Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hope could not think of Joshua Penrose as a lodger, no matter how hard she tried.
He’d spent most of an afternoon hanging paper stars in the conservatory with Holly, while Hope had made a fine, uninterrupted start on Mrs. Colchester’s second sampler.
Joshua left a nightly bed of coals glowing in the conservatory hearth for the boys, and last night, Hope had heard muted laughter floating down the chimney.
At Joshua’s suggestion, Hope had gone through Edwin’s remaining wardrobe and left a selection of stockings, shoes, caps, and mufflers for the boys.
Every item had been gone the next morning, and Thak yu had been lettered in the ash on the hearthstones.
Hope hadn’t been able to bring herself to pawn Edwin’s wardrobe for pennies, but knowing his effects were put to use by children who truly needed them was wonderful.
When Mrs. Colchester’s sampler was done, Hope’s next sewing project would be taking in Edwin’s shirts and waistcoats for boyish figures.
“I’m selling the seascapes,” Joshua said one morning shortly before Christmas. “You will not tattle to Mr. Peters, because either you own these paintings or I do, and we both agree they should be sold.”
He’d waited to raise this topic until Holly had gone out to the garden to make snow angels with Heifer. A mama appreciated that sort of discretion.
“I’ve never particularly liked them,” Hope said, rather than argue with sound logic. “They are cold and vaguely threatening. Even the bright sunlight is harsh somehow. Let’s wrap them up if you intend to haul them halfway across Town.”
She led the way from the kitchen into the foyer, which was chilly, but no longer quite arctic.
Joshua took down the first painting, a scene of billowing waves, billowing clouds, and brilliant sunshine striking high, chalky cliffs.
“I wanted images of something other than some enormous ancestral pile set amid groomed acreage on a perfect English summer day. When I arrived in New York, it wasn’t the English seacoast I missed, but rather, the thought of that verdant countryside.”
“I miss my brother,” Hope said, collecting the second painting—more rocks and waves and clouds. “We used to squabble like old hens, but now…”
“You miss him, and the ache is there, and you can’t make it go away.” Joshua took the painting from her and set it against the wall. “But you don’t know if he’s missing you or cursing your memory. Have you written to him recently?”
“Mr. Peters has tried. If the letter was addressed in my hand, it might be tossed directly into the fire. No luck.”
“Try again. In your hand. If there’s one source of correspondence I do not open with glee, it’s the lot that comes from the lawyers. They might think he’s dunning them to help with Edwin’s debts.”
“Edwin did not die in debt, thank heavens—other than the mortgage. You’re sure you want to sell all three?”
Joshua had lined the paintings up next to one another at the base of the wall. They made a striking triptych, full of motion, sophisticated brushwork, and exquisite contrasts, but the images were lacking in warmth.
“Are you sure you want to sell all three?” Joshua asked, half hugging Hope with an arm around her shoulders.” His tone was gently teasing, but his affectionate little squeeze suggested he knew how hard parting with any memento of happier times might be.
Even mementos Hope hadn’t chosen and didn’t particularly like. “Be off with you, and mind your footing. Where will you take them?”
“Knightsbridge,” Joshua said, “is full of bachelors trying to make their rooms look civilized, unless much has changed in the past few years. The neighborhood is close enough to Mayfair that the goods on offer will be superior quality and far enough from Bond Street that one can browse in relative anonymity. If the gallery I bought them from is still in business, I’ll give them first crack. ”
Hope slipped from his side rather than turn a half hug into the genuine article. She would never have known where to sell the paintings, nor have had the strength to carry all three any distance, or the means to hire a porter for the job.
Thus did poverty beget poverty, a reality Mr. Peters apparently had yet to grasp.
“I’ll get an old sheet to wrap them in,” Hope said, starting up the stairs. “They deserve at least that much protection from the elements.”
When Joshua left with his seascapes, she went back to work on Mrs. Colchester’s Let There Be Light sampler. The front parlor was actually warm, not merely bearable, and the curtains were drawn back rather than kept closed to hoard the heat.
“Warmth and light, the two greatest treasures at this time of year.” Sustenance was to be valued as well, of course. Peace and quiet were near the top of the list too.
And all those affectionate little gestures—the hugs and squeezes of the hand or pats to the shoulder. Those were irresistibly sweet.
