The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

  Fiona met her husband’s eyes and smiled, for they were both aware of what was coming next. Mr. Ellis did not allow a conversation regarding his profession to continue for too long without generously including his assistant. Sure enough, Mr. Ellis pointed his butter knife at the younger man. “Would you say fourteenth century, Mr. Pitney?”

  If dark-haired Jacob Pitney were to play any role, it would have to be of a plowman in the fields. Big-boned and awkward, he towered over everyone in the lodging house. It was not surprising that in his midthirties he had not married, for to court a woman would require him to actually speak to her, and he was one of the most timid people Fiona had ever known. Only when answering a query about his beloved vocation did his brown eyes light up and he seem able to find his tongue.

  “Yes, fourteenth-century Venice,” he replied with a serious little nod. “Only the technology was crude, so for the next three hundred years or so the images were blurred and distorted.”

  “Fascinating, Mr. Pitney,” Ambrose commented, in spite of his dark mood. “But tell me, why would anyone tolerate mirrors with such imperfections? And for three centuries?”

  A corner of Mr. Pitney’s mouth twitched timidly. “Those early mirrors were expensive and therefore symbols of wealth.”

  “Some even wore them as jewelry, didn’t they, Mr. Pitney?” was Mr. Ellis’s rhetorical question.

  “They did. On small chains. Some men even had them set in the hilts of their swords. For practical usage, though, I believe many continued to use the metal mirrors until the technology advanced.”

  The conversation went on to Mr. Jensen’s recollection of something from the book of Exodus, where Moses commanded the women of Israel to surrender their “looking glasses,” to be melted down into a brass ceremonial washbasin for the tabernacle. This information was received with great interest, so the manager of the Larkspur offered to show everyone the exact location of the passage in his Bible after supper.

  Even Georgette and Sarah, maids standing at the sideboard to refill dishes and teacups, listened attentively—whether it was because they were also interested in historical antiquities or in studying Jacob Pitney’s handsome face, Fiona wasn’t sure, but she certainly couldn’t fault them. But there was one person in the room who almost never contributed when the conversation drifted over to archeology—Miss Rawlins. In fact, the gray eyes behind her spectacles almost seemed to glaze over during such times. Her silence was a mystery to Fiona, because one would think a writer of historical novelettes would be taking notes on such valuable information, at least mentally.

  Julia had once confided to her that she believed Mr. Pitney to be infatuated with Miss Rawlins. Now that she had had occasion to observe the two, Fiona was sure she was correct. They were almost the same ages, and though she supposed Miss Rawlins would not be considered a beauty in the classical definition, the coffee brown hair falling just below her chin flattered an angular, interesting face, and the wire spectacles served to accent large eyes of smoky gray. How odd, that a woman who spent hours daily writing about romance would be so immune to it in actual life.

  Perhaps it’s because he’s not like the heroes of her stories. Fiona had read most of Miss Rawlins’ novelettes because she had not the heart to refuse when the author pressed them upon her. Other than being tall, that is, she thought, for without exception every hero was as tall as every heroine was slender. And Mr. Pitney’s dark hair and eyes would put him in the same category with about ninety percent of the writer’s heroes.

  But that was where the similarities ended, for the archeologist was not a “mysterious rogue with a heart of gold” who meets his match in a “fiery-tempered woman with a mane of wild tresses.” He was just a considerate man who loved his work, opened doors for women, and attended church every Sunday. Not very exciting compared to the men who swashbuckled their ways through Miss Rawlins’ fictitious world.

  Chapter 5

  “I’ll be glad to see the back of this day,” Andrew groused to Julia as they climbed the stairs together to hear the children’s bedtime prayers.

  Julia couldn’t help but smile to herself, for if everything went according to plan, his day would soon improve greatly. They went down the corridor to Philip’s room first. The sixteen-year-old, who had once declared himself too old for such things, seemed to enjoy the nightly ritual. But back then, he had felt pressured to be the man of the family. Now that he had surrendered that responsibility to Andrew’s capable hands, he could relax and be a boy again. Julia noticed he had tacked a copy of his poem, which the family had coaxed him into reciting three times during supper, to the wall just above his night table.

