Jewel of Gresham Green (11 page)

“It is,” Andrew said. “It must be done every two hours, night and day. I’m sure the servants will update you on his treatments. And Doctor Rhodes visits every Friday.”

“Good. I have so many questions.” Mr. Gibbs hesitated. “Do you think my uncle will ever regain cognizance?”

Andrew glanced at the bedridden man. “We must treat him as if he will.”

“I absolutely agree.” There seemed genuine concern in his voice, which caused Julia some guilt over her immediate dislike of him.

Andrew took the folded newspaper from his coat pocket. “Would you mind if we read to him?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Andrew related what Jonathan had said over lunch.

Mr. Gibbs inclined his head thoughtfully. “It’s worth a try. I’m most grateful for any time you can give him. But I still have some unpacking. If you won’t mind showing yourselves out . . .”

“We don’t mind,” Andrew assured him.

They took turns reading for an hour. Julia’s mouth became dry, but at least the room was not heated. She hoped the squire was comfortable, temperature-wise. If he could feel temperature. If he could feel anything. For though his eyes sometimes moved in their direction, they were blank.

“I’m not discouraged,” Andrew said softly on the way down the corridor. “We just have to be consistent, like Jonathan’s grandmother. And a couple of hours daily—not just from newspapers, but also books.”

“But how?” Julia asked, pausing on the landing. “As much as we care for him, we have other responsibilities.”

Andrew scratched his beard. “We could ask others to help. Take turns.”

“That’s up to Mr. Gibbs now.”

“I’m sure he’ll be open to the idea.”

You’re more charitable than I am,
Julia thought.

Mrs. Cooper appeared when they reached the hall downstairs. After thanking her for his hat, Andrew said, “May we trouble Mr. Gibbs once more?”

“I’ll ask, if you’ll follow me. He’s in the library.”

She ducked inside briefly, opened the door wider, and nodded on her way out. The oak paneled room smelled of fine leather, old books, and smoke. Mr. Gibbs rose from a leather chair as he put aside a copy of
The Gentleman’s Magazine
and extinguished a cigarette.

“Any luck?”

Andrew did not wince, though Julia knew he despised the word and all forms of superstition. “I’m afraid not.”

“Ah.” Mr. Gibbs clicked his tongue, motioned to a settee. “Would you care to . . .”

“No thank you, but we’d like to ask permission to have others come and read to him.”

“Others?”

“Trusted people, well acquainted with him,” Julia said. “We could design a daily schedule with Mrs. Cooper.”

“How kind of you. Do you think it will do any good?”

“I’m optimistic,” Andrew said. “The mind is a remarkable creation.”

“Then of course you may. My uncle is fortunate to have such good friends.”

During the homeward stroll up Bartley Lane, Andrew said, “You don’t like him.”

“Not in the least,” Julia admitted. “I think he’s full of wind. I doubt he even looked in on his uncle until we arrived. Mary had no idea who he was.”

“But we don’t know that. She could have simply been nervous for having a new master.”

“What about those things the squire told us? Did you not believe him?”

“I did. But I also know he had harsh opinions of people at times. Didn’t he dislike you when you first moved here?”

“Well, yes,” Julia admitted. “But only because he missed a chance to buy the Larkspur for a pittance.”

Gently, Andrew said, “Should we not give Mr. Gibbs the benefit of the doubt until we know otherwise?”

Sometimes it was a pain, being married to a vicar. Especially when he was right. Julia sighed. “Of course. It’s the notion of so many good people losing out that has me bitter.”

“I’ve grieved over that myself. We just have to trust that the squire will recover and continue with his plan. Until then, it will do us—nor the squire—no good to antagonize Mr. Gibbs. He could forbid us to visit.”

That sobered Julia. “Oh dear, Andrew. I didn’t mean to be a liability.”

Andrew chuckled and linked his arm through hers. “Liability? Every man should be blessed with such a liability.”

She leaned her head briefly upon his shoulder. “Who do you think would be willing to take turns reading?”

He thought for a moment. “Surely Ambrose and Fiona.”

“Aleda could come out of her shell once in a while,” Julia said. “Considering what the squire did for her. And I believe Mercy Langford would be willing.”

“Don’t forget Jonathan, now that school’s on holiday. After all, he gave us the idea.”

