On the morning of the twenty-fifth of April, Julia and Andrew set out in the phaeton behind Belle, their gray Cleveland Bay mare. Now that the children were grown, Julia had fallen into the habit of accompanying her husband on his calls to parishioners. He would never have asked. His view was she was not married to the church and had the right to pursue her own interests.
Pursue them she did: grandchildren, gardening, reading, and the Women’s Charity Society. But her inherent empathy and Andrew’s nature made her desire to spend even more time with him, and he was of course pleased with her company.
He automatically gave the reins a gentle tug outside a certain low stone wall at the village crossroads. Belle slowed from a trot to a walk. Julia rested her eyes fondly on a well-tended garden before a rosy sandstone building.
The lodging house had started out as a thriving coaching inn, before the Severn Valley Railway laid tracks twelve miles to the south in Shrewsbury. Fifteen years ago the Larkspur sat in a state of profound neglect, and thus the London bankers who had seized even her wedding ring to pay her late husband’s debts had shown no interest in it.
It was here that Julia, her children, and loyal housemaid Fiona O’Shea had fled after the foreclosures, armed with a loan from her late husband’s butler. They refurbished the place and advertised a lodging house for those wishing the sedate way of life that a dairying village could offer. Companionship with like-minded people was a draw, as well, with the happy by-product being a marriage now and again.
Including Fiona’s, to actor Ambrose Clay. Their rooms over the stables sat empty during the run of a play but would be again filled with their sweet voices come July, when Anne Boleyn was set to close in New York.
“Do you ever miss running the Larkspur?” Andrew asked. When Julia married him and moved into the vicarage, she had hired Mr. Jensen, the butler who had lent her the money. Even in his old age, he managed the inn with genteel efficiency and was now married to the former Mrs. Dearing, one of the first lodgers.
“It had its moments,” Julia said, and squeezed his arm. “But I’m content where I am, Vicar.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Mrs. Phelps,” he said. “I hope you’re of the same mind when the nest is empty.”
And that day was coming soon. At this moment, Aleda was arranging with Squire Bartley’s solicitor to lease the gamekeeper’s cottage. They would have Grace at home for only three more weeks.
“It’ll be an adjustment,” Julia admitted. “For both of us. We’ve been parents for over half our lives.”
“At least they’re not moving away, like Laurel, and Philip.”
“I’m grateful for that.”
“So am I.” He smiled. “And we’ll have our own adventures. Just like the children.”
“We’re too old for adventures,” she teased.
“Not at all. You’re not officially old until you stop seeking them.”
Belle’s hooves rang against the stone bridge over the blue waters of the Bryce. Northwards was where most of the dairy farms were situated, where black-and-white Friesian cows grazed in fields bordered by hedgerows. Presently they turned eastward along Milkwort Lane, named not for the dairies but for the profusion of wild flowers flanking both sides.
They stopped outside a stone cottage with washhouse, privy, and smokehouse, and two pigs in a sty. Andrew held open the gate leading through a garden filled with lilacs and laburnum and pinks, squeezed in by the more important rows of broccoli and onions, parsnips and lettuces, young bean and cucumber plants, and potato vines.
“Why, good morning, Vicar, Mrs. Phelps,” said Margery Stokes, rising from a stone bench. Beside her, a boy who could have been anywhere from nine to thirteen sat with one foot tucked behind the other. He was as thin as a reed, with hollow cheeks and wide uncertain eyes. His shirt and trousers were clean, if worn, castoffs from an older child. The blond hair and pale skin, however, reeked from the familiar odor of sulfur and lard. Most of the street waifs Mr. Stokes brought back from London after his biannual meetings with bankers were afflicted with lice of head and body.
“This is Gerald,” Mrs. Stokes said after the exchange of greetings. In the boy’s lap lay open an alphabet picture book. Most of the new arrivals were illiterate. To spare the older ones the humiliation of towering over wee classmates in the infant school, Margery Stokes tutored them until they could manage at least the primary lessons in the grammar school. She turned to the lad. “Will you say good morning to Vicar and Mrs. Phelps, Gerald?”
He ducked his head. Mrs. Stokes gave his larded tresses an understanding pat, then wiped her hands with her apron. “Poor mite, having to bear this muck for a whole week.”
Julia smiled. Margery was as rough as she was kind, having spent much of her childhood on a milking stool. She was large-boned but not stout, with beautiful brown eyes and ash brown hair twisted into a convenient knot.
Her husband, Horace Stokes, Squire Bartley’s accountant, kept an office at the cheese factory. As the story was told, he had worked as an under gardener at the manor house until age fourteen, when in a puzzling act of philanthropy, the squire paid to have him articled to a prominent Shrewsbury accountant. He showed such a gift for numbers that when the longtime accountant was pensioned from the cheese factory, Mr. Stokes overtook his position at the tender age of twenty-three.
Perhaps it was because he and his wife had both known poverty as children that they took in boys and girls like a widow takes in stray cats. Sixteen thus far, including three of their own making.
