Jewel of Gresham Green (3 page)

“You could have helped her. You know more about rearing children than anyone in Gresham.”

Julia smiled. “You may be prejudiced, do you think?”

“We turned out to be decent people.”

“Oh, indeed. But Priscilla Perkins is twenty-one. It’s a bit late for child-rearing advice.”

“How can she take advantage of her mother like that?”

“Because Mrs. Perkins allows it. That will never change, as long as she gains something from it.”

Grace turned to face her, emerald eyes wide. “What could she possibly gain from it?”

“Well, the feeling of being needed.”

“But every mother wants to be needed. Don’t you?”

Julia cast about in her mind for the right words. Grace had much still to learn, simply because twenty years was not long enough for the whole curriculum of human nature. Even at forty-six, Julia was still learning.

“Of course I do,” she replied. “But when that becomes a mother’s primary objective, then she cripples her children. They either become weak and passive or demanding tyrants.”

After a thoughtful silence, Grace sighed. “I shall never be as wise as you, Mother.”

“Oh heavens, daughter,” Julia said. “You’re far wiser than I was at your age.”

For one example, Grace had gone against the village norm of marrying directly out of school, aware that she was not prepared for the leap into adulthood. Julia had married shortly after her seventeenth birthday, blissfully unaware that she was still a child.

Secondly, Grace was marrying her dearest friend. Thomas Langford, youngest graduate of the Royal Veterinary College, and recently attached to a practice in Telford, was neither the most handsome nor dashing young man to set his cap for Grace. But he was thoughtful, honest, industrious, shared her fondness for animals, and made her laugh.

Julia, on the other hand, had been unable to see the character flaws in her first husband, a charming surgeon whose gambling debts had left her and their three children virtually penniless after his death.

And yet, in spite of it all, God made gold from the rubble, Julia thought. Here she was, married thirteen years to Andrew Phelps, vicar of Gresham and the kindest man on earth. And, as Grace had said, her three children and two stepdaughters had grown into decent adults.

Arm in arm they walked up shady Vicarage Lane. The snug two-storey vicarage rested on a grassy knoll, a stone’s throw from Saint Jude’s. A white picket fence enclosed the garden, where sat one of those decent adults, Andrew’s eldest daughter, Elizabeth. Doctor Rhodes’ stooped frame rested in the wicker chair beside her. Some twenty feet behind them, three-year-old twins Claire and Samuel played with croquet balls and mallets.

Elizabeth waved. From the distance, and even up close, she seemed younger than her thirty-three years. Her hair was still golden in the sunshine, the dimples still curved around her smile. She and her younger children visited almost every day of late.

Julia understood her need to get out of the house. Her stepdaughter was going through a difficult time, having miscarried a fourth baby the previous Christmas. Thankfully for Elizabeth’s sake, the summer holidays were just around the corner, when Jonathan and eleven-year-old John would be home all day.

Samuel’s mallet fell to the ground. He headed toward the gate, flaxen curls bobbing, short legs pumping the grass. “Grandmother! Aunt Grace!” he cried, as if he had not sat between both in church just yesterday. By the time Julia opened the gate, Claire had joined her brother.

Julia opened her arms, leaned into their embraces. The two could hardly be taken for sister and brother, much less twins. Samuel was solidly built, with blue eyes. Claire, lithe and an inch taller, had her father’s dark hair and gray-green eyes.

“Good morning, sweethearts,” Julia said with a peck for each forehead. As Grace kissed the same foreheads, Julia looked past to see Doctor Rhodes making pains to get to his feet. She advanced to the setting of chairs. “Please, don’t.”

He sank back again. “My aged limbs thank you, Mrs. Phelps.”

“Are you here to see Andrew? Is he all right?”

“No, this is a call of another nature.” He squinted at the parcel in her hand. “But if he is still having those pains . . .”

Julia sat in a wicker chair, leaned to prop the parcel at her feet. “Very rarely, since he started taking smaller meals, as you suggested. But he does want his tonic available. He doesn’t care to suffer one second longer than necessary.”

“Nor do any of us. Well, send him over to see me if they grow in intensity.”

Julia had to smile. That would be some task.

Doctor Rhodes smiled back. “Or send word, and I shall gather a dozen strong men to drag him in with ropes. A man his age cannot afford to take any ache for granted.”

