Jewel of Gresham Green (15 page)

Aleda and her sister walked in silence, holding the hamper between them, until out of earshot of the vicarage.

“What do you think?” Elizabeth asked.

“I think Philip ought to know.”

“But Father would be incensed.”

“And to what end?” Aleda gave a dry chuckle. “His sermon Sunday past was on forgiveness.”

Elizabeth’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, Aleda! Are you thinking of telegraphing him?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’m so relieved. I won’t tell anyone.” A little sob broke her voice. “I couldn’t do it myself. I’ve always been afraid of disappointing Father. Not that he’s harsh, but because his opinion of me matters so much. When you lose one parent . . .”

She hesitated. “Forgive me. You lost a parent, too.”

“You have nothing for which to apologize,” Aleda assured her. “I barely knew my father.”

“Was it the same way, having only a mother? Did you care terribly what she thought?”

Aleda mulled over that one. “I cared. I’ve always adored my mother.”

“Of course.”

“But I don’t know if I had the overwhelming
drive
to please that you describe. That seems to be more particular to daughters and fathers.”

“Thank you for doing this for him,” Elizabeth said hoarsely. “I know you and I haven’t been terribly close because of the age difference. But I’m so glad you’re my sister.”

“It’s nothing,” Aleda said, embarrassed by the sentiment while blinking the sting from her eyes.

As they reached the cottage gate, Aleda smiled at the sight of Jonathan romping with the children in the garden.

“Jonathan’s a good father, too.”

“Yes, he is.” Elizabeth took the hamper and reached for the latch, but then turned back around with a knowing smile.

“What is it?” Aleda asked.

With lowered voice, her sister said, “Can you bear another niece or nephew?”

Aleda stared at her, noticed the bloom in her cheeks. “Are you serious?”

“I’m three months along. We haven’t broken the news to anyone yet. We want to give the baby time to grow. I’ve not even written to Laurel.”

The fact that she had just been honored did not escape Aleda. “Thank you for telling me.” She reached for the hamper. “But here, you shouldn’t be carrying that.”

Elizabeth moved it aside. “Exercise is good for me. That’s been my mistake, coddling myself, taking to bed. I started reading up on childbearing after the last—”

Aleda nodded, stepped over to embrace her. “I’m happy for you.”

“Aunt Aleda!”

The twins were sprinting toward the gate. Aleda surrendered to both sweaty embraces and smiled when their attention leaped from her to the hamper.

“Ooh, what have you, Mother?” Claire asked.

“Lunch!” Elizabeth said, producing more exclamations of ecstasy.

Aleda waved at Jonathan and John, and set out again. Her ears barely registered distant hoofbeats and the rumbling of wheels. Her mind was going over her conversation with Elizabeth.

She had noticed the unique bond between daughters and fathers long ago. She suspected most writers were lifelong people watchers. Living in the Larkspur as a girl, the vicarage later, and Newnham College as a young woman had provided a wealth of material for her ink-drawn characters.

That habit of studying people was what propelled her toward Trumbles. She was quite certain she had seen through her stepfather’s refusal to telegraph Philip.

Andrew was the most decent man she had ever known, but he was not above a little vindictiveness when a loved one was hurt. Aleda had heard the stories of how he had tormented a younger Jonathan when he came to Gresham seeking Elizabeth’s forgiveness for his indiscretions.

What better way to bring Philip up short for hurting Mother, for not taking the time to write a single letter during the five weeks since Grace’s wedding, than to have him receive Andrew’s letter
after
the surgery? Even she herself found some smug satisfaction over the notion.

But teaching a lesson was one thing. Safety was another. Philip would go the second and third miles to see that their stepfather got proper care.

At least the old Philip would. The pre-Loretta Philip. She could only hope that part of him would not have changed.

“How is the vicar?” Mrs. Shaw called from her garden, pushing back her bonnet. She wore the look of someone about to amble over to the gate.

“He’s better, thank you,” she replied with a little wave, to get the point across that she would not be stopping.

“Too bad about the surgery. But he’ll come through fine.”

Aleda’s steps faltered briefly. But of course. Doctor Rhodes’ telegram to his colleague. Trumbles was a cake of yeast in Gresham’s lump of gossip dough. “Yes, thank you,” she said with another wave.

