“Mummy, may I pick more berries?”
His eyes found the source of the voice: a girl, with the same red hair. Was this her actual reason for seclusion? A vicar’s daughter, with a base child?
“No, mite, you’ve had quite enough.”
Quite met his ears as quoit. He would know that flat accent anywhere, having enjoyed a two-year liaison with a member of the Royal Opera House chorus who hailed from Birmingham.
Yet oddly, Mrs. Phelps, who would be her natural mother, had not shared the accent.
The plot thickened. Perhaps Miss Hollis had lived long enough in Birmingham to pick up the accent—and a child— before returning to self-exile on the fringe of the community.
He smiled to himself. He should be the writer. He stepped out from the tree. His mission might have been unsavory, but at least it proved to be interesting.
“I’m finished sweeping. If you’ll fetch your boots, we’ll explore a bit.”
Becky’s face brightened, and she darted into the house.
Jewel smiled. The trees were so fragrant, and this was Becky’s first experience with a forest. Jewel had fond, vague memories of visiting her mother’s parents on the outskirts of Chelmsley Wood.
She heard movement. Footfalls in the grass. Panic was her immediate reaction. He doesn’t know where we are, she had to remind herself.
“Good afternoon, miss,” said a voice, male, but decidedly not Mr. Dunstan’s. Nor Mr. Patterson’s. Perhaps Miss Hollis’s surgeon brother?
A dark-haired man stepped up to the fence, with a good-humored face that made up for the fierceness of his black mustache. “I’ve startled you. I should have given warning. Whistled, or sang a song. Only, I have a tin ear, so you might have thrown a stick at me.”
Jewel smiled. “No, that’s quite all right, sir. I’m just a bit skittish this afternoon.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “Strangers popping out of the woods will do that to you. So please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Donald Gibbs, the squire’s nephew.”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” she said, also pleased that he kept himself on the other side of the fence. But surely he was harmless, related to a village squire as he was. And he did not leer at her. She was about to introduce herself when Becky came running outdoors with boots flapping.
“Will you fasten them, Mummy? Who is that man?”
“Mr. Gibbs, Becky,” Jewel replied, and wrapped an arm around her shoulder to draw her to her side.
“I’ve been staying with my uncle for the past three weeks,” he said.
“We’re to walk in the woods,” Becky said as if they had not gone through such an ordeal over the last strange man to show interest in her.
“What fun! I used to wander up the path to pick blackberries when I was young. Should they be ripe now? No, it’s a bit early in the season.”
“I don’t know, sir,” Jewel replied. This Mr. Gibbs was a little too friendly for her comfort. “I’m suddenly fatigued. I doubt we’ll walk after all.”
“Please, Mummy,” Becky pleaded.
Mr. Gibbs unhooked his hands from the fence and took a backwards step, clearly understanding. “Pity, on such a lovely day. I’m rather fatigued myself. I hear a nap calling back at the house. Perhaps you’ll have the energy for your walk later.”
“Good day, sir,” Jewel said, not sure if this was a ploy, hating the cautious eye she would be forced to cast upon men, when most were surely decent.
“And to you.” He paused in midturn, brow furrowed but voice gentle. “I realize you’re my uncle’s tenant, Miss Hollis. But that does not obligate you to address me as sir. In fact, it causes me discomfort, considering the circumstances.”
“Your uncle owns this cottage?”
“Of course. How . . . could you not be aware of that? Are you not Miss Hollis?”
Relief flooded Jewel, that he had come with a legitimate purpose. “I’m Mrs. Libby.”
A pause, and then, “Are you her housemaid?”
“Oh, no sir. But she’s offered to help me find me a position.”
“Are we to take our walk now?” Becky asked.
“Shush, child.”
Mr. Gibbs scratched his head. “Where is Miss Hollis, then?”
“She’s at the vicarage. I’m not sure when she’ll return.”
“I see.” He folded his arms. “You’re not from Gresham, are you?”
“No, sir.”
“Your accent—Birmingham?”
