Jewel of Gresham Green (20 page)

The scales were tipped by her father’s position at Saint Bartholomew’s. Not that Philip sought to advance his career, for his work spoke for itself. But to have such a respected man treating him as a son was a heady thing, adding to the allure of the daughter. Only fractionally, however, for Doctor Trask did not accompany them on their honeymoon, a month in Tuscany that was almost magical.

Within weeks of returning to London, however, she was giving off signs of disappointment with him. Making little complaints. She hated his beard, which he had cultivated for the Edinburgh winters and retained because he disliked shaving. He gave up cigarettes. They were a nasty habit anyway, picked up to ease the rigors of medical school. He ceased balking at her parents’ insistence on paying for a coach, horses, and a coachman’s wages, even when accepting the gift of the house had made him feel less than a man.

No amount of praise from his peers and superiors at Saint Bartholomew’s could compensate for coming home and finding his wife absent. Even when she was present. When he questioned what was wrong, her stock answer was “nothing.” Their conversations eroded to either trivialities or banter. They excelled at the latter. Humor was a great distancer.

He felt his cheek. His auburn hair was fine, and so the stubble barely stood out against his fingertips. In his haste to leave the vicarage, he had not shaved. But then, perhaps he would not tomorrow, either.

Sunlight through the gap in the curtains was warm on her face. Jewel slipped out of bed and into her wrapper. Becky snored softly on her side, her curls tumbled about the pillow.

On the landing, Jewel was relieved to hear movement in the other bedchamber. Even though Miss Hollis was meeting a friend for breakfast, she might care for a cup of tea.

The kettle was boiling when Miss Hollis came downstairs, fastening the cuff buttons of a crisp white poplin blouse. “No one will recognize me without the wrinkles. Tea? Wonderful! I tossed and turned so.”

“I’m sorry.” Jewel poured her a steaming cup.

“My fault. I can’t drink hot chocolate in the evenings.” She covered a yawn, then took a sip. “It’s useful, when I must work all night, but not when I want to sleep. Will you have some?”

Jewel poured herself a cup and joined her at the table. “Thank you for the eggs and bacon. And I’d like to buy some food.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll get some money. . . .”

“I have money,” Jewel said respectfully. Only two pounds, but with her usual frugality at the market, she could stretch it for a while.

“I’m not going to allow you to do that.”

“I can’t do all the taking, Miss Hollis. Will you tell me where to go?”

Miss Hollis sighed. “Take the southward path around the fence until you reach Church Lane. Set out to your right, and you’ll eventually come to the crossroads. Any of the shops there will deliver if you need them to.”

After breakfast, Jewel and Becky set out on foot. The village was twice as charming as it had seemed from the coach. Tree branches meandered over the lane. Stone and half-timbered cottages boasted flower gardens and pots of geraniums in windows. The shade-cooled air felt invigorating. A farmer passing in the lane doffed his hat. An elderly woman waved from her garden. Becky skipped along at her side, chattering happily.

“I hear a cow, Mummy. Do you?”

Jewel cocked her head to listen. “I do. But not just one. Miss Hollis said there are dairy farms here.”

“What’s a dairy farm?”

“Where people keep cows for their milk.”

They passed a schoolyard, where four children were sending up squeals from a merry-go-round. Becky sent a half-shy, half-longing look that caused an ache in Jewel’s heart. They were no longer in Birmingham, but not quite part of Gresham, either. Even though school was not in session, were only students allowed to play here?

“Why don’t we look for some cows?” she said impulsively. “Oh, may we?” Becky clapped her hands.

Jewel smiled. There was no hurry to return; the cottage was almost spotless. Outside the cluster of shops at the crossroads, she asked directions of a barber sweeping the pavement. Before even reaching the stone bridge to the north, they could see black-and-white cattle grazing in distant rolling pastures.

“This is far enough, mite,” Jewel said. “I don’t want to have to carry you back the whole way.”

“Just to the bridge? To look at the water?”

“Very well.” Truth was, Jewel was having just as much fun. Once she found a position, the opportunities for exploring might be limited. But leisure time was an abnormality, as stiff as a pair of Sunday shoes.

At length they returned to the shops. Jewel purchased bread from the baker, soup bones from the butcher, potatoes, onions, carrots, and peas from the greengrocer. The parcels in her arms were bulky, but manageable.

