Jewel of Gresham Green (32 page)

“But why?”

“I suppose it’s the tarragon vinegar. Mrs. Littlejohn uses plain.”

Vicar Phelps shook his head. “No, why did you send the children home?”

“It’s nice just being with adults for a change.”

“How does it feel to have solid foods again, Andrew?” Jonathan asked.

“Wonderful. So many things I took for granted. And it’s bliss to be back in my suits. Although I must admit to missing the comfort of dressing gowns.”

Mr. Clay raised an eyebrow at him. “I can help you there. I still have my kilt from
Macbeth
.”

Chuckles rippled around the table, Vicar Phelps’s the heartiest before he replied, “ ‘Yet do I fear thy nature; it is too full o’ the milk of human kindness.’ ”

“You’ve been studying while you were laid up,” Mr. Clay said. “Not fair.”

“ ‘Fair is foul and foul is fair.’ ”

“That will be quite enough.”

Fiona Clay explained to Loretta, “They have an ongoing duel . . . Shakespeare versus Scripture.”

“Are you fond of Shakespeare, Loretta?” Mrs. Phelps asked in a sociable tone.

“I’m as fond of him as any Englishwoman,” Loretta replied, and realized she was almost parroting Mr. Gibbs, “but I prefer modern comedy.”

“Which would you rather perform, Mr. Clay?” Aleda asked.

“Comedy. It’s just plain fun. Although Shakespeare was no slouch in the wit department.”

“ ‘’Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers,’ ” said Vicar Phelps.

Loretta laughed with the others. She had dreaded this occasion, fearing group pressure. What a relief that her fears were unfounded. At least this time.

Later, as they sat with coffee and dishes of cherry tart, Elizabeth pushed out her chair and stood. Jonathan looked up and smiled, rose to stand beside her with his arm around her waist.

“We have an announcement,” Elizabeth said. She smiled at the Clays. “And because you’re practically family, this is the perfect occasion. We actually sent the children home because we want to wait a while to inform them . . . just in case . . .”

Vicar Phelps was already pushing out his chair.

“Oh, daughter . . . is it so?”

Tears filling her gray-green eyes, she nodded. “We’ll have a Christmas baby.”

Her father hurried around the table to embrace her, and even kissed Jonathan’s cheek loudly. Mrs. Phelps moved over to the couple as well. Philip congratulated them with thick voice. Covertly, Loretta watched the Clays’ reactions; Mr. Clay smiled and nodded, while his wife wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Father, we humbly ask you to bless Jonathan and Elizabeth, to keep this child you have created healthy,” the vicar prayed over clasped hands around the table. Loretta found her own eyes prickling.

As they strolled down Vicarage Lane, Philip walked close enough to Loretta to assist her if she should need it, but did not offer his arm. If she needed distance from him, it should be consistent.

“Why don’t the Clays build a proper house here?” she asked.

“It was Mr. Clay’s idea. He’s reclusive during his dark spells, hence the rooms above the stables. All Fiona has to do is walk across the courtyard for companionship.”

“But . . . over the stables? Odors?”

Philip smiled. “The stables were built for several horses, back when the Larkspur was a coaching inn. There are only two horses now, and Mr. Herrick keeps the stalls tidy. So it’s not bad.”

“Have you visited their London flat?”

“No. They don’t entertain there. All of Mr. Clay’s energies go to his roles, and all of Fiona’s energies go to supporting him.”

“The poor man. Is he . . .
that
weak?”

“Only in the sense that someone with heart or liver ailments is weak.”

“But he’s a Christian.”

So are we, and look at our problems,
he thought. Patiently he explained. “Organs have no religion. Just like the heart and liver, the brain can malfunction to varying degrees. Sometimes from injury, sometimes a chemical imbalance.”

“Yet he’s so clever and talented.”

“Yes. And very kind. As is Fiona.”

Loretta sent him a sidelong smile. “Can you imagine marrying out of servitude the way she did? It’s a Cinderella story.”

With increasing sadness, Philip listened to her description of the first time she saw Mr. Clay perform on an outing with her parents and sister, when she was twelve or thirteen.

“I believe it was
Hamlet
at Theatre Royal. Never did I dream that he would attend my wedding, or that I would sit across the table from him. I shall write to Irene tonight. She’ll be green with envy.”

