“He could hang on like this for weeks,” Doctor Rhodes said in the corridor with lowered voice.
Why whisper? Donald thought. His uncle’s mind was gone. Circus acrobats bouncing over his bed would have been met with the same drooling, blank stare.
Doctor Rhodes surely accepted this, too, for he no longer pressed him to allow visitors other than Mary Johnson, who napped in a cot when not attending to his needs.
“I appreciate your concern over germs,” the doctor went on, “but it would do him good if you stuck your head in the room more often.”
Donald’s teeth clenched. Mary and her big mouth! But what could he say? He needed Doctor Rhodes on his side, should the will be contested. He put a hand upon the old man’s shoulder. “It’s just that it pains me so to see him that way. But you’re right, and I shall.”
That should have satisfied him, but maddeningly, the doctor went on. “One thing more. Miss Johnson looks exhausted. She cannot possibly be giving him decent care with so little sleep. You must get her some help.”
“Yes, of course.”
When he was gone, Donald ambled out to a bench in the rose garden. Fragrant breezes pawed at his hair. Like his uncle, his mother had loved roses. If he closed his eyes, he could picture her bringing a tray of milk and biscuits out to the garden when he was a boy, coffee when he was older. With biscuits. How many British childhood memories were centered around biscuits?
He sighed and rubbed his eyes. There was no use scolding Mary Johnson, and have another episode of his private business spread all over Gresham. But Doctor Rhodes was wrong. He had once stuck more than his head through his uncle’s door when Mary was at lunch. He had combed every inch of chest of drawers and wardrobe. No money was tucked away. Not even a ring or watch, cuff links or tie pin that he could slip over to a pawn broker in Shrewsbury.
Was the old man really that tight? Or had the servants beaten him to the goods? Frustrating that he could not level any charges without revealing just how he knew the valuables, if they existed, were absent.
Just before coming to Gresham, he had lost his watch and jewelry in a game of twenty-one in one of the lesser salons, a foolish attempt to raise enough stakes to save his house.
He could not carry off any household treasures—such as the ten-inch jade statuette of a Japanese geisha in the library—from under the eyes of servants who dusted daily. The housekeeper kept the silver locked when it wasn’t being used, polished, or counted. Pathetically, he had almost been reduced to stealing the spoon from his uncle’s tray outside the door and allowing Mary to take the blame. But how much would that have landed him?
Smothering his uncle with a pillow would have been a mercy. Who would wish to live that way? But firstly, the threat of a postmortem hung over him. Secondly, as his luck was running of late, he was certain he would be caught. Thirdly, he was not sure his hands could perpetrate the act. Wishing someone to die was one thing. Overt murder was another.
He blew out his cheeks. Poverty was no less grinding when it was temporary. He had to get to London for a couple of days, which not only required train fare but enough for theatre tickets and lobster dinners, perhaps a bauble from Harrods’ jewelry department. He would need to leave some money, too, lest Reese grow restless again.
He heard some tune being whistled and spotted the postman walking up the carriage drive with sack slung from his shoulder. Here would be another to benefit from his uncle’s shuffling over to The Other Side. It seemed Uncle Bartley subscribed to every magazine in England. The unread stack in the library grew taller every week. Too bad he could not sell those, but even so, how much could one earn from out of date, and soon-to-be out of date, publications?
A thought sparked in his mind. He sat up straight. On his second morning in Gresham, before the servants had begun to dislike him, Mrs. Cooper had offered him a magazine to read, saying that the author of one of the serialized stories rented the old gamekeeper’s cottage. That she was Vicar Phelps’s daughter, a spinster with a cat.
An author. Having serials published, which meant steady income. And no one to spend it on but her spinsterish self and the cat.
He knew he was handsome. The mirror did not lie. Nor did the looks sent his way whenever he strolled down the London pavement. Or drove his barouche, before he lost it, along with the team of ash gray Welsh cobs.
He groaned, shook the thought from his head. No sense beating himself up over that again. He had used his looks and charm in the past for financial gain. It could be a tedious process, depending upon the particular whims of the object of his attention. And he took no pleasure in it. But for now in his desperation, it seemed Miss Phelps was the only game in Gresham.
“Miss Phelps?” Mrs. Cooper said to his query. “There’s no Miss Phelps in Gresham, sir. The two girls married some years ago.”
“But did you not say one of the vicar’s daughters leased a house from Uncle Thurmond?”
“That would be Miss Hollis. She’s actually his stepdaughter.”
Apples and oranges, Donald thought. Still, she had something there. Women were flattered when a man took pains to learn a little something about them. Should he not read some of her stories before introducing himself?
He was on his way into the library when another thought struck him. If he were to pretend surprise at learning of her profession, she would have no reason to suspect he was interested in her money. And for that reason, he chose his plain tweed coat, though he did clean his teeth and comb his hair.
He set out without informing the servants where he was going. Let them wonder! But then again, they were probably dancing, thinking of new ways to taint his food. How satisfying it was going to be to sack all of them!
