Jewel of Gresham Green (2 page)

The brown eyes evaded Jewel’s. “He said there were toys and peppermints in the cellar.”

“Becky!”

“But I said I wanted to stay outdoors and watch the boys play.”

“God help us,” Jewel moaned. She got to her feet. “Mummy has to go somewhere for a little while.”

“Are ye sure ye trust me with her?” Mrs. Platt sniffed.

“Yes,” Jewel said, adding mentally,
What choice have I?
“I’ll try to return within the hour.”

Fortunately, Mr. Dunstan no longer lurked outside. Jewel hurried up the lane. Cabbies avoided Halls Passage, but she would have walked the nine blocks anyway to save a shilling. On Great Russell Street, a well-dressed woman held a laughing small boy up before a toy display window.

“Oh, now it’s a train you want for your birthday? What will it be tomorrow?”

Jewel envied not her finery but the unhurried enjoyment of her son, the taking for granted that there would be plenty of such moments.

Outside Great Russell Street police station, she brushed a wrinkle from her faded calico. If only she had taken time to change into her Sunday gown! Few in authority took seriously the poor, the illiterate, which was why her trip to this same station last month did no good.

Chin up
, she ordered herself.
Look them in the eyes
. For Becky’s sake, she must set aside her natural meekness, her feeling of inherent unworthiness, and present herself as a citizen deserving attention. At least she spoke proper English, having absorbed its importance when employed as a maid in the household of the headmaster of King Edward’s School.

“As I said last time, Mrs. Libby,” said Constable Whittington, “we cannot arrest a man who’s done naught.”

“He was holding her hand,” Jewel argued, attempting to keep her tone steady.

“Not a crime, Mrs. Libby.”

“He asked her to go to the cellar with him.”

“Aye?” An eyebrow raised. “Did she go?”

“No. But—”

“Bright girl. And so he didn’t forcefully carry her, did he?”

“He may have, if I hadn’t arrived early.”

“Mrs. Libby, if we arrested for
may have
s, we’d have to build more jails. Why do you not find another place to live?”

“I’ve tried to find one as cheap.”

“What about your family?”

“I’ve no family, sir.”

“None at all?”

She held back a sigh. Did the
where
s and
why
s have any bearing upon the situation? Norman’s childhood was spent in the Asylum for the Infant Poor on Summer Lane. She knew not the whereabouts of her father, whose drunken ways had contributed to the premature death of her mother when Jewel was twelve.

“None,” she repeated.

“Then marry again,” he advised in a fatherly, not familiar manner. “A smart-looking woman such as you should have no trouble finding a husband.”

How many times had Jewel been so advised? She was no fool. She knew a husband would indeed take the load from her shoulders. Norman would have forgiven her. But the corset factory sewing room was shy of men, and those living in the tenement were either married, layabouts, or drunks.

Don’t give up!
said a little voice inside. “Sir,” she said, “have you a daughter?”

The constable’s weary gray eyes studied her.

Jewel held her breath, cautiously hopeful.

He sighed. “What’s the name of the gent who owns your building?”

The hope wavered. “I-I don’t know. We have dealings only with Mr. Dunstan.”

“Well, I’ll look him up in the town records, pay him an unofficial call. May be that other tenants have complained.”

“Oh, thank—!”

He held up his hands. “Now, don’t go thanking me. I can’t guarantee he’ll give a hedgehog’s fleas about your problem. Some are like that . . . don’t want to be troubled by the folk who put bread on their tables.”

But at least it was some action. Despite his protest, she thanked him again.

“Will you tell me a story, Mother?” Becky asked in bed that evening, after a supper of potatoes and cabbage, followed by baths in the kitchen using flannels.

Jewel smiled in the darkness. Times like this, with her daughter curled beside her, she could almost forget Mr. Dunstan even existed. Almost.

“Which story?” she asked.

“Um . . . ‘Silverhair and the Bears’?”

“Very well.” Another gleaning from the educated household was the wealth of stories stored in Jewel’s brain, for both the headmaster and his wife had read to their children.

“Once upon a time, a wee girl named Silverhair was told to stay indoors while her mother worked at the corset factory. . . .”

Not the headmaster’s version, but Jewel had to seize any teaching moment available. When her daughter drifted off to sleep, Jewel prayed,
God help us
. Ofttimes that was all she could manage before succumbing to fatigue, but this night she added,
Please make the owner listen to the police
.

