Jewel of Gresham Green (31 page)

Which was unfortunate, because the compliment made her blush like a schoolgirl. To cover her embarrassment, she said quickly, “Are you aware that Ambrose Clay lives part of the year in Gresham?”

“The actor? In this stodgy old village?”

“I met him and his wife at our London wedding. They’ll be at the vicarage for Sunday dinner. Perhaps I could wrangle you an invitation?”

He shook his head. “You’re very kind, but I shall have to decline. My uncle becomes very moody when I’m not there to feed him his meals.”

“It’s good of you to care so deeply for him.” Loretta had heard stories of heirs so overcome by greed that they lost all compassion.

He fell silent, as if battling some emotion. At length he said, quietly, “It’s very kind of you to say so, Mrs. Hollis. I can hardly think what I shall do with myself when he’s gone.”

“I’ll send Jewel and Becky over for a short visit every day. If you think it will help.”

He pressed his hand to his heart, nodded.

Loretta was startled to hear Becky’s childish voice in the near distance. Where had the time gone?

“Look, Mummy! A redbird!”

“Already?” Mr. Gibbs said, voicing Loretta’s thoughts. He got to his feet. “How very rude of me, overstaying my welcome.”

“On the contrary.” She extended her hand. “In fact, I hope you will visit again.”

He leaned down to take her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “Nothing would please me more, Mrs. Hollis. You have provided a bright spot in an otherwise dark day.”

It’s an ill wind that blows no good,
Donald thought, holding open the gate.

“Thank you, sir,” Jewel mumbled, a basket in one hand, her daughter’s hand in the other. The fact that she avoided his eyes did not damper his high spirits.

Hopefully his uncle would be appeased back into his near stupor. And he had finally met someone in this backwards place as sophisticated as he, and who shared his passion for London. It was a tonic to his soul, reliving his memories.

Carefully selected memories, of course. He would write to Reese and share his day.

When he stepped into the manor house, an envelope was propped upon the foyer table, the address written in the familiar uneven letters. He held it to his heart on the staircase, closed his door, and tore into the envelope.

Drained of strength, he dropped into his chair. The love of his life had left him for Mr. Angier, a married art appraiser who haunted the music halls in the hopes of picking up those as desperate and beautiful as Reese. Why, Reese had often mocked the man, prancing about with puffed-out cheeks and cushion-stuffed shirt!

But everyone had a price. Reese’s was a posh flat on Wellington Street, in the thick of restaurants and theatres, instead of a silent house in Kensington. A day cook and maid instead of a half-empty larder and tin of matches for the stove.

Donald wept until no more tears came and his throat felt raw.

Life was not fair. Why had he even come here?

He would have to beg, borrow, steal, or grovel enough to return to London and woo back Reese.

He wiped his face with a handkerchief, rested his head against his chair cushion, and closed his sandpapery eyes.

At length, soft raps came at the door, then Mrs. Cooper’s voice. “Shall I send up your supper, Mr. Gibbs?”

He opened his swollen eyes, blinked at the dimness of the room.

“Just some soup,” he croaked.

The nourishment helped him to think more rationally. Of what use to win Reese back, only to be tossed aside again for the next man with money? At the risk of losing his house?

As much as it pained him to admit it, the more prudent action would be to keep up the mortgage. By the time he inherited and reclaimed all that was his, Reese would have grown weary of Mister Toad.

He had three weeks to raise his August payment. And his mind wrapped around a possibility. With a surgeon husband and parents residing on Park Lane, Mrs. Hollis had money. And she had enjoyed his company.

The fact that she was married was an asset. When he did not make advances, she would think him a gentleman.

But he must not attempt to plunge headlong into a relationship. Impulsive men looked desperate. The wealthy could smell desperation. He ought to know. He hailed from their ranks.

Having read from
The Portrait of a Lady
all through the following morning, and even through lunch, Loretta was sitting in the garden with head back and eyes closed when the squeak of the gate penetrated her fog.

“Mummy, may I pick some gooseberries?”

“Sh-h-h,” she heard Jewel say.

Loretta opened her eyes.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“I wasn’t asleep.”

Jewel turned to her daughter. “You may pick one, if you’ll be careful as I taught you.”

