Jewel of Gresham Green (21 page)

“How could I forget,” the captain replied tersely, “when your
husband was so eager to trade you to the pirates for his freedom?”

“We’re not to speak ill of the dead.”

“There is speaking ill, and there is speaking truth. And ofttimes
they are the same.”

Should he kiss her now? Probably not, Aleda thought. Even though her late husband had been a scoundrel, she was indeed a recent widow, and Captain Jacobs, a gentleman.

But what would her readers want?

She sighed. A kiss, passionate and fierce. Followed by a slap from Lady Kempthorne’s soft white hand. Leave any reader under the age of twelve assuming she hated him.

Her eyes strayed to the stack of hand-scripted pages.

Gabriel would be kind in his critique, but he would also be honest. He would love her no less if the book was no good. She thought of Mrs. Libby setting out with no more than a letter and a little money, a battered trunk and a daughter depending upon her. What had she said?
My fear of the known was greater
than my fear of the unknown.

By clinging to her manuscript she was staying in Birmingham. Or worse, in the hole in the ground. She could see herself years from now, still pruning and grafting and fussing over her story, until she became an odd little woman hiding her treasure away in a cupboard until the pages yellowed.

But at least it would be safe from criticism, she thought wryly.

I have to do this.

Remarkable, that someone she barely knew had nudged her out of her inertia.

She had to thank her. She opened the door, softly again, and went downstairs. Savory aromas drifted from the pot on the stove. Mrs. Libby stood at the table over the assortment of household lamps, drying their globes with a tea cloth.

“You’ll work yourself to death,” Aleda said.

The streak of soot on her cheek curved with her smile. “I’m not tired.”

“You’re not my slave, either. I’m beginning to feel I’m taking advantage of you.”

“Advantage?” Mrs. Libby waved a sooty hand. “You’ve given us shelter.”

“I’m happy to do so.” She would be happier when that was no longer necessary, but that was beside the point. “Just promise me you’ll do something with Becky when she wakes? She obviously enjoyed your morning stroll.”

Opening her mouth as if to offer more protest, Mrs. Libby leaned her head in thought. “If I’m making you uncomfortable . . .”

“You are.”

“I’ll take Becky for another walk when she’s up.”

“There you are. Explore the woods a bit. They’re quite lovely, and you can’t get lost if you stay on the path.”

And as long as she was having her say, Aleda thought, she may as well address another issue.

“And you mustn’t buy any more food. Make a list of what we need, and I’ll have it delivered.”

Mrs. Libby’s blue eyes clouded.

“Now, no more of that.” Aleda smiled. “You think you’re doing all the taking, but it’s just not so. Besides giving me the cleanest house in Gresham, you’ve helped me come to a major decision.”

“I have?” Mrs. Libby gave her a hopeful look. “You’ll allow Mr. Patterson to read your book?”

“With fear and trembling, but yes.”

Chapter 18

“He could hang on like this for weeks,” Doctor Rhodes said in the corridor with lowered voice.

Why whisper?
Donald thought. His uncle’s mind was gone. Circus acrobats bouncing over his bed would have been met with the same drooling, blank stare.

Doctor Rhodes surely accepted this, too, for he no longer pressed him to allow visitors other than Mary Johnson, who napped in a cot when not attending to his needs.

“I appreciate your concern over germs,” the doctor went on, “but it would do him good if you stuck your head in the room more often.”

Donald’s teeth clenched. Mary and her big mouth! But what could he say? He needed Doctor Rhodes on his side, should the will be contested. He put a hand upon the old man’s shoulder. “It’s just that it pains me so to see him that way. But you’re right, and I shall.”

That should have satisfied him, but maddeningly, the doctor went on. “One thing more. Miss Johnson looks exhausted. She cannot possibly be giving him decent care with so little sleep. You
must
get her some help.”

“Yes, of course.”

When he was gone, Donald ambled out to a bench in the rose garden. Fragrant breezes pawed at his hair. Like his uncle, his mother had loved roses. If he closed his eyes, he could picture her bringing a tray of milk and biscuits out to the garden when he was a boy, coffee when he was older. With biscuits. How many British childhood memories were centered around biscuits?