She could hear Becky’s soft snoring and the scurrying of rodent feet in the attic. An infant wailed from the flat below. Somewhere down the corridor, a man began shouting. His words were muffled; the anger behind them was not.

And please . . .
She swallowed saltiness as her eyes brimmed.

Help us have better lives one day
.

The following morning, she tucked her handkerchief-wrapped jam sandwich into an apron pocket and delivered a still-sleepy Becky to Mrs. Platt with a reminder to both that she was to stay indoors. And again, for ten hours she had to struggle to concentrate on the needle, so deep were her misgivings.

What if Mr. Dunstan is the owner’s brother or some other
relation? What if we’re forced to leave?

Her fears were justified that evening, unhappily so, when she spotted Mr. Dunstan outside the factory.

“Oh dear,” she said to Mrs. Fenton.

“I forgot my handkerchief,” Mrs. Fenton said, turning back for the door.

Jewel attempted to hurry past him, lose him in the press of workers, but he fell in step beside her.

“There’s been a misunderstanding, Mrs. Libby,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you over your little girl.”

Walking faster did no good. His legs were longer, and he was not even breathing heavily. “I’m truly sorry . . .”

Jewel swallowed a sob.

“. . . so I need you to speak with Mr. Brown.”

She did not ask who this Mr. Brown was, for she had no word to spare for Mr. Dunstan. Besides, who could he be but the owner of the blocks of flats?

“He stays late in his office. I need you to come with me . . . say you’ve made a mistake.”

“No,” she said tightly.

“Please,” he cajoled with voice breaking. “I need my job.”

She continued on, teeth clenched.

“I’ll . . . cut your next month’s rent by half, and cover the rest myself.”

Jewel halted in her tracks, almost did not recognize her own voice for all the rage it held. “My daughter is not for sale!”

“Do you need help, Mrs. Libby?” came a voice from behind.

Jewel turned a burning face to Mr. Fowler and his assistant, Mr. Evans. “This man—”

But when she looked over her shoulder, Mr. Dunstan was making tracks.

“Coward.” Mr. Fowler spat on the pavement.

The men turned back for the factory. Mrs. Fenton called out to her a moment later. Jewel waited, still sick at heart, but grateful.

“You sent Mr. Fowler out?” she asked.

“It was the only thing I knew to do.”

Jewel squeezed her arm.

“Do you suppose he’s been sacked?” Mrs. Fenton asked.

“I think so.”

Mrs. Platt’s aggrieved expression confirmed it was true when Jewel arrived to retrieve Becky. “Did ye hear?” she said, spotted hands worrying her frayed collar. “Mr. Dunstan’s been sacked!”

Ironing her face of any expression, Jewel took Becky’s hand.
Thank you, Father!

Mrs. Platt’s eyes narrowed. “Did you have aught to do with this?”

Jewel still needed her to tend Becky. Gently, she said, “I’m sorry you’re displeased.”

“You’ll be, too, when they replace him with a heartless sot like Mr. Archer.”

Jewel’s lips tightened.
As long as he leaves Becky be, I don’t
care if he has a walnut for a heart.

Chapter 2

21 A
PRIL
1884
G
RESHAM
, E
NGLAND

“Hold still, dear,” said seamstress Beatrice Perkins, on her knees pinning the hem of the gown.

“I’m sorry,” Grace said. “There was a bird outside your window. It brought to mind a crippled sparrow I once nursed back to health.”

“Betrothal makes you remember all sorts of things,” Mrs. Perkins said knowingly. “Would you agree, Mrs. Phelps?”

“Yes, that’s so,” Julia replied, being pulled from her own memories of when the bride-to-be was a babe in her arms. When poised in the doorway to a new life, it was only natural to send some looks over the shoulder at the old one.

Mrs. Perkins returned her attention to the task at hand. “Now, if it seems too high from the ground, remember the six inches of lace. You’ll not be flashing your ankles to the church.”

“Her father will be happy for that,” Julia said, causing Mrs. Perkins to chuckle. Grace smiled down from her perch upon the stool, a curly-haloed angel in white silk.

Several loud knocks sounded against a wall, and the angel lost her footing. Julia jumped to offer a steadying hand.

“Easy does it now,” Mrs. Perkins said. “That’s just my Priscilla.”