  “I think I’ll send a copy to Gabriel too,” her son said, leaning upon an arm propped upon his pillow. Philip had befriended Gabriel Patterson during his ill-fated months at The Josiah Smith Preparatory Academy two years ago.

  “He’ll be happy to learn you’ve become a fellow writer,” Julia said from his bedside.

  “I’m not nearly as good as Gabriel. It was just a poem. And I still want to be a doctor.”

  “Perhaps you’ll do both,” Andrew told him. “Look at Saint Luke. He was a doctor and wrote two books of the Bible.”

  The boy smiled. “And if I’ve paid attention in church, he had some help.”

  “Absolutely so, my literate son. But since you pay attention in church so admirably, you know that God still helps us.”

  Julia then had to remind both that the girls were waiting to be tucked in as well. She was very grateful that Andrew took the time to chat with Philip and seemed to enjoyed their discussions. That was something the boy’s own father had never made time to do. They listened to his prayer, and Julia kissed his forehead while Andrew extinguished the lamp.

  The girls’ room was the largest in the vicarage. After Elizabeth’s wedding, Laurel had asked to move in with Aleda and Grace, so the upstairs sitting room was transformed into a bedroom. Soft laughter drifted from under the door as Julia and Andrew paused outside. “What mischief are they up to now?” Andrew whispered with his hand upon the knob.

  “Surely you’re aware that girls don’t need to be up to mischief to giggle,” Julia whispered back.

  “Ah, but those definitely sound like ‘up to mischief ’ giggles to me.”

  Andrew opened the door and followed Julia inside. They were met with an abrupt silence from the three girls who smiled at them from beds covered with pink organdy coverlets. But then Grace hiccuped loudly, which caused the usually somber nine-year-old to smother a giggle with her hand. The older girls sent her warning looks from both sides.

  “What’s going on in here?” Andrew demanded with eyes narrowing.

  “Nothing, Papa,” came a threefold reply, expressions smug with the knowledge that they were being teased. Grace hiccuped again, and this time Aleda pushed her face into her own pillow with shoulders shaking.

  “We were just talking,” Laurel explained while a suspicious tint crept into her cheeks.

  “Hmm.” With a look at Julia, Andrew went over to Grace’s bed and motioned for her to move over so he could sit next to her. “Let me count those hiccups for you, Gracie.”

  She leaned up on her pillow. Within seconds another erupted in the silent room.

  “That’s one,” Andrew said. He held up two fingers. “Now, let’s hear number two. And quickly, please. We haven’t all night.”

  As she watched the girl screw up her face in concentration, Julia realized that she was holding her own breath. Aleda and Laurel stared from either side. But presently Grace shrugged her narrow shoulders and smiled.

  “They’re gone.”

  “Good!” Andrew patted her shoulder and returned to where Julia stood at the foot of the middle bed. “Then shall we pray now?”

  All heads bowed reverently. Laurel, the oldest, went first, asking God to bless and protect the family, including Elizabeth and Jonathan and their grandmother in Cambridge, as well as the servants. Aleda added the people living at t
he Larkspur to her prayer, which took a little longer. Grace’s prayer was almost word for word the same as Aleda’s except for the addition of an unusual postscript. Her hands pressed together piously and eyes shut tight, she concluded, “And please don’t let Laurel marry Ben, because I don’t want her ever to leave Gresham.”

  “Grace!” Laurel exclaimed, staring daggers at her, while Aleda sought refuge in the pillow again.

  “But I didn’t say anything about it,” Grace defended.

  “What is it?” asked Andrew.

  Laurel blew out her cheeks, her expression still stormy. “A poem Ben gave me after school today.”

  “He did?” Alarm and despair mingled in Andrew’s hazel eyes. “Little Ben Mayhew?”

