Jewel of Gresham Green (29 page)

“He will die one day. If he isn’t already dead. And he’ll leave not so much as a ripple.”

“I beg to differ. What about you and Becky?”

“I suppose we’re at least ripples,” Jewel said.

That made him smile, and naturally she smiled back.

They were still chatting when Miss Hollis appeared again. “Elizabeth’s walking them over to the schoolyard.”

Jewel thanked her and glanced toward the cottage. “I must return to my work now.”

“Must you?” Mr. Patterson asked, seeming sincere.

She stood, torn between relief and disappointment, and understanding neither.

He stood, as well, and clasped her hand. “I look forward to seeing you again, Mrs. Libby.”

Again, a light in his eyes, a sincere tone that puzzled Jewel. She was just a housemaid, after all.

Later, Mrs. Hollis, without even being asked, explained the reason.

“Poor, pathetic Gabriel,” she said in the parlor when Jewel brought her some tea. “He’ll never give up.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Trying to win Aleda’s heart. He knows her fondness for you and Becky. But Philip says Aleda’s adamant that she has no feelings for him beyond friendship.”

How sad,
Jewel thought as she resumed ironing. Mr. Patterson was one of the kindest souls she had ever met. Was Miss Hollis waiting for someone like one of her fictional heroes to sweep her off her feet? It was never like that with her and Norman. Yes, there was romance to set her heart fluttering, but above that, a mutual fondness. Basking in the warmth of each other’s company, even when absorbed in separate tasks at opposite ends of the room. And even the disagreements, which taught them both how to compromise and accommodate each other’s personalities, had proven worthwhile.

Carefully, Jewel guided the iron over Doctor Hollis’s shirt sleeve. She was not one to dictate to God. But she did not think it was too cheeky to pray that Miss Hollis have a change of heart. Miracles happened every day. She had only to picture herself back in the corset factory to know that.

“When will your publishers tell you if they’re interested?” Aleda asked during the walk back up Vicarage Lane.

“It could take weeks,” Gabriel said.

“Weeks . . .”

He patted her hand in the crook of his arm. Gently, he said, “Patience, love. You must understand that they’re not sitting on their hands, waiting for your novel. They have other projects in the works.”

Aleda sighed. “Of course.”

“If they offer a contract, you must be prepared to go to London to meet with them.”

“If they offer a contract, I’ll walk the whole way. On my knees.”

He chuckled. “Take the train. And . . .”

When the hesitation took longer than it should, Aleda nudged his side. “Yes?”

“And naturally you’ll ask Mrs. Libby and Becky along? Surely Philip and Loretta can do without them for a few days, if they’re still here.” He gave her a self-conscious look. “In case you’re lonely.”

She grinned wickedly. “I’m never lonely on trains.”

“Well, couldn’t you be . . . just this time?”

She decided not to torment him. “I’ll invite them.”

“Thank you. I would enjoy showing them the sights while you’re wrapped up with book business.”

“That would be the thrill of their lives. But could you really leave your safe little world to escort them about London?”

Offering his arm again, he snorted. “Well now, they won’t bring Buckingham Palace to us, will they?”

Thursday morning of the seventeenth, Philip looked down Andrew’s throat, took his temperature, and inspected the surgery scar while Julia watched.

“I think it’s time for a soak in the tub.”

Andrew, sick of sponge baths, perked up. “Because the scar’s better?”

“Because you smell like a goat.”

Andrew roared, cuffed his arm. Julia ran the bath, but Philip insisted she move aside and allow Luke to help get Andrew to the tub. “We don’t want to drop him and have him split wide open.”

“You should work on your bedside manner,” Andrew said, unruffled.

“Tubs-s-side manner,” Luke quipped, which made Andrew laugh again.

Once Andrew was safely immersed, Julia chased the men from the water closet and washed her husband’s hair. Afterwards, when Andrew was wrapped in a clean dressing gown and ensconced in his favorite armchair, Philip collected his medical bag from upstairs.