Near the end of the path, Becky hurried ahead. “I’ll open the gate.”

“There’s a good girl.”

Seated in the wicker chairs were Miss Hollis and a large, pleasant-faced man wearing a gray tweed suit. He rose to his feet and advanced.

“Please allow me, Mrs. Libby,” he said in a familiar accent.

“You’re very kind, but I can manage.”

Miss Hollis said from her chair, “Mr. Patterson has few opportunities to play the gentleman. You may as well humor him.”

“Aleda exaggerates. One can be a gentleman even while alone. How very good to meet a fellow Brummie.” Taking the parcels, he inclined his head toward Becky, gaping up at him. “
Two
fellow Brummies, that is.”

Jewel could not help but smile.

“Please, sir, what’s a Brummie?” Becky asked.

“Why, it’s the nickname for those of us from Birmingham.” He smiled. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Gabriel Patterson. And you are, of course, Mrs. Libby and Becky.”

“We’re pleased to meet you,” Jewel said. “Where in Birmingham do you live?”

“Ah, but I fled Birmingham over a decade ago. It’s a good place to be
from
. If you’ll pardon me . . .”

He turned toward the steps. Jewel realized she should follow, to open the door. Behind, she heard Miss Hollis ask, “Did you enjoy the shops, Becky?”

“I liked the cows and the bridge more.”

“Well, sit here and tell me about it.”

Mr. Patterson set the parcels upon the table. Jewel was not quite sure what was expected of her, given her position as part servant, part houseguest. She thanked him again and offered her hand.

Two fleshy paws engulfed it. “My pleasure.”

He was not handsome in the classical sense, with his thinning, dun-colored hair, full cheeks, and girth. But the kindness, humor, and intelligence in his face were pleasing to the eyes.

“Was there nothing about Birmingham that you liked, Mr. Patterson?” she found herself asking.

“That’s a very good question. There was plenty to like, but I didn’t like who I
was
when I lived there. Does that make sense?”

She thought of herself, one of a multitude trudging from factory to slums to factory, with only Sundays to brighten the weeks. “It does, Mr. Patterson.”

“Will you join us in the garden?”

“Thank you, but I must start making soup.” She would call Becky indoors, as well, and not take advantage of his courtesy. He nodded. “It was good to meet you, Mrs. Libby.”

Miss Hollis came inside an hour later, as Jewel swept stray vegetable peelings from the kitchen floor, and Becky sat at the bottom of the staircase tying bows with string from the parcels.

“My brother abducted Gabriel to go to Shrewsbury with him and look over the hospital.” She went to the stove and lifted the lid from the pot. “Soup?”

“I’m afraid it won’t be ready until tonight. But there is still plenty of lamb stew left.”

Miss Hollis patted her stomach. “I overdid breakfast.”

“See, Miss Hollis?” Becky said, holding up one of her string bows. “You only have to pull an end to make it come apart.”

“Clever girl. Do you like to draw?”

“I do.”

“Sit at the table. I’ll be back.”

She went upstairs, and returned with a stack of paper about six inches thick.

Surely not!
Jewel thought, and was opening her mouth to protest when Miss Hollis peeled off four sheets from the top and placed them before Becky. She handed her two pencils, winked at Jewel, and left for the garden with the bulk of the stack.

Lost in her story, Aleda was startled when Mrs. Libby appeared with a beaker on a tray.

“What time is it?” Aleda asked.

“After one o’clock. I thought you might care for some lemonade.”

“What a coincidence. I was just reading about lemonade. . . . Here . . . my characters are drinking lemonade at a May Day picnic.”

“Perhaps you’re a psychic?” Mrs. Libby lowered the tray.

Aleda laughed, a little surprised, given Mrs. Libby’s factory and service background.

Her expression must have revealed so, for Mrs. Libby explained with no rancor, “My first employer was a headmaster. They entertained often, and I learned much from discussions while helping in the dining room.”

Aleda took a sip from the beaker. “Very good. But perhaps
you’re
the psychic. You knew I was thirsty.”

“You don’t really believe in that, do you, Miss Hollis?” Mrs. Libby said carefully.

“My stepfather’s the vicar. What do you think?”

Mrs. Libby laughed, and was turning toward the cottage when Aleda said, “Where is Becky?”

“Napping. Is there something you wish me to—?”

