Jewel of Gresham Green (10 page)

He attempted to tug the edge of the lap rug up toward his face. Andrew rose, withdrawing his handkerchief, and handed it over. The squire wiped his eyes and nodded as Andrew settled back into his chair.

“But how important is keeping a vow to a sister?” the old man asked.

“We are beholden to all our vows, Squire.”

He nodded resignedly. “I was reared on the principle that family is everything. That blood is thicker than water. Yet I see how the Stokes love their orphans, how Seth Langford reared Thomas to be a fine young man. How you, Vicar and Mrs. Phelps, have taken each other’s children as your own.”

“Some families spring from the same root,” Andrew said softly. “Some are grafted.”

“There is no entail to this estate,” the squire went on. “I am legally free to dispose of it as I wish. I promised my dear little sister, Emmaline, that my sole inheritor would be her Donald, the unexpected blessing to her late years. Yet he became anything but a blessing: shaming his parents, breaking their health, and then squandering the inheritance when they were gone. I hear the only way he maintains his hedonistic ways now is to borrow against his expectations for my estate. This home, this land Emmaline loved and roamed so freely as a girl, will ultimately fall into the hands of creditors under Donald’s ownership.”

Julia shook her head.

“How tragic,” said Andrew.

“There is more. Something that happened . . . long ago.” The squire closed his eyes as a soft groan escaped his lips. “I cannot bear to speak of it. Suffice to say that more wealth at his disposal will add to Donald’s ruin.”

He fixed watery eyes upon Andrew again. “And so I ask you, Vicar . . . am I beholden to that vow?”

“I don’t know,” Andrew admitted. “God knows we don’t live in a perfect world. For example, He does allow the marriage vow to be broken in the case of adultery. Yet . . . this is not the case.”

The heat of the room contributed to the aura of hopelessness. Julia thought,
What will happen to Gresham?
Once the leases on farms and factory workers’ homes expired, surely the squire’s nephew would have the power to raise rents. Perhaps he would lower factory wages. Money was a terrible weapon in the hands of a bad man.

The old man heaved a great sigh. “It would have been better if I had been poor.”

Silence ticked on. Andrew tapped fingertips against his beard, thoughtful. Eventually he leaned forward. “What you just said . . . there is your solution.”

The squire’s bushy eyebrows raised.

“Your vow was to leave to Donald all that you have
remaining
at the time of your passing. If you give most of it away beforehand, you can still keep that vow by leaving him a legacy that will take care of him—in modest comfort—the rest of his life.”

“Ha!” the squire said. “You mean enough for him to lose in a hand of cards.”

“But he would have been given the chance to do otherwise. And your vow would have been unbroken.”

Hope flooded the aged face. “I shall do that when Mr. Baker calls Friday. You’ve given me a way to leave this life with conscience clear. You’re a wise man.”

“Heavens, no.” Andrew shook his head. “Just ask Mrs. Phelps.”

“He’s very wise,” Julia said. “Except in the case of seeing the doctor.”

That made Squire Bartley smile. “Your health is an estate you must manage wisely, Vicar. Now, good friends, return to your other duties. Leave an old man to rest.”

Wednesday morning, Julia woke on the sofa—she often slipped down to the parlor to escape Andrew’s snoring—to the sound of knocking. At least she assumed it was morning, though darkness still pressed against the windowpane. She pulled on wrapper and slippers and felt for the door. The hall was illuminated as Dora came from the kitchen side, also in wrapper, and holding a lantern.

They gave each other grim looks. Just like telegrams, visitors in the wee hours seldom brought good news.

“I’ll answer,” Julia said.

Squire Bartley’s driver and groomsman Jeremiah Toft stood on the porch, cap clutched in hands.

“Sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Phelps.”

Julia’s knees weakened. “It’s the squire, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am. He’s suffered an apoplexy.”

“Oh dear.” She put a hand to her heart, turned to Dora.

“Did you hear?”

“I did,” the cook said, the lamp casting shadows upon her face.

“Doctor Rhodes asks that the vicar come quickly,” Jeremiah said. “I brought the dogcart.”

