Jewel of Gresham Green (5 page)

“I’m sorry.”

“You may rent the cottage,” he said.

Aleda sat again. “I may?”

“I say nothing I do not mean.”

“Yes.” The hope that rose in Aleda’s chest sank just as quickly. The squire was practically leaning against heaven’s gatepost. What if she were to spend money readying the cottage, only to have the nephew evict her?

“You’re concerned about Donald, aren’t you?” he asked.

“I am,” she admitted.

“My solicitor—Mr. Baker—comes up from Shrewsbury the first Friday morning of each month. I shall have him draw up an agreement granting you exclusive rights to the cottage and garden. The standard rural lease is for twenty-one years, or you may renew your rights for two more terms at signing . . . meaning sixty-three years.”

She blinked at him.

“The first choice implies that I shall be alive in twenty-one years to renew your lease. If it helps you decide, I don’t feel well most days.”

Aleda nodded. “The latter would be best. Thank you, Squire.”

“I’m being entirely selfish, Miss Hollis. I want you to continue writing your stories.” He eyed her. “How does three pounds per annum strike you?”

Her breath caught in her throat. “Three pounds?”

“You said yourself, the cottage needs repairs. And I like the thought of my nephew having to honor the agreement as long as he lives.” He smiled to himself. “Now, you may take your leave. Go through the house this time. And inform Mrs. Cooper I wish to take my nap.”

“Yes, sir.” Aleda rose, thanked him again. At the door leading into the house, she hesitated, turned.

“I could visit now and then, read my stories to you.”

“No,” he said. “If you aim for solitude, take your solitude. I can read to myself just fine.”

Guiltily relieved, she had her hand on the knob when he added, “But Vicar Phelps may visit, if he still has a mind to.”

Aleda turned again, smiled. “He would like that.”

“Perhaps your mother would care to come along.” He gave her a sheepish look. “She’s fond of chocolate cake, as I recall. I could have Cook bake one.”

“They’ll be pleased,” Aleda said. “With or without cake.”

She broke the news to her parents and Grace at the supper table, over dishes of rump steak pie, spinach, and poached eggs.

“You’re leaving?” said Father. “Again?”

“I stayed at the Larkspur only a week,” Aleda said. “You speak as if I flit about from place to place all the time.”

“Oh, well a week’s not flitting, is it?” he teased.

She made a face at him.

“But alone in the woods,” Grace said. “They’re so dark at night. Will you not be frightened, Aleda?”

“I don’t think I will,” she replied. “I’ll lay in a supply of lamp oil.”

Her mother had made no comment, and rose to dish out servings of lemon blancmange at the sideboard. Warily, Aleda watched her straight back. Her stepfather and Grace followed her gaze.

“Mother?” Aleda asked.

Her mother turned, smiled. “You’re old enough to know your own mind, Aleda. If it doesn’t suit you, you can always move back home. Now, who’ll have pudding?”

Chapter 4

On the morning of the twenty-fifth of April, Julia and Andrew set out in the phaeton behind Belle, their gray Cleveland Bay mare. Now that the children were grown, Julia had fallen into the habit of accompanying her husband on his calls to parishioners. He would never have asked. His view was she was not married to the church and had the right to pursue her own interests.

Pursue them she did: grandchildren, gardening, reading, and the Women’s Charity Society. But her inherent empathy and Andrew’s nature made her desire to spend even more time with him, and he was of course pleased with her company.

He automatically gave the reins a gentle tug outside a certain low stone wall at the village crossroads. Belle slowed from a trot to a walk. Julia rested her eyes fondly on a well-tended garden before a rosy sandstone building.

The lodging house had started out as a thriving coaching inn, before the Severn Valley Railway laid tracks twelve miles to the south in Shrewsbury. Fifteen years ago the Larkspur sat in a state of profound neglect, and thus the London bankers who had seized even her wedding ring to pay her late husband’s debts had shown no interest in it.

It was here that Julia, her children, and loyal housemaid Fiona O’Shea had fled after the foreclosures, armed with a loan from her late husband’s butler. They refurbished the place and advertised a lodging house for those wishing the sedate way of life that a dairying village could offer. Companionship with like-minded people was a draw, as well, with the happy by-product being a marriage now and again.

