Jewel of Gresham Green (37 page)

Swinging open the door, her heart sank. Mrs. Hopper of Milkwort Lane stood there, her expression a mingling of pity and, oddly, excitement.

“I must speak with you and the vicar at once.”

“I’m afraid he’s unavailable, Mrs. Hopper.” Of truth, Andrew was upstairs with Aleda, reading her latest serialization. But she had the right to determine what
unavailable
meant in her own home.

“Well, my sister-in-law, Maida, and I witnessed a terrible row between Mr. Gibbs and your daughter-in-law. I recognized her from church, with the blond hair.”

After hearing the story, followed by Mrs. Hopper’s lament that the younger generation had life too easy and thus were lacking in morals, Julia thanked her for coming.

Eagerness quivering her cheeks, the woman said, “What will you do, Mrs. Phelps?”

“My family will tend to the matter. You should hurry. I see some dark clouds on the horizon.”

There was no use in asking Mrs. Hopper to keep this to herself. Like a wave, the news had probably swept through Gresham by now.

Upstairs, Andrew groaned into his hands over the news.

Aleda slapped her desk with a loud
whump
. “That hussy!”

Julia had thought to tell her husband in private, but Aleda would hear it the first time she connected with anyone outside the vicarage anyway.

“We can’t keep this from Philip,” Andrew said.

“No, we can’t,” Julia agreed. This was Gresham. From downstairs, she heard the door open and close.

Jewel was clearing dishes from the table when Philip entered.

“Doctor Hollis!” she exclaimed.

“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “I took my lunch at the vicarage.”

“It isn’t that.” She glanced upstairs. “It’s Mrs. Hollis. She’s in a bad way.”

Philip nodded. Becky was smiling up at him, as if hoping for his attention. Even in his tormented state, he stretched out a listless arm to ruffle her red curls.

“Will you take Becky out to the garden?”

“Yes, sir.”

Loretta lay curled upon the coverlet, half of her crimson-splotched face pressed into her pillow. He felt a surge of pity for her. It was good that he had heard the news some distance away. Most of the anger had worked out of his system during the walk over. Replaced by a startling awareness.

He stepped over to sit on the side of the bed. She curled her elbow beneath her head to blink up at him through slits.

“Loretta.”

She coughed, wiped her nose with a sodden handkerchief. Having spent so little time in her bedchamber, he had no idea where she kept others, so he took his from his pocket.

She blew her nose again and croaked, “I’m so sorry, Philip. Can you forgive me?”

He hesitated. It would be easier when the wound was not so fresh. “Why does it matter?”

“It matters.”

“I believe I’ll be able to, one day. But our marriage is over. That should make you happy.”

“But we didn’t do anything!” she blubbered. “He only embraced me once, and only because . . . I offered to lend him some money.”

“Then why the scene in the shop, Loretta?”

Dully, she said, “I was flattered by his attention. But when I realized he was only using me . . .”

“There’ll only be someone else after Mr. Gibbs.”

Anger suffused through the misery in her face. “Philip . . . I’m not that sort of woman.”

“You were that sort of girl, Loretta.”

She gaped at him. “I beg your pardon?”

He sighed. “Your parents denied you nothing, so you never learned how to accept loss and move on. When Conrad left, you couldn’t cope. You threw your hopes into me, that I could be a substitute. If I hadn’t been available, it would have been someone else.”

“That’s not so.”

“I’ve seen the way you’ve looked at him, a hundred times. When I couldn’t make you forget Conrad, you had to start looking elsewhere. My parents say love should be built upon a foundation of friendship. That takes time. Yet you decided you loved me, and then I suppose Mr. Gibbs, within days.”

She opened her mouth as if gasping for air, as if about to protest, when she burst into fresh tears and scrubbed at her temples with her fists. “I can’t stop thinking of Conrad! It’s as if he lives in my mind. You don’t understand!”

“No, I don’t,” he admitted. “Can you not
will
yourself to stop?”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried?” She lowered her head again to the crook of her arm, blinking dully, sniffing. “At times, he wasn’t even that pleasant. He once called me an idiot. The stronger his criticisms, the more I adored him. Irene’s marriage isn’t as happy as she lets on. I’ve seen the way he speaks to her when he’s in ill temper.”

Philip cast about in his mind for what next to say. If only he had asked his parents’ counsel when they broke the news in the parlor. The mental image of the scene brought another picture into his mind. He rested a hand upon her arm.

“Did you notice the small watercolor of Saint Jude’s in my parents’ parlor, Loretta?”

Her head shook, slightly.

“It was painted by a boy with a severe clubfoot. He’ll never be able to play the typical boyhood games. Yet he doesn’t sit around grieving over what he can’t have. He’s fastened his attention upon his art.”

After several seconds, she said, “I don’t understand.”

“Perhaps by
willing
yourself to forget Conrad—as I just foolishly suggested—you must still concentrate on him. But if you fill your mind with the good things you do have, until it becomes a habit, Conrad would eventually be forced out.”

“Forced out,” she murmured.

