Jewel of Gresham Green (7 page)

“Just pay him no mind,” Mrs. Fenton said. “Let him rant and rave all he wants, get it out of his craw.”

“Are you sure?”

The older woman peeked through the gap. “Come along . . . too many men out there for him to try anything. As I say, he’s got to rant.”

Jewel’s heart hammered in her chest as Mrs. Fenton opened the door, then threaded an arm through hers.

“Mind you don’t look at him.”

Jewel followed that advice down the three steps, bracing herself for the rail of abuse, the embarrassment of having passersby witness a row.

When it did not come, her relief was overwhelming.

And short-lived.

Why wasn’t he saying anything? Twenty feet up the lane, Jewel looked over her shoulder. Only the position of his head had moved. Their eyes locked. His eyes narrowed over a smile that chilled her to the core.

Mrs. Fenton tugged at her. “Forget him.”

Jewel took two more steps, halted, whispered, “I can’t leave Becky.”

“Nip back and warn Mrs. Platt to keep her inside.”

“I’ve done that. But she’s too sympathetic toward him. What if she lets him visit?” She unwound her arm. “You go on.”

The walk back to the building was the longest Jewel had ever taken. She did not have to look at him to know his eyes followed her.

“What’s wrong?” Mrs. Platt asked. The mother of one of the infants looked at her curiously, as well.

Becky lay on the sofa, still asleep. She blinked as Jewel lifted her.

“Mummy?”

“Yes, it’s me, Becky.” To Mrs. Platt, Jewel said, “I won’t be going in.”

“You’ll still owe me for today.”

“Of course.” At the moment, that was the least of her worries. By the time she had Becky upstairs, the girl was wide awake.

“I’m staying home with you,” Jewel said.

Becky’s blue eyes brightened. “All day?”

Jewel combed a hand through her red curls. “All day.”

She went into the kitchen, slowly moved aside the curtain. Mr. Dunstan stared up at her with his maddening, knowing grin. She dropped the curtain as if it were on fire, stepped backwards.

“What’s wrong, Mummy?”

Jewel turned to her. “Shall I tell you a story?”

She had recited “The Cinder Maid” so many times that her mind was able to churn over other things while Becky listened intently. Was his plan to lurk outside all day? Hopefully Mrs. Fenton could smooth over Mr. Fowler’s ire. After all, this would be her first absence. Mourning her husband, stomach cramps, a bout with ague, and maddening worry when it moved on to Becky had not given her excuse to miss.

To keep from pacing the floor, she occupied herself with little tasks: mending the quilt that had been her grandmother’s, tightening up buttons on clothing. By lunchtime, the knot in her stomach made the thought of food nauseating, so she fed Becky the cheese sandwich she had packed for the factory.

“May we visit the kittens?” Becky asked after her nap.

“I’m afraid not,” Jewel said, trying to maintain the illusion that this was just a normal day. “The Bells will be at work.”

Hours later, as she trimmed eyes from the last of the potatoes for boiling, someone knocked, and Mrs. Fenton’s voice called, “It’s me, dearie!”

“Keep an eye on the potatoes for me, but don’t go near the stove,” Jewel said to Becky before stepping out into the hallway and putting a finger to her lips.

Mrs. Fenton nodded, whispered, “He just left.”

Relief made Jewel’s knees buckle.

“But . . . he gave me a message for you.” She bit her lip. “He said you did him a favor, that he found a job as night watchman that pays more than rent collecting. That he gets plenty of sleep and gets off just in time to come ’round to bid you good morning.”

Now Jewel’s knees went weak for another reason. She put a steadying hand on the doorframe. “How long does he intend to do this? I can’t miss work again.”

“No, you can’t. Mr. Fowler says a dozen women a day ask about hiring on. If you don’t go in tomorrow, you’ll be sacked.”

Frantically, Jewel thought. “Do you think your mother would—”

“She can’t abide children,” Mrs. Fenton said with a head shake for emphasis. “She couldn’t even abide her own. I’m the only one who has aught to do with her, but . . .” She shrugged. “She’s my mother. And I must go now. I’m sorry to bring you bad news.”

Hours passed before Jewel was able to drift into fitful sleep. Early the next morning, she carried a pot of water into the parlor for her bath, even though Mr. Dunstan would have to be fourteen feet tall to peer through the threadbare curtains. After dressing, she braced herself to ease aside a corner to have a look. The sun’s tepid rays diluted the darkness to the color of weak tea. Even so, from the far side of a stream of day laborers, she could see him. Looking up. He touched the brim of his hat.