“Why, yes. We came up just two days ago.”
“How are you acquainted with Miss Hollis?”
“My minister gave us a letter introducing us to Vicar Phelps. But he’s unwell.”
He nodded. “I thought he looked peaked that day. Are you saying you’re not acquainted with anyone in Gresham?”
“Only Miss Hollis and Mrs. Phelps.”
“And you’re looking for a position?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you keep your word, Mrs. Libby?”
The question surprised her. “I do my best. It’s a sin not to.”
“My uncle is dying.”
Jewel put a hand to her heart. “I’m sorry.”
“He requires a day nurse who would be willing to move into the manor house. If I were to hire you, could you refrain from gossiping to the servants, or anyone else, what goes on? He was always a private man. Out of respect for him, I don’t want it bandied about the house and village what he’s going through.”
“I can do that, sir.” He had not asked if she had experience, but she thought she should add, “I cared for my mother for eight months when I was twelve.”
“Very good.”
“I would have to have my daughter with me.”
“Fine. I’ll send someone for you in the morning.”
In the morning? Could this not wait until after church? But illness was no respecter of time. And the way the job was offered to her, out of the blue, surely this was from God. Had she not prayed for a position?
Thank you, Father!
Jewel and Becky were sitting across from each other at the table with bowls of soup when Miss Hollis returned with Mr. Patterson.
“We’ve interrupted your supper,” he said.
“We’ve only just sat down. Would you care for some soup?”
“No thank you,” Miss Hollis said on her way to the staircase. “We’ve been helping rearrange furniture at the vicarage, and Dora brought out sandwiches. Gabriel’s just here for my manuscript.”
“I’m afraid she’ll change her mind if I wait until tomorrow.” Mr. Patterson pulled out the chair beside Becky and sat. “And what did you do this afternoon, Miss Becky?”
“She drew a lovely picture for me,” Miss Hollis called down from the landing.
Beaming, Becky said, “And we saw a rabbit in the woods.”
“How exciting!” Mr. Patterson said.
She nodded. “And Mummy has a job.”
“What was that?” Miss Hollis said, halfway down the staircase with her manuscript in her arms.
Jewel looked up at her. “I’m to be the day nurse for the squire. His nephew, a Mr. Gibbs, came by. I start tomorrow morning. I hate to miss church, but hopefully we’ll have other opportunities to go.”
At the bottom of the staircase, Miss Hollis turned to set her manuscript upon a step. She walked over to the head of the table and sat adjacent to Jewel. With an eye toward Becky and voice low, she said, “Mr. Gibbs has a reputation.”
Another Mr. Dunstan? Sickening chills ran up Jewel’s back.
“I’ve not met him, but it’s all over Gresham that he had to be goaded into providing decent care for the squire. And that he only allows Doctor Rhodes to visit.”
Jewel pursed her lips. “But if he’s hiring me as nurse, would that not mean he intends to give him proper care?”
Miss Hollis rolled her eyes. “Have you considered that he may have taken a fancy to you?”
“To me?” Jewel shook her head.
“You’re quite pretty.”
Mr. Patterson nodded somberly.
“I would have known. He didn’t look at us that way at all.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Miss Hollis asked.
“Yes. This seems an answer to prayer.”
“Well, you can always come back and we’ll start all over if it’s not a good situation. And if this is your going-away supper, I believe I’ll have some soup after all.” She pushed out her chair. “Gabriel?”
“It does smell good,” he said. “A half bowl?”
Jewel started to rise, but Miss Hollis patted her shoulder. “I think I can find the bowls and spoons.”
“Delicious,” Mr. Patterson said after a taste. “Have you worked as a cook?”
“Only a kitchen maid, when I was young.”
“Mummy sewed corsets,” Becky piped.
“Becky . . .”
Mr. Patterson laughed. It was a wonderful, joyous sound, and contagious, for Miss Hollis joined him, then Jewel.
“How did you come from sewing corsets in Birmingham to making soup in Gresham?” he asked, wiping his eyes.