“How was the squire?” Loretta asked as the girl skipped over to the gooseberry shrub. The pale green fruit glistened like aquamarine gems through the leaves.

“He seemed pleased to see us again. But I must get into the kitchen and start supper.”

“Doctor Hollis ordered from the Bow and Fiddle. He’ll collect it on his way home. You have only to lay the cloth.”

Jewel’s shoulders relaxed visibly. “How thoughtful. I admit I was worried. I’ve never cooked for a dinner party.”

“This will hardly be a dinner party,” Loretta said dryly. “Did you see Mr. Gibbs?”

“Just briefly in the hall.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He thanked us for coming.”

How about thanking me for sending you?
And he had seemed the perfect gentleman yesterday. Loretta had to remind herself,
He’s distracted . . . concerned for his uncle
.

And of truth, she should have sent a note, thanking him for the cake. She would go inside and compose one for Jewel to hand to him tomorrow. She would mention how much she had enjoyed their conversation and extend an invitation to visit again. It was neither improper nor forward. She would write the same note to a woman. Courtesy was courtesy, no matter that he was a handsome, witty man who shared her love for London.

“My great-grandfather worked for the squire’s grandfather,” Jeremiah Toft said that evening, while grinding enough pepper over his roast beef to give everyone at the table sneezing fits.

“And then my grandfather for his son, who was the squire’s father. My own father worked in the stables, before he passed on. And now me. And Beryl worked in the scullery before we married.”

Loretta nodded politely and almost wished she were in the parlor, where Jewel and Becky had taken the infant.

Beryl Toft turned her face toward the cooings and soft laughter coming from the other side of the house and smiled. She was a smallish woman, with dark beady eyes, and wiry brown hair barely tamed by a comb. “But our Jenny won’t work in nobody’s kitchen. She’ll go to college. Maybe even become a doctor, like you, Philip.”

“There are women doctors now,” Philip said, adding cautiously, “but you must be sure it’s her wish and not yours. I’ve seen too many medical students forced into the profession by their parents.”

“Philip’s got a point there,” Jeremiah said around a mouthful of beef. “She might even decide to become a writer, like Aleda.”

She’s three months old
, Loretta thought.
Why are we even
discussing this?

The lack of respect was unsettling. Addressing Philip by his given name? While the pair had attended school with her husband, their paths had diverged years ago, both geographically and socially.

And as little as she expected of Gresham’s collective sense of fashion, Loretta was stunned when Beryl appeared in a
gardening
smock
, over a skirt of eye-assaulting yellow, and announced, “My regular clothes still don’t fit. But at least this smock makes it easier for Jenny to get to her food.”

She could only hope the woman would have the sense to go off in private, should that become necessary.

The manor house chocolate cake, every bit as delicious as Mr. Gibbs had described, was tucked away in the pantry to be savored, a sliver at a time. Bread-and-butter pudding from the Bow and Fiddle served as dessert. No sooner had they finished—Jeremiah wolfing down two servings before anyone else finished firsts—then he wiped his mouth on the cuff of his sleeve and thanked them for the evening.

“Jenny’s just now started sleeping all night,” Beryl explained. “We’ve got to get her home.”

“We understand,” Loretta assured her, and was so happy over not having to spend another hour in the parlor gushing over the baby that she embraced Beryl at the door, even said, “It was so lovely meeting you.”

Though darkness had not yet settled, Philip escorted them to the lane. Jewel began clearing the table. Loretta took a cup of coffee into the parlor and found herself listening to Jewel’s and Becky’s voices among the clicks of china.

“I wish we had a baby like Jenny,” Becky was saying.

“She was sweet,” Jewel said. “I’ve only seen one sweeter.”

“Me, Mummy?”

Loretta had to smile. Sometimes she felt a pang of envy at the pleasure mother and daughter took in each other. She had little use for babies, never having spent much time in their company, but knew that they were necessary in order to get to the “Becky” stage.

She heard the door open and close, then Philip thanking Jewel for serving and tidying up.

“I’m helping,” she heard Becky say.

“Yes, you certainly are.”