I hope your neck gets a crick,
Jewel thought.

What to do now? She would have to confront him, however dreadful the thought.

The stream of humanity would dry up very soon. Trying to keep the fear from her voice, she roused Becky and said, “Come, Becky. Let’s dress.”

Quickly she led the half-sleeping child through the morning ritual: taking her to the water closet, sponging her with a flannel, pulling a dress over her head and arms, combing her hair.

“I need you to wake now, Becky,” Jewel said, easing her down at the foot of the stairs. “I can’t carry you the whole way.”

Becky yawned and looked up the staircase. She was awake enough to know that they had passed Mrs. Platt’s. “Where are we going, Mummy?”

“For a walk,” Jewel said through chattering teeth.

Suddenly wide awake, she did a little bounce and said, “May we go to the park?”

“Not today.” Jewel took her hand.

If walking past Mr. Dunstan yesterday morning was terrifying, it was doubly so with Becky beside her. She kept the girl to her right. Fortunately, Becky was too busy chirping her happiness to look around her skirts.

“I thought I was dreaming when you said that, Mummy! Will you stay home again?”

“I’m afraid not, mite,” Jewel told her. If the police were to take Mr. Dunstan in this very morning, she would have to deliver Becky back to Mrs. Platt and hurry to the factory. She would still be late, but if she begged hard enough, perhaps Mr. Fowler would extend mercy.

Please, God.

“And what did the man say to you?” Constable Whittington asked, unable to disguise his pained tone.

“Nothing to me directly, sir,” Jewel admitted. “But he bade a friend tell me that he would return to bid me
good morning
s.”

“And he has not approached, nor laid a hand on you?”

Jewel shifted her weight upon her feet. If only there were a chair facing the sergeant’s desk so she would not have to stand there like a worker called up for slacking. If only Becky weren’t standing right beside her, taking everything in through wide eyes. But there was no way she would allow her daughter out of her sight.

“Why would he be there, sir, if not to intimidate me? He knows I won’t leave Becky if he’s out there.”

“Again I say, it’s no crime to stand in front of a building. And we
didn’t
give the owner your name when we spoke with him—for which you seem to have no gratitude.”

“I’m grateful, sir. More than you can know. But my daughter’s safety outweighs even gratitude.”

He sighed. “I’m not unsympathetic to your plight, Mrs. Libby. But the law—”

“Then it’s the law that’s unsympathetic,” Jewel said, voice shaking from humiliation and desperation. “If I were the lord mayor’s daughter, I believe you would find a way around the law.”

“Now, see here!”

But what was there to see? She took Becky’s hand, walked back on Great Russell Street. The bells of Saint Mary’s chimed eight o’clock. Shop fronts and carriages blurred. She blinked salt tears.

“Are you crying, Mummy?” Becky asked.

“No.” Jewel sniffed, lowered herself to reassure her daughter. “Well, a bit. But you mustn’t worry.”

Becky pressed hands against Jewel’s cheeks. The smallness and coolness were a balm. “He’s a bad man!”

“No, Becky. He’s a good man. He’s just done a bad thing.”

Visions tormented her, of losing her job, of turning Becky over to an orphanage just to put a roof over her head and food in her stomach.
Father, please don’t let it come to that!

“Will we go home now?” Becky asked.

“Not now.” But where to go?

Saint Philip’s snug vicarage appeared younger than the chapel in whose shadow it rested, but the worn stones had seen their share of decades. A round-faced housemaid led them through a narrow hallway and out to a compact garden where Mrs. Treves sat in dressing gown and slippers.

“Why, good morning,” said the vicar’s wife, rising from a cast-iron bench. “I was just collecting my wits after the mad rush to send the children and Paul off to—”

She paused, jade eyes meeting Jewel’s.

“Mrs. Libby? What’s wrong?”

Jewel opened her mouth but could not force out the words. Her eyes, however, had no difficulty producing tears.

Mrs. Treves eyed her for a second, then stooped to touch Becky’s shoulder. “Mrs. Exter’s making gingerbread. Why don’t you go and watch?”

The look Becky gave Jewel was half hope, half worry.

“Go ahead, dear,” Jewel said, forcing a smile.

