Andrew preached his sermon Sunday morning, baptized the Coggins infant, and made an announcement just before the closing prayer and doxology.
“As many of you are aware, I’m to have surgery tomorrow morning.”
There was a faint ripple of voices, heads leaning together.
“Mr. Nicholls of Whitchurch will fill the pulpit for the month of July. I realize I do not have to ask that you show him the same courtesy you have shown me, for you are the kindest congregation I have ever known.”
Julia smiled, remembering the grumblings fifteen years ago when Andrew and the girls arrived in Gresham. The general consensus was that no one could fill Vicar Wilson’s shoes—nor his pulpit. It had taken Gresham some time to warm up to him, just as it had taken her time to see this thickset, self-deprecating man in a romantic light.
“Which leads me to this request I make of you, dear ones. My family will have the unenviable task of nursing me. I fear too many calls will tax their strength. We would be most grateful for some quiet time to heal . . . and above all, we would be grateful for your prayers.”
Another ripple, accompanied by nods and smiles. He stood at the door twice as long, receiving handshakes and promises of prayers.
“If anything goes wrong . . .” Andrew said that night as Julia lay in his arms.
She put a hand up to his lips. “Shush, Vicar.”
He chuckled under the faint pressure of her fingers, then mumbled, “I need to say this.”
She moved her hand.
“I hope you’ll move back into the Larkspur. I can’t bear the thought of you in some lonely cottage while the children move on with their lives.”
“Then I shall,” she said.
“And if some old gent . . . perhaps one of your lodgers . . . takes a fancy to you, and you find yourself wanting to marry again, please know you have my blessing.”
“Andrew. I’ll never marry again.”
“I thought the same after Kathleen died. You can’t know what’s around the corner. I just want you to know that . . . whatever you do, I approve. I never want you to be lonely.”
“Very well,” she said to appease him.
“Unless it’s Donald Gibbs.”
Julia smiled in the darkness. “There goes my manor house.”
“M-m-m.” He nuzzled the top of her head with his chin. “It’s nice. Sleeping snuggled together like this.”
“Very nice,” she said. She did not plan to slip down into the parlor tonight anyway.
On Monday morning, Julia, Aleda, Elizabeth and Jonathan, Ambrose and Fiona, and Gabriel—who would be leaving for London later in the day—sat in Saint John’s Hospital’s waiting room on the ground floor, engaged in small talk and looking up whenever the door opened. Just before noon, Philip walked in, looking weary but pleased. He had taken the time to remove his apron, which Julia appreciated.
“He came through fine. The ether is wearing off, and he’s resting.”
Julia, able to retain her composure most times, melted into quiet tears. She soddened her own handkerchief, and the one Fiona pressed upon her. Thank you, Father!
Philip escorted her past a dozen beds, most occupied, and some with curtains closed. “Remember he’s still coming out of the ether,” he whispered as a nurse withdrew the curtain around the last bed. “He may speak out of his head.”
Sheet up to his chest, Andrew gazed at her through half-closed eyes, as if trying to identify her. With Philip watching from the other side, Julia knelt, touched her husband’s bare shoulder lightly.
“How do you feel?”
He gave her a weak smile and mumbled, “It’s over?”
“Yes. Philip says you came through fine.”
“Very good. Will you write to Laurel and Grace?”
“Yes. Tonight.”
He closed his eyes, as if to rest a bit from the effort. Julia smiled up at Philip. The ether had obviously worn off, for Andrew was as lucid as ever.
Andrew opened his eyes again. “Will you write to Laurel and Grace?”
Or then again . . .
“Yes,” Julia said. “Tonight.”
“And when Philip comes for supper, please ask him not to marry that girl. I don’t think she will make him happy.”
His eyes closed. Julia went around the bed and laid a hand upon Philip’s arm. “I’m sorry, son. As you warned, he may speak out of his head.”
“It’s all right, Mother. I realize I’ve given you both occasion to worry.”
“Are . . . you happy?” She had to ask.
