Philip woke before sunrise, as was his habit. A cuckoo’s notes tolled from the garden, clear and sweet as a silver bell.
The snores from the next room were not so sweet, but twice as endearing.
He dressed quietly and carried a lamp downstairs into the parlor to retrieve his cravat and pin. Something stirred; he directed the lamp closer to the sofa. Mother rose to her elbow, squinted into the light.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
“Is it morning?”
“Yes, but the sun’s not up yet. Go back to sleep.”
“I’m glad you woke me.” She yawned and swung her feet around to sit. “Time to go back upstairs.”
“Why didn’t you go to Aleda’s old room?”
“Habit. I started coming down here when your sisters were still here. This sofa’s comfortable.”
“What will you do when we move Father’s bed down here?”
She smiled. “Not sleep?”
“We’ll take turns.”
“We’ll see. Must you leave so early?”
“I want to see what sort of arrangements Doctor Rhodes has made. He’s an early riser, too. Don’t plan on me for lunch. I’d like to ride down to Shrewsbury and look over the surgery facilities.”
“You’re a dear.”
He left through the front door instead of the kitchen. Dora had hearing like an owl and would try to push breakfast on him. Walking around the house to the stable, he wondered how long his mother had been slipping out of her bedroom to escape the snoring. He had a feeling Father was blissfully unaware. This latest example of their mutual devotion was touching, and yet brought a stab of pain. Would Loretta do such a thing?
Actually, she did it all the time. Just not for the same reason.
A mist lay upon the grass, to be burnt away later by the warmth of the sun. In the near distance, Saint Jude’s stood in a solemn quiet of its own, as if to guard the repose of the sleepers in its hazy shadow. Belle was eager to be out and away, and took bridle and bit with no resistance. Her hooves fairly danced across the cobbled stones as she pulled the carriage. Gresham rested dew-spangled and tranquil against the first low rays of the sun. Past the rooftops, the Anwyl dawned a soft azure.
A thousand memories swept over him. This village had nurtured him when he needed it most, after his father’s death. It was here that Mother had met and married Andrew Phelps, and doubled the number of his sisters. They teased him sometimes, tormented him others, but never had he doubted their love.
And even later in Edinburgh, when so absorbed with texts and lectures and dissections that some days he did not even think consciously of his family, he carried them in his heart.
And then, to be loved by a beautiful woman! Not in the tranquil way of family, but with the excitement of Columbus finding the New World. When Doctor Trask introduced them, Loretta seemed as smitten with him as he was with her. In fact, she had almost frightened him away with the intensity of her dedication, the hints she dropped of marriage. He knew his faults. Could any woman, so willingly blind to them, be stable?
The scales were tipped by her father’s position at Saint Bartholomew’s. Not that Philip sought to advance his career, for his work spoke for itself. But to have such a respected man treating him as a son was a heady thing, adding to the allure of the daughter. Only fractionally, however, for Doctor Trask did not accompany them on their honeymoon, a month in Tuscany that was almost magical.
Within weeks of returning to London, however, she was giving off signs of disappointment with him. Making little complaints. She hated his beard, which he had cultivated for the Edinburgh winters and retained because he disliked shaving. He gave up cigarettes. They were a nasty habit anyway, picked up to ease the rigors of medical school. He ceased balking at her parents’ insistence on paying for a coach, horses, and a coachman’s wages, even when accepting the gift of the house had made him feel less than a man.
No amount of praise from his peers and superiors at Saint Bartholomew’s could compensate for coming home and finding his wife absent. Even when she was present. When he questioned what was wrong, her stock answer was “nothing.” Their conversations eroded to either trivialities or banter. They excelled at the latter. Humor was a great distancer.
He felt his cheek. His auburn hair was fine, and so the stubble barely stood out against his fingertips. In his haste to leave the vicarage, he had not shaved. But then, perhaps he would not tomorrow, either.
Sunlight through the gap in the curtains was warm on her face. Jewel slipped out of bed and into her wrapper. Becky snored softly on her side, her curls tumbled about the pillow.
On the landing, Jewel was relieved to hear movement in the other bedchamber. Even though Miss Hollis was meeting a friend for breakfast, she might care for a cup of tea.
The kettle was boiling when Miss Hollis came downstairs, fastening the cuff buttons of a crisp white poplin blouse. “No one will recognize me without the wrinkles. Tea? Wonderful! I tossed and turned so.”
“I’m sorry.” Jewel poured her a steaming cup.
“My fault. I can’t drink hot chocolate in the evenings.” She covered a yawn, then took a sip. “It’s useful, when I must work all night, but not when I want to sleep. Will you have some?”