A pair of horses and coach broke into sight beyond the elm trees. She paid it no mind, but then the horses slowed to a halt. The driver doffed his cap.

“Pardon me, miss, but will you direct me to the vicarage?”

“The vicarage? Why?”

“My passengers here say they’re to report to Vicar Phelps.”

A young woman stared from the window, seeming so much like a frightened rabbit that Aleda stepped close and said with softened voice, “My stepfather is the vicar. But he’s not well.”

“Oh dear,” the woman said.

“What’s the matter, Mummy?” came from inside. Another head squeezed into view, smaller, with the same red curls peeking from a straw hat.

“Miss?” the driver said.

“A moment please,” Aleda said to him, and turned again to the woman. “Why do you wish to see him?”

“I’ve a letter from Vicar Treves in Birmingham asking him to find a job for me. I’m sorry he’s ill. Will he be all right?”

“Miss?” the driver said impatiently.

Aleda sent him a glare. He shrugged and took a pipe from his pocket. To the woman she said, “He needs surgery.”

“Oh dear.”

The concern in her voice seemed genuine. For herself and the girl, yes, but also for her stepfather.

“Can you come back in a month or so, when he’s recovered?” Aleda asked.

The woman’s face clouded. “I’ve nowhere else to go.”

Aleda stifled a sigh. What to do? She looked about. Mrs. Shaw had apparently retreated to her cottage. Should she send the pair to Elizabeth’s? On her return from telegraphing Philip, they could deal with the matter without involving Mother and Father. Elizabeth was a member of the Women’s Charity Society, and Jonathan knew almost every person in Gresham.

But wait
, she thought. Elizabeth had enough on her hands, especially in her condition. No matter what she said about exercise, Aleda was quite certain mental strain was a detriment to pregnancy.

Her spirits sagged. She would have to take charge. She opened the door, called up to the driver.

“Please continue on until I call for you to stop.”

The woman moved over, looking both frightened and hopeful. The girl, leaning against her mother, stared. Aleda gave both a resigned smile.

“Good day. I’m Aleda Hollis.”

The woman’s reddish brows lifted. “The writer?”

“Yes, I am. Vicar Treves told you?”

“Mrs. Treves did.”

“She gives me peppermints,” the girl piped.

Aleda had to laugh. “Is that so? And what might your names be?”

“Where do you want this?” the driver grunted, bent under the weight of a battered tin trunk.

“Just inside here,” Aleda replied, moving aside the umbrella stand, almost tripping over the canvas bag of laundry Vernon Moore had delivered three days ago.

The driver set down his burden with a thump. Mrs. Libby had apparently already paid him, for he touched the brim of his cap and said to her, “Good day.”

“Thank you,” she said. She stood in the corner of the cottage kitchen, holding her daughter’s hand. Thankfully, the day was still young. After telegraphing Philip, Aleda would figure out what to do with them.

An idea came to her. She could make up for most of her lost time.

“Wait!” she said to the coachman. “Will you drop me off at the crossroads?”

“For a shilling.”

“Very good. I just have to fetch something.”

He pursed his lips. “A florin, then.”

Halfway up the staircase, she thought of her temporary guests and turned to say, “The water closet’s through the back door. And please help yourselves to the gooseberries on the table.”

She might as well mail her manuscript, too, Aleda thought. It was as she tied it with paper and string that a more potent thought struck her.

If she sent the telegraph from Trumbles, her father would know within the hour. Given his stubbornness, he could possibly move up the date of his surgery. It depended upon which was more important to him, having to turn his pulpit over to a curate one Sunday earlier or having Philip not involved.

Only a few yards away waited transportation to Shrewsbury. She should send it from the railway station.

That thought led to another. Why not speak directly with Philip? Shame him for so neglecting his family that their stepfather would not even venture to ask his opinion about the surgery. If Philip was so cowed by Loretta as to refuse, he would have to do it looking in her eyes, not holding an impersonal piece of paper.

She looked at her watch. If she hurried, she could make the five o’clock express to London and be back by tomorrow evening.

You’re insane,
she told herself, even while shoving her toilet kit, nightgown, and manuscript into her satchel. She changed into the same olive green cashmere traveling suit that had served her well for four years. She would simply wear the same clothes home tomorrow.