He smiled and patted her hand in the crook of his arm. “How could I not be, with such a wonderful family?”
It was an answer that made her smile, while making her profoundly sad.
Donald woke from restless sleep on Tuesday, the first of July. That month’s mortgage payment was due by the eighth. Driven to desperation, he had the dogcart brought around front, and took the reins.
He had always hated the cheese factory. The fathomless stone building reeked of sour milk. Today, however, it smelled of money. At least in theory, for there was one huge obstacle to overcome.
He asked a white-aproned worker for directions to the accountant’s office.
“Come in” came from inside after his knock.
Donald opened the door.
Horace Stokes ceased penciling numbers into a ledger and looked up. “May I help—” His face tightened into a glare that would curdle milk.
“Good day, Mr. Stokes,” Donald said, entering, closing the door.
In spite of the malice pouring from it, Horace Stokes’s face was still handsome after twenty-one years, with its piercing blue eyes, aristocratic nose, and square jaw. At thirteen, he had had the looks of a Greek god, albeit a skinny one. The broad shoulders now filling out his shirt were a surprise.
“You’ve done well for yourself,” Donald said, nonplussed by the hostility. Power, even delayed, was a fine antidote to awkwardness.
“Thanks to your uncle,” Horace said coldly.
I deserve some thanks, as well, Donald thought. “Will you not offer me a seat?”
“I’m very busy, Mr. Gibbs. What is it you want?”
“I have a mortgage due in a week. Tending my uncle has devastated my income. I’m in need of ten pounds.” He thought of Reese. “Fifteen.”
“And why do you bring this to me?”
Don’t play stupid, you under gardener! “Because my uncle has given permission to withdraw it from the household accounts.”
“Have you that in writing?”
“You know I haven’t.”
“Then I shall have to speak with the squire.”
Donald rolled his eyes. “As I’m sure you’re aware, my uncle cannot speak. But he communicated his permission to me in a way only I understand.”
“I cannot hand over his money without concrete proof of his consent. I suggest you speak with his attorney, Mr. Baker.”
Donald leaned forward. “I was only seventeen. How long do you plan to nurse a grudge?”
Horace’s eyes narrowed, condensing the hostility in them into hatred.
“Leave now, Mr. Gibbs.”
“You’re aware that this place will soon be mine?”
“It is a fact I live with daily. But I’ll not dishonor the man who gave me this opportunity by going against his explicit rules.”
“And what of your family? I will also own the cottage they call home. It would be a pity to see them turned out.”
Horace’s hands curled. Donald waited for the rants and railings sure to come. But instead, the man said through tight jaw, “Unlike you, I have a skill that I may take elsewhere. And my family and I would live in a tent rather than submit to your blackmail.”
Blackmail! Donald frowned. “I resent—”
“But hear this, Mr. Gibbs,” Horace went on. “I’m no longer a frail thirteen-year-old! On the day you turn us out, it will be my pleasure to thrash you within an inch of your life!”
Aleda bolted up in bed Wednesday morning with heart pounding. She had slept through Father’s return! She pulled in a deep breath. This was no frantic nightmare. She slipped out of bed, walked over to her desk, and looked at her watch. Twenty of eight. Plenty of time to dress and make it over to the vicarage, for Philip had said not to expect the coach before ten.
But it did not roll up Vicarage Lane, slowly, until half past eleven, with Mr. Pool at the reins. Philip, Jonathan, John, and Luke carried Father just as slowly to the bed in the parlor.
It was Aleda’s first sight of her stepfather since Sunday evening. And though he was dosed with laudanum for his pain and the journey, she pressed a hand to his bearded cheek and kissed his forehead.
Elizabeth did the same, tears trailing down her face. Dora knelt by his bed and said a quick prayer. Luke touched his hand. And then Philip asked everyone to leave the parlor so that he could check him over.
“Go home and write,” Mother said to Aleda in the foyer.
“Philip says he’ll sleep most of the day.”
“Will you not need me?”
Her mother smiled. “I need for you to write your story.”