The message in his eyes sobered Julia. What he meant was
a man in his condition,
for at fifty-seven, Andrew was years away from rocking chair and shawl. But just last summer he was diagnosed with a heart murmur, by both Doctor Rhodes and his Shrewsbury colleague, a Doctor Johnson.

Elizabeth had obviously caught the look in his eyes, too, for she leaned forward with furrowed brow. “Is Papa all right? Is his heart . . .”

“Your father is fine, child,” Doctor Rhodes answered.

Grace, released from the embraces of the children, walked over and leaned to kiss his lined forehead.

“Were you lovely in your wedding gown, Gracie?” he asked, taking her hand. He had a special place in his heart for her, having, with God’s help, snatched her from the jaws of death when she contracted scarlet fever at age ten.

“Mother says I was a princess.”

“An angel,” Julia corrected.

“I’m quite sure you were both,” Elizabeth said without a smidgen of jealousy. “Papa has Titus Worthy and Mrs. Draper in the parlor. Doctor Rhodes and I wonder if there’s to be another wedding in the near future.”

“Titus Worthy?” Julia was not sure if her ears had heard correctly.

“The old saying is true,” Doctor Rhodes said, a glint in his eyes. “There is someone for everyone.”

“Now, now,” Julia said. “I think that’s marvelous. He’s a decent man, if a bit rough around the edges.”

“Yes, yes. Aren’t all we men? If you’ll forgive my changing the subject, I have something important to discuss.”

“What is it?” Julia asked.

“I’m thinking of giving up my practice.”

“Surely not,” Grace said, with Elizabeth echoing the same.

“I’m too old to be climbing out of bed at three in the morning to deliver—” His face fell. He looked at Elizabeth. “Forgive me, dear.”

She gave him an understanding smile. “Go on, Doctor Rhodes.”

He nodded with a grateful expression. “We have a nice little nest egg. I wish to spend the years I have remaining pottering about in the garden. Reading novels. And chiefly, annoying Mrs. Rhodes.”

Ophelia Rhodes was Gresham’s veterinary doctor for decades, but a trembling palsy had caused her to turn her practice over to a Mr. Beddows eight years ago.

“Good for you,” Julia said. “Not the ‘annoying Ophelia’ part, mind you.”

He laughed. “She would not feel loved if I did otherwise.”

“But I can’t imagine having another doctor,” Grace said.

“Well, this person would have to be very special. I have an obligation to my community. Now that I’m long in the tooth, I receive letters from young doctors inquiring about my practice. But given Philip’s connection to Gresham, I would first like to ask if he would be interested.”

Silence followed. Elizabeth spoke first. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

“Wonderful,” said Grace.

Both faces mirrored the hope Julia felt. Before entering the University of Edinburgh’s College of Medicine at seventeen, her son’s biggest dream was to practice medicine in Gresham. But practically on the eve of graduation, a guest lecture by Scottish surgeon Lawson Tait steered Philip’s interests toward surgery. Would he have any desire to leave a successful career in the most exciting city on earth for the snail-paced dairying village of his youth? And the decision was not only Philip’s to make. Loretta should have a say.

Loretta.

Who, on her one visit to Gresham with Philip four years ago, had rarely left their room. Who had enthused verbally over her parents’ wedding gift—a house on Pembridge Gardens—but sat silent when Philip reminded Julia and Andrew how much they appreciated their gift of Royal Doulton china. And whose father was chief surgeon at Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital, where Philip practiced.

“All you can do is write and ask,” Julia said, as her hopes sagged.

“I hoped you would offer to write. Coming from his mother . . .”

“And that’s why I must not.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “You understand.”

“Yes.” The old man sighed. “You’re right, of course. Perhaps I should wait until the wedding. Approach him face-to-face.”

He got to his feet, and Julia walked him to the gate. On her return, she looked past Elizabeth. “Where are the children?”

There were days when the story simply wrote itself. Aleda Hollis unrolled the page from the Sholes and Glidden typewriter and added it to the growing stack. She inserted a clean sheet, moved the carriage to the right, and attacked the keys anew with her fingertips.

Was ever a night so dark? The fog muffled all sound but the
infernal footsteps. They rasped against the damp grass, deliberate,
closer and closer. Captain Jacobs’ heart swelled in his chest,
pounding agai—

“EEEE!”

Aleda’s own heart lurched; she jammed the
s
and
t
keys. The scream dissolved into giggles as she swung open her door. Two faces whipped toward her.

