“No-no-no-no!”
Anyone passing the half-timbered cottage at the corner of Church and Bartley Lanes would have thought someone inside was being beaten.
“Now, now,” Jonathan coaxed, holding the squirming, howling Samuel in his arms. “Grandfather hasn’t even touched your finger. Just let him see it.”
“No!”
“Really, Jonathan . . . Father,” Elizabeth said. “Can it not wait a day or two?”
“It cannot,” Jonathan replied with strained voice. “Leave the room if you can’t bear it! We can’t risk infection and lockjaw.”
“I don’t want Samuel to get mockjaw!” Claire sobbed.
“Lockjaw,” older brother John corrected.
Julia took Claire up into her arms. “It’s just a splinter, Claire.”
“What’s that?” she sniffed.
“A bit of wood in his finger.”
“Should I get you a knife?” John suggested, crowding closer to the men.
“NO KNIFE!” Samuel shrieked.
“John! Outdoors!” Jonathan barked.
The boy reddened, obeyed. It was disconcerting to Julia’s ears, hearing Jonathan speak to his family so sharply, but he appeared close to tears himself.
That morning Samuel had sneaked into the gardening hut to surprise his mother by fertilizing the flowers, something he had watched her do. It was while attempting to raise the lid from the barrel containing Webb’s Manure and Phosphate of Lime that he encountered the splinter.
Jonathan was not normally overprotective of the children, which was a good thing. Country children were prone to scratches and bumps. But last year a farm worker, George Fletcher, had tragically died from pneumonia induced by tetanus, brought on from a splinter from a cow yard gate. Thus, any splinter suffered by his children, or even students, was an enemy that must be wrenched out at once.
Forehead furrowed, Andrew bent closer to the boy’s hand. “Just hold steady one . . . there it is!”
He held up the tweezers.
Samuel, sniffing and panting for breath, gaped at his finger. “All gone?”
“All gone, my little man!”
The boy grinned. “It didn’t hurt!”
Andrew chuckled. Jonathan squeezed Samuel, looked up at Elizabeth with glistening eyes that begged forgiveness. “Will you take him and clean it?”
“Of course,” she said, returning the smile.
He stood and turned toward the door. “I need to apologize to John.”
Thus, lunch got off to a late start. But Mrs. Littlejohn, spry in spite of graying hair, laid a fine meal on the cloth: asparagus soup, boiled beef with young carrots, new potatoes and suet dumplings, and for dessert, boiled gooseberry pudding and plain cream.
“We sent John to invite Aleda this morning,” Elizabeth said, cutting Claire’s beef on her plate. “But she told him she’s in the middle of a story.”
“Now, there’s a surprise,” Andrew said as he forked a dumpling. “Excellent meal, Elizabeth.”
“Thank you. It’s all Mrs. Littlejohn.”
“How is Squire Bartley?” Jonathan asked.
“The same,” Andrew replied. “We shall visit him when we leave here. But we never know if he recognizes us.”
Five days had passed since Jeremiah Toft knocked on their door. A massive brain hemorrhage had paralyzed the squire’s right side. On the two occasions Julia had accompanied Andrew, the squire seemed not to know they were present.
“You know,” Jonathan said thoughtfully, “when my grandfather Hall suffered the same affliction, Grandmother read the newspaper to him every day, even though he showed no sign of hearing her. When he regained cognizance four months later, the first question he asked Grandmother was if she thought Disraeli would resign, now that the Liberal Party had been victorious over the Tories in the general election.”
To John’s questioning look, he explained, “It was something Grandmother had read to him. Anyway, he credited hearing her voice every day to clearing the fog in his mind. I’m not sure if his doctor agreed, but . . .”
Julia met Andrew’s eyes across the table.
“Have you a Shrewsbury Times lying about?” Andrew asked Jonathan.
“Yesterday’s,” Jonathan replied.
“The squire won’t know the difference.”
“Good afternoon, Vicar . . . Mrs. Phelps.” Mrs. Cooper stepped back to open the door wider. “Do come inside.”
As she took Andrew’s hat, her face was tight, her eyes anxious. Had the squire taken a turn for the worse?
Julia was opening her mouth to ask when footsteps sounded in the hall. A man who could have been anywhere from thirty to forty approached, dressed impeccably in gray double-breasted frock coat and striped wool trousers.