“It’s a long story,” she said respectfully. “And best forgotten.”
“Bad Mr. Dunstan wanted me to go to the cellar with him,” Becky supplied with childish frankness. “Mummy, what are the green things?”
Mr. Patterson’s round face filled with distress and compassion. His eyes shifted to meet Jewel’s. “Men can be such beasts.”
“Not all men,” she said softly. “And we’re fine now.”
“You deserve to be.”
She felt a flush to her cheeks and looked again at her daughter. “They’re peas, Becky.”
Interesting, Aleda thought.
After the meal, she watched Gabriel take Mrs. Libby’s hand and wish her well, then pat Becky’s head.
He took up her manuscript, and she accompanied him to the gate in the gathering dusk.
“Hurry, Gabriel, or you’ll be caught in the darkness. Perhaps I should get you a lamp.”
“And risk igniting these precious pages? Don’t worry.” He looked at the cottage. “You think they’ll be all right?”
“I’ve not heard of Mr. Gibbs forcing his attentions on any of the women servants. Or children. And it comforts me to know she’ll be tending the squire. She seems a compassionate woman.”
“Yes, she does. But Becky . . . has she any toys at all?”
Aleda thought for a second. She had had little interest in toys as a child, so had not even noticed. “I don’t think so.”
“May I give you some money to buy some toys to send to the manor house? They must be from you or Mrs. Libby will think . . .”
“Yes, I understand. But I don’t want any money.”
“You’ve done a good deed, helping them. Please let me help, too.” He patted the top page of her manuscript and grinned at her. “You do owe me a favor. . . .”
“Very well.” Aleda tugged at his sleeve. “Now go, or I’ll worry about you wandering about in the darkness.”
She smiled on her way back through the garden. Perhaps it wasn’t necessary to live in London to find Gabriel a wife after all.
By the time she reached the door, her practical side had elbowed its way past that fantasy. The two were barely acquainted, and one had only to look at Philip and Loretta to see the danger of wedding in haste.
But it couldn’t hurt to keep both in her prayers and see what the future held.
Chapter 19
Andrew preached his sermon Sunday morning, baptized the Coggins infant, and made an announcement just before the closing prayer and doxology.
“As many of you are aware, I’m to have surgery tomorrow morning.”
There was a faint ripple of voices, heads leaning together.
“Mr. Nicholls of Whitchurch will fill the pulpit for the month of July. I realize I do not have to ask that you show him the same courtesy you have shown me, for you are the kindest congregation I have ever known.”
Julia smiled, remembering the grumblings fifteen years ago when Andrew and the girls arrived in Gresham. The general consensus was that no one could fill Vicar Wilson’s shoes—nor his pulpit. It had taken Gresham some time to warm up to him, just as it had taken her time to see this thickset, self-deprecating man in a romantic light.
“Which leads me to this request I make of you, dear ones. My family will have the unenviable task of nursing me. I fear too many calls will tax their strength. We would be most grateful for some quiet time to heal . . . and above all, we would be grateful for your prayers.”
Another ripple, accompanied by nods and smiles. He stood at the door twice as long, receiving handshakes and promises of prayers.
“If anything goes wrong . . .” Andrew said that night as Julia lay in his arms.
She put a hand up to his lips. “Shush, Vicar.”
He chuckled under the faint pressure of her fingers, then mumbled, “I need to say this.”
She moved her hand.
“I hope you’ll move back into the Larkspur. I can’t bear the thought of you in some lonely cottage while the children move on with their lives.”
“Then I shall,” she said.
“And if some old gent . . . perhaps one of your lodgers . . . takes a fancy to you, and you find yourself wanting to marry again, please know you have my blessing.”
“Andrew. I’ll never marry again.”
“I thought the same after Kathleen died. You can’t know what’s around the corner. I just want you to know that . . . whatever you do, I approve. I never want you to be lonely.”
“Very well,” she said to appease him.
“Unless it’s Donald Gibbs.”
Julia smiled in the darkness. “There goes my manor house.”