“Yes, of course.” Julia took a backwards step. The
quickly
part struck her. “You mean he’s still alive?”

“For now.”

Chapter 8

“No-no-no-no!”

Anyone passing the half-timbered cottage at the corner of Church and Bartley Lanes would have thought someone inside was being beaten.

“Now, now,” Jonathan coaxed, holding the squirming, howling Samuel in his arms. “Grandfather hasn’t even touched your finger. Just let him see it.”

“No!”

“Really, Jonathan . . . Father,” Elizabeth said. “Can it not wait a day or two?”

“It cannot,” Jonathan replied with strained voice. “Leave the room if you can’t bear it! We can’t risk infection and lockjaw.”

“I don’t want Samuel to get mockjaw!” Claire sobbed.

“Lockjaw,” older brother John corrected.

Julia took Claire up into her arms. “It’s just a splinter, Claire.”

“What’s that?” she sniffed.

“A bit of wood in his finger.”

“Should I get you a knife?” John suggested, crowding closer to the men.

“NO KNIFE!” Samuel shrieked.

“John! Outdoors!” Jonathan barked.

The boy reddened, obeyed. It was disconcerting to Julia’s ears, hearing Jonathan speak to his family so sharply, but he appeared close to tears himself.

That morning Samuel had sneaked into the gardening hut to surprise his mother by fertilizing the flowers, something he had watched her do. It was while attempting to raise the lid from the barrel containing Webb’s Manure and Phosphate of Lime that he encountered the splinter.

Jonathan was not normally overprotective of the children, which was a good thing. Country children were prone to scratches and bumps. But last year a farm worker, George Fletcher, had tragically died from pneumonia induced by tetanus, brought on from a splinter from a cow yard gate. Thus, any splinter suffered by his children, or even students, was an enemy that must be wrenched out at once.

Forehead furrowed, Andrew bent closer to the boy’s hand. “Just hold steady one . . . there it is!”

He held up the tweezers.

Samuel, sniffing and panting for breath, gaped at his finger. “All gone?”

“All gone, my little man!”

The boy grinned. “It didn’t hurt!”

Andrew chuckled. Jonathan squeezed Samuel, looked up at Elizabeth with glistening eyes that begged forgiveness. “Will you take him and clean it?”

“Of course,” she said, returning the smile.

He stood and turned toward the door. “I need to apologize to John.”

Thus, lunch got off to a late start. But Mrs. Littlejohn, spry in spite of graying hair, laid a fine meal on the cloth: asparagus soup, boiled beef with young carrots, new potatoes and suet dumplings, and for dessert, boiled gooseberry pudding and plain cream.

“We sent John to invite Aleda this morning,” Elizabeth said, cutting Claire’s beef on her plate. “But she told him she’s in the middle of a story.”

“Now, there’s a surprise,” Andrew said as he forked a dumpling. “Excellent meal, Elizabeth.”

“Thank you. It’s all Mrs. Littlejohn.”

“How is Squire Bartley?” Jonathan asked.

“The same,” Andrew replied. “We shall visit him when we leave here. But we never know if he recognizes us.”

Five days had passed since Jeremiah Toft knocked on their door. A massive brain hemorrhage had paralyzed the squire’s right side. On the two occasions Julia had accompanied Andrew, the squire seemed not to know they were present.

“You know,” Jonathan said thoughtfully, “when my grandfather Hall suffered the same affliction, Grandmother read the newspaper to him every day, even though he showed no sign of hearing her. When he regained cognizance four months later, the first question he asked Grandmother was if she thought Disraeli would resign, now that the Liberal Party had been victorious over the Tories in the general election.”

To John’s questioning look, he explained, “It was something Grandmother had read to him. Anyway, he credited hearing her voice every day to clearing the fog in his mind. I’m not sure if his doctor agreed, but . . .”

Julia met Andrew’s eyes across the table.

“Have you a
Shrewsbury Times
lying about?” Andrew asked Jonathan.

“Yesterday’s,” Jonathan replied.

“The squire won’t know the difference.”

“Good afternoon, Vicar . . . Mrs. Phelps.” Mrs. Cooper stepped back to open the door wider. “Do come inside.”