Jewel poured herself a cup and joined her at the table. “Thank you for the eggs and bacon. And I’d like to buy some food.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll get some money. . . .”
“I have money,” Jewel said respectfully. Only two pounds, but with her usual frugality at the market, she could stretch it for a while.
“I’m not going to allow you to do that.”
“I can’t do all the taking, Miss Hollis. Will you tell me where to go?”
Miss Hollis sighed. “Take the southward path around the fence until you reach Church Lane. Set out to your right, and you’ll eventually come to the crossroads. Any of the shops there will deliver if you need them to.”
After breakfast, Jewel and Becky set out on foot. The village was twice as charming as it had seemed from the coach. Tree branches meandered over the lane. Stone and half-timbered cottages boasted flower gardens and pots of geraniums in windows. The shade-cooled air felt invigorating. A farmer passing in the lane doffed his hat. An elderly woman waved from her garden. Becky skipped along at her side, chattering happily.
“I hear a cow, Mummy. Do you?”
Jewel cocked her head to listen. “I do. But not just one. Miss Hollis said there are dairy farms here.”
“What’s a dairy farm?”
“Where people keep cows for their milk.”
They passed a schoolyard, where four children were sending up squeals from a merry-go-round. Becky sent a half-shy, half-longing look that caused an ache in Jewel’s heart. They were no longer in Birmingham, but not quite part of Gresham, either. Even though school was not in session, were only students allowed to play here?
“Why don’t we look for some cows?” she said impulsively. “Oh, may we?” Becky clapped her hands.
Jewel smiled. There was no hurry to return; the cottage was almost spotless. Outside the cluster of shops at the crossroads, she asked directions of a barber sweeping the pavement. Before even reaching the stone bridge to the north, they could see black-and-white cattle grazing in distant rolling pastures.
“This is far enough, mite,” Jewel said. “I don’t want to have to carry you back the whole way.”
“Just to the bridge? To look at the water?”
“Very well.” Truth was, Jewel was having just as much fun. Once she found a position, the opportunities for exploring might be limited. But leisure time was an abnormality, as stiff as a pair of Sunday shoes.
At length they returned to the shops. Jewel purchased bread from the baker, soup bones from the butcher, potatoes, onions, carrots, and peas from the greengrocer. The parcels in her arms were bulky, but manageable.
Near the end of the path, Becky hurried ahead. “I’ll open the gate.”
“There’s a good girl.”
Seated in the wicker chairs were Miss Hollis and a large, pleasant-faced man wearing a gray tweed suit. He rose to his feet and advanced.
“Please allow me, Mrs. Libby,” he said in a familiar accent.
“You’re very kind, but I can manage.”
Miss Hollis said from her chair, “Mr. Patterson has few opportunities to play the gentleman. You may as well humor him.”
“Aleda exaggerates. One can be a gentleman even while alone. How very good to meet a fellow Brummie.” Taking the parcels, he inclined his head toward Becky, gaping up at him. “Two fellow Brummies, that is.”
Jewel could not help but smile.
“Please, sir, what’s a Brummie?” Becky asked.
“Why, it’s the nickname for those of us from Birmingham.” He smiled. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Gabriel Patterson. And you are, of course, Mrs. Libby and Becky.”
“We’re pleased to meet you,” Jewel said. “Where in Birmingham do you live?”
“Ah, but I fled Birmingham over a decade ago. It’s a good place to be from. If you’ll pardon me . . .”
He turned toward the steps. Jewel realized she should follow, to open the door. Behind, she heard Miss Hollis ask, “Did you enjoy the shops, Becky?”
“I liked the cows and the bridge more.”
“Well, sit here and tell me about it.”
Mr. Patterson set the parcels upon the table. Jewel was not quite sure what was expected of her, given her position as part servant, part houseguest. She thanked him again and offered her hand.
Two fleshy paws engulfed it. “My pleasure.”
He was not handsome in the classical sense, with his thinning, dun-colored hair, full cheeks, and girth. But the kindness, humor, and intelligence in his face were pleasing to the eyes.
“Was there nothing about Birmingham that you liked, Mr. Patterson?” she found herself asking.
“That’s a very good question. There was plenty to like, but I didn’t like who I was when I lived there. Does that make sense?”
She thought of herself, one of a multitude trudging from factory to slums to factory, with only Sundays to brighten the weeks. “It does, Mr. Patterson.”
“Will you join us in the garden?”
“Thank you, but I must start making soup.” She would call Becky indoors, as well, and not take advantage of his courtesy. He nodded. “It was good to meet you, Mrs. Libby.”
