Jewel of Gresham Green (12 page)

He was just as angry at himself. His inability to turn down a game of cards had landed him in this quagmire of debt, forcing him to mortgage his family home in Kensington Gardens and sell off most of the furnishings—even coach and horses, and the double box in the Lyceum Theatre. Once he returned to London for good, he would never go near the gambling salons again.

He opened his door. Mary was lugging mop and bucket up the corridor. He cleared his throat. She looked at him, her face a mask.

“Mary. Have I missed the postman?”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

Donald blew out a breath. “What time does the post office close?”

“Five o’clock, sir.”

“Please go have someone bring around the dogcart. I shall be downstairs in ten minutes.”

She blinked at him. “Jeremiah or Osborn can deliver your letter.”

“No. I can use the drive.”

Ten minutes later he was crossing the porch. Black horse and dogcart waited, tethered to a carriage post. No sign of the two groomsmen. The staff had their ways, but dared not risk outright hostility.

He regretted their sullen disapproval. Who wanted to be the object of so much dislike, even from servants? He could not enjoy meals without wondering if they had been tainted. In his imagination, cutlets were dropped upon the floor, spittle stirred into the gravy. Or worse. Yet he had to eat. He did not even possess the funds to take regular meals at the Bow and Fiddle, for the old miser had not been a patron and thus had no account.

His mistake was underestimating the affection the servants felt for his uncle. In his memory, the man was a sharp-tongued old blister who kept the servants hopping. Never did he say please.

Perhaps he should call them all together when he returned from the post office. Announce that when the estate was settled he would double their wages. He untied the tether and smiled.
Triple
.
Quadruple. Hundredfold
. What did it matter?

So deep was he into his thoughts that it was only as he swung up into the seat and picked up the reins that he realized a carriage drawn by a pair of horses had turned down Bartley Lane. He frowned as it drew closer. Vicar Phelps and Doctor Rhodes sat in the front. He caught only small glimpses of the two in the rear seat. If he were a betting man—and he was—he would wager this meant bad news.

“We need to examine the squire, Mr. Gibbs,” Doctor Rhodes said without formality as the men alighted the barouche. He introduced a graying bearded man in dark suit as Mr. Baker, the squire’s solicitor, and a ferret-looking man in tweeds as Constable Reed.

No one offered a hand, so Donald did not offer his. He suspected it would be refused.

Stand your ground,
he ordered himself.
You’ve done nothing.

The longcase clock ticked a thousand seconds. Finally the four men filed into the library. Donald ceased pacing the carpet.

“Please have seats, gentlemen.”

They took to the sofa and chairs. Without preamble the solicitor, Mr. Baker, said, “We suspect you of neglecting Squire Bartley. In light of our concerns, Constable Reed intends to order a postmortem when he passes on.”

A nerve flicked in the corner of Donald’s mouth. He hoped they had not noticed.

“And I intend to file a motion against the will, accusing you of hastening his death. Even if the postmortem clears you, I assure you the motion will tie up your inheritance for months and months. The Shropshire courts are notoriously slow.”

“Gentlemen.” Donald dropped into a chair and put a hand upon his chest. He could feel his heart thumping against his breastbone. “I fear you are correct. I’ve done my uncle grave harm.”

Four sets of eyes traded glances.

“What do I know of nursing the infirm? I never had the opportunity to take care of my sainted mother and father, who drowned when the
Atlantic
sank eleven years ago. I only thought a quiet room, peaceful surroundings, would induce my uncle—my only living relation—to health.”

It was difficult to tell if they believed him. But at least no more accusations came forth.

“I’m grateful to you for drawing this to my attention,” he went on. “Please tell me . . . what can I do to atone for my error?”

Constable Reed spoke up. “We insist Doctor Rhodes examines him three times weekly.”

“But of course. I welcome that.”

“His bedchamber must be aired out,” Mr. Baker said. “And he must have around-the-clock care. That means overnight as well.”

“I’ll see to it.”

Through the whole visitation, Vicar Phelps had sat with tight lips set into a face that seemed a little pale. Finally he spoke. “That will benefit you, as well, Mr. Gibbs. Doing unto others as we would have them do unto us does not exclude family.”

“Yes, thank you,” Donald said humbly.

After a stilted silence, the men rose as one and started for the door.

“Good day, Mr. Gibbs,” said Constable Reed.

“Good day, gentlemen.” Donald turned to the solicitor. “Ah . . . Mr. Baker? May I have a moment?”

When they were alone, he said, “I realize this isn’t the appropriate occasion to address this. But I have no idea when we shall meet again. I’m completely strapped for funds.”

Mr. Baker’s brown eyes were devoid of any warmth. “You’re free to charge against your uncle’s account in any shop in the village.”

“Yes, yes. I understand that. But I . . . left behind some debts in London. Is it possible to have an advance . . . against my . . .” He cleared his throat. This was not the best time. But what choice did he have?

“Against your expectations?” Mr. Baker said flatly.

Donald hung his head. “Yes.”

“I believe you have already borrowed against them.”

My uncle and his big mouth!
“Yes, some.”

Mr. Baker shook his head. “Squire Bartley’s instructions concerning his will were very clear. Not one inch of land, not one stick of furniture, not one penny is to be transferred until his death.”

“But I stand to lose my house in London! The house my parents—” He jerked a nod toward the ceiling. “The house
his
own sister
lived in for over thirty years.”

And he stood to lose even more.

The solicitor shrugged. “I can only do as my client demands. Perhaps he’ll rally, now that you’re to be taking proper care of him. Then you may have a long conversation over your debts.”

Donald did not miss the sarcasm in his voice, however impassive the solicitor’s face.

Chapter 10

All things work together for good to them that love God
. Jewel had heard the Scripture read in church several times over the years, but never understood it until she landed in the vast basement of Stillmans, the largest emporium in Birmingham, boasting twenty-thousand feet of floor space, electric lights, and, wonder of wonders, an elevator.

Her responsibility was to unpack and press dresses, blouses, and skirts for the Ladies’ Department, hanging them with wooden hangers onto a rack on wheels that the shop assistants came for at the end of the day. She earned seven shillings and sixpence more than the corset factory had paid, enough to enroll Becky in Mrs. Mitchell’s Infant School on Cornwall Street, just two blocks from the department store. For an extra two shillings weekly, Mrs. Mitchell kept the children of employed mothers past six o’clock, and fed them a substantial tea at four.

The housing situation had improved, as well. Vicar Treves had found her and Becky a room in a small back-to-back cottage on Waterloo Street. Mr. Turner was a night-shift worker at the gasworks, and Mrs. Turner feared being alone with only her five-month-old son. Kitchen privileges and the use of the water closet and tiny garden were included, and the rent was lower than at the previous flat.

Furthermore, Mrs. Turner was delighted to have Becky home Saturdays to help amuse Carl, a pleasant baby who smiled and pumped his chubby legs into the air whenever anyone spoke cooing noises to him.

Jewel even had new clothes. Or at least, new to her. Because she would be working somewhat in the public view, Mrs. Treves had given her five lovely dresses, a cashmere wrapper, and two nightgowns from a wardrobe she had decided to hoard no longer.

“If I’m ever slim enough to wear them again, they’ll be woefully out of style,” she had said. “Others can put them to use now.”

The only fly in the ointment was that in order to be out of Mr. Dunstan’s range, they had had to resettle across town. Vicar Hansford’s sermons at Saint Martin Church were almost as inspiring as Vicar Treves’, if his demeanor was not as warm, with his impersonal “Good day” at the church door. But this was a fair price to pay for safety, and Jewel would never feel comfortable near her former neighborhood.

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.”