Jewel of Gresham Green (6 page)

“Long enough to be a nuisance!”

I moved from Worton Lane for some peace,
Julia thought, and waited.

“I moved up from Worton Lane for some peace!” Mrs. Hopper said.

I can hardly keep my mind on my needlework,
Julia thought.

“I can hardly keep my mind on my Bible pages,” Mrs. Hopper said.

Shrewd,
Julia thought. But Mrs. Hopper was mistaken if she thought throwing in a little piety would sway Andrew.

Her husband leaned forward, resting elbows on knees. “Mrs. Hopper, when you read in those pages where Jesus says to suffer the children to come to Him, do you think He referred only to the children milling about Him that day?”

Mrs. Hopper opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. “I don’t know.”

“I strongly believe He was sending us a message, as well. The Stokes bring those children to church, pray with them, demonstrate God’s love to them in a hundred different ways. I think it’s grand that you live close enough to witness all this. Why, you could become like a doting aunt. How full your life would be.”

For only a fraction of a second did her expression soften. Her lips tightened again. “If I wished to be a doting aunt, I would have stayed in the house Mr. Hopper and I shared, between his sisters, when he passed on. Will you speak with them or not?”

“I will ask them to have the children play farther down in the other direction.” Andrew sighed and got to his feet. “Though I must add, it will make it harder for Mr. and Mrs. Stokes to keep an eye out for them.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Hopper said, nonplussed.

Julia stood, as well. “Thank you for the tea.”

“Why, you’re welcome. It’s Twinings. The only brand I buy.” Their hostess had slipped back into her public persona.

“I pray that’s not Aleda in twenty years,” Julia said when the carriage was out of earshot of the sterile little cottage.

“I don’t think you have to worry,” Andrew assured her. “Aleda’s mind may be insular, but her heart is kind.”

She squeezed his arm. “It’s a shame about the boy’s foot.”

“What do you mean?” Andrew asked.

“Mrs. Stokes said he has a clubfoot.”

“My, my.” Andrew shook his head. “Poor little chap.”

“But at least he has a home now,” Julia said. “Do you think you can talk Mr. Stokes into accepting the clothes?”

“I believe so,” Andrew replied. “Mrs. Stokes is his chief obstacle. He doesn’t wish to look small in her eyes by accepting charity.”

“Small,” Julia echoed wryly. “They’re the biggest people I know.”

She did not mean in size. But there was no need to explain to the man beside her.
God, keep him healthy,
she prayed. The heart murmur worried her, and now the stomach pains, though he claimed to feel fine today.

It was Andrew who had asked her not to sell the Larkspur when a London investor offered a goodly sum. It comforted him to know she would have a place to go without being beholden to the children. Vicarages were for ministers, not their widowed wives. And the income from the Larkspur, while not a fortune after salaries and supplies, provided a bulwark against misfortune. Even if Andrew were to live a long life, vicars’ pensions were barely adequate. It was nice having breathing room and the liberty to be generous with others. God was so good.

“Fancy a stop at Trumbles?” he asked.

“Of course,” Julia replied, concerned anew. Andrew cared for shopping almost as little as for going to the doctor. “You haven’t finished that bottle of tonic already, have you?”

“Tonic? I’ve not even opened it. I want to buy paper and pencils for that boy.” He pursed his lips in thought for a second or two. “What do you think of watercolors, as well?”

Julia smiled at him. “Wonderful.”

The man for whom the cottage was built—Squire Bartley’s great-grandfather’s first gamekeeper, was married with children, and thus rated a shelter more accommodating than most gamekeepers’ huts. The rosy stone cottage, situated in a hollow and embosomed by trees, was small by village standards but more than large enough to suit Aleda.

Kitchen, larder, and open parlor took up the ground floor. A wooden staircase led up to two bedrooms and loft. A chimney rose above the two dormers in the gray slate stone roof.

Aleda hired Mr. and Mrs. Summers, cheese factory workers who took on odd jobs after their shifts. For four days, in the remaining daylight, Mrs. Summers scrubbed the rooms to shining.