“Perhaps not all at once. It would probably be gradual. Like leakage.”

Another second passed. She coughed a small laugh. “Leaked out?”

“Through your ears, I would suppose. The nose would be disgusting, and you’ve taxed it enough today anyway.”

This time her shoulders shook with her laugh. She wiped her eyes.

“I’ve never said how much I appreciate your sense of humor.”

He patted her arm.

“Is our marriage really over?” she asked.

“Isn’t that what you want?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Will you not give me a chance to outgrow that willful child you so aptly described?”

He longed to take her in his arms, say how much he loved her. But the wounds were too deep to simply pour salve over and declare them healed. He needed to see evidence that she was over Conrad. That she loved
him
, before risking more pain.

“We’ll talk later.” He got to his feet, said gently, “I have a baby’s cleft lip to repair.”

She looked stricken. “A baby’s?”

“A girl.” Gently he said, “We’re not the only people with problems, Loretta.”

He could hear her swallow.

“I know you’ll do your best for her, Philip.”

“I’ll try.”

“Will you . . . come back this evening?”

“Of course.” That had not been his intention, but intentions were to be servants, not masters. While staying at the vicarage would be the wisest course, it would increase the humiliation she had suffered. Yes, she had brought it upon herself, but she was still his wife.

Though the bath water had grown tepid, his fingers were prunes, and his skin stung from heavy-handed scrubbings with the cloth, Donald could not get clean.

But he must not miss the express to London. He should have instructed the servants to pack his things before making a beeline to the water closet.

Tomorrow would not be too late. But he had spent enough time in this prison. How good it would feel to spend the night in his own house again.

He pulled the stopper chain and stood, reached for a large towel and dried himself. Mr. Baker would by law be required to inform him when the will was to be read. And Priscilla Perkins had been most generous, reaching into a lockbox and coming out with fifteen pounds.

He could hear her squeaking voice in his mind.
My parents
won’t miss it if you repay me next week.

Next week, three weeks, perhaps yes, perhaps no.

Swathed in his wrapper, padding up the corridor, he barked to Mary, the first servant to cross his path, “After I’m dressed, I shall need you to pack my things.”

“Yes, sir. For how many days?”

“Pack it all. Everything.”

When he walked out of his bedchamber wearing his finest pinstripe suit, Mrs. Cooper was waiting in the landing. Clearly, Mary had gotten to her.

“You’re leaving, Mr. Gibbs?”

Try not to look so broken up,
he thought. “When my trunk is ready, have the carriage and a driver sent around.”

“But it’s Jeremiah’s afternoon off.”

“Then put Osborn to it. He drives wagons. How difficult can it be to drive a carriage?”

“Yes, sir.” She hesitated.

“Well?”

“The sky is growing somewhat dark. If you’re going to Shrewsbury, perhaps the coach would—”

“Yes, yes.” He could see her logic. And besides, there could be an angry husband out there. Not so wise, riding through Gresham in an open carriage.

Mrs. Hollis drifted downstairs, still looking a wreck.

“I’ve kept the stew warm,” Jewel said, and pulled out a chair.

“Thank you.” She held up an amber bottle. “But have we any more salicin?”

“You have a headache?”

She rubbed her temple. “A genuine one this time. There was only about a teaspoon left. It’ll wear off in an hour.”

Becky, only recently awake from her nap, stared at her splotched skin and pillow-matted hair.

“Am I not a beauty?” Mrs. Hollis said.

“No, ma’am,” Becky said with childish honesty.

“Pick up your toys in the parlor, mite,” Jewel said, and to Mrs. Hollis, “Why don’t you have some food, and I’ll look for some salicin.”

Listlessly, Mrs. Hollis picked up her fork. She looked up at Jewel. “I never did anything immoral with Mr. Gibbs.”

“Yes, ma’am.” It was none of her business anyway, as she had been so told.

Some skepticism must have shown upon her face, for Mrs. Hollis said, “Yes, meeting him in secret was wrong. But he never came inside except to make tea.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Begging your pardon, but why would it matter?”

“It just does.” Mrs. Hollis gave her a pained smile. “You’re the closest friend I have in Gresham.”

She seemed invited to voice her opinion, so she would do so. “It shouldn’t be that way, ma’am.”

Mrs. Hollis sighed. “Yes.”

Jewel left her to her lunch, and searched the cottage. When she returned to the kitchen, Mrs. Hollis was pushing aside her plate. The bread was untouched, and more than half of the stew still remained.

“I’m too nauseous.”

“I’ll nip over to Trumbles. I’ll have to leave Becky with you, or it’ll take me twice as long. Let’s put you in the garden. Maybe fresh air will help.”

They stepped outdoors, Becky carrying her doll. Jewel noticed dark clouds hovering over the Anwyl. The sky overhead, while cloudless, had assumed a hue between blue and pewter. Still, there were no rumblings.

She helped Mrs. Hollis into a chair, and then turned another around so she could prop her feet. Leaning her head back, Mrs. Hollis looked up at the sky and said, “Perhaps you should wait and see . . .”