“More visitors for my uncle, Mrs. Carter?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Vicar and Mrs. Phelps.”
His straight coarse hair was as dark as ink. Two slashes of dark brows were set over brown eyes, and a handsome aquiline nose jutted out over a mustache that curved downward over the corners of full lips. His voice was polished, as smooth as his gold silk cravat. And clearly he had had a gentleman’s upbringing, for he made a little bow to Julia. “It’s good of you to come. I’m Donald Gibbs.”
“Julia Phelps.” And annoyed that his mere presence would so intimidate the housekeeper into not correcting her own name, she took the liberty. “And . . . this is Mrs. Cooper, by the way.”
“Ah, yes!” He winced and turned to the housekeeper, charmingly. “Mrs. Cooper. I do beg pardon.”
“It’s nothing, sir,” she said.
“I only arrived two hours ago. So many names to learn, and I have never been good with them.” Mr. Gibbs smiled as he and Andrew shook hands. “Of course, you have a whole village of names to learn, don’t you? I could never be a vicar.”
Your lips to God’s ears, Julia thought.
“Please come with me,” he said.
They followed him up the wide staircase leading from the hall. “I wanted to leave London as soon as the telegraph arrived. But I thought it prudent to conclude some vital business dealings so I could focus my sole energies upon my uncle.”
“In what business are you engaged, Mr. Gibbs?” Julia asked.
“This and that. It would bore you to explain.”
“I don’t bore easily.”
Andrew cast her a warning look.
They followed Mr. Gibbs down the upstairs corridor. He took the knob. “Don’t be disappointed if he doesn’t respond to you.”
We know that more than you do, Julia had to bite her tongue from saying. It so irked her that this coxcomb was playing lord of the manor, after having waited five days to appear. Far worse, he stood to inherit everything, when so many good people in Gresham could have benefited.
The squire’s bedroom was opulent and massive, with Constable landscapes upon olive-green walls, gold satin curtains, and a marble-tiled fireplace that was, thankfully, not lit. Chambermaid Mary Johnson dropped a spoon into an empty soup bowl. She was about thirty, gaunt and plain as a rail fence, and of a good heart. The perfect person to care for the squire.
“Good afternoon, Mary,” Julia said.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Phelps . . . Vicar.” She made a little bob and sent Mr. Gibbs a rapid curious glance. “I’ve just fed him his broth and bathed him.”
The squire lay propped upon pillows, his frail body covered with blankets and dwarfed by six-and-a-half-foot walnut bedposts. His skin as white as his sheets. Half-open gray eyes stared out at seemingly nothing; his mouth gaped. Julia went over to the bedside.
“Hello, Squire.”
His eyes shifted, but she could have been a ghost for all the recognition in them. Julia stroked his cheek, turned to Mary. “You shaved him.”
“Yes, ma’am. This morning.”
“Very good, Mary,” said Donald Gibbs. “You may go now.”
A muscle twitched in her cheek, as if she were taken by surprise. “Begging your pardon, sir, but he must be turned.”
“Why don’t I do that?” Andrew said.
“Yes, sir,” she said, and fled the room.
Andrew went over to the bed, gently pulled four pillows away, and handed them to Julia. She placed three out of the way at the foot of the bed.
“Why take his pillows?” Mr. Gibbs asked, hands in his pockets.
“To prevent bedsores,” Julia replied, watching Andrew turn down the blanket and roll the man gently to his side. “A raised head causes the rest of the body to rest heavier on the mattress.”
Andrew took the fourth pillow from her and placed it between the squire’s legs. Anticipating Mr. Gibbs’ question, he said, “This one is to keep his knees from pressing together. The skin thins as we age. Bedsores can lead to fatal infection.”
“And the turning is for the same reason, I gather?”
“It is,” Andrew said. “It must be done every two hours, night and day. I’m sure the servants will update you on his treatments. And Doctor Rhodes visits every Friday.”
“Good. I have so many questions.” Mr. Gibbs hesitated. “Do you think my uncle will ever regain cognizance?”
Andrew glanced at the bedridden man. “We must treat him as if he will.”
“I absolutely agree.” There seemed genuine concern in his voice, which caused Julia some guilt over her immediate dislike of him.