Aleda embraced her. “Thank you. I’ll return tomorrow.”
“I’ll pack you a proper supper if you’ll give me a moment,” Dora said.
When Aleda stepped out into the garden, early risers John and Jonathan were relaxing in chairs while Elizabeth cut flowers under Claire’s and Samuel’s supervision.
“We’re making a bouquet for Grandfather’s room!” Claire chirped to Aleda.
“We’re making a bouquet for Grandfather’s room!” Samuel echoed.
“How lovely. Grandfather is very fond of flowers.”
“What do you have in the basket?” Claire asked.
“Claire, let’s not be nosy,” Jonathan scolded gently, before Samuel could speak his line.
Aleda did not mind. She had great respect for curiosity. “My supper.”
“But it’s not dark,” Samuel said in a surprising show of improvisation.
“I’m saving it for then.”
“May I get the gate for you, Aunt Aleda?” John said sleepily, in a tone that begged refusal.
“No, thank you.” She was switching the basket to her left hand so that she could unfasten the latch, and realized something was not as it should be. She pushed back her sleeve. Had she not worn her watch? But yes, she could remember fastening the catch after dressing.
She was casting about in vain for any memory of removing it in the vicarage, when she felt a touch at her elbow. Jonathan stood near, face filled with concern. “Aleda? What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong, Aunt Aleda?” she heard Samuel say.
Gentleman that he was, Donald had realized that he should not make another attempt to call on Miss Hollis until her father was on the way to recovery. She would be preoccupied and think him a cad. But when Mrs. Cooper informed him the vicar was to be home that morning, he realized the surgery must not have been as serious as he had thought. Desperation drove him to take another chance.
After lunch, he picked his way up the path bearing roses. Now that Jewel Libby had been in his employ for a few days, he could not pretend not to know Miss Hollis was a published author. So his story today was that he was calling only for Becky Libby’s sake. Miss Hollis had kindly sent toys over, but shouldn’t a child also have books?
Perhaps as a writer herself, Miss Hollis would be so kind as to advise him on some good picture books he could purchase. And of course, he would ask how the vicar came through surgery.
The roses? Why, they were a mere neighborly gift, but hopefully would continue to work on his behalf when they parted; a fragrant reminder of his thoughtfulness.
His right foot was closing down when a glint caught his eye. He pulled back, almost losing his balance. A gold watch! He picked it up, brushed it against his tweed sleeve. A segment of fine chain dangled from one end of the open catch. Surely it was Miss Hollis’s. And there was nothing like gratitude to hurry along a courtship.
Carefully he dropped the watch into his pocket, took another step.
It would command a pretty penny at a pawn lender’s.
He was not a thief. He could redeem it once he came into his inheritance. Combing the house for his uncle’s valuables was one thing—they were days away from becoming his. While he had cheated at cards before—but only when he was certain he could get away with it—he had never overtly stolen. Dare he do this?
While his mind wrestled with the question, his feet did a reversal and hurried back up the path.
Early that afternoon, Jewel’s chair was pulled close to the squire’s bedside. On the rug nearby, Becky held a tea party for her doll, with small china dishes, using toy blocks as a table. The squire’s bedchamber door opened, and Mr. Gibbs walked inside.
“What are you doing?” he asked Jewel.
“Trimming his toenails.”
He grimaced and looked away. “I’ve been called to London on urgent business. Remember, when Doctor Rhodes comes, you’re to mention I look in on my uncle daily.”
Which was true, though his visits lasted less than a minute.
“Yes, sir.”
“And again, remember you’re not to gossip.”
His face lost some of its sternness when he looked at Becky.
“Are you enjoying your toys?”
“Yes, sir. I named my doll Lucy.”
The sound of coach wheels and hoofbeats had barely faded from the open window when Mary Johnson opened the door and stuck her head round it. The chambermaid did not begin housework until after noon, after catching up on her sleep from sitting with the squire the night before.
“How is he?”
