Jewel of Gresham Green (26 page)

For she had replied to Philip’s letter—as cordially as possible— that it would be best if he took Doctor Rhodes’ offer. She had even wished him well.

That would give him the power to obtain a judicial separation after two years, possibly leading to divorce, but the stigma of being a divorcée could not be worse than this misery she carried around inside.

Surely her friends would never desert her. And unlike Sharon and Maud, she had no children who would be affected.

The irony of it, she thought, was that Philip would think it a great adventure, heading over to the Chinese section of Limehouse to sample Cantonese food for the first time.

Three hours later, she turned at her door and waved at her friends.

“Did you have a lovely afternoon?” Ines asked.

“It was an interesting one.”

She was bursting to relate the whole experience to someone.
We were the only white faces in the crowded little place!
she might have said.
Maud had Henry join us for safety’s sake. A group of
men with pigtails bowed and gave us their table, and finished
their meals standing. After the proprietor came to understand
we could not read the menu, he brought out dishes of some sort of
chicken sauce upon rice. And then . . . chopsticks! We made motions
that we would like forks, and he either did not understand us or
had none.

One thing her mother had taught her at an early age was that servants were to be treated fairly and spoken to with courtesy, but that the social gap must not be crossed if the household was to run efficiently.

Someone knocked; Loretta assumed it was Henry. Had she forgotten something in Maud’s coach? She waited at the foot of the stairs while Ines set the hatboxes on the hall bench and opened the door.

Her father stood frowning at her.

“Good afternoon, Doctor Trask,” Ines said.

“Good afternoon.” He stepped over the threshold, looked up at Loretta, and motioned toward the parlor.

Once they were alone, Loretta knew not to mention the Limehouse adventure. Not that she would have had the opportunity. He closed the door and turned to her.

“A letter from Philip was just delivered to my office, expressing his intention to resign and take over a practice in Gresham. He made no mention of this when he asked for time off.”

He was staring at her, arms folded. Loretta waited for the question, then realized he had just stated it.

She sighed. “He didn’t deceive you, Father. He was concerned about his stepfather. No doubt his family is pressuring him to stay. They’re quite clingy.”

He shook his head. “I did not perceive that when we met. Close, yes. Loving. But not clingy.”

Perhaps she had exaggerated to a small degree, but she would not take it back. “I suppose returning to Gresham woke up his old dream of practicing medicine there.”

“Then why become a surgeon? A gifted surgeon.”

“A
dispensary
surgeon,” Loretta reminded him. Trained for both surgery and general medicine.

“So what tipped the scales?”

A flush crept up Loretta’s cheek.

“Loretta?”

She told him of Philip’s letter, and her reply. “It’s better this way, Papa. We’ve both been so unhappy.”

He dropped to the sofa and put his head in his hands. “This can’t be.”

She was surprised when tears stung her eyes. She decided she may as well use them. They had served her well since she was a little girl, sitting on her father’s knee complaining that her cousin Marie owned four dolls, when she owned only three. Those tears had netted her a trip to Lowther Arcade, two dolls, and a music box.

She sat beside her father, hands folded and head lowered, and squeezed out a few more. “I’m . . . sorry, Father. I know I’ve disappointed you . . . not being able to maintain his affection.”

She could feel his eyes upon her, and waited for the touch upon her shoulder. Instead she heard a snort.

“Rubbish, Loretta. That man is head over heels for you. Bring me his letter.”

She gave him as indignant a look as she dared. “
Father
. . .”

“You can’t fire a cannon like that, sitting here in a house I paid for, and demand privacy. I insist on seeing it.”

It was too late to claim to have burned it. He would be able to tell by looking at her. She fetched it from their bedchamber and handed it over.

He read it once and then again. “I see nothing about divorce in this letter. All marriages hit a rough road now and again. You’ll go to Gresham. Patch things up.”

“Impossible.”

“You’ll not simply throw up your hands and bring scandal upon our family. Pack your things tonight. Tomorrow, you’ll disengage yourself from whatever commitments you have. I shall escort you to the station on Sunday morning.”

It was time for the real waterworks. All she had to do to summon them was to think of herself in Gresham as a country doctor’s wife. She put her hands to her face. Tears filled her eyes, flooded her cheeks.

“Now, now,” her father said with an arm around her, gently pressing her head to his shoulder.

She sobbed and sobbed, and when she thought it was enough, found that she could not stop. When his shoulder as well as his handkerchief were sodden, and her throat felt almost as sore as it had the winter she had contracted scarlet fever, he patted her arm and began speaking, softly.

“I don’t like to make you sad. Please hear me. You and Irene were enigmas. I had only brothers growing up, did not know quite how to treat you. I loved you dearly, could not bear to see you unhappy. But I left the everyday rearing to your mother and nursemaids. I was not the sort of father to bounce you on my knee. As a result, I think you picture me as only beginning to live once I became imprinted in your consciousness.”

He was right. She had never thought much about his youth. Mother was the one who liked to tell stories of her adventures as daughter of the ambassador to Moscow.

“But my heart was broken terribly, before I met your mother.”

She raised her head. Even if he were not her father, she could not picture him as the romantic type, with his smallish frame and white hair.

“She was a Scottish girl, a tobacconist’s daughter in Edinburgh. I took up the pipe just to have reason to frequent his shop. As did many of my fellow students. When she became betrothed to the lord mayor’s son, I thought I would die.” He smiled. “As did many of my fellow students. But I had my studies to occupy my mind. The regimen of medical school kept me from floundering around, wondering what to do next.”

“But you loved Mother when you met her. Right?”

“Absolutely. But you see? I met her four years later, when the shopkeeper’s daughter was but a vague memory. I could appreciate your mother as the wonderful woman she was . . . not as a balm for a broken heart.”