“Samuel found me!” Claire exclaimed, emerging from the linen cupboard.

“I’m a . . . good finder!” Samuel confirmed between hiccups.

Aleda scooped a folded pillowcase from the landing rug and stashed it back onto a shelf. “And what’s the rule about playing upstairs?”

A guilty flush spread across Claire’s cheeks. Samuel put a chubby finger to his lips. “We must be silent as mice.”

“No, the rule is that you must not play upstairs while Aunt Aleda is writing.”

“We didn’t know you were writing,” Claire said. “Your door was closed.”

“That’s how you know I’m writing. And you’re being very naughty, making noise while your grandfather has guests in the parlor. Where is your mother?”

“In the garden,” Claire replied.

Aleda guided the children downstairs, past the parlor, through the door, and across the porch. But the wicker chairs sat empty.

“There they are” came Elizabeth’s voice as she, Mother, and Grace appeared from the side of the house.

“These little moppets were crawling into cupboards!” Aleda grumbled.

Elizabeth advanced, frowning. But instead of scolding the children, she looked Aleda up and down and said, “Mercy, sister! Do you dress blindfolded?”

“Elizabeth . . .” Mother said.

Because Aleda had actually forgotten what garments she had thrown over her body that morning, she looked down at her ink-stained chartreuse blouse and red skirt.

“I happen to be too busy to labor over my wardrobe. And there is the matter of the children?”

Finally her stepsister directed her attention where it belonged. “Who gave you permission to go indoors?”

“We wanted to ask Mr. Smith for a ride on Belle,” said Claire, the more verbose of the two. Luke Smith was the vicarage caretaker. “But he wasn’t in the stable. We looked in the kitchen—”

“We looked in the kitchen,” Samuel echoed.

“—but he wasn’t there, either,” Claire finished, and lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mother.”

Samuel mumbled something equally apologetic if indiscernible. Elizabeth’s voice softened as she patted their heads. “Well, just be mindful next time.”

It was just as she would have expected, Aleda thought, accompanying the group to the chairs and dropping into one.

“What do you say to a turn around the green?” Grace asked the children.

They were reduced to quivers of eagerness, with Claire pressing hands together and Samuel hopping on one foot. They turned to Elizabeth. “May we, Mother?”

“Very well. Mind you obey your aunt Grace, and stay away from the river.”

The two practically pulled Grace from the garden. Elizabeth touched Aleda’s elbow. “I’m sorry they interrupted your work.”

Aleda’s martyred feelings crumbled. How could she fault Elizabeth for her softness with the children? How fragile they must seem, when Elizabeth’s own womb had not afforded safety to the ones she had lost.

She shrugged and smiled at her stepsister. “It’s no bother. I would be coming down for lunch in an hour anyway. Who does Father have in the parlor? I heard voices.”

“Titus Worthy and Mrs. Draper,” Elizabeth replied with eyes shining.

“You jest?”

As if on cue, the door opened and Father stepped out onto the porch with the couple. Titus Worthy and the widow Mrs. Draper were as different as chalk and cheese. Yet, something had changed. Aleda blinked. Gone was the gamekeeper’s tangled beard. His matted hair was cut close to the head and appeared clean. A well-pressed suit replaced wrinkled dirty clothes.

Mrs. Draper, tidy as ever in a pale blue gown, returned Mother’s wave but continued down the flagstone walk, her arm linked through Mr. Worthy’s. Father accompanied them to the gate, then advanced toward the chairs, smiling so widely his hazel eyes crinkled, and the dimples were visible beneath his blond beard.

He was actually Aleda’s stepfather since she was twelve. Like Grace and Philip, she adored him for stepping into the void left by their own father; a void present long before his death.

“Where are the twins?” he asked, settling into a chair.

“With Grace,” Elizabeth answered. “Don’t keep us in suspense, Papa.”

He glanced over at the lane to make certain the couple were out of hearing. “Yesterday the squire gave Mr. Worthy permission to move in with Mrs. Draper, after they’re married. The gamekeeper’s cottage is too small for six children. He can perform his duties from her home just as well.”

“He can perform them from Africa just as well,” Aleda quipped. No one understood why the squire even retained a gamekeeper, once his diet became limited to bland foods. Mr. Worthy’s job basically was to keep poachers with their guns out of the woods nearest the manor house. But what few poachers there were preferred the north woods across the river, not crisscrossed by paths and invaded by berry pickers and mushroom gatherers.