Downstairs, the driver munched gooseberries at the table, while Mrs. Libby and Becky did not seem to have moved.

“Will you drive me to Shrewsbury Station?”

“Cost you a crown,” the driver said between chews.

Highway robbery, given that if she didn’t go, he stood to make nothing for the return journey. But her only alternative was to inquire if Mr. Pool’s coach was available, and his nephew sober enough to drive. And of course, the whole of Gresham would know, and Father would suspect her mission.

Aleda approached Mrs. Libby. “I apologize for running out on you like this, but I’ve an important errand. We’ll figure out what to do with you when I return. But for now, make yourselves at home.”

“Oh, thank you!” Mrs. Libby gushed with shining eyes.

But there was no time for sentiment. Aleda went on. “There’s a guest room upstairs. You’ll find some bread and jam and cheese and an egg or two in the larder. The potatoes may still be good. The cat fends for herself, but give her some cheese and change the water bowl. And there are lots more gooseberries on the bush at the bottom of the garden. I’ve meant to shop for days. But that should do until I return tomorrow evening.”

“I’ve some money. We can buy—”

“No,” Aleda said. “Stay away from the shops. I doubt anyone will stop by here, but if so, you’re to say I’m not available. It won’t be a lie, and will be absolutely believed.”

Once settled back in the coach, Aleda closed the curtains lest even Elizabeth spot her. The fewer people involved, the better.

“Was that lady angry?” Becky asked on the way to the water closet.

“Oh no, mite,” Jewel replied. “Just in a hurry.”

“Where did she go in the coach?”

“To Shrewsbury Station. You know, where we left the train?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But she’s to return tomorrow.”

“Who is she?”

“She’s the daughter of the vicar we came to see. Her name is Miss Hollis, remember?”

The girl had more questions as they came back through the parlor. “Is this our new home?”

Her young voice begged reassurance. She had been uprooted too many times of late. But any false assurances would later chip away at the small bit of security she possessed.

“No, sweetheart,” Jewel replied. “At least not this house. But Miss Hollis didn’t send us away, so I think we’ll be allowed to stay in the village.”

She did not wish to raise her own hopes, either. But she had seen enough from the coach window to believe that Gresham was a harbor of peace and serenity, with its cottages and gardens, blue sky and dainty shops, leafy trees stretching branches across quiet lanes.

And most pleasant of all . . . no Mr. Dunstan lurking about with a lewd eye on her baby.

Thank you, Father. I’ll work very hard to deserve this.

Becky yawned, looked about. “What will we do now?”

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“Then it’s high time for a nap.”

“I’m hungry,” Becky amended quickly.

Jewel smiled. “After your nap. Help me find our bedroom.”

That piqued her interest. Her boots made eager little clicks on the wooden staircase. She disappeared through an open doorway off the landing.

“A cat! Here, kitty!”

A tabby cat scampered from the room just as Jewel went through the doorway. Bed sheets, pillows, and coverlet were twisted into a heap. Dust particles danced in sunlight slanting from the window to a desk boasting a typewriter and littered with papers and teacups. Stockings lay heaped upon a chair cushion. The dress Miss Hollis had changed from was draped over the chair’s back. A lone slipper lay on its side on the rug.

“Doesn’t the lady know how to tidy up?” Becky asked, leaning to peer under the bed.

“We mustn’t say that. She’s probably very busy writing her stories.”

“There’s dust under here, Mummy . . . and a shoe!”

“Come away from there now,” Jewel said as Becky’s head disappeared beneath the mattress.

She obeyed, bringing out a kidskin slipper. Jewel brushed the dust from her bodice, then the slipper, to set it beside its mate near the bed’s edge. She picked up the gown from the chair. It seemed hardly worn, so she hung it in the wardrobe.

“What’s in there?” Becky asked, weaseling beside her to see.

“Clothes, Miss Nosy.” Jewel closed the wardrobe and led her daughter by the hand back onto the landing.

Becky pointed to the only other open doorway. “Is that our room?”

“We shall see.”

The second bedchamber was simply furnished, with iron bed, table, chair, rug, and cupboard. A fine layer of dust covered everything. Jewel folded the coverlet, set it upon the chair to take outside and shake later, stripped Becky to chemise and drawers, and tucked her between the sheets.