“Where’s Joshua?” Holly bellowed her question from the parlor door. The cat hopped ahead of her and perched on the arm of the wing chair, looking about the room as if to pose the same query.
“Joshua has taken the seascapes from the front hallway to be sold.”
Holly bounced into the wing chair. “Will Mr. Peters be mad? He was mad when you told him you’d sold the yellow palace picture.”
Odd, that Holly’s thoughts should go immediately to the solicitor’s disapproval. “Mr. Peters’s opinion on the matter doesn’t signify. This house is full of art. A few pictures one way or another won’t make that much of a difference.”
Which is what Hope should have said to Mr. Peters when he’d grumbled about the house-scape being sold.
“When is Joshua coming back, Mama?”
“Before supper.” Though a small, timid voice in Hope’s head suggested his return was not a certainty. “I have an idea, Hollister Ann.”
Heifer abandoned the arm of the chair and appropriated Holly’s lap. “Are you zasperated with me?”
“I am not at all exasperated with you. Joshua agrees with me that you are a remarkably well-mannered child. I thought we might brighten up this room with a few camellias in a holiday bouquet.”
“We could add some of the holly that Mrs. Winfield brought. I still have some red ribbon from the candles.”
“Then let’s be about it. We might also make a bouquet for the kitchen.”
The suggested activity had the desired effect of distracting Holly from Joshua’s absence, but not so for Hope.
He was nothing like a lodger. Lodgers were notorious for tracking mud onto the carpets, appearing tipsy at the front door late at night, and singing to attract the notice of every disapproving neighbor.
Lodgers were late with their rent and unappreciative of their quarters or the lady whose hard work kept those quarters presentable.
Joshua was no sort of lodger.
“How many?” Holly asked as they surveyed a half-dozen bushes heavy with pink blooms. The hues ranged from nearly white to nearly scarlet, with every shade in between.
“Let’s start with three blooms each,” Hope said. “Just enough to be a treat for the eye and nose.”
“We need a vase.” Holly skipped over to the counter built along one wall. “We have lots of vases. Lots and lots. We also have lots of mouse poop. Is mouse poop good for anything?”
Children are so observant. “Mouse droppings are an excellent means of putting any self-respecting housekeeper in a temper. What have you there?”
Holly brought over two matching glass bud vases. Very simple, a bit dusty.
“We have lots of these in the cupboard. They need a good wash.”
“That, they do…” Hope looked at the vases, at the bushes heavy with blooms, and at the cupboard Holly had left half open. “I have another idea, Hollister Ann, and we will need some clever boys to help us see this idea through.”
“I only know our boys. I don’t know any clever boys. Joshua is clever.”
Joshua was clever, determined, patient with children, and kind… He was dear, entirely too huggable, and had an understated sense of humor.
“Our boys are very clever. Bundle up and fetch Gabriel, Slivers, or Buns for me, would you?”
“Buns is always outside the bakery looking skinny and cold. I’ll fetch him.”
While Hope waited for Joshua to return, she kept busy making little bouquets and sending the boys forth to sell them to holiday shoppers.
When the vases ran out, Hope started on all the mismatched cups and mugs in the servants’ pantry, and when the red ribbon ran out, strips of burlap tied in jaunty bows looked almost as festive.
Luncheon had come and gone, and the bushes were considerably less burdened with blossoms before Hope heard the front door open.
“That’s Joshua!” Holly yelled, scampering from the conservatory. “I’ll tell him we sold the flowers and made tons of money!”
A lady would not be caught dead celebrating such an accomplishment, but Hope’s mood was nearly festive—also relieved.
“Perhaps I’m no lady,” she murmured, taking the last of the bouquets with her. The blooms were reddish and white and a bit droopy, as camellias tended to be, but they were fresh flowers in December, and the light floral scent was gorgeous.
The feeling of having seen an opportunity and turning that opportunity into lucrative action was gorgeous as well. She’d followed Joshua’s example rather than fretting over what Mr. Peters would think of handing over a lot of old dusty vases in exchange for coin.
“Mama, I told him!” Hope caroled. “I told Joshua we sold the flowers, and the boys helped, and now we have money.”
Joshua, his cheeks ruddy, the toes of his boots damp, smiled down at Holly. “You also notified the neighbors for three houses in either direction of your brilliant industry. Might we spare my ears by lowering our voices a bit?”