“M-m-m.” He nuzzled the top of her head with his chin. “It’s nice. Sleeping snuggled together like this.”
“Very nice,” she said. She did not plan to slip down into the parlor tonight anyway.
On Monday morning, Julia, Aleda, Elizabeth and Jonathan, Ambrose and Fiona, and Gabriel—who would be leaving for London later in the day—sat in Saint John’s Hospital’s waiting room on the ground floor, engaged in small talk and looking up whenever the door opened. Just before noon, Philip walked in, looking weary but pleased. He had taken the time to remove his apron, which Julia appreciated.
“He came through fine. The ether is wearing off, and he’s resting.”
Julia, able to retain her composure most times, melted into quiet tears. She soddened her own handkerchief, and the one Fiona pressed upon her. Thank you, Father!
Philip escorted her past a dozen beds, most occupied, and some with curtains closed. “Remember he’s still coming out of the ether,” he whispered as a nurse withdrew the curtain around the last bed. “He may speak out of his head.”
Sheet up to his chest, Andrew gazed at her through half-closed eyes, as if trying to identify her. With Philip watching from the other side, Julia knelt, touched her husband’s bare shoulder lightly.
“How do you feel?”
He gave her a weak smile and mumbled, “It’s over?”
“Yes. Philip says you came through fine.”
“Very good. Will you write to Laurel and Grace?”
“Yes. Tonight.”
He closed his eyes, as if to rest a bit from the effort. Julia smiled up at Philip. The ether had obviously worn off, for Andrew was as lucid as ever.
Andrew opened his eyes again. “Will you write to Laurel and Grace?”
Or then again . . .
“Yes,” Julia said. “Tonight.”
“And when Philip comes for supper, please ask him not to marry that girl. I don’t think she will make him happy.”
His eyes closed. Julia went around the bed and laid a hand upon Philip’s arm. “I’m sorry, son. As you warned, he may speak out of his head.”
“It’s all right, Mother. I realize I’ve given you both occasion to worry.”
“Are . . . you happy?” She had to ask.
He smiled and patted her hand in the crook of his arm. “How could I not be, with such a wonderful family?”
It was an answer that made her smile, while making her profoundly sad.
Donald woke from restless sleep on Tuesday, the first of July. That month’s mortgage payment was due by the eighth. Driven to desperation, he had the dogcart brought around front, and took the reins.
He had always hated the cheese factory. The fathomless stone building reeked of sour milk. Today, however, it smelled of money. At least in theory, for there was one huge obstacle to overcome.
He asked a white-aproned worker for directions to the accountant’s office.
“Come in” came from inside after his knock.
Donald opened the door.
Horace Stokes ceased penciling numbers into a ledger and looked up. “May I help—” His face tightened into a glare that would curdle milk.
“Good day, Mr. Stokes,” Donald said, entering, closing the door.
In spite of the malice pouring from it, Horace Stokes’s face was still handsome after twenty-one years, with its piercing blue eyes, aristocratic nose, and square jaw. At thirteen, he had had the looks of a Greek god, albeit a skinny one. The broad shoulders now filling out his shirt were a surprise.
“You’ve done well for yourself,” Donald said, nonplussed by the hostility. Power, even delayed, was a fine antidote to awkwardness.
“Thanks to your uncle,” Horace said coldly.
I deserve some thanks, as well, Donald thought. “Will you not offer me a seat?”
“I’m very busy, Mr. Gibbs. What is it you want?”
“I have a mortgage due in a week. Tending my uncle has devastated my income. I’m in need of ten pounds.” He thought of Reese. “Fifteen.”
“And why do you bring this to me?”
Don’t play stupid, you under gardener! “Because my uncle has given permission to withdraw it from the household accounts.”
“Have you that in writing?”
“You know I haven’t.”
“Then I shall have to speak with the squire.”
Donald rolled his eyes. “As I’m sure you’re aware, my uncle cannot speak. But he communicated his permission to me in a way only I understand.”
The Jewel of Gresham Green Page 17