The path wound through the woods across Church Lane, just as he remembered. He saw movement and stopped to peer through the branches of a yew. Over the picket fence, a glimpse of red hair. That made him feel better. He adored red hair, the contrast it made with fair skin. Miss Hollis wore an apron over a dress of violet-and-pink checks, and was sweeping the cottage steps. Not a very writer-worthy activity, but when one chose to live alone, one had to look after oneself.
“Mummy, may I pick more berries?”
His eyes found the source of the voice: a girl, with the same red hair. Was this her actual reason for seclusion? A vicar’s daughter, with a base child?
“No, mite, you’ve had quite enough.”
Quite met his ears as quoit. He would know that flat accent anywhere, having enjoyed a two-year liaison with a member of the Royal Opera House chorus who hailed from Birmingham.
Yet oddly, Mrs. Phelps, who would be her natural mother, had not shared the accent.
The plot thickened. Perhaps Miss Hollis had lived long enough in Birmingham to pick up the accent—and a child— before returning to self-exile on the fringe of the community.
He smiled to himself. He should be the writer. He stepped out from the tree. His mission might have been unsavory, but at least it proved to be interesting.
“I’m finished sweeping. If you’ll fetch your boots, we’ll explore a bit.”
Becky’s face brightened, and she darted into the house.
Jewel smiled. The trees were so fragrant, and this was Becky’s first experience with a forest. Jewel had fond, vague memories of visiting her mother’s parents on the outskirts of Chelmsley Wood.
She heard movement. Footfalls in the grass. Panic was her immediate reaction. He doesn’t know where we are, she had to remind herself.
“Good afternoon, miss,” said a voice, male, but decidedly not Mr. Dunstan’s. Nor Mr. Patterson’s. Perhaps Miss Hollis’s surgeon brother?
A dark-haired man stepped up to the fence, with a good-humored face that made up for the fierceness of his black mustache. “I’ve startled you. I should have given warning. Whistled, or sang a song. Only, I have a tin ear, so you might have thrown a stick at me.”
Jewel smiled. “No, that’s quite all right, sir. I’m just a bit skittish this afternoon.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “Strangers popping out of the woods will do that to you. So please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Donald Gibbs, the squire’s nephew.”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” she said, also pleased that he kept himself on the other side of the fence. But surely he was harmless, related to a village squire as he was. And he did not leer at her. She was about to introduce herself when Becky came running outdoors with boots flapping.
“Will you fasten them, Mummy? Who is that man?”
“Mr. Gibbs, Becky,” Jewel replied, and wrapped an arm around her shoulder to draw her to her side.
“I’ve been staying with my uncle for the past three weeks,” he said.
“We’re to walk in the woods,” Becky said as if they had not gone through such an ordeal over the last strange man to show interest in her.
“What fun! I used to wander up the path to pick blackberries when I was young. Should they be ripe now? No, it’s a bit early in the season.”
“I don’t know, sir,” Jewel replied. This Mr. Gibbs was a little too friendly for her comfort. “I’m suddenly fatigued. I doubt we’ll walk after all.”
“Please, Mummy,” Becky pleaded.
Mr. Gibbs unhooked his hands from the fence and took a backwards step, clearly understanding. “Pity, on such a lovely day. I’m rather fatigued myself. I hear a nap calling back at the house. Perhaps you’ll have the energy for your walk later.”
“Good day, sir,” Jewel said, not sure if this was a ploy, hating the cautious eye she would be forced to cast upon men, when most were surely decent.
“And to you.” He paused in midturn, brow furrowed but voice gentle. “I realize you’re my uncle’s tenant, Miss Hollis. But that does not obligate you to address me as sir. In fact, it causes me discomfort, considering the circumstances.”
“Your uncle owns this cottage?”
“Of course. How . . . could you not be aware of that? Are you not Miss Hollis?”
Relief flooded Jewel, that he had come with a legitimate purpose. “I’m Mrs. Libby.”
A pause, and then, “Are you her housemaid?”
“Oh, no sir. But she’s offered to help me find me a position.”
“Are we to take our walk now?” Becky asked.
“Shush, child.”
Mr. Gibbs scratched his head. “Where is Miss Hollis, then?”
“She’s at the vicarage. I’m not sure when she’ll return.”
“I see.” He folded his arms. “You’re not from Gresham, are you?”
“No, sir.”
“Your accent—Birmingham?”
“Why, yes. We came up just two days ago.”
“How are you acquainted with Miss Hollis?”
“My minister gave us a letter introducing us to Vicar Phelps. But he’s unwell.”
He nodded. “I thought he looked peaked that day. Are you saying you’re not acquainted with anyone in Gresham?”
“Only Miss Hollis and Mrs. Phelps.”
“And you’re looking for a position?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you keep your word, Mrs. Libby?”
The question surprised her. “I do my best. It’s a sin not to.”
“My uncle is dying.”
Jewel put a hand to her heart. “I’m sorry.”
“He requires a day nurse who would be willing to move into the manor house. If I were to hire you, could you refrain from gossiping to the servants, or anyone else, what goes on? He was always a private man. Out of respect for him, I don’t want it bandied about the house and village what he’s going through.”
“I can do that, sir.” He had not asked if she had experience, but she thought she should add, “I cared for my mother for eight months when I was twelve.”