Including Fiona’s, to actor Ambrose Clay. Their rooms over the stables sat empty during the run of a play but would be again filled with their sweet voices come July, when
Anne
Boleyn
was set to close in New York.

“Do you ever miss running the Larkspur?” Andrew asked. When Julia married him and moved into the vicarage, she had hired Mr. Jensen, the butler who had lent her the money. Even in his old age, he managed the inn with genteel efficiency and was now married to the former Mrs. Dearing, one of the first lodgers.

“It had its moments,” Julia said, and squeezed his arm. “But I’m content where I am, Vicar.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Mrs. Phelps,” he said. “I hope you’re of the same mind when the nest is empty.”

And that day was coming soon. At this moment, Aleda was arranging with Squire Bartley’s solicitor to lease the gamekeeper’s cottage. They would have Grace at home for only three more weeks.

“It’ll be an adjustment,” Julia admitted. “For both of us. We’ve been parents for over half our lives.”

“At least they’re not moving away, like Laurel, and Philip.”

“I’m grateful for that.”

“So am I.” He smiled. “And we’ll have our own adventures. Just like the children.”

“We’re too old for adventures,” she teased.

“Not at all. You’re not officially old until you stop seeking them.”

Belle’s hooves rang against the stone bridge over the blue waters of the Bryce. Northwards was where most of the dairy farms were situated, where black-and-white Friesian cows grazed in fields bordered by hedgerows. Presently they turned eastward along Milkwort Lane, named not for the dairies but for the profusion of wild flowers flanking both sides.

They stopped outside a stone cottage with washhouse, privy, and smokehouse, and two pigs in a sty. Andrew held open the gate leading through a garden filled with lilacs and laburnum and pinks, squeezed in by the more important rows of broccoli and onions, parsnips and lettuces, young bean and cucumber plants, and potato vines.

“Why, good morning, Vicar, Mrs. Phelps,” said Margery Stokes, rising from a stone bench. Beside her, a boy who could have been anywhere from nine to thirteen sat with one foot tucked behind the other. He was as thin as a reed, with hollow cheeks and wide uncertain eyes. His shirt and trousers were clean, if worn, castoffs from an older child. The blond hair and pale skin, however, reeked from the familiar odor of sulfur and lard. Most of the street waifs Mr. Stokes brought back from London after his biannual meetings with bankers were afflicted with lice of head and body.

“This is Gerald,” Mrs. Stokes said after the exchange of greetings. In the boy’s lap lay open an alphabet picture book. Most of the new arrivals were illiterate. To spare the older ones the humiliation of towering over wee classmates in the infant school, Margery Stokes tutored them until they could manage at least the primary lessons in the grammar school. She turned to the lad. “Will you say good morning to Vicar and Mrs. Phelps, Gerald?”

He ducked his head. Mrs. Stokes gave his larded tresses an understanding pat, then wiped her hands with her apron. “Poor mite, having to bear this muck for a whole week.”

Julia smiled. Margery was as rough as she was kind, having spent much of her childhood on a milking stool. She was large-boned but not stout, with beautiful brown eyes and ash brown hair twisted into a convenient knot.

Her husband, Horace Stokes, Squire Bartley’s accountant, kept an office at the cheese factory. As the story was told, he had worked as an under gardener at the manor house until age fourteen, when in a puzzling act of philanthropy, the squire paid to have him articled to a prominent Shrewsbury accountant. He showed such a gift for numbers that when the longtime accountant was pensioned from the cheese factory, Mr. Stokes overtook his position at the tender age of twenty-three.

Perhaps it was because he and his wife had both known poverty as children that they took in boys and girls like a widow takes in stray cats. Sixteen thus far, including three of their own making.

“Will you come in for some tea?” Mrs. Stokes asked.

“No thank you,” Andrew said, and gave Julia a meaningful look. “At least, none for me. What say I help Gerald finish his book while you ladies chat?”

The lad’s shoulders rose and fell sharply, and he appeared poised to sprint, but only inched away to the far edge as Andrew settled beside him.

“Mind you don’t get any of the grease on your clothes, Vicar,” Mrs. Stokes warned. “It’s a right chore to get out.”

The parlor and kitchen were tidy, as Julia had expected. The children had duties both in house and garden but were allowed playtime as well. As Jonathan had said, it was a joy to watch pale, timid creatures blossom into rosy-cheeked children.