Jewel looked up at his face. On his left side, he stared listlessly across at Becky. But because she had no idea how much his mind retained, she said, “He’s doing well. Aren’t you, sir?”
Mary nodded grimly. “Would Becky care to help me change sachets in the linen cupboard?”
The girl sprang up from the rug. “Please, Mummy?”
“After you put your toys away.”
“I’ll help her,” Mary said.
Perhaps because the atmosphere in the house was more relaxed with Mr. Gibbs away, that was the beginning of so many kindnesses by the other servants. Jewel had felt tremendous guilt over keeping her daughter cooped up in the room or waiting in the hall whenever she bathed or changed the squire.
Mrs. Wright invited Becky to help in the kitchen the following morning. Mrs. Cooper escorted her out to feed the goldfish, and then to pick strawberries from the kitchen garden. Parlormaid Annabel Tanner allowed her to move figurines while she dusted. Mary Johnson plaited her hair.
They popped in often to see about the squire, as well, sometimes pray at his bedside, though he merely gaped at them. Jewel allowed it because she had not been instructed not to. Surely the displays of caring were good for him. As were surely the frequent absences of a chattering four-year-old.
“One last bite, if you please?” Jewel said soothingly on Friday while holding a spoon of porridge over the bowl.
Propped up on pillows, the squire opened his mouth like a baby bird, and watched her as he chewed.
“Very good, sir.” She set bowl and spoon upon the table. She moved the napkin from his chest and dabbed the corner of his mouth. “I’ll just put the tray outside.”
The wiry brows shot up, as if this distressed him. There seemed some question in his eyes.
“You don’t wish me to leave? Very well. I’ll do it later.”
The eyes faded a little.
“You’d like more porridge? Is that it?”
If a sigh could be written on a face, it was upon his. His mouth opened to make the only syllable within his power. “Auh.”
Jewel studied his beseeching eyes. “Shall I close the window? Are you cold?”
His aged eyes closed. Tears stung Jewel’s. To be mute, and so helpless. Not even able to scratch an itch.
“Have you an itch somewhere?”
A faint moan rose from his throat.
He was almost totally dependent upon her. Mary’s only duty was to turn him every two hours. He was so frail that a woman could do it easily.
She looked around the room. What was different?
“Becky?” she guessed.
His eyes opened again.
“You wish to know where Becky is?”
“Auh.”
Jewel smiled. “She’s helping Zinnia at the wash line. She hands her the pegs.”
Everything clicked. She had assumed the squire’s eyes followed Becky simply because she moved about so much, exploring the vast room, going from window to window, playing with her toys.
Was he fond of children? Or was there more to it? Did watching Becky ease the tedium of lying motionless, the humiliation of spoon feedings and nappy changes? She had never considered boredom as one of the trials of illness.
“You’re bored to tears, aren’t you?”
His mouth sagged, speechless, but the eyes said it all.
Dear Vicar and Mrs. Treves,
Jewel wrote that evening in the cozy attic room she shared with Becky.
I hope you and your children are well. Becky and I pray for you every night before we retire, and I add a silent prayer that Mr. Dunstan has not troubled your family.
You will be pleased to know that I was offered a position two days after arriving in Gresham. I tend an elderly man you may remember from your time here, Squire Bartley. His health is sadly deteriorated so that he cannot speak. This afternoon, I thought reading aloud might cheer him. I intended to ask permission to seek a book in the library, but while looking for a warmer pair of stockings in his chest of drawers, I came across a copy of Around the World in Eighty Days by a Mr. Jules Verne. The spine is creased as if it has been read before, but he seems to be enjoying it.
I do not know if you have been informed, but Vicar Phelps had surgery for gallstones on Monday past. I hear that he is recovering very well. His daughter, Miss Aleda Hollis, took us in when we first arrived in Gresham. They are a fine family.
Again, I thank you for rescuing us. The other servants are kind here in the manor house, and the meals are filling. Already I can see blooms in Becky’s cheeks. May God reward you a hundredfold for your kindness to us and to others.