Miss Hollis came inside an hour later, as Jewel swept stray vegetable peelings from the kitchen floor, and Becky sat at the bottom of the staircase tying bows with string from the parcels.
“My brother abducted Gabriel to go to Shrewsbury with him and look over the hospital.” She went to the stove and lifted the lid from the pot. “Soup?”
“I’m afraid it won’t be ready until tonight. But there is still plenty of lamb stew left.”
Miss Hollis patted her stomach. “I overdid breakfast.”
“See, Miss Hollis?” Becky said, holding up one of her string bows. “You only have to pull an end to make it come apart.”
“Clever girl. Do you like to draw?”
“I do.”
“Sit at the table. I’ll be back.”
She went upstairs, and returned with a stack of paper about six inches thick.
Surely not! Jewel thought, and was opening her mouth to protest when Miss Hollis peeled off four sheets from the top and placed them before Becky. She handed her two pencils, winked at Jewel, and left for the garden with the bulk of the stack.
Lost in her story, Aleda was startled when Mrs. Libby appeared with a beaker on a tray.
“What time is it?” Aleda asked.
“After one o’clock. I thought you might care for some lemonade.”
“What a coincidence. I was just reading about lemonade. . . . Here . . . my characters are drinking lemonade at a May Day picnic.”
“Perhaps you’re a psychic?” Mrs. Libby lowered the tray.
Aleda laughed, a little surprised, given Mrs. Libby’s factory and service background.
Her expression must have revealed so, for Mrs. Libby explained with no rancor, “My first employer was a headmaster. They entertained often, and I learned much from discussions while helping in the dining room.”
Aleda took a sip from the beaker. “Very good. But perhaps you’re the psychic. You knew I was thirsty.”
“You don’t really believe in that, do you, Miss Hollis?” Mrs. Libby said carefully.
“My stepfather’s the vicar. What do you think?”
Mrs. Libby laughed, and was turning toward the cottage when Aleda said, “Where is Becky?”
“Napping. Is there something you wish me to—?”
“No, pour yourself some lemonade and join me.”
She sent an uncertain glance toward the chair beside her. “Join you?”
“To chat. You know, as people do. Don’t look so uneasy.”
Minutes later, when Mrs. Libby had settled with her drink, Aleda asked, “Do you miss Birmingham?”
“There are some things I miss. Saint Philip’s Chapel. Vicar and Mrs. Treves. Fidget pie. The places my husband and I took walks. Our first little house, even if it was a back-to-back.”
“Do you hope to return one day?”
“Never.” Her red curls bounced against her shoulder with her headshake. “I do miss those things I mentioned, but I suppose if you grew up in a hole in the ground, you’d recall some things fondly, too.”
Amused, Aleda said, “Such as dirt? Grubs? Worms?”
Mrs. Libby smiled. “If that’s all you knew.”
“It took great courage for you to leave your ‘hole in the ground,’ knowing so little of the place you would land.”
“Thank you, but I never felt courageous. It’s just that my fear of the known was greater than my fear of the unknown.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while, sipping lemonade. Mrs. Libby looked at the stack of papers on her lap and said, “I read some of your stories last night. They’re very good.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Is your novel an adventure, too?”
Aleda shook her head. “It’s set in a village, much like this one. A bit of humor, a bit of romance. And well, yes, some adventure, but no Komodo dragons.”
Mrs. Libby smiled. “May I ask why you’ve written it in script, when you have a typewriter?”
“Well, because it’s closer to my heart than my magazine stories. The pen is more personable than tapping it out on a machine.”
“A labor of love?”
Aleda sighed. “When it’s not a labor of hate.”
Mrs. Libby’s reddish brows lifted.
Aleda was astonished at herself for revealing so much. But having an impartial listener, with no emotional stake, was refreshing.
“I wrapped up all plots and subplots into a tidy ending long ago. But I can’t bear the thought of bad reviews from critics . . . or worse, having it rejected, so I won’t submit it for publication until it’s perfect. Or at least as close to that as possible.”
“Is it almost there?”
“Every time I read it over, new flaws stand out. But it’ll be worth it in the end. Samuel Johnson said great works are performed not by strength, but perseverance.”
“Has he read your story?”
“He was a famous writer of the last century,” Aleda said, trying not to sound condescending.
Nonplussed, Mrs. Libby said, “He must not have come up in the dinner conversations. So, no one else has read it?”
“Heavens, no. Mr. Patterson has offered, which is why I brought it out here to look over. But I don’t think it’s ready, even for him.”
“But wouldn’t he be kinder than the critics?”