Her husband hacked away and mowed the weed-choked garden, leaving only the gooseberry shrub against the back fence, per Aleda’s orders. She had neither time nor inclination to coddle plants that were not edible, but the pale green robin’s egg-sized fruits would be a refreshing treat when summer came.

Mr. Summers also hauled away Mr. Worthy’s scant furnishings. The crude furniture reeked of tobacco and mouse droppings, and the new Mrs. Worthy had understandably barred them from her home.

Mr. Croft and his sons did some carpentry repair work, replacing the front door, a half-dozen oak floor planks, and several fence pickets. The privy had to be torn down, as well, not only for rotten boards and ant infestation, but for Aleda’s peace of mind. She could not bear to think of occupying the same space where Titus Worthy had heeded nature’s calls, no matter that his personal hygiene had suddenly improved.

When Mr. Croft informed her the cistern could supply enough rainwater for a pump toilet and bathtub, Aleda was all nods. She reckoned Shakespeare would have made the same choice, had it been available. The roomy water closet was an add-on, adjacent to the back door, but beneath a new porch roof built for inclement weather. The Crofts also built a medicine cabinet over the sink, and a stand for a small kerosene heater.

Aleda raided vicarage and Larkspur attics for furnishings. She purchased four wicker garden chairs and tea table from the Keegans, Irish basket weavers. From a gallery in Shrewsbury, she purchased a framed print of Frederick William Watts’s
Thames
Near Henley
because it reminded her of the River Bryce. She splurged, as well, on new colorful rugs and curtains, throws for the sofa and chair, and coverlets for two beds.

The latter had required thought. Aleda had no intention of sharing her refuge with houseguests. That was what the Bow and Fiddle was for. But her plenary nature could not abide the thought of the spare bedroom sitting empty, incomplete.

She chose the west-facing room for herself, simply because she did not want the sun to wake her too early. The window commanded a view of an ash tree standing out against the yews, oaks, and alders. The contrast between the tree’s delicate green foliage, dead-black bulbs, and ash-gray bark served as a reminder that the ink-born people in her stories must have contrasts of character to seem authentic. Even Napoleon Bonaparte was fond of dogs.

Aleda was not, however. But she liked cats and would need one to keep vermin at bay. Audrey Herrick, the Larkspur’s cook, took care of that problem by gifting her an older tabby kitten, descendant of Aleda’s first cat, Buff. She named her Tiger. She asked Mr. Croft to cut a little swinging opening into the back door so that the cat could do her business outside.

Though she could afford a cook and housemaid, she decided to give keeping house herself a try. She could always hire Mrs. Summers for a scrubdown now and again. Simple meals she could prepare herself; sandwiches and cheese, eggs and porridge, boiled vegetables, and fruit would tide her over between Sunday dinners at the vicarage. She did not think she could manage laundry, however, so hired longtime laundress Mrs. Moore to send her grandson by on Mondays and Thursdays to pick up and deliver.

The first night in her own bedroom, she lay on her pillow listening to leaves rustling and branches swaying, crickets chirping and tree frogs singing, owls hooting and cushats cooing, nightjars churring and turtledoves trilling. Through the window wafted the sweet earthy fragrance of sleeping trees and apple blossoms from the squire’s orchard.

Edward Gibbon’s quote came to mind:
I was never less alone
than when by myself.

She would have to add . . . with a cat sleeping at my feet.

She smiled in the darkness. She had achieved autonomy. Life would be very peaceful from now on.

Chapter 5

Jewel sat on the side of her sagging mattress, pulling her brush carefully through pillow snarls. Her hair was still damp from last night’s washing. Her mother had often related how, when she was born, the midwife exclaimed, “What a little jewel, with that garnet-red hair!”
Garnet
did not appeal to her mother as a name; hence she was dubbed Jewel. With a pang she recalled how Norman had loved gathering her curls with his callused hands.

“Mummy, I’m all dressed. But look. What’s wrong with this stocking?”

