Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
“One other item.” Justinian Bartholomew Peters—J.
Bartholomew in correspondence and to his colleagues, as distinguished from his late grandfather, Phineas Bartholomew Peters—adjusted the angle of his top hat.
“Best send a basket around to our Mrs. Burdette. Poor thing was looking a bit peaky last time I saw her. Deduct the cost from her account, of course, and use your judgment regarding the lavishness of the contents. A bit of meat and cheese, some jams, jellies, and whatnot. A few sweet buns for the little girl. You’re an enterprising fellow, Plodgely. I trust you implicitly.”
Herman Plodgely was a hardworking fellow.
J. Bartholomew would never have kept him on as the office’s junior solicitor otherwise.
Plodgely was also the sole support of his helpmeet of the past ten years and of three little Plodgelys.
A fourth might be in the offing. Herman was looking worried and fatigued, the same expression that had accompanied Mrs. Plodgely’s previous confinements.
“A basket for the widow. Of course, Mr. Peters. Tastefully ample rather than extravagant…” Plodgely glanced out the latticed window to the snow, which was becoming more ample by the hour.
“Will we be selling Mrs. Burdette’s house any time soon?
I ask because prospective buyers might inquire during your absence, and one wants to be accurate with one’s information. ”
“Then you accurately tell them that nobody buys or sells houses at Yuletide. Mrs. Burdette has made the decision to sell, but the timing has yet to be settled. One does not hurry a widow from the commodious surrounds of her formerly happy marital home.”
Plodgely had the sort of open, cheerful countenance that inspired trust. He was blond, fair-skinned, solidly built, and plodding rather than brilliant. J. Bartholomew paid him well enough that nobody would steal him away, but not so well that Plodgely would grow complacent.
“But you said…” Plodgely had an excellent memory, sometimes annoyingly so.
“I said that when Mrs. Burdette had finished second mourning, the timing might be right to liquidate her real property. I realize that Mr. Burdette went to his reward more than two years ago, but honestly, Plodgely, would you and the missus want to look for accommodations at this time of year?”
A touching notion if one was telling biblical tales, but the deepening snow rather diminished the appeal of the reality.
“Of course you are right, sir, but Mrs. Plodgely and I do not enjoy the comfortable circumstances… That is to say, we are still building toward a secure future. Mrs. Burdette’s spouse left her well provided for.”
Mrs. Burdette’s spouse had had a better mind for mechanical matters than any six geniuses combined. Fortunately, dear Edwin had also had no head for business.
J. Bartholomew wrapped his scarf about his neck. Black lamb’s-wool was warm, practical, and soft. Perhaps next year, J. Bartholomew would treat himself to an angora scarf. Instant prosperity attracted notice, but a gradual rise in fortunes was almost to be expected for a competent man of business.
“Mrs. Burdette is not as well provided for as you might think, Plodgely. The house is quite nice, and the patent income is making good progress against the mortgage, but the mortgage remains substantial. That pesky matter of interest will rear its ugly head.”
“If you say so, sir.”
“I do say so.” Gloves next. Black kid lined with rabbit fur. “Have you plans for the holidays, Plodgely?”
“Just the usual, sir. Goose with all the trimmings, plum pudding, snapdragon, a few tokens. My brother’s family will join us. Missus does love the holidays.”
And Plodgely loved his missus. All very sweet and exceedingly dull.
“Give your missus my holiday felicitations, and here…” J.
Bartholomew fished in his greatcoat pocket.
“A penny each for the little ones from old Mr. Peters, eh?” He set the coins on the edge of Plodgely’s desk.
If one looked the part of Father Christmas—and Peters did—one should enjoy playing the role in minor ways.
“Will that boy of yours be old enough to clerk for us soon?”
“Not for a few years, sir. Missus is powerfully in favor of book-learning until a lad turns twelve.”
And Missus ruled the roost, of course. J. Bartholomew kept a wary distance from her. She was protective of her husband, which was understandable, but she was also exactly the sort to notice that J. Bartholomew always had reasons why now was not the time to sell the Burdette house.
The time would come, of course. No banker born and bred on English soil dithered about in the colonies indefinitely. Joshua Penrose’s convenient absence would end, and he would return to a house waiting for him in more or less the same condition he’d left it.