  “He’s sixteen years old, Papa. Just like me.”

  “What kind of poem?”

  “Just…a poem.”

  Julia touched her husband’s arm. “Why don’t we allow them their sleep, dear?”

  For a second he stared at her, as if needing reassurance that everything familiar had not been taken from him. “Very well,” he finally agreed. Both went from bed to bed, kissing foreheads, and then Andrew put out the light before they went back out to the corridor.

  “Ben Mayhew?” he said as soon as the door closed behind them. “I’ve already lost one daughter, and now a boy with cheeks still too smooth for a razor is writing love poems to my Laurel?”

  “Sh-h-h. Let’s go downstairs.”

  He obliged halfheartedly, and it was only when they were standing inside the doorway of the parlor that Julia attempted to reassure him. “You can expect when girls and boys that age go to school together, they’ll have infatuations. It doesn’t mean they’re courting.”

  “But they’re both sixteen. And you were seventeen when you married.”

  Julia shook her head. “That was different, Andrew. I was smitten by an older man who knew how to charm me out of seeing his faults. Ben is a decent boy, and he’ll be off to university in another year, so I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.”

  Finally he drew in a deep breath. “You’re right, of course. I suppose I overreacted a bit.”

  “I think you were just fine. After all, you didn’t demand to see the poem, did you?”

  “No, of course not.” He gave her a sad little smile. “But I would have if you hadn’t been there to calm me.”

  “Well, knowing Ben, it will probably have something to do with architecture.” Julia put a hand upon his arm and decided it was time. “Let’s go for a little ride, shall we?”

  “A ride? But it’s almost nine.”

  “Let’s visit Elizabeth and Jonathan. I’m sure they haven’t retired for the night.” How could they, with so much to discuss!

  “Would you mind if we put it off until tomorrow?” He sent a wishful look up at the ceiling, as if he could see their bedroom above it. “This has been a day I’d like to put behind me as soon as possible.”

  “Has it been that terrible?” she asked sympathetically.

  “Considering that I slipped around like a thief, was told off soundly by Mrs. Hayes and then had to counsel her husband to pay her a little more attention—when I don’t blame him for spending time away from her—made a fool of myself in front of you and Mrs. Paget…and then found out that a young man is writing poems to my daughter, I would say so.”

  Julia willed herself to keep from smiling at his doleful tone. For all their strength, men were sometimes like little children. “We wouldn’t have to stay long.”

  After a sigh for her benefit, he agreed, as Julia knew he would. He was fortunate that her wants were few, she teasingly reminded him sometimes. For like Ambrose with Fiona, he loved indulging his wife.

  “But what reason will we give?” her husband asked as the trap rattled down the dark vicarage lane under a cloudless, starry sky.

  “Why must we have a reason to call on family?” Julia answered evasively, then changed the subject. “Can you smell the apple blossoms? Flower scents are so much more intoxicating at night, don’t you agree?”

  “Ah…certainly,” he said with a curious sideways glance at her.

  Minutes later they were standing at the cottage door. Jonathan answered Andrew’s knock almost right away, his aristocratic face wearing the same grin Julia was certain she had worn earlier.

  “Please, do come in,” he greeted them, gesturing past himself with a flourish. “Elizabeth is in the kitchen putting the kettle on. We gave Mrs. Littlejohn and Hilda the evening off.”

  “You were expecting us?” Andrew asked with brow furrowed.

  “Family should always be expected, don’t you think? Why don’t we visit in the kitchen so we can be close to the kettle?”

  “This is very odd, Julia,” Andrew whispered as they followed their son-in-law through the house. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “I can keep secrets too, Vicar,” she whispered back.

  He gave her a stricken look. “They aren’t moving away, are they?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “And here they are, Beth!” Jonathan announced grandly at the kitchen doorway.

  As they entered, Elizabeth, wearing an apron over her dress, looked up from spreading a cloth upon the table. “Hello, Papa. Julia.”

  And then Andrew did a curious thing. “You’re going to have a child?” he asked in a voice filled with wonder.

