The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

“That’s my way of seeing it,” Jewel said with stubborn defensiveness.

  “But you’ve said yourself many times that anything less than a year is a disgrace.”

  “Well, there’s the fact that he needs a wife right now for those five young’uns and that farm to tend. And Lydia ain’t gettin’ any younger. Mayhap she needs to think about findin’ a hus—”

  “Excuse me!” Lydia interjected when she could bear it no longer. Both women stared up at her again, clearly stung by the sharpness of her voice. She forced herself to take in a deep breath before saying in a calmer, but no less insistent, tone, “I’m not interested in Mr. Towly.”

  Jewel’s eyes fluttered in her parchmentlike face. “I were just sayin’ that—”

  “I know what you were saying, and I appreciate your concern about my future. But there are worse things than being a spinster. And at the very top of this list I would put being married to a man who would walk into a public place and ask about someone’s dowry…and only three months after the mother of his children has died.”

  She bade them good-day and turned to leave before the subject could be discussed any further. The anger that hastened her steps toward home was not at the Worthy sisters, for Lydia allowed them the same indulgence one would give to beloved aunts—even though their words could sometimes make her cringe. How dare he ask about me in public!

  The sight of her family’s two-story stone cottage on Walnut Lane gave her some comfort. Her mother’s sunflower blossoms had not yet attained enough height to peer over the picket fence, but they would be radiant in late summer. Pots of red geraniums sat in every windowsill. As she opened the gate, she could see her father sitting with his chair propped back against the trunk of the elm tree with Jeanie the cat curled in his lap. His mouth was gaped slightly, producing contented snores that stirred his white beard with the rise and fall of his chest.

  Lydia smiled at the realization that both of his feet, planted beside the book that had fallen to the ground, were bare. Amos Clark believed in comfort, which was why five years ago he turned over control of his iron foundry to Lydia’s older brother, Noah. He had worked hard for most of his sixty years, he declared back then, and would spend his later years doing the things he had never seemed to have enough time for. His days were now primarily filled with reading, painting, and walking to the smithy to sit and reminisce about earlier years in the village with some of his longtime friends.

  Jeanie woke, stretched, and jumped weightlessly down to follow Lydia into the house, causing her father to stir slightly and alter the rhythm of his snoring for a second or two. Lydia let herself in the door and into a front parlor filled with overstuffed furniture around a colorful rug. Her father’s easel was set up in a corner near the large, east-facing windows that allowed the best sunlight to filter in each morning. Walls displayed the landscapes he finally had time to paint. Her mother looked up from her perch at the edge of the sofa, where she was sorting fabric quilting squares onto the tea table.

  “Lydia.” The matronly voice was a verbal caress. “You’re home. I was beginning to worry.”

  Lydia walked over to kiss the top of her mother’s head. She had to lean down quite a bit to reach the graying brown hair. It was as if her typical selflessness had compelled Oriel Clark to ask God to give height and leanness to the rest of her family, while she gladly took the leavings. “What a day,” Lydia sighed, tossing her satchel into a chair and dropping down beside her mother on the sofa.

  “What’s wrong, dear?”

  “Oh, the Worthy sisters tell me Mr. Towly was in Trumbles apparently telling anyone who would listen of his intention to court me.”

  Her mother’s hand went up to a plump cheek. “Oh my.”

  “If my dowry is adequate enough to buy some cattle, that is.”

  “But his wife…”

  “I know.” A little shudder snaked down Lydia’s spine. “If that odious man comes calling here, you won’t ask him in, will you?”

  “Absolutely not! Anyway, after I tell your father about it, he’ll not be welcomed beyond the gate.”

  Lydia breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s good to hear.”

  “But I’m still curious as to why he would take it upon himself to court someone he only met briefly at his wife’s funeral.”

  Her mother could be a little naive at times, Lydia thought. “He obviously assumes that plainness and desperation go hand in hand.” Banishing Mr. Towly from her mind, she picked up a square of blue calico. “I remember this. You made Mrs. Tanner an apron from the rest, didn’t you?”