Andrew took the folded newspaper from his coat pocket. “Would you mind if we read to him?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Andrew related what Jonathan had said over lunch.
Mr. Gibbs inclined his head thoughtfully. “It’s worth a try. I’m most grateful for any time you can give him. But I still have some unpacking. If you won’t mind showing yourselves out . . .”
“We don’t mind,” Andrew assured him.
They took turns reading for an hour. Julia’s mouth became dry, but at least the room was not heated. She hoped the squire was comfortable, temperature-wise. If he could feel temperature. If he could feel anything. For though his eyes sometimes moved in their direction, they were blank.
“I’m not discouraged,” Andrew said softly on the way down the corridor. “We just have to be consistent, like Jonathan’s grandmother. And a couple of hours daily—not just from newspapers, but also books.”
“But how?” Julia asked, pausing on the landing. “As much as we care for him, we have other responsibilities.”
Andrew scratched his beard. “We could ask others to help. Take turns.”
“That’s up to Mr. Gibbs now.”
“I’m sure he’ll be open to the idea.”
You’re more charitable than I am, Julia thought.
Mrs. Cooper appeared when they reached the hall downstairs. After thanking her for his hat, Andrew said, “May we trouble Mr. Gibbs once more?”
“I’ll ask, if you’ll follow me. He’s in the library.”
She ducked inside briefly, opened the door wider, and nodded on her way out. The oak paneled room smelled of fine leather, old books, and smoke. Mr. Gibbs rose from a leather chair as he put aside a copy of The Gentleman’s Magazine and extinguished a cigarette.
“Any luck?”
Andrew did not wince, though Julia knew he despised the word and all forms of superstition. “I’m afraid not.”
“Ah.” Mr. Gibbs clicked his tongue, motioned to a settee. “Would you care to . . .”
“No thank you, but we’d like to ask permission to have others come and read to him.”
“Others?”
“Trusted people, well acquainted with him,” Julia said. “We could design a daily schedule with Mrs. Cooper.”
“How kind of you. Do you think it will do any good?”
“I’m optimistic,” Andrew said. “The mind is a remarkable creation.”
“Then of course you may. My uncle is fortunate to have such good friends.”
During the homeward stroll up Bartley Lane, Andrew said, “You don’t like him.”
“Not in the least,” Julia admitted. “I think he’s full of wind. I doubt he even looked in on his uncle until we arrived. Mary had no idea who he was.”
“But we don’t know that. She could have simply been nervous for having a new master.”
“What about those things the squire told us? Did you not believe him?”
“I did. But I also know he had harsh opinions of people at times. Didn’t he dislike you when you first moved here?”
“Well, yes,” Julia admitted. “But only because he missed a chance to buy the Larkspur for a pittance.”
Gently, Andrew said, “Should we not give Mr. Gibbs the benefit of the doubt until we know otherwise?”
Sometimes it was a pain, being married to a vicar. Especially when he was right. Julia sighed. “Of course. It’s the notion of so many good people losing out that has me bitter.”
“I’ve grieved over that myself. We just have to trust that the squire will recover and continue with his plan. Until then, it will do us—nor the squire—no good to antagonize Mr. Gibbs. He could forbid us to visit.”
That sobered Julia. “Oh dear, Andrew. I didn’t mean to be a liability.”
Andrew chuckled and linked his arm through hers. “Liability? Every man should be blessed with such a liability.”
She leaned her head briefly upon his shoulder. “Who do you think would be willing to take turns reading?”
He thought for a moment. “Surely Ambrose and Fiona.”
“Aleda could come out of her shell once in a while,” Julia said. “Considering what the squire did for her. And I believe Mercy Langford would be willing.”
“Don’t forget Jonathan, now that school’s on holiday. After all, he gave us the idea.”
It so happened that they had reached Church Lane at that moment. Their son-in-law was outdoors, installing a lock on the gardening hut door.
“I’ll be happy to read to him,” he said.
But the following afternoon, Jonathan appeared at the vicarage just as Julia and Andrew were setting out to pay calls.
“I was turned away at the door,” he said.
I shall die of boredom! Donald thought, pacing the library rug.
