Free Jewel of Gresham Green by Lawana Blackwell Page A

his dish of half-eaten cake upon an occasional table with a sharp click . “You know, you could visit us once in a while.”
    They had, less than a year after the wedding. Never had Julia felt so unwelcome in a house. Philip had been gracious, but fair or not, it was the woman who set the tone of a house. The few times Loretta had consented to occupy the same space with them, it was as if she had sent her body in for duty’s sake but left her mind in another room. Questions put to draw her out had been answered in monosyllables, unless she was boasting about her parents’ social status and wealth.
    Yet how could Julia confess what was in her heart, and possibly damage Philip’s marriage? He obviously loved Loretta.
    And he obviously had thought back to that visit, for he said, softly, “We were practically newlyweds. Loretta was anxious over making a good impression.”
    “Of course,” Julia said, so willing to forgive.
    “It’ll be different when you visit again. You’ll see. And Loretta and I . . . we shall be more faithful about visiting and writing.”
    “That would be very nice, Philip,” Andrew said, and smiled.
    They spent the remainder of the evening catching him up on village news, even some that Julia had already written about in letters. Aleda’s cottage. Gresham’s placing second in the archery tournament. John’s violin lessons. Squire Bartley’s finally welcoming their visits, and his declining health. The Perkinses opening up Gresham’s first millinery shop and staffing it with their daughter, Priscilla.
    Philip spoke animatedly of his surgeries and responsibilities at Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital, sparing them any unpalatable details. He did not speak again of his wife.
    Nor did he speak of Doctor Rhodes having approached him. Though she had tried not to get her hopes raised, Julia felt keen disappointment.

Chapter 7
    Rainstorms drenched Gresham almost daily the final week of May, but spirits were not dampened, partly due to Parliament’s passing of the Third Reform Act. For the first time, men living in rural areas of England would have the same voting rights as those in towns.
    It took four days for the ground to dry. After breakfast on the third of June, Julia pulled a smock over a house dress and began thinning onions and carrots in the kitchen garden, while Luke planted a row of long pod beans.
    “I said to Wanetta that we must take the newspaper now,” the gardener said. “A voting man should keep hisself informed.”
    A gap between his teeth caused a whistle to accompany the words said, must, newspaper, and particularly hisself .
    Twelve years ago he had finally asked for the vicarage housemaid’s hand. He and Wanetta and ten-year-old Lucas lived a stone’s throw away, in the cottage they rented from Squire Bartley.
    “That would be a good idea,” Julia replied. “Good for Lucas, too.”
    “Is that so?”
    “My father read the newspaper to me. Not front to back, mind. But interesting bits. It’s a memory I cherish.”
    “I should have been doing that long ago,” Luke said with forlorn voice.
    “You’re a good father, Luke.”
    “Why, thank you, Mrs. Phelps,” he replied, and though his back was to her, she could hear the blush in his voice. Along with the whistle.
    As usual, she had had to bully herself past Luke’s reluctance for anyone to share his chores. But there was still plenty for him to do. Not only was he gardener and groomsman, but he also kept the vicarage in good repair.
    The sound of hoofbeats did not cause her to cease pulling plants. She had no vanity about being seen with dirt-stained smock and fingernails. Anyway, most callers were for Andrew. Wanetta would see whoever was there to the study. Andrew planned for interruptions, the reason why he began writing his sermons on Mondays.
    Carrots and onions thinned, she moved on to the parsnips. She understood the proverb A garden is the poor man’s apothecary . At the end of the row she straightened