“Will you come in for some tea?” Mrs. Stokes asked.
“No thank you,” Andrew said, and gave Julia a meaningful look. “At least, none for me. What say I help Gerald finish his book while you ladies chat?”
The lad’s shoulders rose and fell sharply, and he appeared poised to sprint, but only inched away to the far edge as Andrew settled beside him.
“Mind you don’t get any of the grease on your clothes, Vicar,” Mrs. Stokes warned. “It’s a right chore to get out.”
The parlor and kitchen were tidy, as Julia had expected. The children had duties both in house and garden but were allowed playtime as well. As Jonathan had said, it was a joy to watch pale, timid creatures blossom into rosy-cheeked children.
“Gerald is the last,” Mrs. Stokes said, bringing the kettle to the kitchen table. “I’ve warned Horace not to bring any more home. We’re bursting at the seams.”
Julia smiled, raised her brows, and sipped her tea. Mrs. Stokes stared at her for a moment, then laughed.
“Yes, I know I said that before Nancy. And Tom.”
“And Alma,” Julia reminded her.
Mrs. Stokes winced. “But this time, it’s got to stick.”
Julia allowed a second to pass, two, before broaching the reason for their call. “I spoke with Mrs. Perkins recently. If you’ll bring the children by as soon as possible, she’ll have time to make each a set of school clothes before next term.” She drew in a breath. “And two Sunday gowns for you.”
“She will, you say?” Mrs. Stokes set her cup down sharply. A drop of tea sloshed over the rim and into the saucer. “And who’s to pay for this?”
“The Women’s Charity Society is not involved,” Julia said quickly. The word charity was as distasteful to the Stokes as any oath.
“So, it’s a ghost, then?”
“No, of course not.” Julia sighed. “It’s Andrew and me.”
Already, Margery was shaking her head. Julia reached over to lay a hand upon her sleeve. “I understand how you feel. But I’m asking you not to allow pride to stand in the way. . . .”
“Pride?” Margery said. “You weren’t raised poor. You don’t understand how handouts tear down your very soul.”
“I wasn’t raised poor,” Julia agreed. “However, my first husband’s death left the children and me with nothing. If we hadn’t had the Larkspur, we would have had to ask for parish assistance.”
The gambling debts which caused such deprivation were not important to the matter at hand. Julia had her own issues with pride.
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Margery said. “But Horace draws decent wages. It’s just that we have—”
“So many children,” Julia finished for her, and softened her voice. “Mrs. Perkins is willing to keep to herself who settles the bill. Andrew and I don’t think of you as charity cases. We simply hope to share in the joy you get from providing for those sweet children. Would you rob us of a blessing, Margery?”
Margery opened her mouth to argue, closed it. “Horace will never agree.”
“Andrew will be visiting his office this afternoon. It would go a long way if he could say you were willing.”
Another pause, and Margery nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Phelps.”
Julia squeezed her hand. “It’s our pleasure.”
“But no Sunday gowns. You’ve got to allow me some pride.”
“Very well,” said Julia, disappointed but understanding.
When they stepped outdoors again, Andrew was beaming and held up the small leather-bound notebook he carried in his coat pocket. Even the boy looked timidly pleased.
“Would you look at this?” Andrew said. “I asked if he could write his name.”
With pencil the boy had expertly sketched Belle and the carriage beyond the gate, and even the skeins of white clouds in the southern sky.
“Amazing,” Julia declared, taking the notebook. The corners were greasy, but she had to trust that there was enough sulfur to kill any of the little crawlies.
Even Margery was surprised. “Why, we’ve got us a Mozart here.”
Julia caught the glint in Andrew’s hazel eyes. Not for all the gold in Shropshire would either have corrected her. Nurturing orphans covered a multitude of factual errors.
“We should stop at Mrs. Hopper’s,” Julia said back in the phaeton. “She’ll be hurt if she spots us.”
Andrew groaned. “She wasn’t in her garden.”
“And how would you know? You kept your eyes straight ahead.”
He reluctantly agreed, but then the discussion was moot. A hundred yards back up Milkwort Lane, Mrs. Hopper stood at the gate of her tidy and symmetrical garden, beckoning. She welcomed them into a parlor as orderly as a museum, offered pleasantries about the weather and cups of good strong tea.
Julia was not fooled. The path from Mrs. Hopper’s mind to her lips was a straight track, an express train bypassing such stations as discretion, compassion, and judgment. It would be somewhat understandable if she were elderly, beset by ailments and harsh memories, but Mrs. Hopper appeared to be only a few years older than herself. Few gray hairs stood out against her dark topknot.
“The Stokes have took in another stray,” Mrs. Hopper said.
Julia’s sociable smile faded.
“Mrs. Hopper . . .” Andrew said with brows meeting. “Animals are strays.”
“Well, they behave like animals. Spilling out in the lane every afternoon, chasing each other, riding that pony back and forth!”
“Their land is taken up with crops,” Andrew said with terse gentleness. “And between school and chores and supper, how long can they be out there?”
“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.