“Gerald is the last,” Mrs. Stokes said, bringing the kettle to the kitchen table. “I’ve warned Horace not to bring any more home. We’re bursting at the seams.”

Julia smiled, raised her brows, and sipped her tea. Mrs. Stokes stared at her for a moment, then laughed.

“Yes, I know I said that before Nancy. And Tom.”

“And Alma,” Julia reminded her.

Mrs. Stokes winced. “But this time, it’s got to stick.”

Julia allowed a second to pass, two, before broaching the reason for their call. “I spoke with Mrs. Perkins recently. If you’ll bring the children by as soon as possible, she’ll have time to make each a set of school clothes before next term.” She drew in a breath. “And two Sunday gowns for you.”

“She will, you say?” Mrs. Stokes set her cup down sharply. A drop of tea sloshed over the rim and into the saucer. “And who’s to pay for this?”

“The Women’s Charity Society is not involved,” Julia said quickly. The word
charity
was as distasteful to the Stokes as any oath.

“So, it’s a ghost, then?”

“No, of course not.” Julia sighed. “It’s Andrew and me.”

Already, Margery was shaking her head. Julia reached over to lay a hand upon her sleeve. “I understand how you feel. But I’m asking you not to allow pride to stand in the way. . . .”

“Pride?” Margery said. “You weren’t raised poor. You don’t understand how handouts tear down your very soul.”

“I wasn’t raised poor,” Julia agreed. “However, my first husband’s death left the children and me with nothing. If we hadn’t had the Larkspur, we would have had to ask for parish assistance.”

The gambling debts which caused such deprivation were not important to the matter at hand. Julia had her own issues with pride.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Margery said. “But Horace draws decent wages. It’s just that we have—”

“So many children,” Julia finished for her, and softened her voice. “Mrs. Perkins is willing to keep to herself who settles the bill. Andrew and I don’t think of you as charity cases. We simply hope to share in the joy you get from providing for those sweet children. Would you rob us of a blessing, Margery?”

Margery opened her mouth to argue, closed it. “Horace will never agree.”

“Andrew will be visiting his office this afternoon. It would go a long way if he could say you were willing.”

Another pause, and Margery nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Phelps.”

Julia squeezed her hand. “It’s our pleasure.”

“But no Sunday gowns. You’ve got to allow me some pride.”

“Very well,” said Julia, disappointed but understanding.

When they stepped outdoors again, Andrew was beaming and held up the small leather-bound notebook he carried in his coat pocket. Even the boy looked timidly pleased.

“Would you look at this?” Andrew said. “I asked if he could write his name.”

With pencil the boy had expertly sketched Belle and the carriage beyond the gate, and even the skeins of white clouds in the southern sky.

“Amazing,” Julia declared, taking the notebook. The corners were greasy, but she had to trust that there was enough sulfur to kill any of the little crawlies.

Even Margery was surprised. “Why, we’ve got us a Mozart here.”

Julia caught the glint in Andrew’s hazel eyes. Not for all the gold in Shropshire would either have corrected her. Nurturing orphans covered a multitude of factual errors.

“We should stop at Mrs. Hopper’s,” Julia said back in the phaeton. “She’ll be hurt if she spots us.”

Andrew groaned. “She wasn’t in her garden.”

“And how would you know? You kept your eyes straight ahead.”

He reluctantly agreed, but then the discussion was moot. A hundred yards back up Milkwort Lane, Mrs. Hopper stood at the gate of her tidy and symmetrical garden, beckoning. She welcomed them into a parlor as orderly as a museum, offered pleasantries about the weather and cups of good strong tea.

Julia was not fooled. The path from Mrs. Hopper’s mind to her lips was a straight track, an express train bypassing such stations as discretion, compassion, and judgment. It would be somewhat understandable if she were elderly, beset by ailments and harsh memories, but Mrs. Hopper appeared to be only a few years older than herself. Few gray hairs stood out against her dark topknot.

“The Stokes have took in another stray,” Mrs. Hopper said.

Julia’s sociable smile faded.

“Mrs. Hopper . . .” Andrew said with brows meeting. “Animals are strays.”

“Well, they behave like animals. Spilling out in the lane every afternoon, chasing each other, riding that pony back and forth!”

“Their land is taken up with crops,” Andrew said with terse gentleness. “And between school and chores and supper, how long can they be out there?”