They turned onto Church Lane. A horse-drawn trap rolled westward. Philip exchanged waves with Mr. and Mrs. Hayes.

“And I realize ladies’ fashion is not in your field of interest,” Loretta went on, “but trust me when I say Mrs. Clay’s gown came from Paris. I wonder if he helps her choose—”

Philip could no longer restrain his tongue. “Loretta.”

“—her wardrobe.” She paused. “What is it?”

“Elizabeth and Jonathan shared incredible news just moments ago. After so many disappointments, they’re bravely trying for another baby. My heart is filled with joy, as well as fear that they will be disappointed again.”

“I hope all goes well, too, Philip.”

“But . . . it seems that you hope in the way one hopes for a distant acquaintance. No genuine emotional investment.”

She gaped askew at him. “How can you say such a thing?”

“Because you’ve spoken of nothing but the Clays since we set out. Elizabeth and Jonathan are your family. The baby is your niece or nephew. Yet their announcement appeared to make very little impression in your mind.”

“You had to lend me your handkerchief.”

“Indeed.” He had watched her dab at her eyes after the prayer. Three seconds later, she had been complimenting Fiona’s gown.

“It’s painfully clear,” he went on, “how much you loathe being here. But it’s not my family’s fault. And they’re good people. If you got to know them better, you might enjoy their company.”

“And that’s been the plan all along, hasn’t it?” she said with crimson staining her fair cheeks. “Separate me from
my
friends and family in the hopes I’ll throw them over for this place?”

“Yes, Loretta. That’s why I made my stepfather ill, and made your father send you here.”

Immediately he regretted stooping to sarcasm, the weapon of the weak. He blew out a breath, calmed his voice. “I shouldn’t have said that. But if you miss your friends, why not invite them for a visit? We could telegraph them in the morning, book a couple of rooms at the Bow and Fiddle.”

She turned to face him as if he had lost his mind. “You think I’d allow Maud and Sharon to see where we’re staying?”

Would it matter to true friends?
he could counter. But he was weary of the whole argument. They turned up the path in silence; hers stormy, his resigned.

He was relieved that Jewel and Becky were absent from the garden and ground floor. Perhaps they were visiting the squire. Loretta went to the staircase without a word. Not quite sure what to do with himself, Philip watched her hurry up the steps. He winced as her door slammed.

Weeping sounds drifted downward. The old protective impulse nudged him up the staircase. But he paused at the top. The scenario would be the same. She would weep while he begged forgiveness for his insensitivity. She would eventually dry her eyes and forgive him . . . with a sulking, grudging forgiveness. There would be no mutual presenting of sides, no attempt to find a solution or at least a compromise. A little bit more of his manhood would be surrendered.

And he had a depressing feeling she wept not for the state of their marriage, but because she had to endure Gresham and his company for three more weeks.

“I’m going for a walk, Loretta!” he called through the door.

A
thump
came from her side of the door. A shoe?

He heard Jewel and Becky coming up the path. The girl, skipping ahead of her mother, spotted him first. “Mummy, here’s Doctor Hollis!”

Odd, how being recognized with such delight by a child could make him feel better. How wonderful it must be, to be the hero to one’s own child! Would he ever know that feeling?

“And where have you been, Miss Becky?” he asked, crouching to her level.

“To the big house to see the squire.”

“Good afternoon, Doctor Hollis,” Jewel said.

He returned her greeting and asked about the squire.

“He seems calmer than two days ago.”

Perhaps Mr. Gibbs had some good in him after all. “I’m sure it’s because of your visits.”

“Perhaps so,” she said with no false modesty.

“Did you see me wave to you in church?” Becky asked.

“Alas,” Philip replied truthfully, “I did not. Or I should have waved back. But next Sunday I’ll keep an eye out for you. Will you give me another chance?”

That reduced her to shyness, but she smiled and nodded.

“There’s a good girl.” He straightened to address Jewel again. “My wife feels unwell. Please bring her a cup of tea in a little while?”

“Of course, sir,” she replied with no hint of a question in her eyes. Surely there were several in her mind.

Such as, why would he walk away from an ailing wife? Why the separate rooms? Why were evenings spent in separate parlor chairs with polite conversation interspersed with pages of novels?