She would have been grateful for this opportunity to get to know her father better had she not realized this was a preamble to what he was about to say. She braced herself.

“I erred by allowing Conrad to court Irene so soon after your heart was broken. I was relieved when you seemed interested in Philip, and so I did all I could to encourage a romance. Inviting him for dinner, encouraging walks in the park. Your hurt had mended, or so I thought. My guilt was assuaged.”

“Father . . .”

“Please allow me to finish.” He cleared his throat. “Your mother and I tried to help make your marriage happy. Giving you this house. Hiring a coachman. But I see now that it only delayed the inevitable. Once you realized Philip couldn’t take away your thoughts for Conrad, you began to resent him. You’ve never really put Conrad out of your mind long enough to appreciate your husband for who he is.”

She had thought she was wrung dry. But even these fresh tears did not soften his resolution. She was going to Gresham.

Chapter 23

Aleda unwound the finished page from her typewriter and added it to the stack. The woodsy air wafting through her window was intoxicating. She decided that even if her book sold, and sold well, she would stay right there. If she purchased the largest house in Shropshire, she could find no more pleasant corner than where she sat now.

She looked over to the foot of her bed. “Don’t you agree, Tiger?”

The cat looked up, but only because the kitchen door opened and closed. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Mrs. Libby appeared in the open doorway.

“Pardon me, Miss Hollis, but your sister sent some shortbread, still warm. May I bring some up to you, with some tea?”

“That would be lovely.”

“Where did you see Elizabeth?” Aleda asked when she returned.

“Her son John came with an invitation for Becky to play with the younger children. I’ve just come back from delivering her. They’re very sweet.”

So was Elizabeth, Aleda thought. In spite of the wardrobe comments. She made room on her desk for the small tray. “I’m glad Becky has an opportunity to play, but she’s no bother. She’s not a boisterous child.”

“I can take little credit. She learned to play quietly a long time ago. The woman who once minded her while I worked kept infants, as well.”

“You’re due more than a little credit, Mrs. Libby. I see how you are with her.”

“Thank you,” she said. Her face sobered. “May I make a request?”

Aleda bit into a square of shortbread. “You may make one, but there’s no guarantee I’ll follow it.” Warm pastry brought out the tease in her.

Mrs. Libby looked startled for only an instant, then smiled. “With my being officially in your employ—at least for now—I wonder if you might use my given name? It’ll be easier for you, and I’ll not feel like a stuffy old aunt.”

“Very well. If that’s what you wish.”

“It is, thank you. And I’ll leave you to your work.”

“Wait. Did you happen to check the letter box?” It was erected on Church Lane, for the Royal Post Office did not recognize the path into Gipsy Woods as a legitimate route.

“I’m afraid there was none.” Jewel gave her a sympathetic look. “You’re hoping to hear from Mr. Patterson.”

“Which makes no sense.” Aleda shrugged. “He has his own work, and besides, said he plans to hire someone to type mine. It’s a strain to read someone else’s script for the length of a novel. I don’t expect to hear from him for at least a month.”

Which meant, she told herself after Jewel left, she must stop wondering and leave it in God’s hands. She wiped her hands upon the tea cloth and rolled another sheet of paper into the typewriter. For now, the magazine stories were her bread and butter. And if they ended up being all she had, her life would remain about the same anyway.

The Larkspur lodgers had obviously gotten to Mr. Nicholls, for Sunday’s sermon, entitled “The Laborers Are Few,” from the book of Saint Matthew, was far more pithy. He projected his voice more, sweat less.

Aleda, seated as usual with her family, looked back and smiled at Jewel and Becky, seated with Mrs. Cooper and a couple of other manor house servants. A person could not hide his true nature from his servants for too long, and they clearly knew Mr. Gibbs’.

After church, the family gathered in the dining room for the first time since Father’s surgery. Philip helped Father to his chair, and Dora set before him vegetable soup pressed through a strainer, with bread for sopping. He was so overjoyed to be at the table that he clearly did not begrudge the others the usual Sunday cold meats and salad, or the two flaky giblet-and-potato pies Dora had stuck in the oven after church. The pies were reduced to crumbs when hoofbeats and carriage wheels sounded in the lane. Ever-helpful John volunteered to leave the dining room to answer the door, even though Mother was bringing a snow cake from the sideboard.

He returned with eyes wide and Loretta at his side.

“Good afternoon,” she said sheepishly.

A benign north breeze carried across the Bryce the sweet aroma of newly shorn hayfields. The green was absent of romping children and gossiping housewives as the village respected Sunday afternoon. Philip and Loretta strolled along with a foot of space between them, like two acquaintances.

“Are you sure you’re not hungry?” Philip asked.

“Mrs. Day packed sandwiches for the train.” She hesitated. “How long have you been growing a beard?”

“Two weeks. It’s finally out of the itchy stage.” He rubbed his chin, smiled at her. “I know. You don’t like it.”

“No, it’s not so bad. I don’t know why I didn’t care for it before.”

Philip could take that two ways. Either she had missed him enough to where the beard no longer caused an annoyance, or she simply did not care.

Between seeing about his father and easing into Doctor Rhodes’ practice, he had managed to push her to the back of his mind, but never out of it. She was as beautiful as ever in a tan traveling suit, her blond hair trailing to her waist from the back of a small narrow-brimmed hat.

They made small talk. He related Andrew’s progress in healing, after she had the decency to ask. She told him of trying Chinese food in Limehouse, which made him laugh.

And then it was time for Philip to ask the hard questions. First, “Why are you here?”

She hesitated, slanted him a worried look. “Father . . .”