Jewel of Gresham Green (27 page)

“I see.” But of course. How foolish to think his letter had stirred the dying coals and ignited the love she had once felt for him.

Second, he asked, “Where is your luggage?”

She bit her lip. “At the Bow and Fiddle.”

That stung worse than the first answer. And made him angry. But he managed to keep his temper from poisoning his voice. Softly he said, “Is the thought of staying with me so odious, Loretta? Have you no feelings for me at all?”

“No, it’s . . .” She rubbed her temples, appeared to be casting for words as her eyes reddened. “I’m so very confused, Philip. I just need some time to think.”

He resisted the urge to gather her into his arms, whether to comfort her or himself. “Then you need to go back. Do your thinking in London. I’ll drive you to the station tomorrow morning so you may truthfully tell your father I sent you away.”

She actually looked tempted. Another stab to the heart.

“No,” she finally said.

“He would only send you back here, wouldn’t he?”

Her silence said as much.

Despair tore at him. But emotion never solved a problem. Their marriage was diseased. He was a doctor. What was the best source of treatment? Surely it did not include living apart in the same village. They had practically done that in London, and where had it gotten them?

“Please move into the vicarage.”

She began shaking her head before he was halfway finished.

“You may take Grace’s old room. I won’t bother you.”

“And then what would your parents think? They already despise me.”

“They don’t despise you,” Philip said. “They would like nothing better than to be close to you.”

“I can’t stay there,” she said, adamant.

Awareness dawned. She simply planned to stay in Gresham long enough to appease her father, convince him she had attempted to mend the marriage.

Faint discordant notes met Philip’s ears. Ahead to their left, people sat in chairs facing the village hall, while two members of Gresham’s nine-piece ensemble began tuning trumpet and French horn. Gently Philip reached for Loretta’s arm and nodded toward the river. She did not resist. As they stood between two willows, watching the blue waters of the Bryce, he mulled over the situation.

God, what should I do?
he prayed.
Please show me where I’m
failing as a husband. Please change her heart toward me.

Yet how many times had he made those requests? Could it be that God wanted them apart? He could hardly believe that.

A violinist had joined the musicians when he turned to face her. “How long does your father expect you to stay?”

“He didn’t say.”

Long enough to mend the marriage,
he thought. Doctor Trask’s determination was legendary about Saint Bartholomew’s.

“I don’t give a tinker’s big toe what people think of me,” he said. “But I won’t purposely bring gossip down upon my family. If you stay in the Bow and Fiddle, that will humiliate them.”

“Perhaps if you moved there too?” she said with tepid enthusiasm.

Of course she meant separate chambers. He could see it in her eyes, and knew it was the next thing she would say. He shook his head. “Absolutely not. Housemaids talk; people are not stupid.”

“Then what should we do?”

“I’ll ask Aleda if we may borrow her cottage and she move back into the vicarage. We would have separate rooms, but as it’s entirely remote, it would not set tongues to wagging.”

A clarinet had joined the disjointed snatches of melody in the distance.

“Remote?” Loretta said, expression uneasy.

Had he never noticed how transparent she was? Or had he become so cynical that he assumed her every thought of him was negative?

“I would be away most of the day . . . assisting Doctor Rhodes, seeing after my stepfather. You would still be within walking distance to shops. And you wouldn’t be alone. A young widow from Birmingham is keeping house for Aleda. We could ask her to work for us. She has a sweet little daughter.”

“Aleda would never agree. She dislikes me most of all.”

Philip could not debate that point. “I believe she would. She has a generous heart. The vicarage is quieter now. People are staying away, respecting my parents’ privacy.”

“For how long?”

He held in another sigh. Their marriage would now be reduced to dates circled upon a calendar. “One month? If you still don’t wish to be married, I shall go with you to speak with your father. Set a divorce in motion.”

“Very well,” she said after a hesitation.

He took her hand, tucked it into the crook of his arm. “Now . . . Mother is saving slices of snow cake for us, a heroic feat in my family. And we have some arrangements to make.”

“I do like snow cake,” she said as they left the privacy of the willows.

“Of course you may use the cottage,” Aleda said after Philip posed his question in the vicarage garden.

Loretta was resting from her journey upstairs in his room. Mother and Father were in the parlor, ostensibly reading newspapers, but probably wondering what was going on with Philip and Loretta. Elizabeth’s family had ambled over to the village hall, bearing rugs. She imagined Claire and Samuel succumbing to naps as the notes to Schubert’s Symphony no. 2 in B-flat Major floated over them.

He caught Aleda up in his arms, gave her a quick squeeze. “I can’t thank you enough.”

She smiled, and was truly glad for the relief in his countenance. What she would never say was that this favor was not for him, as much as she loved him. And certainly not for Loretta.

Father needed this rare peace and quiet to continue. As Philip had explained to her a couple of days after the surgery, the gallstones and heart murmur were not related, but physicians were beginning to wonder if nerves had some ill effect upon the latter.

Mother needed the tranquillity, as well. She and Father were like two connecting spheres, with common interests in the middle and their own energy-building interests in the outer spheres. Mother would never admit it, but she appeared to be wearing down a bit.

Loretta held her breath as she passed Elizabeth’s cottage late Tuesday morning. Fortunately, while children’s voices and other domestic sounds flowed past the flower pots in the windows, no one came out into the garden to invite her inside. She found Elizabeth’s company more tolerable than Aleda’s, but she was feeling too melancholy for idle chatter. Especially with Philip’s family members, with their loving cords binding him—and now her—to Gresham.

The school building appeared vacant. A dozen children played in the yard, kicking up heels on swings hanging from elm limbs, squealing with delight on a merry-go-round, and simply running off energy.