Why can’t Loretta be more like her?
he thought, continuing down the path. Jewel Libby radiated serenity, an evenness of mood, in spite of a cruel past.

Philip repented of the thought. He was married and had no business straying, even mentally.

Reaching Church Lane he turned eastward, avoiding the village proper. The lane narrowed, a cool shady tunnel embowered by meandering leafy limbs.

Three weeks,
he thought, wishing he could see the future.

But God knew it, and could even affect it. He veered off the lane, found a patch of grass, got to his knees, and prayed for his marriage.

I beg you for a miracle, Father.

That was what it would take at this point.

Standing, brushing off his trouser knees, he turned again toward the cottage. Whether or not God would choose to grant his prayer, there was something he felt nudged to do.

Loretta sat in the garden, holding saucer and cup of tea balanced upon her knees. Her face appeared as one who had been beaten, face splotched and eyes swollen into slits. A pang stabbed his heart. To cause a loved one so much misery, just by the nature of his existence!

She turned her head as he came through the gate. He lifted another wicker chair, placed it adjacent to hers so that the arms almost touched.

“Loretta,” he said gently. “Why don’t you have Jewel pack your things?”

She turned her face to him.

“I’ll take you home, help you face your father.”

He could see the temptation in her swollen eyes. Mingled with worry.

“You mean, you would stay there, too?” she said with voice raspy.

“No. Not the way things are between us now. Just long enough to help explain to your father that it’s over.”

The fact that she even had to think about it was another stab to his heart.

She sighed. “You know how he is. He’ll drag the vicar over, talk us to death to where we can’t think straight.”

Philip could picture him doing that. It was Doctor Trask’s need to be in control at all times that made him a superior surgeon, but caused him sometimes to ignore the boundaries in his daughters’ marriages.

“Then write to your mother. She has some influence with him. Ask her to plead your case and telegraph when it’s safe to go home.”

After several long seconds of thought, she stretched out her hand. He took it, but there was no warmth to it. It lay in his palm like a dead fish.

“I’m sorry, Philip.”

Her image blurred as tears stung his eyes. He wished so much to tell her how much he loved her. But that would only distress her. So he simply nodded and held her cold hand, wondering if it would be his last time to do so.

Chapter 28

“No one’s come forward yet,” Mr. Trumble said with a nod toward the window, where Aleda’s notice was propped along displays of lamps, cooking pots, and packets of flower seeds. “Perhaps if you upped the reward? Might give someone an inceneration to look for it?”

“I’ll do that,” Aleda said resignedly, for after almost three weeks, she held little hope. She borrowed Mr. Trumble’s pen, crossed through the amount, and wrote in a new amount above it. A steep price, but worth every penny if the watch would be returned.

She purchased the tin of baking soda Dora had requested, the jar of Muscovite Lustre shoe polish for Father, and a half-dozen cakes of Pears soap for mother.

A tall man entered just as she turned from the counter.

“Good morning, Mr. Gibbs,” Mr. Trumble said.

“Good morning.” The man removed his hat for her sake. She pretended not to notice, and gave him wide berth. As she headed toward the door, she heard him ask Jack in a tone of faint desperation, “Is there a letter for a Donald Gibbs?”

Why would he come for the mail, when Mr. Jones delivered to the manor house?

I’m here for the same reason,
she reminded herself. Wryly, she thought that perhaps Mr. Gibbs had also written a novel and asked someone to read it.

She turned northward outside, to head for the lending library for the copy of
Ben-Hur
Father had requested. Her eyes caught a flash of raspberry-colored movement ahead as a woman disappeared into Perkins’ Fine Millinery. Loretta?

She paused to look through the window. Loretta indeed was setting a hatbox onto the counter while looking about. Her raspberry-check silk gown was more suited for London theatres than Gresham’s shops. But then, Aleda was the last person to criticize another woman’s wardrobe.

As if sensing she was being watched, Loretta turned and looked at her.

Aleda sighed. The longer she dallied around the shops, the greater her chance of encountering Mr. Gibbs again. So she simply waved and pushed on.

As little as she cared for Philip’s family, it stung to have his sister brush her off so quickly. All the more reason to mail the letter to her mother that was in her bag.