“Ah . . . well . . .”
Weary of standing there, Donald decided it was time for the coup de grace . “It was so good of you to come. Please tell Mr. Raleigh I meant no disrespect. And if you’ll excuse me, I must see to my uncle.”
He reserved his chuckle for the staircase.
Poor vicar, he thought. Mr. Phelps seemed a decent fellow. Down to earth, not lofty like his predecessor, Vicar Wilson.
His smile faded. Vicar Wilson, whose letter to Saint John’s College had made him unwelcome at Oxford.
As irony would have it, the seeds of his piety and his bitterness were planted in the same ground when his parents sent him to Gresham at age seventeen. Uncle Thurmond had insisted he accompany him to Saint Jude’s. Under Vicar Wilson’s preaching, Donald found himself swept up in the desire to serve God. He became quite pious, devoting long hours to the Bible.
But that desire did not replace the other one, the reason he was banished briefly from London. And it was not long before that desire crept back from the mental closet to which he had confined it.
His problem, as in London, was choosing the wrong recipient of that desire. Haste and lust, yoked together, always outpaced judgment.
Chapter 9
“Liver and bacon, carrots and peas,
Bread pudding too, as rich as you please,
We must keep Aleda fat and well fed . . .”
Singing to the tune of “The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze,” Aleda waltzed into the larder on the nineteenth of June with a covered pot sent over from the vicarage. Full to the brim, she was, and here was enough left over for supper.
She paused on her way back into the kitchen.
Bed? Said? Red?
Finally something came.
“So stories will grow in her head . . .”
Not quite Gilbert and Sullivan. But she’d like to see those two pen a story about shipwrecked survivors and Komodo dragons.
A knock sounded at the door. All windows were open. Heat flamed her cheeks; she thought of easing her way back into the larder.
“Aleda? It’s Jeremiah.”
Aleda blew out her cheeks, went over to the door. You laugh once, Jeremiah, and I’ll box your ears .
The distress in his usually placid face sent that thought flying.
“What is it, Jeremiah?”
He looked over his shoulder, to where one of the squire’s black horses was tied to the gatepost, and raked a hand through his brown hair. “I’m meant to be giving Shadow a run. If anyone asks, I stopped to ask for a drink of water.”
She reached out and took his arm. “Come in, come in. What’s wrong?”
He waited until she had closed the door. “It’s Mr. Gibbs. He’s mistreatin’ the squire.”
“How?”
“Well, he allows none but Doctor Rhodes to visit. . . .”
Aleda was aware of that, having been turned away by Mrs. Cooper four days ago. She had thought it might do the squire some good to hear her latest short story, “The Stowaway.”
“Father says Mr. Gibbs is worried someone might infect him with a cold or something worse,” Aleda said.
“Ha!” As if shocked at his own outburst, Jeremiah glanced at the door, lowered his voice again. “Mr. Gibbs has put Mary back to cleaning rooms that ain’t even used. She’s only allowed to change the squire’s nappy and bathe and feed him, in the mornings and at night. We take turns flopping him over every two hours. But as soon as that’s done, we’re to leave. The curtains are open only when the doctor’s expected. The squire spends most of his days and nights alone in that dark room.”
His voice broke. “Mr. Gibbs says the squire needs his rest, that he ain’t aware of what’s going on about him, but how does he know that? What if the squire’s mind’s working fine, and he’s trapped by his body?”
“That’s . . . so sad,” Aleda said.
“We’ve been warned that anyone who carries tales will be sacked without pay. Can you get word to the vicar, without saying who it came from?”
“Yes. I’ll leave now.”
“No! Give me ten—fifteen minutes.”
He gave
Weary of standing there, Donald decided it was time for the coup de grace . “It was so good of you to come. Please tell Mr. Raleigh I meant no disrespect. And if you’ll excuse me, I must see to my uncle.”
He reserved his chuckle for the staircase.
Poor vicar, he thought. Mr. Phelps seemed a decent fellow. Down to earth, not lofty like his predecessor, Vicar Wilson.
His smile faded. Vicar Wilson, whose letter to Saint John’s College had made him unwelcome at Oxford.
As irony would have it, the seeds of his piety and his bitterness were planted in the same ground when his parents sent him to Gresham at age seventeen. Uncle Thurmond had insisted he accompany him to Saint Jude’s. Under Vicar Wilson’s preaching, Donald found himself swept up in the desire to serve God. He became quite pious, devoting long hours to the Bible.
But that desire did not replace the other one, the reason he was banished briefly from London. And it was not long before that desire crept back from the mental closet to which he had confined it.
His problem, as in London, was choosing the wrong recipient of that desire. Haste and lust, yoked together, always outpaced judgment.
Chapter 9
“Liver and bacon, carrots and peas,
Bread pudding too, as rich as you please,
We must keep Aleda fat and well fed . . .”
Singing to the tune of “The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze,” Aleda waltzed into the larder on the nineteenth of June with a covered pot sent over from the vicarage. Full to the brim, she was, and here was enough left over for supper.
She paused on her way back into the kitchen.
Bed? Said? Red?
Finally something came.
“So stories will grow in her head . . .”
Not quite Gilbert and Sullivan. But she’d like to see those two pen a story about shipwrecked survivors and Komodo dragons.
A knock sounded at the door. All windows were open. Heat flamed her cheeks; she thought of easing her way back into the larder.
“Aleda? It’s Jeremiah.”
Aleda blew out her cheeks, went over to the door. You laugh once, Jeremiah, and I’ll box your ears .
The distress in his usually placid face sent that thought flying.
“What is it, Jeremiah?”
He looked over his shoulder, to where one of the squire’s black horses was tied to the gatepost, and raked a hand through his brown hair. “I’m meant to be giving Shadow a run. If anyone asks, I stopped to ask for a drink of water.”
She reached out and took his arm. “Come in, come in. What’s wrong?”
He waited until she had closed the door. “It’s Mr. Gibbs. He’s mistreatin’ the squire.”
“How?”
“Well, he allows none but Doctor Rhodes to visit. . . .”
Aleda was aware of that, having been turned away by Mrs. Cooper four days ago. She had thought it might do the squire some good to hear her latest short story, “The Stowaway.”
“Father says Mr. Gibbs is worried someone might infect him with a cold or something worse,” Aleda said.
“Ha!” As if shocked at his own outburst, Jeremiah glanced at the door, lowered his voice again. “Mr. Gibbs has put Mary back to cleaning rooms that ain’t even used. She’s only allowed to change the squire’s nappy and bathe and feed him, in the mornings and at night. We take turns flopping him over every two hours. But as soon as that’s done, we’re to leave. The curtains are open only when the doctor’s expected. The squire spends most of his days and nights alone in that dark room.”
His voice broke. “Mr. Gibbs says the squire needs his rest, that he ain’t aware of what’s going on about him, but how does he know that? What if the squire’s mind’s working fine, and he’s trapped by his body?”
“That’s . . . so sad,” Aleda said.
“We’ve been warned that anyone who carries tales will be sacked without pay. Can you get word to the vicar, without saying who it came from?”
“Yes. I’ll leave now.”
“No! Give me ten—fifteen minutes.”
He gave
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