Jewel of Gresham Green (22 page)

“Only Miss Hollis and Mrs. Phelps.”

“And you’re looking for a position?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you keep your word, Mrs. Libby?”

The question surprised her. “I do my best. It’s a sin not to.”

“My uncle is dying.”

Jewel put a hand to her heart. “I’m sorry.”

“He requires a day nurse who would be willing to move into the manor house. If I were to hire you, could you refrain from gossiping to the servants, or anyone else, what goes on? He was always a private man. Out of respect for him, I don’t want it bandied about the house and village what he’s going through.”

“I can do that, sir.” He had not asked if she had experience, but she thought she should add, “I cared for my mother for eight months when I was twelve.”

“Very good.”

“I would have to have my daughter with me.”

“Fine. I’ll send someone for you in the morning.”

In the morning?
Could this not wait until after church? But illness was no respecter of time. And the way the job was offered to her, out of the blue, surely this was from God. Had she not prayed for a position?

Thank you, Father!

Jewel and Becky were sitting across from each other at the table with bowls of soup when Miss Hollis returned with Mr. Patterson.

“We’ve interrupted your supper,” he said.

“We’ve only just sat down. Would you care for some soup?”

“No thank you,” Miss Hollis said on her way to the staircase. “We’ve been helping rearrange furniture at the vicarage, and Dora brought out sandwiches. Gabriel’s just here for my manuscript.”

“I’m afraid she’ll change her mind if I wait until tomorrow.” Mr. Patterson pulled out the chair beside Becky and sat. “And what did you do this afternoon, Miss Becky?”

“She drew a lovely picture for me,” Miss Hollis called down from the landing.

Beaming, Becky said, “And we saw a rabbit in the woods.”

“How exciting!” Mr. Patterson said.

She nodded. “And Mummy has a job.”

“What was that?” Miss Hollis said, halfway down the staircase with her manuscript in her arms.

Jewel looked up at her. “I’m to be the day nurse for the squire. His nephew, a Mr. Gibbs, came by. I start tomorrow morning. I hate to miss church, but hopefully we’ll have other opportunities to go.”

At the bottom of the staircase, Miss Hollis turned to set her manuscript upon a step. She walked over to the head of the table and sat adjacent to Jewel. With an eye toward Becky and voice low, she said, “Mr. Gibbs has a reputation.”

Another Mr. Dunstan? Sickening chills ran up Jewel’s back.

“I’ve not met him, but it’s all over Gresham that he had to be goaded into providing decent care for the squire. And that he only allows Doctor Rhodes to visit.”

Jewel pursed her lips. “But if he’s hiring me as nurse, would that not mean he intends to give him proper care?”

Miss Hollis rolled her eyes. “Have you considered that he may have taken a fancy to you?”

“To me?” Jewel shook her head.

“You’re quite pretty.”

Mr. Patterson nodded somberly.

“I would have known. He didn’t look at us that way at all.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Miss Hollis asked.

“Yes. This seems an answer to prayer.”

“Well, you can always come back and we’ll start all over if it’s not a good situation. And if this is your going-away supper, I believe I’ll have some soup after all.” She pushed out her chair. “Gabriel?”

“It does smell good,” he said. “A half bowl?”

Jewel started to rise, but Miss Hollis patted her shoulder. “I think I can find the bowls and spoons.”

“Delicious,” Mr. Patterson said after a taste. “Have you worked as a cook?”

“Only a kitchen maid, when I was young.”

“Mummy sewed corsets,” Becky piped.

“Becky . . .”

Mr. Patterson laughed. It was a wonderful, joyous sound, and contagious, for Miss Hollis joined him, then Jewel.

“How did you come from sewing corsets in Birmingham to making soup in Gresham?” he asked, wiping his eyes.

“It’s a long story,” she said respectfully. “And best forgotten.”

“Bad Mr. Dunstan wanted me to go to the cellar with him,” Becky supplied with childish frankness. “Mummy, what are the green things?”

Mr. Patterson’s round face filled with distress and compassion. His eyes shifted to meet Jewel’s. “Men can be such beasts.”

“Not all men,” she said softly. “And we’re fine now.”

“You deserve to be.”

She felt a flush to her cheeks and looked again at her daughter. “They’re peas, Becky.”

Interesting,
Aleda thought.

After the meal, she watched Gabriel take Mrs. Libby’s hand and wish her well, then pat Becky’s head.

He took up her manuscript, and she accompanied him to the gate in the gathering dusk.

“Hurry, Gabriel, or you’ll be caught in the darkness. Perhaps I should get you a lamp.”

“And risk igniting these precious pages? Don’t worry.” He looked at the cottage. “You think they’ll be all right?”

“I’ve not heard of Mr. Gibbs forcing his attentions on any of the women servants. Or children. And it comforts me to know she’ll be tending the squire. She seems a compassionate woman.”

“Yes, she does. But Becky . . . has she any toys at all?”

Aleda thought for a second. She had had little interest in toys as a child, so had not even noticed. “I don’t think so.”

“May I give you some money to buy some toys to send to the manor house? They must be from
you
or Mrs. Libby will think . . .”

“Yes, I understand. But I don’t want any money.”

“You’ve done a good deed, helping them. Please let me help, too.” He patted the top page of her manuscript and grinned at her. “You do owe me a favor. . . .”

“Very well.” Aleda tugged at his sleeve. “Now go, or I’ll worry about you wandering about in the darkness.”

She smiled on her way back through the garden. Perhaps it wasn’t necessary to live in London to find Gabriel a wife after all.