  Julia shook her head at Elizabeth’s questioning glance, then asked her husband, “How did you know, Andrew?”

  “It’s so, then?” He went around the table and took Elizabeth in his arms. Julia blinked away tears for the second time that day, and when she looked at Jonathan beside her, his gray-green eyes were glistening as well.

  “I’m going to be a grandfather!” Andrew exclaimed when he finally released his daughter. “Imagine that!”

  This time it was Elizabeth who asked, “But how did you know, Papa?”

  Andrew looked at Julia with what seemed to be a plea for understanding before replying in the tenderest of voices, “Because you look just like your mother did…when she told me that she was carrying you.”

  Julia and Andrew stayed for another half hour, visiting over fig bread and tea at the table and chuckling over Elizabeth’s confession that she had feared that she was suffering some mysterious disease. They agreed that it would be best to tell the children later, as Mrs. Littlejohn and Hilda could be trusted to keep the secret. Occasionally Julia’s eyes met her husband’s, and she detected worry in his. When they finally took their leave, they rode in silence until he reined the trap to a halt halfway up the vicarage lane.

  “I have something to ask you that can’t wait,” he said before she could wonder why they were sitting in the dark. “And if I get too close to home, Luke will come out for the horse, and then Dora will be asking if we’d like some cocoa, and then one of the children might—”

  Julia put her fingers up to his lips. “You’re worried that I might be hurt because of what you said about Kathleen.”

  Taking her hand from his lips to press it against the coat lapel over his heart, he replied, “I fear I was grossly insensitive.”

  “You weren’t insensitive at all, Andrew. You have some wonderful memories of your first marriage. Why should you never mention them?”

  Perhaps if Andrew were not so loving and attentive to her, she would feel differently. But God had supplied her with the grace to regard Kathleen as someone she would have liked to have known as a friend. After all, they had both fallen in love with the same wonderful man.

  His voice thickened with emotion. “I just don’t want you to ever doubt that I love you more than life itself.”

  Leaning her head against his sturdy shoulder, she told him, “I have never doubted that for one moment, Andrew.” They sat in that comfortable silence for a little while until Rusty, anxious to be in his stable, took a few tentative steps forward, then several more. He obviously regarded Andrew’s inattention to the reins as perm
ission to proceed and delivered them back to the vicarage at a brisk trot.

  “Did I mention what a wonderful day this has been?” Andrew asked as they held hands and ascended the steps to their home.

  Though he knew he would regret it sorely at six o’clock the next morning when Mr. Ellis knocked upon his door, Jacob started reading another chapter of Rachelle of Chamonix. He had endured Miss Rawlins’ indifference for almost two years now and was eager to hurry up and finish the novelette so that they would finally have something to discuss beyond the weather.

  At first he had assumed that she suffered from the same timidity that plagued his life, but he had come to realize that her silence was the result of having no interest in his occupation. While the other lodgers inquired often of the latest findings on the Anwyl, she seldom joined in the discussions. Often she even seemed bored.

  The realization had disturbed him until he forced himself into seeing the situation from her point of view. Just because he was curious about how people of past civilizations lived their lives didn’t mean everyone felt that way. When had he expressed any interest in her occupation?

  And he did enjoy reading in his spare time, so this would be a pleasant way to develop a friendship. Writers such as Sir John Barrow, Daniel Defoe, and James Fenimore Cooper had carried him off to many an adventure since his early school days. He almost identified with them, for every piece of the past that he held in his hand from his findings atop the Anwyl represented a story.

  But there was one thing he didn’t understand about Miss Rawlins’ novelette, and it worried him a little. He frowned as he began another paragraph:

  Rachelle de Beaufort’s full lips formed a pout as she stamped her satin-covered foot. “Just because you’ve conquered the Russian Army, General Massena, doesn’t mean you can march back here to Chamonix and expect me to fall at your feet like the rest of France! If the Alps couldn’t tame me in three years, what makes you think you can in one week?”