“Will you be back for lunch?” Julia asked in the hall.

“I will,” he said with a peck on her forehead.

She did not ask if Loretta would be with him. In the four days since her arrival, she had shared but one Sunday dinner with them. Julia could only hope that Philip and his wife were trying to mend the obvious strain upon their marriage. Elsewise, why would she be there?

Later, over a lunch of rump steak-and-kidney pudding and asparagus, and pea soup with white bread for Andrew, Philip told of stitching Mr. Seaton’s leg that morning.

“He fell into his pen, and his hog gashed him.”

“Ouch,” Andrew said, salting his soup.

“I wonder if revenge will make his winter ham tastier?” Aleda quipped.

“He didn’t even groan while I stitched him.”

“Those Wesleyans always were stoic,” Andrew said, but not in a mocking way, because he got on well with Gresham’s nonconformist pastors.

“Anyway,” Philip went on, “their housekeeper is soon to be pensioned. I mentioned that Jewel Libby would be available soon. They’re very interested.”

“They’re nice people,” Julia said, and looked to Aleda. “This may be the answer to our prayers.”

“Hmm,” her daughter said, chewing.

“Their grandchildren live next door,” Andrew said. “Little Becky would have playmates.”

“She’ll have plenty when school starts in September,” Aleda said.

Julia studied her. “Are you thinking of keeping her on?”

Aleda’s shrug was not as casual as she had probably intended. “I can afford to.”

“But what of your privacy?” Andrew said.

“They’re quiet. And I seem to write better . . . even think better, when everything is clean and orderly, and there are regular meals on the table.”

“That’s wonderful,” Julia said. “When will you speak with her?”

“Soon.”

“Becky’s very sweet,” Philip said. “She won’t ask, but if you offer to read to her, she listens with her head angled, as if she’s picturing it all in her mind.”

“That’s how you were,” Julia said to Aleda. “Perhaps she’ll become a writer.”

This made Aleda smile.

“Loretta’s growing fond of her, too,” Philip went on.

It pained Julia how often he seized every opportunity to mention Loretta’s good points. Not that a husband should not compliment his wife, but that there was a note of desperation about it.

“And I believe the feeling is mutual,” he continued. “Just yesterday Becky picked a bouquet for her bedroom.”

Andrew ceased tearing bits of bread into his soup. “You mean, for your bedroom.”

Philip looked at him.

“The one you share.”

“Father,” Philip said softly. “We won’t be discussing this.”

“Very well. I beg your pardon.”

After Philip left again for Doctor Rhodes’ and Aleda had returned to her typewriter, Julia helped Andrew out to the garden bench and sat beside him. He closed his eyes, allowed the breeze to stir his hair and whiskers.

“I missed the outdoors.”

“Yes. Me too.”

He opened his eyes. “You don’t think anyone who happens by will be scandalized? Seeing the vicar out here in a dressing gown?”

“Not as long as you mind how you sit.”

“Philip was right . . . correcting me. I just don’t understand what’s going on with the two.”

“Nor do I. I was encouraged when she arrived, especially when they wanted Aleda’s cottage. Another honeymoon of sorts? But it seems less and less the case.”

“Indeed.”

What more was there to be said? Yet having bottled up her angst in favor of tending to Andrew, Julia needed to spill it out. “I believe I’m fair-minded enough to give her the benefit of the doubt and not automatically take Philip’s side. But I suspect she’s here not by choice.”

Andrew took her hand. “I suspect so, as well. I remember her father as a strong character. I can very easily see him getting involved.”

“Yet that’s exactly what we must not do. Other than pray. Between your surgery and Philip’s marriage, I’ve done plenty of praying. I fear my faith must be terribly weak. I still long for something constructive to do.”

Andrew studied her. “Actually, there is something. Why don’t you pay a certain call?”

Julia raised eyebrows at him. “I just said we must not get involved.”

“Not to Loretta. To Fiona.”

“How will that change the situation?”