By the time she reached the door, her practical side had elbowed its way past that fantasy. The two were barely acquainted, and one had only to look at Philip and Loretta to see the danger of wedding in haste.

But it couldn’t hurt to keep both in her prayers and see what the future held.

Chapter 19

Andrew preached his sermon Sunday morning, baptized the Coggins infant, and made an announcement just before the closing prayer and doxology.

“As many of you are aware, I’m to have surgery tomorrow morning.”

There was a faint ripple of voices, heads leaning together.

“Mr. Nicholls of Whitchurch will fill the pulpit for the month of July. I realize I do not have to ask that you show him the same courtesy you have shown me, for you are the kindest congregation I have ever known.”

Julia smiled, remembering the grumblings fifteen years ago when Andrew and the girls arrived in Gresham. The general consensus was that no one could fill Vicar Wilson’s shoes—nor his pulpit. It had taken Gresham some time to warm up to him, just as it had taken her time to see this thickset, self-deprecating man in a romantic light.

“Which leads me to this request I make of you, dear ones. My family will have the unenviable task of nursing me. I fear too many calls will tax their strength. We would be most grateful for some quiet time to heal . . . and above all, we would be grateful for your prayers.”

Another ripple, accompanied by nods and smiles. He stood at the door twice as long, receiving handshakes and promises of prayers.

“If anything goes wrong . . .” Andrew said that night as Julia lay in his arms.

She put a hand up to his lips. “Shush, Vicar.”

He chuckled under the faint pressure of her fingers, then mumbled, “I need to say this.”

She moved her hand.

“I hope you’ll move back into the Larkspur. I can’t bear the thought of you in some lonely cottage while the children move on with their lives.”

“Then I shall,” she said.

“And if some old gent . . . perhaps one of your lodgers . . . takes a fancy to you, and you find yourself wanting to marry again, please know you have my blessing.”

“Andrew. I’ll never marry again.”

“I thought the same after Kathleen died. You can’t know what’s around the corner. I just want you to know that . . . whatever you do, I approve. I never want you to be lonely.”

“Very well,” she said to appease him.

“Unless it’s Donald Gibbs.”

Julia smiled in the darkness. “There goes my manor house.”

“M-m-m.” He nuzzled the top of her head with his chin. “It’s nice. Sleeping snuggled together like this.”

“Very nice,” she said. She did not plan to slip down into the parlor tonight anyway.

On Monday morning, Julia, Aleda, Elizabeth and Jonathan, Ambrose and Fiona, and Gabriel—who would be leaving for London later in the day—sat in Saint John’s Hospital’s waiting room on the ground floor, engaged in small talk and looking up whenever the door opened. Just before noon, Philip walked in, looking weary but pleased. He had taken the time to remove his apron, which Julia appreciated.

“He came through fine. The ether is wearing off, and he’s resting.”

Julia, able to retain her composure most times, melted into quiet tears. She soddened her own handkerchief, and the one Fiona pressed upon her.
Thank you, Father!

Philip escorted her past a dozen beds, most occupied, and some with curtains closed. “Remember he’s still coming out of the ether,” he whispered as a nurse withdrew the curtain around the last bed. “He may speak out of his head.”

Sheet up to his chest, Andrew gazed at her through half-closed eyes, as if trying to identify her. With Philip watching from the other side, Julia knelt, touched her husband’s bare shoulder lightly.

“How do you feel?”

He gave her a weak smile and mumbled, “It’s over?”

“Yes. Philip says you came through fine.”

“Very good. Will you write to Laurel and Grace?”

“Yes. Tonight.”

He closed his eyes, as if to rest a bit from the effort. Julia smiled up at Philip. The ether had obviously worn off, for Andrew was as lucid as ever.

Andrew opened his eyes again. “Will you write to Laurel and Grace?”

Or then again . . .

“Yes,” Julia said. “Tonight.”

“And when Philip comes for supper, please ask him not to marry that girl. I don’t think she will make him happy.”

His eyes closed. Julia went around the bed and laid a hand upon Philip’s arm. “I’m sorry, son. As you warned, he may speak out of his head.”

“It’s all right, Mother. I realize I’ve given you both occasion to worry.”

“Are . . . you happy?” She had to ask.

He smiled and patted her hand in the crook of his arm. “How could I not be, with such a wonderful family?”

It was an answer that made her smile, while making her profoundly sad.

Donald woke from restless sleep on Tuesday, the first of July. That month’s mortgage payment was due by the eighth. Driven to desperation, he had the dogcart brought around front, and took the reins.

He had always hated the cheese factory. The fathomless stone building reeked of sour milk. Today, however, it smelled of money. At least in theory, for there was one huge obstacle to overcome.

He asked a white-aproned worker for directions to the accountant’s office.

“Come in” came from inside after his knock.

Donald opened the door.

Horace Stokes ceased penciling numbers into a ledger and looked up. “May I help—” His face tightened into a glare that would curdle milk.

“Good day, Mr. Stokes,” Donald said, entering, closing the door.

In spite of the malice pouring from it, Horace Stokes’s face was still handsome after twenty-one years, with its piercing blue eyes, aristocratic nose, and square jaw. At thirteen, he had had the looks of a Greek god, albeit a skinny one. The broad shoulders now filling out his shirt were a surprise.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” Donald said, nonplussed by the hostility. Power, even delayed, was a fine antidote to awkwardness.

“Thanks to your uncle,” Horace said coldly.

I deserve some thanks, as well,
Donald thought. “Will you not offer me a seat?”