It so happened that they had reached Church Lane at that moment. Their son-in-law was outdoors, installing a lock on the gardening hut door.

“I’ll be happy to read to him,” he said.

But the following afternoon, Jonathan appeared at the vicarage just as Julia and Andrew were setting out to pay calls.

“I was turned away at the door,” he said.

I shall die of boredom!
Donald thought, pacing the library rug.

Aside from a few current magazines, nothing but ponderous old books. The conservatory was quite pleasant for sitting and smoking Gold Flake cigarettes, but a man could not spend all his hours so engaged. The stables still boasted four fine horses, but he did not ride saddle, a secret he guarded closely. When he was eight, his own horse had bolted with him at Hyde Park, eventually rearing up and tossing him off as if he were a rag doll. His broken shoulder had healed, but now thirty years later, he still suffered limited range of motion in his left arm.

When Mrs. Cooper brought tea, he asked, “How would I go about buying a billiards table?”

“You would have to go to Shrewsbury,” she replied. “I’ve never seen one in the local shops.”

“Hmm.” He stirred milk into his tea. “Is there some household money put away somewhere?”

“Why no, sir. Anything we need from the shops is put to the squire’s account, to be paid by Mr. Stokes at the factory.”

“
Horace
Stokes?”

“Yes, sir. He pays our wages, as well. Perhaps you could ask him for the funds to buy the table?”

Donald studied her face for any sign of mockery. Her expression was as guileless as a baby’s. Uncle Thurmond had had another housekeeper twenty-one years ago. Perhaps the old gaffer had indeed managed to hush up the incident that sent Donald repacking for London.

And obviously Horace had benefited.

Even so, Donald would have to be completely desperate to ask him to advance him so much as a shilling.

An idea struck him. Perhaps he could persuade one of the local shopkeepers to order the table and put it on account. It could not hurt to drive the dogcart into the village and inquire. He had a way of charming people into doing what he wished.

He sighed, remembering he was housebound, for he expected a visit from the vicar sometime today. Tempting as it was to hide from confrontation, it was best to get it over and done with.

“Vicar Phelps is at the door, Mr. Gibbs,” Mrs. Cooper informed him a half hour later.

In the foyer, Donald was satisfied to see the housekeeper had followed his instructions not to ask for his hat. The sooner this affair was concluded, the better.

“It’s good to see you again, Vicar,” Donald said, pretending surprise, offering his hand. He was still a gentleman, after all.

“Thank you,” said Vicar Phelps as the housekeeper slipped away. “But I’m afraid I don’t understand. Mr. Raleigh, my son-in-law, wasn’t allowed to see the squire.”

“Yes, yes,” Donald said. “Nice fellow. I hope he wasn’t offended. I fear I did not explain myself satisfactorily to him.”

“I believe that to be the case.”

“You see, after you and Mrs. Phelps left yesterday, the thought struck me that I could read just as well to my uncle. Why inconvenience you and everyone else?”

“It’s no inconvenience.”

“But it is less of an inconvenience to me. What else have I here to occupy my time?” He smiled. “Or is it my reading ability that troubles you? Shall I fetch a book from the library and prove my literacy?”

“No, that’s not necessary,” the vicar replied with a polite little chuckle. “But I had also hoped having a variety of visitors would stimulate your uncle’s mind.”

This was something Donald had not considered, forcing him to think fast. Fortunately, he had always been skilled at landing upon his feet—not counting the time the horse threw him.

“At what cost to his body? As you have witnessed, he hangs on to health by a thread. His resistance is obviously low. I should think the less exposure to visitors, the better. Can you not see my reasoning?”

Vicar Phelps hesitated. “Ah . . . well . . .”

Weary of standing there, Donald decided it was time for the
coup de grace
. “It was so good of you to come. Please tell Mr. Raleigh I meant no disrespect. And if you’ll excuse me, I must see to my uncle.”

He reserved his chuckle for the staircase.

Poor vicar,
he thought. Mr. Phelps seemed a decent fellow. Down to earth, not lofty like his predecessor, Vicar Wilson.

His smile faded. Vicar Wilson, whose letter to Saint John’s College had made him unwelcome at Oxford.