Aleda hesitated before admitting, “That frightens me more than their opinions. I don’t want his pity if it so happens that I’m meant only for magazine romps.”
Mrs. Libby took a sip from her glass, chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Pardon me for asking, Miss Hollis, but . . .”
“Go ahead.”
“I don’t know anything about writing. But could it be that you’ve looked for the bad parts so many times that you can’t recognize the good? Like having a spot on your face. . . . It’s all you see in the mirror, but no one else does because they’re looking at the color of your eyes?”
Aleda felt a tinge of annoyance. Mrs. Libby was obviously intelligent, but as she had just admitted, what did she know of the complexities of emptying one’s heart onto paper? “It’s not that simple.”
“Of course. My apology.” Mrs. Libby got to her feet. “Would you care for more?”
“No thank you.” Aleda handed over her empty beaker, gathered her manuscript into her arms, and rose. “And I must return to my story. Make up for time lost in London. Will my typing wake Becky?”
“It won’t. She’s a heavy sleeper, and her door’s closed.”
But just in case, Aleda closed her own door, softly. Odd, but a sheet of paper lay draped over her typewriter carriage. She moved over to her desk, lifted the page, and smiled at the stick figure standing beside a stick cat. Miss Hollis and Tiger were spread across the top of the page in wavering letters, as if an adult hand had helped guide the pencil.
Tiger was probably napping at Becky’s feet now. Aleda did not mind. Animals seemed to prefer children when they weren’t the sort who grabbed and teased. That would have been terrible, having a brat under her roof.
She rolled a sheet of paper onto the carriage and began.
Lady Kempthorne raised her chin, as salt breezes toyed with the golden ringlets about her face. “I owe you my life, Captain Jacobs. But not my affection. You forget how recently I was widowed.”
“How could I forget,” the captain replied tersely, “when your husband was so eager to trade you to the pirates for his freedom?”
“We’re not to speak ill of the dead.”
“There is speaking ill, and there is speaking truth. And ofttimes they are the same.”
Should he kiss her now? Probably not, Aleda thought. Even though her late husband had been a scoundrel, she was indeed a recent widow, and Captain Jacobs, a gentleman.
But what would her readers want?
She sighed. A kiss, passionate and fierce. Followed by a slap from Lady Kempthorne’s soft white hand. Leave any reader under the age of twelve assuming she hated him.
Her eyes strayed to the stack of hand-scripted pages.
Gabriel would be kind in his critique, but he would also be honest. He would love her no less if the book was no good. She thought of Mrs. Libby setting out with no more than a letter and a little money, a battered trunk and a daughter depending upon her. What had she said? My fear of the known was greater than my fear of the unknown.
By clinging to her manuscript she was staying in Birmingham. Or worse, in the hole in the ground. She could see herself years from now, still pruning and grafting and fussing over her story, until she became an odd little woman hiding her treasure away in a cupboard until the pages yellowed.
But at least it would be safe from criticism, she thought wryly.
I have to do this.
Remarkable, that someone she barely knew had nudged her out of her inertia.
She had to thank her. She opened the door, softly again, and went downstairs. Savory aromas drifted from the pot on the stove. Mrs. Libby stood at the table over the assortment of household lamps, drying their globes with a tea cloth.
“You’ll work yourself to death,” Aleda said.
The streak of soot on her cheek curved with her smile. “I’m not tired.”
“You’re not my slave, either. I’m beginning to feel I’m taking advantage of you.”
“Advantage?” Mrs. Libby waved a sooty hand. “You’ve given us shelter.”
“I’m happy to do so.” She would be happier when that was no longer necessary, but that was beside the point. “Just promise me you’ll do something with Becky when she wakes? She obviously enjoyed your morning stroll.”
Opening her mouth as if to offer more protest, Mrs. Libby leaned her head in thought. “If I’m making you uncomfortable . . .”
“You are.”
“I’ll take Becky for another walk when she’s up.”
“There you are. Explore the woods a bit. They’re quite lovely, and you can’t get lost if you stay on the path.”
And as long as she was having her say, Aleda thought, she may as well address another issue.
“And you mustn’t buy any more food. Make a list of what we need, and I’ll have it delivered.”
Mrs. Libby’s blue eyes clouded.
“Now, no more of that.” Aleda smiled. “You think you’re doing all the taking, but it’s just not so. Besides giving me the cleanest house in Gresham, you’ve helped me come to a major decision.”
“I have?” Mrs. Libby gave her a hopeful look. “You’ll allow Mr. Patterson to read your book?”
“With fear and trembling, but yes.”