“Very good.”
“I would have to have my daughter with me.”
“Fine. I’ll send someone for you in the morning.”
In the morning? Could this not wait until after church? But illness was no respecter of time. And the way the job was offered to her, out of the blue, surely this was from God. Had she not prayed for a position?
Thank you, Father!
Jewel and Becky were sitting across from each other at the table with bowls of soup when Miss Hollis returned with Mr. Patterson.
“We’ve interrupted your supper,” he said.
“We’ve only just sat down. Would you care for some soup?”
“No thank you,” Miss Hollis said on her way to the staircase. “We’ve been helping rearrange furniture at the vicarage, and Dora brought out sandwiches. Gabriel’s just here for my manuscript.”
“I’m afraid she’ll change her mind if I wait until tomorrow.” Mr. Patterson pulled out the chair beside Becky and sat. “And what did you do this afternoon, Miss Becky?”
“She drew a lovely picture for me,” Miss Hollis called down from the landing.
Beaming, Becky said, “And we saw a rabbit in the woods.”
“How exciting!” Mr. Patterson said.
She nodded. “And Mummy has a job.”
“What was that?” Miss Hollis said, halfway down the staircase with her manuscript in her arms.
Jewel looked up at her. “I’m to be the day nurse for the squire. His nephew, a Mr. Gibbs, came by. I start tomorrow morning. I hate to miss church, but hopefully we’ll have other opportunities to go.”
At the bottom of the staircase, Miss Hollis turned to set her manuscript upon a step. She walked over to the head of the table and sat adjacent to Jewel. With an eye toward Becky and voice low, she said, “Mr. Gibbs has a reputation.”
Another Mr. Dunstan? Sickening chills ran up Jewel’s back.
“I’ve not met him, but it’s all over Gresham that he had to be goaded into providing decent care for the squire. And that he only allows Doctor Rhodes to visit.”
Jewel pursed her lips. “But if he’s hiring me as nurse, would that not mean he intends to give him proper care?”
Miss Hollis rolled her eyes. “Have you considered that he may have taken a fancy to you?”
“To me?” Jewel shook her head.
“You’re quite pretty.”
Mr. Patterson nodded somberly.
“I would have known. He didn’t look at us that way at all.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Miss Hollis asked.
“Yes. This seems an answer to prayer.”
“Well, you can always come back and we’ll start all over if it’s not a good situation. And if this is your going-away supper, I believe I’ll have some soup after all.” She pushed out her chair. “Gabriel?”
“It does smell good,” he said. “A half bowl?”
Jewel started to rise, but Miss Hollis patted her shoulder. “I think I can find the bowls and spoons.”
“Delicious,” Mr. Patterson said after a taste. “Have you worked as a cook?”
“Only a kitchen maid, when I was young.”
“Mummy sewed corsets,” Becky piped.
“Becky . . .”
Mr. Patterson laughed. It was a wonderful, joyous sound, and contagious, for Miss Hollis joined him, then Jewel.
“How did you come from sewing corsets in Birmingham to making soup in Gresham?” he asked, wiping his eyes.
“It’s a long story,” she said respectfully. “And best forgotten.”
“Bad Mr. Dunstan wanted me to go to the cellar with him,” Becky supplied with childish frankness. “Mummy, what are the green things?”
Mr. Patterson’s round face filled with distress and compassion. His eyes shifted to meet Jewel’s. “Men can be such beasts.”
“Not all men,” she said softly. “And we’re fine now.”
“You deserve to be.”
She felt a flush to her cheeks and looked again at her daughter. “They’re peas, Becky.”
Interesting, Aleda thought.
After the meal, she watched Gabriel take Mrs. Libby’s hand and wish her well, then pat Becky’s head.
He took up her manuscript, and she accompanied him to the gate in the gathering dusk.
“Hurry, Gabriel, or you’ll be caught in the darkness. Perhaps I should get you a lamp.”
“And risk igniting these precious pages? Don’t worry.” He looked at the cottage. “You think they’ll be all right?”
“I’ve not heard of Mr. Gibbs forcing his attentions on any of the women servants. Or children. And it comforts me to know she’ll be tending the squire. She seems a compassionate woman.”
“Yes, she does. But Becky . . . has she any toys at all?”
Aleda thought for a second. She had had little interest in toys as a child, so had not even noticed. “I don’t think so.”
“May I give you some money to buy some toys to send to the manor house? They must be from you or Mrs. Libby will think . . .”
“Yes, I understand. But I don’t want any money.”
“You’ve done a good deed, helping them. Please let me help, too.” He patted the top page of her manuscript and grinned at her. “You do owe me a favor. . . .”
“Very well.” Aleda tugged at his sleeve. “Now go, or I’ll worry about you wandering about in the darkness.”
She smiled on her way back through the garden. Perhaps it wasn’t necessary to live in London to find Gabriel a wife after all.
By the time she reached the door, her practical side had elbowed its way past that fantasy. The two were barely acquainted, and one had only to look at Philip and Loretta to see the danger of wedding in haste.
But it couldn’t hurt to keep both in her prayers and see what the future held.