“It won’t.” He shook his head. “But it will help you. Nurturers need nurturing, too, and you need a shoulder.”

“I have yours.”

“Yes. But a feminine shoulder is softer. I believe God made them so, to better absorb another’s pain.”

The idea was tempting. “What about you?”

“Luke is in shouting distance if I need him. Just fetch my Bible and notebook for me, please.”

Julia rose and leaned down to plant a kiss upon his lips. “I’ll be away no more than an hour.”

He gave her a mock scowl. “If you’ve returned in less than three, I shall be very angry.”

Chapter 25

Jewel was standing at the table, slicing bacon, when Philip carried his medical bag downstairs. The bacon would be for the still-sleeping Loretta. He had instructed Jewel not to prepare two separate breakfasts. There was no sense in it, when his first stop was the vicarage, where Dora would consider it an insult for him to pass up her table.

Becky, still in her nightdress, sat in a chair cradling the cat. Her red curls lay haphazardly about her shoulders. She smiled when Philip wished her and her mother good morning.

“Good morning,” she said. “Mummy says we may walk in the woods and see if the blackberries are ripe today.”

“Excellent,” Philip said. “But as a doctor, I have to warn you against eating too many.”

Worry shadowed the young face. “Why not?”

“Because you could turn purple.”

That made her giggle. He liked that about young children. Humor did not have to make sense, and silliness was just as valued as wit.

“Oh!”

Philip turned and saw the knife clatter to the table.

“It’s only a nick,” Jewel said, snatching up the end of her apron to press against her fingertip. “It just startled me.”

He walked over to take her finger. It was indeed a small cut, but the bacon made it dangerous. With Becky watching soberly, he had her wash her hands; then he squeezed out more blood. He took a small jar of carbolic salve from his bag, smeared it on, and bandaged the finger. And against her protests, he sliced enough bacon for four or five days.

“You’re very kind, sir,” Jewel said as he washed his hands.

“Not at all.” Drying his hands, he smiled at her. “I’ll leave the salve. Keep it somewhere handy for future nicks—perhaps a shelf in the water closet. You may remove the bandage tonight and dab a little more on, then again in the morning.”

He took up his bag and left. The air on the path was scented with sweet woodbine, dew-damp grasses, and trees just waking. He wondered what Jewel thought of the separate bedchambers. Fortunately, she went about her business with no indication of curiosity. Aleda had said she and the girl had suffered hard lives in Birmingham. He was glad his family was able to help them.

A new framed watercolor of Saint Jude’s hung on the vicarage parlor wall. About the size of a hymnal cover, it was quite good, with muted impressionist-style lines. “Horace Stokes dropped that by yesterday evening,” his stepfather said proudly. “Their adopted son Gerald painted it.”

“The lad with the clubfoot?” Philip had noticed at church that the Stokes brood had gained a few more members since his last visit to Gresham.

“Why, yes.”

“How did you guess?” Mother asked, tying off thread from a button she had sewn onto a shirt.

“Because doesn’t it seem to follow that the most gifted artists have obstacles?” He took stethoscope from bag and listened to his stepfather’s heart. “Speaking of obstacles . . . what do you think of giving the staircase a go after lunch?”

“A bath
and
the stairs, all in one week?”

“Only if you’ll rest this morning.”

“Very well. What joy!”

Philip smiled. “You’re a man of simple wants, aren’t you?”

“It takes illness to make us realize just how little we need to make us happy.”

“I feel a future sermon in the works,” Mother teased gently while folding the shirt.

“Not a sermon,” Father said, and gave her a loving smile. “Just a request.”

“What is it?”

“While I’m resting, will you go potter in your garden?”

Philip packed his stethoscope and closed the drapes. He and his mother happened to meet in the hall, she buttoning a gardening smock over her dress. They walked onto the porch together.

“Mother?”

“Yes, son?”

He hesitated. “Did you have an inkling how good you would be for each other, before you married?”

“Well, yes. Because we had become such good friends. When romance came, we had a solid foundation to build upon.”