Aside from a few current magazines, nothing but ponderous old books. The conservatory was quite pleasant for sitting and smoking Gold Flake cigarettes, but a man could not spend all his hours so engaged. The stables still boasted four fine horses, but he did not ride saddle, a secret he guarded closely. When he was eight, his own horse had bolted with him at Hyde Park, eventually rearing up and tossing him off as if he were a rag doll. His broken shoulder had healed, but now thirty years later, he still suffered limited range of motion in his left arm.
When Mrs. Cooper brought tea, he asked, “How would I go about buying a billiards table?”
“You would have to go to Shrewsbury,” she replied. “I’ve never seen one in the local shops.”
“Hmm.” He stirred milk into his tea. “Is there some household money put away somewhere?”
“Why no, sir. Anything we need from the shops is put to the squire’s account, to be paid by Mr. Stokes at the factory.”
“Horace Stokes?”
“Yes, sir. He pays our wages, as well. Perhaps you could ask him for the funds to buy the table?”
Donald studied her face for any sign of mockery. Her expression was as guileless as a baby’s. Uncle Thurmond had had another housekeeper twenty-one years ago. Perhaps the old gaffer had indeed managed to hush up the incident that sent Donald repacking for London.
And obviously Horace had benefited.
Even so, Donald would have to be completely desperate to ask him to advance him so much as a shilling.
An idea struck him. Perhaps he could persuade one of the local shopkeepers to order the table and put it on account. It could not hurt to drive the dogcart into the village and inquire. He had a way of charming people into doing what he wished.
He sighed, remembering he was housebound, for he expected a visit from the vicar sometime today. Tempting as it was to hide from confrontation, it was best to get it over and done with.
“Vicar Phelps is at the door, Mr. Gibbs,” Mrs. Cooper informed him a half hour later.
In the foyer, Donald was satisfied to see the housekeeper had followed his instructions not to ask for his hat. The sooner this affair was concluded, the better.
“It’s good to see you again, Vicar,” Donald said, pretending surprise, offering his hand. He was still a gentleman, after all.
“Thank you,” said Vicar Phelps as the housekeeper slipped away. “But I’m afraid I don’t understand. Mr. Raleigh, my son-in-law, wasn’t allowed to see the squire.”
“Yes, yes,” Donald said. “Nice fellow. I hope he wasn’t offended. I fear I did not explain myself satisfactorily to him.”
“I believe that to be the case.”
“You see, after you and Mrs. Phelps left yesterday, the thought struck me that I could read just as well to my uncle. Why inconvenience you and everyone else?”
“It’s no inconvenience.”
“But it is less of an inconvenience to me. What else have I here to occupy my time?” He smiled. “Or is it my reading ability that troubles you? Shall I fetch a book from the library and prove my literacy?”
“No, that’s not necessary,” the vicar replied with a polite little chuckle. “But I had also hoped having a variety of visitors would stimulate your uncle’s mind.”
This was something Donald had not considered, forcing him to think fast. Fortunately, he had always been skilled at landing upon his feet—not counting the time the horse threw him.
“At what cost to his body? As you have witnessed, he hangs on to health by a thread. His resistance is obviously low. I should think the less exposure to visitors, the better. Can you not see my reasoning?”
Vicar Phelps hesitated. “Ah . . . well . . .”
Weary of standing there, Donald decided it was time for the coup de grace. “It was so good of you to come. Please tell Mr. Raleigh I meant no disrespect. And if you’ll excuse me, I must see to my uncle.”
He reserved his chuckle for the staircase.
Poor vicar, he thought. Mr. Phelps seemed a decent fellow. Down to earth, not lofty like his predecessor, Vicar Wilson.
His smile faded. Vicar Wilson, whose letter to Saint John’s College had made him unwelcome at Oxford.
As irony would have it, the seeds of his piety and his bitterness were planted in the same ground when his parents sent him to Gresham at age seventeen. Uncle Thurmond had insisted he accompany him to Saint Jude’s. Under Vicar Wilson’s preaching, Donald found himself swept up in the desire to serve God. He became quite pious, devoting long hours to the Bible.
But that desire did not replace the other one, the reason he was banished briefly from London. And it was not long before that desire crept back from the mental closet to which he had confined it.
His problem, as in London, was choosing the wrong recipient of that desire. Haste and lust, yoked together, always outpaced judgment.