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. There was no use scolding Mary Johnson, and have another episode of his private business spread all over Gresham. But Doctor Rhodes was wrong. He had once stuck more than his head through his uncle’s door when Mary was at lunch. He had combed every inch of chest of drawers and wardrobe. No money was tucked away. Not even a ring or watch, cuff links or tie pin that he could slip over to a pawn broker in Shrewsbury.

Was the old man really that tight? Or had the servants beaten him to the goods? Frustrating that he could not level any charges without revealing just how he knew the valuables, if they existed, were absent.

Just before coming to Gresham, he had lost his watch and jewelry in a game of twenty-one in one of the lesser salons, a foolish attempt to raise enough stakes to save his house.

He could not carry off any household treasures—such as the ten-inch jade statuette of a Japanese geisha in the library—from under the eyes of servants who dusted daily. The housekeeper kept the silver locked when it wasn’t being used, polished, or counted. Pathetically, he had almost been reduced to stealing the spoon from his uncle’s tray outside the door and allowing Mary to take the blame. But how much would that have landed him?

Smothering his uncle with a pillow would have been a mercy. Who would wish to live that way? But firstly, the threat of a postmortem hung over him. Secondly, as his luck was running of late, he was certain he would be caught. Thirdly, he was not sure his hands could perpetrate the act. Wishing someone to die was one thing. Overt murder was another.

He blew out his cheeks. Poverty was no less grinding when it was temporary. He
had
to get to London for a couple of days, which not only required train fare but enough for theatre tickets and lobster dinners, perhaps a bauble from Harrods’ jewelry department. He would need to leave some money, too, lest Reese grow restless again.

He heard some tune being whistled and spotted the postman walking up the carriage drive with sack slung from his shoulder. Here would be another to benefit from his uncle’s shuffling over to The Other Side. It seemed Uncle Bartley subscribed to every magazine in England. The unread stack in the library grew taller every week. Too bad he could not sell those, but even so, how much could one earn from out of date, and soon-to-be out of date, publications?

A thought sparked in his mind. He sat up straight. On his second morning in Gresham, before the servants had begun to dislike him, Mrs. Cooper had offered him a magazine to read, saying that the author of one of the serialized stories rented the old gamekeeper’s cottage. That she was Vicar Phelps’s daughter, a spinster with a cat.

An author. Having serials published, which meant steady income. And no one to spend it on but her spinsterish self and the cat.

He knew he was handsome. The mirror did not lie. Nor did the looks sent his way whenever he strolled down the London pavement. Or drove his barouche, before he lost it, along with the team of ash gray Welsh cobs.

He groaned, shook the thought from his head. No sense beating himself up over that again. He had used his looks and charm in the past for financial gain. It could be a tedious process, depending upon the particular whims of the object of his attention. And he took no pleasure in it. But for now in his desperation, it seemed Miss Phelps was the only game in Gresham.

“Miss Phelps?” Mrs. Cooper said to his query. “There’s no Miss Phelps in Gresham, sir. The two girls married some years ago.”

“But did you not say one of the vicar’s daughters leased a house from Uncle Thurmond?”

“That would be Miss Hollis. She’s actually his stepdaughter.”

Apples and oranges,
Donald thought. Still, she had something there. Women were flattered when a man took pains to learn a little something about them. Should he not read some of her stories before introducing himself?

He was on his way into the library when another thought struck him. If he were to pretend surprise at learning of her profession, she would have no reason to suspect he was interested in her money. And for that reason, he chose his plain tweed coat, though he did clean his teeth and comb his hair.

He set out without informing the servants where he was going.
Let them wonder!
But then again, they were probably dancing, thinking of new ways to taint his food. How satisfying it was going to be to sack all of them!

The path wound through the woods across Church Lane, just as he remembered. He saw movement and stopped to peer through the branches of a yew. Over the picket fence, a glimpse of red hair. That made him feel better. He adored red hair, the contrast it made with fair skin. Miss Hollis wore an apron over a dress of violet-and-pink checks, and was sweeping the cottage steps. Not a very writer-worthy activity, but when one chose to live alone, one had to look after oneself.

“Mummy, may I pick more berries?”

His eyes found the source of the voice: a girl, with the same red hair. Was this her actual reason for seclusion? A vicar’s daughter, with a base child?

