled his shoulders.

  “If Aleda went for him, he’ll come,” she murmured. “If she didn’t, I’ll telegraph him, and he’ll come. Either way, he’ll be here for you. I don’t know everything in my son’s heart, but I do know he loves his father.”

  Chapter 16

  Gresham rested in that twilight time between day and night, the sun painting the sky orange and pink and purple as it poised to dip below the Anwyl. In the carriage drive of the Bow and Fiddle, the coachman handed a gladstone bag down to Gabriel.

  “Are you sure you won’t come with us?” Aleda asked.

  “They would love to see you,” Philip said.

  Gabriel shook his head. “We’ll catch up tomorrow. As gracious as your family is, I would feel like an intruder when you have such weighty matters to discuss.”

  “But the night is still young,” Philip continued. “Will you not be bored?”

  “Not at all. I’ll write for a while.”

  Aleda could not help but feel a bit of relief. Gabriel’s presence would inhibit Father from expressing his feelings. If there was to be a scene, it should be gotten over with as soon as possible.

  She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I’ll join you here for breakfast. Then you must see my cottage.”

  “Very good,” he said, and bade them good evening.