As she took Andrew’s hat, her face was tight, her eyes anxious. Had the squire taken a turn for the worse?

Julia was opening her mouth to ask when footsteps sounded in the hall. A man who could have been anywhere from thirty to forty approached, dressed impeccably in gray double-breasted frock coat and striped wool trousers.

“More visitors for my uncle, Mrs. Carter?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Vicar and Mrs. Phelps.”

His straight coarse hair was as dark as ink. Two slashes of dark brows were set over brown eyes, and a handsome aquiline nose jutted out over a mustache that curved downward over the corners of full lips. His voice was polished, as smooth as his gold silk cravat. And clearly he had had a gentleman’s upbringing, for he made a little bow to Julia. “It’s good of you to come. I’m Donald Gibbs.”

“Julia Phelps.” And annoyed that his mere presence would so intimidate the housekeeper into not correcting her own name, she took the liberty. “And . . . this is Mrs. Cooper, by the way.”

“Ah, yes!” He winced and turned to the housekeeper, charmingly. “Mrs. Cooper. I do beg pardon.”

“It’s nothing, sir,” she said.

“I only arrived two hours ago. So many names to learn, and I have never been good with them.” Mr. Gibbs smiled as he and Andrew shook hands. “Of course, you have a whole village of names to learn, don’t you? I could never be a vicar.”

Your lips to God’s ears,
Julia thought.

“Please come with me,” he said.

They followed him up the wide staircase leading from the hall. “I wanted to leave London as soon as the telegraph arrived. But I thought it prudent to conclude some vital business dealings so I could focus my sole energies upon my uncle.”

“In what business are you engaged, Mr. Gibbs?” Julia asked.

“This and that. It would bore you to explain.”

“I don’t bore easily.”

Andrew cast her a warning look.

They followed Mr. Gibbs down the upstairs corridor. He took the knob. “Don’t be disappointed if he doesn’t respond to you.”

We know that more than you do,
Julia had to bite her tongue from saying. It so irked her that this coxcomb was playing lord of the manor, after having waited five days to appear. Far worse, he stood to inherit everything, when so many good people in Gresham could have benefited.

The squire’s bedroom was opulent and massive, with Constable landscapes upon olive-green walls, gold satin curtains, and a marble-tiled fireplace that was, thankfully, not lit. Chambermaid Mary Johnson dropped a spoon into an empty soup bowl. She was about thirty, gaunt and plain as a rail fence, and of a good heart. The perfect person to care for the squire.

“Good afternoon, Mary,” Julia said.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Phelps . . . Vicar.” She made a little bob and sent Mr. Gibbs a rapid curious glance. “I’ve just fed him his broth and bathed him.”

The squire lay propped upon pillows, his frail body covered with blankets and dwarfed by six-and-a-half-foot walnut bedposts. His skin as white as his sheets. Half-open gray eyes stared out at seemingly nothing; his mouth gaped. Julia went over to the bedside.

“Hello, Squire.”

His eyes shifted, but she could have been a ghost for all the recognition in them. Julia stroked his cheek, turned to Mary. “You shaved him.”

“Yes, ma’am. This morning.”

“Very good, Mary,” said Donald Gibbs. “You may go now.”

A muscle twitched in her cheek, as if she were taken by surprise. “Begging your pardon, sir, but he must be turned.”

“Why don’t I do that?” Andrew said.

“Yes, sir,” she said, and fled the room.

Andrew went over to the bed, gently pulled four pillows away, and handed them to Julia. She placed three out of the way at the foot of the bed.

“Why take his pillows?” Mr. Gibbs asked, hands in his pockets.

“To prevent bedsores,” Julia replied, watching Andrew turn down the blanket and roll the man gently to his side. “A raised head causes the rest of the body to rest heavier on the mattress.”

Andrew took the fourth pillow from her and placed it between the squire’s legs. Anticipating Mr. Gibbs’ question, he said, “This one is to keep his knees from pressing together. The skin thins as we age. Bedsores can lead to fatal infection.”

“And the turning is for the same reason, I gather?”