Mrs. Treves nodded at the maid, who led Becky back into the house, saying, “Mrs. Exter bakes the best gingerbread in England, lamb.”

“Now, come sit and tell me what’s happened,” Mrs. Treves said.

With such kind prompting, Jewel spilled out the story. “
If
I still have a job, I’ll be docked yesterday’s and today’s wages. I’m barely hanging on as it is.”

“Why haven’t you come to us before?” Mrs. Treves asked.

“We were getting by. And you have so many parishioners worse off than us.”

Mrs. Treves shook her head. “When Paul returns from his morning calls, I’ll ask him to deliver you to the factory and speak with your employer. Becky may spend the day here.”

Jewel let out a relieved breath. But on the heels of that relief came a terrifying thought.

“But what about tomorrow? And the next day? Mr. Dunstan’s never going away. I saw it in his eyes.”

The maid returned with tea. Jewel took three sugars. Sympathy and sugar. Both immensely comforting, but what she needed was a solution.

“You must stay here with us tonight,” Mrs. Treves declared. “However long it takes. Paul will help us figure out what to do.”

Again, the swallowing of pride. But relief helped it go down easier.

“How can I ever thank you?” Jewel asked, her voice thick with emotion.

Mrs. Treves patted her arm. “You would do it for us.”

“I—I would hope so.”

“I know so,” Mrs. Treves said. “Which is
not
why we’re helping, mind you. It’s our Christian duty. But I’ve known you long enough to recognize the quality of your character, Jewel Libby. And I believe you would help anyone within your power to help.”

It had been far too long since Jewel had heard anything so kind said of her. The words caused fresh tears to threaten her eyes.

But she would hold them in, lest she lay yet another burden upon Mrs. Treves’ kind shoulders.

Chapter 6

“Can you go any faster?” Philip Hollis leaned out of the coach window and cupped his hand beside his mouth on the morning of the seventeenth of May. “I’ll pay double!”

A snap of the whip and a jarring burst of speed jolted him back into his seat, tumbling his portmanteau to the floor. Fear that he would miss his sister’s wedding set his heart pounding as fast as the sixteen hoof beats against the macadamized road.

His heart quickened even more when the Anwyl rose into view. Named from an old Celtic word for
beloved
, it was actually a hill of some five hundred feet. Soon the coach was turning up shady Market Lane. The shops were closed, unusual for a Saturday morning, but then, most villagers would be at the wedding.

He took a half crown from his pocket and, when the village green came into view, pulled the bell rope. Alighting, he pushed the money into the cabby’s outstretched hand.

The shadow of Saint Jude’s steeple stretched out across a green gilded with buttercups. As Philip ran, portmanteau thumping his side, lungs straining for breath, he prayed he would not be too late.

“Will you, Grace Lilleth Hollis, take Thomas Norton Lang-ford as your lawfully wedded husband?” Andrew asked.

“I will,” she answered.

The couple stood at the altar hand-in-hand. They were a study in contrasts: she fair skinned, petite and dark haired, he tall, blond, bronzed by the sun.

From the front row, Julia could see Andrew’s eyes shining. She glanced across the aisle at Thomas’s parents. Seth was blinking, Mercy wiping her eyes with a handkerchief.

Thank you, Father, for happy tears.

And some poignant ones. Laurel’s absence was felt, but five-month-old Abigail was too young to be taken halfway around the world. Philip and Loretta, while not hindered by great distance, had yet to appear by the time Grace was to walk up the aisle.

When did you grow so distant, Philip?
How easy it would be to blame Loretta, but he was old enough to make his own choices.

Only when she heard the piano and violin’s opening notes did she realize Ira Johnson and his sister Helen had stepped up to the platform to sing.

My love is like a red, red rose . . .

Grace’s wedding day is not for brooding, Julia reminded herself.

That’s newly sprung in June.
My love is like the melody . . .
That’s sweetly played in tune.

“Uncle Philip’s here, Grandmother,” Elizabeth and Jonathan’s son John leaned over Aleda to whisper. “Standing in back.”

“Did you hear?” Aleda whispered. Her mauve silk gown— the same she had worn for commencement at Newnham College four years ago—had a small scorch mark on the upper sleeve. But at least she had taken pains to iron.

“Yes,” Julia whispered back, her heart filling with blessed relief.

“I’d wager the prima donna’s not—”

Julia silenced her with a shake of the head, and smiled up at Grace and Thomas, poised to take their vows.