  Mrs. Tanner was their cook, their only servant, because even though the iron foundry provided a good income, Lydia’s mother’s greatest joy was tending her own house. Her only other concession to convenience was having the clothes and linens sent to Mrs. Moore’s to be laundered.

  “I did.” Her mother took the square from her and set it back on the table. Mahogany-colored eyes looking into hers, she said, “You know, most women with gardens pride themselves on their roses, but I’ve never cared to grow them. To me, my sunflowers are far more beautiful.”

  “Yes?” Lydia had no idea what this had to do with Mrs. Tanner’s apron, but her mother usually had a plan in mind when she strayed so far from a subject.

  “There is beauty in all God’s creation, Lydia. You mustn’t think of yourself as plain. And if you would have stayed here instead of spending fourteen years isolated at that girls’ school, you would have been long married by now.” There was no recrimination in her tone, just a statement of what she perceived to be fact.

  “Thank you for saying that, Mother.”

  “Well, it’s the truth.”

  Lydia squeezed her hand. “Then I’m happy to be one of your sunflowers.”

  That night as she lay in that tranquil space between prayer and sleep, Lydia thought of the fair portion of her life spent at Saint Margaret’s. It had seemed to her more of a ministry than a vocation. Though her students came from the wealthiest families, they had been little more than orphans, shuttled away to boarding school so that their parents could take grand tours without the encumbrance of little ones to distract them. Lydia, with no family to tend and little interest in the gossip cliques of the other schoolmistresses, had given every scrap of free time to her girls. And it seemed what they had needed most was someone to offer them a listening heart and ear.

  God had spoken to her at the end of those fourteen years, impressing upon her that it was time to come home to stay. Her aging parents would not be around forever. Once she arrived, her availability had hastened the founding of a secondary school. Two very good reasons for her to be in Gresham again.

  And yet sometimes she caught glimpses of a vision that God had something else planned for her. She couldn’t begin to explain it, even to herself, but occasionally she sensed that the road ahead of her would take some unpredictable turns. God had been good to her, and she was willing to set out in whatever direction He determined was necessary for her life to continue to have meaning.

  But please, Father…she prayed. Don’t let it be in the direction of Ezra Towly!

  Chapter 7

  Early Wednesday afternoon, Julia accompanied Andrew to pay calls on the Fletchers, Putnams, and Sloanes across the Bryce. On their return down Market Lane, they could see Ambrose and Fiona entering the Larkspur’s garden up ahead. The couple turned to wave as the trap drew closer, and Andrew reined the horse to a stop.

  “Have you time for a visit?” Ambrose asked after greetings were exchanged, to which Julia and Andrew agreed. With an hour and a half still remaining in the children’s school day, they were glad to have some time to spend with their dear friends.

  Julia was happy to observe that the actor, flush from his walk, appeared in brighter spirits than he had so far since arriving from London.

  “You’re looking well, Ambrose,” she commented when the two couples had settled into adjacent willow benches in front of a young May tree on the verge of blooming.r />
  “Thank you,” he replied and drew in a deep breath appreciatively. “I feel as if I could run all the way up the Anwyl today.”

  “It seems the bad spell is over for now,” said Fiona, smiling and looking lovely in a two-piece costume of mauve and white patterned chintz.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Andrew said. “I only wish your good days would last forever.”

  “That would be nice, old friend,” Ambrose agreed. “But you know, every cloud has its silver lining, as the saying goes. With Fiona’s help, I’ve learned something through all of this. Remind me to tell you about it one day.”

  “Why not now?”

  “Because I don’t want to spend the first decent chance we’ve had for a chat droning on and on about myself. Tell us, Julia, how are the children?”

  “Very well, thank you,” she replied. “They’ve adjusted to combining the families with remarkable ease.”

  “Of course it helped that they were already friends before the marriage,” Andrew added.

  “And the newlyweds?” asked Fiona.