Snapped from her reverie, Jewel smiled and opened her arms. Becky stepped forward, and Jewel hefted her onto the bed beside her. “There is just one problem, mite. You see this bump? That’s where your heel’s supposed to be.”

The girl laughed, touched Jewel’s cheek while her stocking was adjusted. “Why do you have freckles, Mummy?”

“I swallowed a pound and it broke into pennies.” Something else her own mother used to say.

“And why do I have them?”

Jewel thought fast. “They’re where angels kiss you as you sleep.”

“They kiss me?”

“How can they resist? You’re so sweet.” Jewel turned her face up to plant a kiss upon Becky’s forehead. “And there’s one from me. Now, let’s hurry or we’ll be late.”

Jewel helped her into a crisp pink muslin, slightly faded from having been passed down through Vicar Treves’ four daughters. She dressed herself in a navy-and-gray striped poplin, purchased from a secondhand stall on Market Street. The cuffs were frayed, but it was nicer than the two dresses she rotated on factory days.

She gathered Becky’s hair with a ribbon, and her own into a straw bonnet.

With Saint Philip’s Chapel being in a poor section of Birmingham, Jewel would have felt out of place clad in finery, were she to possess any. Even Mrs. Treves did not wear Parisian fashions, though she probably could, for rumor was that the vicar’s family had wealth. In the vestibule, Mrs. Treves leaned to slip a peppermint into Becky’s pocket.

“I trust you’ll save that for after the service, little lady?”

“I shall,” Becky said, and pleased Jewel by adding, “Thank you, ma’am.”

Mrs. Treves smiled. Well past thirty, and plump from having birthed seven children, she was a beautiful woman, with jade green eyes and strawberry-blond ringlets. She was known for compelling merchants to give discounts so as to stretch the poor-box pennies as much as possible.

“Mr. Chandler’s boy will be here with a cart of eggs and butter afterwards.” Mrs. Treves leaned close so as not to embarrass Jewel, in spite of the fact that several others would be extended that same charity. Even the most desperately poor had their pride. Not the sinful pride stemmed from arrogance, but that of not wishing to be pitied.

Jewel thanked her. For Becky’s sake, she would take any charity offered. The vicar’s sermon, “The Hope of Heaven,” from the first book of Thessalonians, was so encouraging that she could actually sense Norman and her mother watching them from above. Also encouraging was the generous parcel of butter and eggs she carried home. After a lunch of cold mutton and potatoes, followed by the luxury of Sunday luxuries, a nap, she stood in the queue twice at the communal tap to fill water buckets while Becky still slept. Afterwards she escorted the girl down the corridor to see the Bell family’s kittens.

“Mayn’t they open their eyes?” Becky asked with such concern on her little face that Mrs. Bell laughed. Back in the flat, Jewel taught her daughter how to make shortbread with some of the butter. The day was so fine, so perfect, that she was able to keep the familiar nagging fear at bay.

But in the dark of night, the fear swooped through her with renewed strength. Over two weeks had passed since Mrs. Platt gave her the news that Mr. Dunstan had been sacked. But did men like him slouch away quietly?

Father, please keep him away from us,
she prayed, and wished she had the faith to push him from her mind completely.

Monday morning, she carried still-sleeping Becky downstairs as usual, murmuring, “You’ll be too heavy to do this before long.” In Mrs. Platt’s parlor, Jewel deposited her and her little blanket onto the worn horsehair sofa and kissed her forehead.

“What’s this?” Mrs. Platt said when Jewel took a handkerchief-wrapped bundle from her pocket.

“We made shortbread last night.”

“Ah, you know my weakness!”

“I do
now
,” Jewel quipped, and they traded smiles. She stepped out into the corridor with her heart lighter than it had been in ages.

Mrs. Fenton waved her down from just inside the entrance door.

“He’s out there.”

Jewel’s throat tightened. Mrs. Fenton eased open the door a bit. In gaps between laborers rushing to their jobs, she could see Mr. Dunstan, leaning against the tenement building across the lane with arms folded, as if waiting for someone.

Me.