Anxious to hear from Gabriel, Aleda had taken to waiting at the letter box, usually with Becky accompanying her. Aleda was glad for her company. The girl’s questions about beginning school soon distracted Aleda from checking the time every half minute.
“What if the other children don’t like me?”
“They’ll like you. If there are some who don’t, you must remind yourself of all of us who do like you, and that eventually they let you out of school.”
It was so good to have her watch again. God bless Mr. Trumble, for asking Mr. Stillman to keep an eye out for it as he visited pawn lenders for war medals. She had had to pay almost the full value to redeem it, but hopefully, that would be returned soon.
Mr. Gibbs had obviously found it. And he obviously thought he was clever for pawning it in Shrewsbury. But how arrogant, and even silly of him, to sign the ticket Ronald Tibbs.
The sight of Mr. Jones trundling toward them with his letter sack pushed all thought of Mr. Gibbs from her mind. She hurried to meet him.
“I believe this is what you’ve been waiting for,” he said, handing her an envelope with Gabriel’s familiar script.
12 August
1884
Dear Aleda,
I am pleased to inform you that my editors at Macmillan’s would like to meet with you on Tuesday, the twenty-sixth of August. We will have the house prepared for your and Mrs. Libby’s and Becky’s arrival on Monday.
Very truly
yours,
Gabriel
Aleda turned over the page, looked in the envelope. True, Gabriel was concise, but this was maddening. Meet with her? To offer a contract? If so, could he not spare the few extra words?
“Is it good news, Miss Hollis?”
Aleda gave her shoulder a squeeze. “I think so.”
Back at the cottage, she carried the letter up to the guest room, where Jewel was putting fresh sheets upon the bed.
“How wonderful!” Jewel cried, throwing her arms about her.
“But it says nothing about a contract.”
“But why else would they want to meet with you?”
“Well, yes.” Aleda felt better.
“But why does it say Becky and me?” Jewel asked.
“You’re to come with me. Wouldn’t you like to see London?”
“We’d love to, but . . .”
“As my traveling companions,” Aleda explained.
She could say more, but thought it best to allow the courtship— for certainly this was what it was—to flow along naturally for now. And besides, Gabriel had not given her the liberty to express his feelings.
“I wish he would have said more,” she said. “Did all the editors like it? Are there parts they’ll want me to rewrite? He’s so maddeningly concise.”
Jewel gave her a wry smile. “So, you’re not happy?”
Aleda smiled back. “I’m overjoyed! In fact, I’ll probably run all the way to the vicarage to show my parents.”
That night, with Becky curled into the curve of her side, Jewel thought again what a pity it was that Miss Hollis did not wish to marry Mr. Patterson. He would revere a wife, as Doctor Hollis revered Mrs. Hollis. As Norman had revered her.
But few emotions were set in stone. She prayed again for a miracle.
On the Thursday morning of the twenty-first of August, Aleda unlatched her garden gate and set out on the path. Notices were posted all over Gresham, asking villagers to act as witnesses to the reading of Squire Bartley’s will. Unnecessary, for all Mr. Baker would have had to do was inform Mr. Trumble in the hearing of some of his customers.
She pushed back her sleeve to look at her watch. Half past nine. The meeting was to begin at ten o’clock. There were no signs of Elizabeth and her crew as she passed their cottage. She would hurry to the vicarage and walk over with her parents, if they had not left.
Dismissing Horace Stokes would be his first action, Donald thought as the coach rumbled down Church Lane. He already had buyers interested in the cheese factory. He would even make it a condition of the sale that Horace not be rehired. He would rue the scene he made twenty-one years ago over attempts at innocent fun.
The horses were slowing in preparation for Bartley Lane when he spotted Aleda Hollis. She turned her head to send a puzzled look his way. When the coach was even and his eyes met hers, she held up her fist in an unladylike manner.
Go on, behave like a pig, he thought, scowling at her through the glass. Just before her image slid from sight, he noticed a glint of metal at her upheld wrist.
Uneasily he thought, But how did she get it back?
Most probably, this was a new one. She should never play with cards, if that was her bluff, he thought, propping hands against the seat on either side as the coach turned.
Just because he was bound to his uncle’s agreement with Miss Hollis didn’t mean the person to whom he sold the estate would be bound to it. Another condition of sale.
It was good to have power.
And Reese had even returned last week, as if able to smell that power in the air. All the suffering Donald had been through made this victory all the more sweet.
Mr. Baker rose from a library chair as Donald entered.
“You’re late,” Mr. Baker said, not offering his hand.
Donald shrugged. This little old man could no longer intimidate him. In fact, he would hire another solicitor to handle disposing of the property.
Power.
A document that appeared to be the will, and one other page, lay upon the polished oak table before him.
Which was surprising. His parents had only owned a house, bank account, and some stocks, and he had spent an hour signing papers.
“We must do this quickly,” Mr. Baker said as Donald pulled out a chair.
“Why aren’t the others here?” Donald asked, barely daring to hope. Had his uncle left out the servants? It did not seem fair, for many had worked there for decades, and deserved at least small legacies. But who was he to argue with his uncle’s wishes?
“They will be leaving soon to the village hall for the other reading.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your uncle has left you five hundred pounds.”
The words assaulted Donald’s ears like a curse.
“You jest.”
“I’m aware you had hoped for more, but if you’ll pay off your debts and invest the remainder, you may live in modest comfort for the rest of your life.”
Modest comfort?
“You’ll do even better if you find some sort of profitable employment.”
Donald sneered at him. And do what? Dig ditches? He was a gentleman, from a long line of gentlemen whose forebears had had the wisdom, or craftiness, to be on the right side of some king or another. Labor was for peasants.
“There is a mistake here. Surely he didn’t leave the rest to the servants?”
The solicitor uncapped a pen. “I’m not at liberty to say until all other recipients have been informed. I assure you, everything is in order with the courts.”
Donald’s chair fell backwards with a thud. He shot to his feet and pounded his fist upon the table. “You’ve cheated me, you old snake!”
“I understand your disappointment. You may, of course, retain your own attorney to look over the will.”
“I shall do just that! You’ll not get away with this!”
Mr. Baker brushed the insult off as if it were a piece of lint. “Two small but significant liens have been filed against your inheritance. I can deduct them from the cheque I am about to write, or you may battle it out in court.”
“And who are these two people?”
“Miss Aleda Hollis and Mr. Amos Perkins.”
Donald barked a laugh. “Let them take me to court.”
“Very well.” Mr. Baker began gathering papers.
“Wait. You mean I can’t have the cheque until it’s settled?” “That’s exactly what it means, Mr. Gibbs.”
Grinding his teeth, Donald snatched the pen from his hand.
There would be a battle over this whole fiasco. But not today. Not when he had to make the five-o’clock express to fulfill his promise to Reese of a night out on the town.