She could picture Philip patting her head.
Perhaps the head
pats keep them from growing too swiftly,
she thought.
And perhaps
you’re a silly woman
. Relief over being shed of the Tofts was making her giddy.

Philip entered, sat in a chair, and smiled at her. “Thank you for being so hospitable to them. I realize I sprang this on you practically at the last minute.”

She was mildly pleased that he had noticed. “You’re welcome.”

“They want to have us over soon.”

“How nice,” Loretta said while thinking,
When pigs fly
.

She had not suffered a headache all week, simply because Philip had not pressured her to make calls to his family, and more importantly, had kept to his own bedchamber. She would give the Tofts the power to decide when the next headache would strike. Three weeks remained of her banishment from London. Why surrender another evening to boredom, why cultivate a friendship she had no intention of maintaining?

Mr. Gibbs came again to mind. But that was different, she reminded herself. Here was a grieving nephew who needed the occasional uplifting conversation to divert his mind from his uncle’s situation. Just because she had enjoyed his company made it no less of a charitable act.

Chapter 27

“The sermon won’t be as grand as Saint Peter’s,” Philip warned during the walk up Vicarage Lane, as Saint Jude’s bells tolled.

Imagine that
, Loretta thought.

They were late; she had fussed over her hair a bit longer than necessary. Of truth, she wished to avoid the visiting on the lawn, being introduced to farmers’ wives who would desire to make small talk and ask if they were moving there for good.

Jewel and Becky had gone ahead, to walk with some of the squire’s servants. No doubt Mr. Gibbs would be staying behind with his uncle. He had that self-sacrificing quality about him. She could tell, from only one meeting.

Accompanying her husband up the aisle, Loretta could feel the envious glances sent her way. Whether because of her silken-blond hair and flawless complexion, her fashionable sea green gown with pointed bodice and the new accordion-kilted skirt, or her pearl choker and earrings, she could not know, but she would have guessed a combination of all.

She held her head higher. True, God had blessed her with good looks, but she also worked hard to project herself in a positive way. Most of the women she had passed were wearing what would almost be considered house dresses in London.

She sat between Philip and his mother in the family pew, and leaned forward a bit to smile at the others. At least Mrs. Phelps and Elizabeth were somewhat in keeping with the latest fashions, though Aleda’s nutmeg-colored skirt clashed with a gray blouse with blue stripes.

Mrs. Phelps squeezed her gloved hand, which felt rather nice, for Loretta’s mother was not keen on physical displays of affection. Loretta had to remind herself of how desperately Philip’s family wished to keep him, and thus, her, in Gresham, and took her hand away on the pretext of adjusting her hatpin.

Philip was right. The curate was not polished. He mopped his brow several times while preaching a sermon titled “People of Vision” from the book of Nehemiah. Loretta felt a little sorry for him. Perhaps he also was not there of his own choosing.

An hour later, Loretta and Philip, Elizabeth and Jonathan, Aleda, Philip’s parents, and the Clays were assembled in the vicarage dining room. The women were invited first in queue, to a sideboard set with dishes surprisingly plain for Sunday: cold roast fowl, boiled potato salad, pickled beetroot, breads and cheese, olives and radishes, and cherry tarts.

At the table, Loretta was pleased when the Clays chose chairs across from her and Philip. The actor wore an elegantly cut black suit and silk paisley cravat. Mrs. Clay was strikingly beautiful in a gown of pale green and white brocaded satin trimmed with tiny seed pearls. Loretta could hardly keep from staring at them. She imagined villagers gaped at them all the time.

Philip had told her the story, of how Fiona was once a family servant, and how Mr. Clay had come to Gresham seeking respite from dark moods. How anyone with his fame and fortune could suffer dark moods was beyond her, but then, she had suffered many herself since her sister stole her beau.

They’re probably sitting down to dinner in my parents’ dining
room now,
she told herself.
Chatting on as if there were no pain
in the world.
When would hers stop?

She was blessedly distracted from that thought when Vicar Phelps asked Elizabeth from the head of the table, “Aren’t you going to call in the children?”

“We sent them home with Mrs. Littlejohn and Hilda,” Elizabeth replied. She picked up her fork. “Boiled potato salad. Don’t tell Mrs. Littlejohn I said so, but Dora’s is the best.”