Loretta begrudged them their joy. She wondered what Irene and Conrad thought of her exile, for surely Father had informed them. Irene was probably relieved to have their parents to herself, without the tension that tainted every pleasantry. And it was unlikely that Conrad thought of her at all.

Was she the only person on earth to feel robbed of her youth and tormented by what might have been?

She turned southward down shady Market Street, toward the shops nestled cheek-to-jowl. A display of ladies’ hats in a bow window jogged a memory. She went inside Perkins’ Fine Millinery. The shop assistant behind the counter did not raise her eyes from her magazine.

Loretta cleared her throat. The woman held up a finger, read for another second, then looked up. She had a pleasantly rounded figure, soft brown eyes, and full lips. Her hair was swept up into a chignon, revealing garnet earrings. Her high-collared, low-waisted gown of navy tweed studded with red and white checks was the height of fashion. Loretta was so relieved to see someone in this village who was not three years behind London fashions that she forgave the snubbing.

“
Godey’s Lady’s Book
,” the woman said in a voice as high-pitched as Becky Libby’s. “I’ve got to keep up with the style.”

“This is your shop?”

“All mine. My mum and father bought it for me, to give me some direction.” She assumed a stern look and mocked a man’s voice, as much as her high pitch allowed. “Daughter . . . no more of this sleeping in while life passes you by.”

She giggled, motioned toward a half-curtained door behind her. “Father was miffed when I put a cot back there. I explained it’s just for propping my feet for a minute when I have the monthly. That shut him up. But it’s sort of nice, having my own business. One day ladies will be coming from all over Shropshire to buy from me.”

That’s debatable,
Loretta thought. While the hat displays were reasonably attractive, the service was lacking. London shop clerks would have crawled over her as soon as she entered, like ants on an apple core.

“Do you block hats?” she asked. The gray straw capote she had purchased last week had gotten mashed after falling from its box on the train.

Without a word the woman disappeared through the curtained doorway. She returned with a circular wooden device and pursed her lips at it. “I believe that’s what this is for. I’ll ask my mum for certain.”

And then, oddly, she stretched out her hand toward Loretta.

Loretta stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”

She blew out an exasperated breath. “The hat?”

“Not this hat,” Loretta said, adding under her breath,
You
twit!
“I shall have to bring it another day.”

The woman looked aggrieved at the device in her hands, turned again toward the curtained doorway. Loretta chose that time to exit.

She received a better reception in Trumbles. As soon as the bell tinkled over the door, a doughy-faced man with walrus mustache turned from dusting cans. “Good morning, madam. Unusually dry July we’re having, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” Loretta said, approaching the counter. What did she know of Shropshire weather? “I would like some chocolates and something to read.”

The man smiled, hooked his thumbs through the braces holding up his trousers. “Ah . . . nothing like chocolate and a good book for a phlegm-matic day.”

Phlegmatic?
Loretta wondered. She was quite sure that phlegm was mucus. Not a pretty mental picture.

“The only problem is,” he continued, “while I can order books for you, I don’t carry them, not since Mrs. Bartley—God rest her dear soul—added to the subscription library. You can’t fault folks for not buying what they can borrow. That’s just wise money mangerment.”

Management?

She left with a small tin of Cadbury Fine Crown chocolates and the directions to Bartley Subscription Library, northwards on Market Street and almost to the river. She was relieved to discover the bookshelves were indeed well stocked. At least she would have something to do during her month of exile.

“We just got this one in,” said a white-haired woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Jefferies.

Loretta paged through the copy of Henry James’
The Portrait
of a Lady
with some reservations, for she had heard that the plot included an unfulfilled marriage. It looked interesting enough, but she also selected
Wives and Daughters
by Elizabeth Gaskell, just in case.

On a whim, she also chose
Wonderful Stories for Children
, the Hans Christian Andersen tales, evoking fond memories of Nanny Miriam reading at bedside to her and Irene. Perhaps Jewel would care to read them to Becky? If she could read, that is. At least the pictures were nice.

Having had three days to observe her, Loretta did not believe that Jewel would take this as a narrowing of the God-ordained gap between servant and master. Thankfully, the housemaid went about her work quietly in her presence. The snatches of mother-daughter conversations Loretta had overheard through walls and windows were subdued and sweet, and caused her to smile. And sometimes brought tears.

Young women tending small children and older women tending gardens sent her curious stares as she returned to the cottage, but most were accompanied by amiable g
ood morning
s. Loretta returned the greetings, even while counting the days until she could leave, counting the minutes until she would seek comfort in a novel and chocolates, and counting her hurrying steps past Elizabeth’s gate.

Savory smells greeted her on the cottage path. Jewel turned from the kitchen stove. “I hope you like fried sole and potatoes and gooseberry pudding, Mrs. Hollis.”

“Lovely,” Loretta said.

Becky, playing with her doll at the foot of the stairs, looked up with brown eyes bright. “I helped pick the gooseberries. I was mindful of the thorns, just like Mummy said. You just have to be very careful.”

Loretta laughed in spite of her heavy heart.

“You must pick up your blocks from the table so I can lay the cloth,” Jewel said to her daughter. “Remember what I said about leaving your things lying about?”

The girl went over to the table at once. Intent upon helping her—for Becky was not a servant—Loretta picked up a block.

Jewel gave her an uneasy look. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but she’s got to learn to pick up after herself.”

Loretta replaced the block and shrugged at the child.

One compensation for living in the cottage was that Philip took lunch at the vicarage or Doctor Rhodes’. Evenings after sharing supper, they gave each other dutiful kisses in the landing between their separate rooms. He was keeping his word, not crowding or pressuring her. Yet she knew that if she should receive a letter from Father tomorrow, giving her permission to return to London, she would be finding a way to Shrewsbury that same day.