As irony would have it, the seeds of his piety and his bitterness were planted in the same ground when his parents sent him to Gresham at age seventeen. Uncle Thurmond had insisted he accompany him to Saint Jude’s. Under Vicar Wilson’s preaching, Donald found himself swept up in the desire to serve God. He became quite pious, devoting long hours to the Bible.

But that desire did not replace the other one, the reason he was banished briefly from London. And it was not long before that desire crept back from the mental closet to which he had confined it.

His problem, as in London, was choosing the wrong recipient of that desire. Haste and lust, yoked together, always outpaced judgment.

Chapter 9

“Liver and bacon, carrots and peas,
Bread pudding too, as rich as you please,
We must keep Aleda fat and well fed . . .”

Singing to the tune of “The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze,” Aleda waltzed into the larder on the nineteenth of June with a covered pot sent over from the vicarage. Full to the brim, she was, and here was enough left over for supper.

She paused on her way back into the kitchen.

Bed? Said? Red?

Finally something came.

“So stories will grow in her head . . .”

Not quite Gilbert and Sullivan. But she’d like to see those two pen a story about shipwrecked survivors and Komodo dragons.

A knock sounded at the door. All windows were open. Heat flamed her cheeks; she thought of easing her way back into the larder.

“Aleda? It’s Jeremiah.”

Aleda blew out her cheeks, went over to the door.
You laugh
once, Jeremiah, and I’ll box your ears
.

The distress in his usually placid face sent that thought flying.

“What is it, Jeremiah?”

He looked over his shoulder, to where one of the squire’s black horses was tied to the gatepost, and raked a hand through his brown hair. “I’m meant to be giving Shadow a run. If anyone asks, I stopped to ask for a drink of water.”

She reached out and took his arm. “Come in, come in. What’s wrong?”

He waited until she had closed the door. “It’s Mr. Gibbs. He’s mistreatin’ the squire.”

“How?”

“Well, he allows none but Doctor Rhodes to visit. . . .”

Aleda was aware of that, having been turned away by Mrs. Cooper four days ago. She had thought it might do the squire some good to hear her latest short story, “The Stowaway.”

“Father says Mr. Gibbs is worried someone might infect him with a cold or something worse,” Aleda said.

“Ha!” As if shocked at his own outburst, Jeremiah glanced at the door, lowered his voice again. “Mr. Gibbs has put Mary back to cleaning rooms that ain’t even used. She’s only allowed to change the squire’s nappy and bathe and feed him, in the mornings and at night. We take turns flopping him over every two hours. But as soon as that’s done, we’re to leave. The curtains are open only when the doctor’s expected. The squire spends most of his days and nights alone in that dark room.”

His voice broke. “Mr. Gibbs says the squire needs his rest, that he ain’t aware of what’s going on about him, but how does he know that? What if the squire’s mind’s working fine, and he’s trapped by his body?”

“That’s . . . so sad,” Aleda said.

“We’ve been warned that anyone who carries tales will be sacked without pay. Can you get word to the vicar, without saying who it came from?”

“Yes. I’ll leave now.”

“No! Give me ten—fifteen minutes.”

He gave her a miserable, helpless look. “We need our jobs. All of us. I’ve a wife and baby.”

“Of course.” She rested a hand upon his shoulder. “You did right, Jeremiah. I’ll wait. Now go, before you’re discovered.”

The manor house boasted eight bedrooms. Donald had chosen the last chamber in the west corridor. He wished to be as far away from his uncle as possible when death came creeping up the staircase. It was a smallish room, perhaps originally intended for a child, but had a comfortable bed and good-sized writing desk. It was here that he penned a letter, the second in the eleven days since his arrival.

Enclosed you will find a cheque for twenty-three pounds, the
remainder of my bank account after this month’s mortgage. My
uncle’s end is imminent. I ask you again to be patient. I regret
you’re bored. When I come into my inheritance, we shall have all
the money we desire. How does a tour of the pyramids strike you? But again, you owe me patience. I shall be very angry if you persist
in visiting those dark little places on Cleveland Street. Think back
to from whence you came, before I rescued you.

Lips pressed, Donald penned one final line.

Would you rather go back to shoveling out stables?

By then, his ire was so great that he did not sign the page, but stuffed it into the envelope and addressed it.

He should have forced Reese to accompany him there, he thought. As a friend. But his uncle, should he recover, would figure out the score in a heartbeat. He was almost disinherited at seventeen. He could not risk it again.