  Julia wished they were free to share the news about Elizabeth, but she had to respect her stepdaughter’s desire for secrecy until the pregnancy was further along. “Very happy. And Jonathan loves his teaching position. I doubt they’ll ever leave Gresham.”

  Andrew smiled at Mr. Clay. “And now that we’ve brought you up to date with the vicarage clan, I’d really like to hear what you’ve learned, Ambrose. You know I’m always looking for insights to enhance my sermons.”

  “Tell them, Ambrose,” Fiona urged, touching his elbow.

  “It seems you’re outvoted,” Julia added. “I’d like to hear it too.”

  Smiling, the actor shrugged. “If you’re quite sure. But I’m trusting you not to allow me to become a bore.” He sat back in the bench and steepled his fingers upon a crossed knee. “Have you ever been to the Cotswolds?”

  Julia and Fiona shook their heads. Andrew replied that he believed he had as a boy on a rare family holiday to visit relatives.

  “Well, the roads are quite hilly.” Ambrose moved a hand sideways in an undulating motion. “The horses have a time of it. And Fiona has helped me to realize that life is like those roads. And not just my life, although my condition makes mine a little more hilly than most.”

  “In other words, we each have our hills and valleys,” said Andrew.

  “Exactly. But in my young adulthood, I spent the hilltop days cramming as much activity into them as possible, not allowing myself to think about the coming valleys. But they came anyway, accompanied by crushing disappointment. I’ve now learned to take a pause to look back, every time life becomes good again.”

  “Back?”

  “Over the road I’ve already traveled. My life so far, if you will. It’s simple to do so when you’re standing on a hilltop, but nearly impossible from a valley. While I can see all the low places, I can also see the elevated ones. And then I turn to look at the road ahead of me. It’s the same. And I tell myself, ‘Ambrose, this happiness won’t last. It hasn’t before. But neither will the darkness, for I can see the hills rising up for miles and miles.’ So when the low days come, and my heart is telling me I’ll never be happy again, my mind takes me back to the view I saw from the last hilltop.”

  He shrugged again, a little self-consciously. “It helps. Tremendously, in fact.”

  “I can see how,” Andrew said. “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning. We seem to remind ourselves of that passage only while in the dark of night, don’t we? But that is also when it’s hard to see the joy that’s ahead through the tears.” He leaned forward a bit, warming to the subject. “What you’ve done, Ambrose and Fiona, is pile up stones.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The clattering of wheels and hooves that had sounded unobtrusively in the distance grew loud enough to prevent him from answering without shouting. Three red-and-white cheese factory wagons, drawn by pairs of dray horses, were returning from their afternoon deliveries to the Shrewsbury railway station. When he could be heard again, Andrew said as if the interruption had never occurred, “After the Israelites crossed the Jordan on dry land, they piled up twelve stones on the riverbank as a memorial, a reminder for future generations of how God had led them through the wilderness to the Promised Land. When you’re standing in a high place, as you are now, you pile up stones. And you can look back and see them from the next low place.”

  Ambrose slapped a knee with his hand and smiled. “And I see a sermon on this in the near future.”

  “Missus Phelps?”

  Everyone looked to the right, where Sarah stood holding a tray about three feet away. Julia wondered how she could have approached so soundlessly until she remembered the cheese wagons. With a smile she said, “Good afternoon, Sarah.”

  “Good afternoon, missus.” The maid advanced to place the tray on the seat beside Julia. “Mr. Jensen saw you through the window and thought you’d be wantin’ some refreshment. He also asks if you’ve time to speak with him before you leave.”

  Julia assured her that she would be inside as soon as their tea was finished, then took charge of pouring cups and handing out the small dishes of ginger biscuits. The day she married Andrew, the Larkspur became his as well as hers. Because he had such extensive duties to parish and family and no experience with running a lodging house, he had gratefully accepted Julia’s offer to take care of any matters that should arise. Those were few and far between, with Mr. Jensen so capable a manager.