A minute later the knocking came again, and more loudly.

“Shall I see about her?” Julia asked.

“That’s very kind of you, but she’ll stop when Frances brings up a tray.” Mrs. Perkins glanced at the wall clock. “Half past nine? Ah . . . I remember. She wants to go to Shrewsbury for a bonnet. She doesn’t usually raise her head from the pillow before eleven.”

“I’m sorry,” Julia said. But a sympathetic expression required some effort. Priscilla was, after all, a year older than Grace, and of sound body and mind.

Grace had enough sympathy on her heart-shaped face for the both of them. “Why don’t you stop sending up trays, Mrs. Perkins?” she suggested, with the appropriate respect due the older woman.

“Why, she’s got to eat.”

“But if you didn’t send up trays, she’d eventually have to come down.”

“And then have her sulk all day?” Mrs. Perkins sniffed. “I admit I coddle Priscilla, her being the only child. Amos says it’s high time she find either a husband or position. But easier said than done. Shropshire men don’t take to high-spirited women. As to a position, she has no gift for sewing. And I’ll not have my daughter slaving in the cheese factory.”

Anwyl Mountain Cheeses, north of the River Bryce, was named for the five-hundred-foot hill rising abruptly to the west. The thought passed through Julia’s mind that it would be better for Priscilla’s character to be making cheese than banging on walls.

Mrs. Perkins’ lips tightened. “But you’d think she’d have some gratitude. Why, even with all the work I’ve got to do, she’s got to have a new frock every month!”

“But she can’t force you to—”

“Do stand straight, dear,” Julia reminded Grace. “We don’t want the hem uneven.”

A half hour later Julia and her daughter were strolling homeward. The rainstorms of Easter week had dried, and the village abounded with sweet April color: yellow bellworts, red crown imperials, and violet corydalis nodded over white daffodils, blue anemone, and pink primulas. Green ivy and clematis resumed inching along weathered sandstone walls. Pear trees stood out like lights, with snowy blossoms against pale green leaves. Pink-faced women pegging out fresh laundry or pottering in gardens called out greetings.

“I should get your father some tonic,” Julia said as they neared a rosy stone building on the corner of Market and Thatcher Lanes. The bell over Trumbles’ door tinkled as they entered. Jack Sanders sent a smile from the postal and telegraph end of the shop as his hands continued sorting envelopes. Orville Trumble ceased arranging cards of needles upon a rack and hurried around the counter.

“How may I assist you, Mrs. Phelps and Miss Hollis?”

“I believe Andrew is almost out of—”

“Smith’s Patented Stomach Soother,” he finished for her. He swiveled to take an amber bottle from a shelf and slipped it into a small paper bag. His blond hair had thinned to a fringe, but his walrus mustache was in full glory, quivering with each word, legitimate or otherwise.

“My dear wife’s mother,” Mr. Trumble continued. “After meals, the pain was so bad she would become
historical
until we gave her a dose.”

“I’m so sorry,” Julia said. “But Andrew’s isn’t severe. It’s usually after a heavy meal, and he has learned to lessen his portions.”

The shopkeeper patted his stomach. “That’s a
lessen
we should all learn.”

Jack Sanders chuckled. Julia and Grace smiled, not so much at the humor but because they were genuinely fond of Mr. Trumble.

On Church Lane they passed the grammar school, where son-in-law Jonathan would be filling thirty-four young heads with knowledge. In the garden of the cottage to their left, Mrs. Shaw left off pruning a forsythia shrub to amble to the fence. Julia asked about her feet, which were apt to swell.

“Much better since I started propping them up three times a day.” She was not one to go on about her health problems, but she did offer a bit of advice to Grace.

“Mind your spending, dearie. A woman can send out more with a teaspoon than her husband can bring in with a shovel.”

“You’ll be getting more and more of that,” Julia said when they were out of hearing range. “It’s natural for people to want to pass on to the young what they’ve learned.”

“I don’t mind,” Grace said, and hesitated. “In fact, I had hoped you would offer some advice.”

“To Mrs. Shaw?”

“Mrs. Perkins. She works so hard. And to have Priscilla abuse her so.”

“Yes,” Julia agreed. “There was a stout wind when the apple fell from that tree.”

“Apple?” Grace caught on, laughed guiltily, sobered. “But shouldn’t you have offered advice?”

“She didn’t ask for any, dear.”