“No, pour yourself some lemonade and join me.”

She sent an uncertain glance toward the chair beside her. “Join you?”

“To chat. You know, as people do. Don’t look so uneasy.”

Minutes later, when Mrs. Libby had settled with her drink, Aleda asked, “Do you miss Birmingham?”

“There are some things I miss. Saint Philip’s Chapel. Vicar and Mrs. Treves. Fidget pie. The places my husband and I took walks. Our first little house, even if it was a back-to-back.”

“Do you hope to return one day?”

“Never.” Her red curls bounced against her shoulder with her headshake. “I do miss those things I mentioned, but I suppose if you grew up in a hole in the ground, you’d recall some things fondly, too.”

Amused, Aleda said, “Such as dirt? Grubs? Worms?”

Mrs. Libby smiled. “If that’s all you knew.”

“It took great courage for you to leave your ‘hole in the ground,’ knowing so little of the place you would land.”

“Thank you, but I never felt courageous. It’s just that my fear of the known was greater than my fear of the unknown.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, sipping lemonade. Mrs. Libby looked at the stack of papers on her lap and said, “I read some of your stories last night. They’re very good.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Is your novel an adventure, too?”

Aleda shook her head. “It’s set in a village, much like this one. A bit of humor, a bit of romance. And well, yes, some adventure, but no Komodo dragons.”

Mrs. Libby smiled. “May I ask why you’ve written it in script, when you have a typewriter?”

“Well, because it’s closer to my heart than my magazine stories. The pen is more personable than tapping it out on a machine.”

“A labor of love?”

Aleda sighed. “When it’s not a labor of hate.”

Mrs. Libby’s reddish brows lifted.

Aleda was astonished at herself for revealing so much. But having an impartial listener, with no emotional stake, was refreshing.

“I wrapped up all plots and subplots into a tidy ending long ago. But I can’t bear the thought of bad reviews from critics . . . or worse, having it rejected, so I won’t submit it for publication until it’s perfect. Or at least as close to that as possible.”

“Is it almost there?”

“Every time I read it over, new flaws stand out. But it’ll be worth it in the end. Samuel Johnson said great works are performed not by strength, but perseverance.”

“Has he read your story?”

“He was a famous writer of the last century,” Aleda said, trying not to sound condescending.

Nonplussed, Mrs. Libby said, “He must not have come up in the dinner conversations. So, no one else has read it?”

“Heavens, no. Mr. Patterson has offered, which is why I brought it out here to look over. But I don’t think it’s ready, even for him.”

“But wouldn’t he be kinder than the critics?”

Aleda hesitated before admitting, “That frightens me more than their opinions. I don’t want his pity if it so happens that I’m meant only for magazine romps.”

Mrs. Libby took a sip from her glass, chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Pardon me for asking, Miss Hollis, but . . .”

“Go ahead.”

“I don’t know anything about writing. But could it be that you’ve looked for the bad parts so many times that you can’t recognize the good? Like having a spot on your face. . . . It’s all you see in the mirror, but no one else does because they’re looking at the color of your eyes?”

Aleda felt a tinge of annoyance. Mrs. Libby was obviously intelligent, but as she had just admitted, what did she know of the complexities of emptying one’s heart onto paper? “It’s not that simple.”

“Of course. My apology.” Mrs. Libby got to her feet. “Would you care for more?”

“No thank you.” Aleda handed over her empty beaker, gathered her manuscript into her arms, and rose. “And I must return to my story. Make up for time lost in London. Will my typing wake Becky?”

“It won’t. She’s a heavy sleeper, and her door’s closed.”

But just in case, Aleda closed her own door, softly. Odd, but a sheet of paper lay draped over her typewriter carriage. She moved over to her desk, lifted the page, and smiled at the stick figure standing beside a stick cat.
Miss Hollis
and
Tiger
were spread across the top of the page in wavering letters, as if an adult hand had helped guide the pencil.

Tiger was probably napping at Becky’s feet now. Aleda did not mind. Animals seemed to prefer children when they weren’t the sort who grabbed and teased. That would have been terrible, having a brat under her roof.

She rolled a sheet of paper onto the carriage and began.

Lady Kempthorne raised her chin, as salt breezes toyed with the
golden ringlets about her face. “I owe you my life, Captain Jacobs. But not my affection. You forget how recently I was widowed.”