  Some twenty minutes later Julia excused herself and stepped inside the hall. Mrs. Dearing, white braid trailing gracefully down her back, turned to smile from the bench of the pianoforte.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Dearing.”

  “And good afternoon to you, Mrs. Phelps. Is the good vicar not with you?”

  “He’s in the garden with the Clays. I just stepped in to see Mr. Jensen.” She looked around at the empty sofas and chairs. “Where is everyone?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Durwin are visiting with the Sykes, Mrs. Latrell is upstairs, and Miss Rawlins is working on her latest manuscript.” Mr. Ellis and Mr. Pitney, of course, would be atop the Anwyl. “I’ve noticed that everyone seems to have reasons to absent themselves from the hall every day just about the time I’m due to practice.”

  Suppressing a smile because it was likely true, Julia walked over to stand beside the piano. A book of scale exercises was propped upon the ledge. “Now, Mrs. Dearing. Aleda tells me you’re progressing very well.” Aleda still gave the woman lessons on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.

  “A gracious young lady, that daughter of yours.” The levity in her tone was a sure sign that Mrs. Dearing took no offense at the emptiness of the room. “But had I the mastery of Clara Schumann, repetitive scales could still become tedious to the ears. So you had best go find Mr. Jensen before you become a captive audience.”

  The notes of the f-major scale followed Julia down the corridor to Mr. Jensen’s office. Knowing that he was expecting her, she gave a light knock and eased open the door. The former butler immediately started getting to his feet, but she waved him back into his seat, closed the door, and slipped into the chair in front of his desk.

  “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Phelps,” Mr. Jensen said.

  “But of course, Mr. Jensen. How are you today?”

  A smile deepened the lines of his sixty-five-year-old face. The former butler was a courtly looking man, with thinning, iron-gray hair. Even seated, his posture was as perfect as a dowager’s. “As I am every day in Gresham. Most content.”

  “I understand.” It was here under the Larkspur’s roof that Julia had learned the true meaning of contentment herself. “And you deserve it, I might add.”

  “That would be debatable, but it’s kind of you to say it.”

  “I say it only because it’s true.”

  How strange it still seemed to Julia to be so beholden to the person she had considered her worst enemy back
in London. From the day she crossed the threshold of surgeon Philip Hollis’s home as a seventeen-year-old bride until shortly after her husband’s death three years ago, this same man had treated her with just enough politeness to keep from losing his position. It was clear that he considered her, and later the children, impositions to his well-established routine.

  And so it would have seemed that Mr. Jensen would have been ecstatic to learn that his former master’s gambling debts had left Julia penniless. But incredibly, he had advised her to transform her only asset, an abandoned coaching inn, into a lodging house—and then insisted on lending her the money for refurbishing and to cover her living expenses until rents from the Larkspur’s lodgers could be counted upon.

  Julia was well aware that God had sustained her family in those days, and she still thanked Him daily for His benevolence. Even so that knowledge did not lessen her gratitude to Mr. Jensen, for he could have hardened his heart to the Father’s suasions. God would have likely provided another way, but she was glad that had not been necessary, because the man had proved himself to be a good friend as well as a capable manager.

  “Thank you for sending tea,” Julia went on, changing the subject in deference to Mr. Jensen’s embarrassment when being complimented too effusively.

  “You’re welcome, Mrs. Phelps.” Mr. Jensen folded his hands upon his desk and assumed a businesslike demeanor. “I will try not to keep Vicar Phelps waiting too long. This morning, Mrs. Latrell received a wire from her widowed sister in Northumberland. I gather the sister is lonely, for she has asked Mrs. Latrell to move in with her as soon as possible. The chambermaids are assisting her in packing, and Mr. Herrick will deliver her to Shrewsbury in the morning.”

  “I see.” Julia was not as well acquainted with Mrs. Latrell as with the other lodgers, simply because she had married and moved out before the woman’s arrival. But she could understand how a sister would find solace in her cheerful disposition. “Of course she must go. I’ll slip upstairs and speak with her as soon as I leave you.”