“No, mite, you’ve had quite enough.”

Quite
met his ears as
quoit
. He would know that flat accent anywhere, having enjoyed a two-year liaison with a member of the Royal Opera House chorus who hailed from Birmingham.

Yet oddly, Mrs. Phelps, who would be her natural mother, had not shared the accent.

The plot thickened. Perhaps Miss Hollis had lived long enough in Birmingham to pick up the accent—and a child— before returning to self-exile on the fringe of the community.

He smiled to himself.
He
should be the writer. He stepped out from the tree. His mission might have been unsavory, but at least it proved to be interesting.

“I’m finished sweeping. If you’ll fetch your boots, we’ll explore a bit.”

Becky’s face brightened, and she darted into the house.

Jewel smiled. The trees were so fragrant, and this was Becky’s first experience with a forest. Jewel had fond, vague memories of visiting her mother’s parents on the outskirts of Chelmsley Wood.

She heard movement. Footfalls in the grass. Panic was her immediate reaction.
He doesn’t know where we are,
she had to remind herself.

“Good afternoon, miss,” said a voice, male, but decidedly not Mr. Dunstan’s. Nor Mr. Patterson’s. Perhaps Miss Hollis’s surgeon brother?

A dark-haired man stepped up to the fence, with a good-humored face that made up for the fierceness of his black mustache. “I’ve startled you. I should have given warning. Whistled, or sang a song. Only, I have a tin ear, so you might have thrown a stick at me.”

Jewel smiled. “No, that’s quite all right, sir. I’m just a bit skittish this afternoon.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “Strangers popping out of the woods will do that to you. So please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Donald Gibbs, the squire’s nephew.”

“I’m pleased to meet you,” she said, also pleased that he kept himself on the other side of the fence. But surely he was harmless, related to a village squire as he was. And he did not leer at her. She was about to introduce herself when Becky came running outdoors with boots flapping.

“Will you fasten them, Mummy? Who is that man?”

“Mr. Gibbs, Becky,” Jewel replied, and wrapped an arm around her shoulder to draw her to her side.

“I’ve been staying with my uncle for the past three weeks,” he said.

“We’re to walk in the woods,” Becky said as if they had not gone through such an ordeal over the last strange man to show interest in her.

“What fun! I used to wander up the path to pick blackberries when I was young. Should they be ripe now? No, it’s a bit early in the season.”

“I don’t know, sir,” Jewel replied. This Mr. Gibbs was a little too friendly for her comfort. “I’m suddenly fatigued. I doubt we’ll walk after all.”

“Please, Mummy,” Becky pleaded.

Mr. Gibbs unhooked his hands from the fence and took a backwards step, clearly understanding. “Pity, on such a lovely day. I’m rather fatigued myself. I hear a nap calling back at the house. Perhaps you’ll have the energy for your walk later.”

“Good day, sir,” Jewel said, not sure if this was a ploy, hating the cautious eye she would be forced to cast upon men, when most were surely decent.

“And to you.” He paused in midturn, brow furrowed but voice gentle. “I realize you’re my uncle’s tenant, Miss Hollis. But that does not obligate you to address me as
sir
. In fact, it causes me discomfort, considering the circumstances.”

“Your uncle owns this cottage?”

“Of course. How . . . could you not be aware of that? Are you not Miss Hollis?”

Relief flooded Jewel, that he had come with a legitimate purpose. “I’m Mrs. Libby.”

A pause, and then, “Are you her housemaid?”

“Oh, no sir. But she’s offered to help me find me a position.”

“Are we to take our walk now?” Becky asked.

“Shush, child.”

Mr. Gibbs scratched his head. “Where is Miss Hollis, then?”

“She’s at the vicarage. I’m not sure when she’ll return.”

“I see.” He folded his arms. “You’re not from Gresham, are you?”

“No, sir.”

“Your accent—Birmingham?”

“Why, yes. We came up just two days ago.”

“How are you acquainted with Miss Hollis?”

“My minister gave us a letter introducing us to Vicar Phelps. But he’s unwell.”

He nodded. “I thought he looked peaked that day. Are you saying you’re not acquainted with
anyone
in Gresham?”