Fortunately, Penrose was inured to wealth and comfort and no longer in the first blush of young manhood. He’d not willingly make a winter passage across the North Atlantic.
J. Bartholomew collected his brass-handled walking stick. “You’re certain you don’t mind tending the shop on your own over the holidays?” A silver handle would do for next year.
“The clerks will be in, and we’ll muddle along well enough.”
They’d while away the days playing whist and cribbage and making the place smell of meat pies.
Let them enjoy their petty pleasures for a few chilly days.
By next year, the lot of them might well be out of work, while J.
Bartholomew himself would be enjoying a secure retirement, thanks mostly to dear Edwin.
“Send word if anything urgent should arise.” J.
Bartholomew moved toward the door. “Open late, close early, but do maintain a presence. If we’re too much in evidence over the holidays, the other solicitors will conclude we’re desperate for business.
If we’re absent without leave, they’ll conclude we have no business at all. ”
“I have plenty to do, sir, what with the year-end accountings. You enjoy a well-earned respite.”
Such a trusting soul. J. Bartholomew departed amid a chorus of happy-Christmas-and-to-you-toos from the clerks, and as he made his way down the snowy street, he reflected that it truly was a happy Christmas.
Because of a lot of foolish gadgets, J. Bartholomew was becoming not merely comfortable, but well-off. He would dispense a small portion of that good fortune to Burdette’s widow and explain that the mortgage had taken the lion’s share of the patent earnings.
Of course, there was no mortgage. Burdette had believed himself to be the sole owner of the property in fee simple absolute, paying the total price in cash. The inspiration to invent a mortgage when explaining Burdette’s finances to the grieving widow had been nothing short of genius.
There was no mortgage, there had been no purchase of the property.
The cash Burdette had parted with was real enough and generating interest in the cent-per-cents.
The income from the little gadgets was equally real.
Such a pity that Joshua Penrose’s ownership of the house also fell under the heading of an undeniable reality.
J. Bartholomew resolved to extricate Mrs. Burdette from Mr. Penrose’s house soon.
Soon. Not yet, but soon.
He tossed a copper to the crossing sweeper shivering by his meager barrow of horse droppings. The coin landed in the snow, and the lad fell to his knees to search for his buried treasure.
“Happy Christmas,” J. Bartholomew called.
The boy’s reply was inaudible. J. Bartholomew went along home to a spiced toddy and a roaring fire, before which he indulged in one of his favorite hobbies—sketching the villa in the South of France where he would enjoy a contented and well-funded old age.
“Henceforth,” Hope said, smoothing Holly’s hair back from her brow, “until I am an old granny, I will have to do the storybook voices because of you, Joshua Penrose.”
And he’d done them so well, adopting a mincing falsetto for the grandmama and a growling baritone for the wolf. His young lady had sounded cultured and intelligent, and his woodsman had been manly virtue made audible.
Joshua rose from the rocking chair. “At one of my places of employment, we hired boys off the street to do the work of taking messages, delivering documents, and so forth. They were housed at the business, and in an effort to encourage them toward literacy, somebody had the idea to start reading them stories. One developed some thespian skills of necessity. Our boys were a demanding audience.”
Hope was certain that Joshua had had that idea, or he’d certainly championed it. “Did they learn to read?”
“They did, and then we took a notion of assigning each new boy an older fellow to mentor and instruct him. The literacy problem solved itself in less than two years.”
Something about the solved problem bothered him. “You liked reading those stories.”
He held out his hand. “I did. I believe you mentioned a bite of shortbread as a reward for good behavior?”
For the first time in ages, Hope allowed a man to assist her to rise. “A small less-than-fresh bite. I’m saving most of it for Holly.” Who had struggled mightily to keep her eyes open for the duration of the story, then fallen instantly to sleep.
“You should save it all for her. She is an exceedingly well-behaved child.” Joshua stretched luxuriously and tugged the covers up around Holly’s shoulders.”
The gesture was natural and protective and not one Hope had ever seen Edwin make.
“Remind me,” Joshua went on, “to avoid the near occasion of shoveling snow. I went to seed on board ship, and wielding a shovel takes muscle.”
Hope preceded him into the kitchen, leaving the door to the housekeeper’s bedroom open for warmth.
She’d long ago rearranged those quarters so the bed occupied the front room, where the parlor stove was to be found, and any furniture intended for the sitting room occupied the colder, disused back chamber.