The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

  “She has offered to pay next month’s lodgings for having given such short notice.”

  “Do you think that is necessary?” Julia asked him. “We still have those other inquiries, haven’t we?” They were responses to the advertisements that had been posted in several English newspapers almost a year ago when Mrs. Kingston was on the verge of becoming Mrs. Bartley. Mrs. Latrell’s letter had arrived first. After it was arranged that she would take the room, Mr. Jensen had sent at least two dozen letters of regret, but surely one of those who had inquired would still be interested in the Larkspur.

  “We have indeed, Mrs. Phelps,” Mr. Jensen replied. He picked up a sheet of stationery and leaned forward to hand it across the desk. “But I would like you to see a letter that arrived only yesterday.”

  Julia set the fine vellum paper on the desk in front of her to smooth out the folds, then held it out in front of her to read the bold script:

  Dear Mr. Jensen,

  I am a solicitor, practicing in London. One of my clients is the Long & Currier Publishing House, which I have learned represents one of your lodgers, a Miss Eugenia Rawlins. I obtained your address from the publisher in the hopes that you would have a vacancy at present for another client of mine, a Mrs. Somerville.

  Mrs. Somerville is a widow with a sterling reputation who is sadly still grieving the loss of her husband two years ago. Her family feels that a change of location and an extended stay in the country would benefit her enormously. Would you happen to have a room available?

  Enclosed you will find reimbursement for a wired reply, if you would be so kind.

  Very truly yours,

  Osbert Radley

  “How sad,” Julia said as she lowered the page. She could certainly feel empathy for a woman still so newly widowed.

  “He enclosed two pounds.”

  “Two pounds? And with no guarantee of a room? His client must be desperate.”

  “Apparently so, judging from what was not said.”

  Julia gave him a questioning look. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you not detect that there is far more to this story than meets the eye?”

  Scanning the letter again, she experienced a vague uneasiness but attributed it to the notion that they would be exchanging Mrs. Latrell for a stranger. And she had learned in recent years that feelings were sometimes a poor barometer of reality. “I can understand anyone needing to get away from familiar surroundings after losing a loved one.” It had certainly done her a world of good to move to Gresham after her husband’s death—even though the circumstances were not of her choosing.

  “Then we should wire Mr. Radley in the affirmative?”

  Still, a faint doubt nagged at her. “It doesn’t quite seem fair, putting this one ahead of the others. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “If you will pardon my bluntness,” he replied, “the Larkspur is yours to do with as you wish.”

  “Granted. But it’s your decision as well. After all, you have more contact with the lodgers than I have.”

  She knew what Andrew would advise. Take some time to pray before making a decision. But judging from Mr. Radley’s letter, time on that end was in short supply. And it would be nice to have an immediate lodger, instead of having to wait for Mr. Jensen to send out letters and then receive replies. She prayed daily that the Larkspur would run smoothly. Wouldn’t such a prayer encompass this situation as well?

  Mr. Jensen’s voice broke into her thoughts. “May I offer a suggestion, Mrs. Phelps?”

  “Please do.”

  “I could wire Mr. Radley, with the understanding that Mrs. Somerville must be interviewed before we can guarantee her the room.”

  Of course that was the perfect solution—and fair, because Julia had made a policy of interviewing potential lodgers from the beginning. She nodded. “Then send your wire, Mr. Jensen.”

  “Remember the arithmetic test on Friday,” Lydia reminded her younger students before dismissing school that afternoon. She saw panic wash across Aleda Hollis’s face and added, “And there will be no algebra on it this time. Just long division.”

  When the students were gone, Lydia took up her satchel and stepped out into an unseasonably warm afternoon. The sound of an approaching wagon met her ears, not a rare occurrence, considering that the manor house was just down the lane. But as she crossed the school yard, an odd quirk of dread made her consider retreating for the schoolhouse again. By the time a vaguely recognizable face came into view, it was too late. She fastened her eyes on the side of the lane ahead of her and prayed that by some miracle the driver had an appointment with the squire.

  But this was not the case, for Mr. Towly reined to a halt a disinterested-looking dray horse. The poor beast’s red coat was flecked with bits of dried mud, in spite of the fact that the last rain had fallen a week ago.

  “Afternoon, Miss Clark!” he greeted.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Towly.” It was a strain to keep just the proper tone in her voice. Too friendly would only serve to encourage the man, too distant would be rude. A lifetime of caring about manners could not be shaken easily, even though rudeness would likely serve her best in this situation.

  The man removed his felt hat, revealing greasy brown hair molded against his head. Small hazel eyes were set in a weathered face. “Lovely day, ain’t it?”

  “Indeed.” Lydia allowed just enough of a smile to be pleasant. “And I must be on my way. Good day to you, Mr. Towly.”

  But he was not so easily swayed. She had only managed a step or two when he said, “But I’ve come ter offer you a ride home, Miss Clark.”

  She looked up at him again. The mental picture of a certain headstone in the churchyard made it easier to put a chill in her voice. “Thank you, but I prefer to walk.”

  “Oh, come now. It’s got ter be a mile, at least.”

  “I enjoy walking, Mr. Towly. Good day to you.”

  To his credit he did not argue but shrugged and turned the wagon around. He sent her a friendly wave as he passed, as if she had not just spurned his company. Lydia ignored the wave and walked faster. Forgive me if this sounds disrespectful, Father, she prayed, recalling the many requests she had sent heavenward in her earlier years for a husband. But all those prayers, and this is how you choose to answer?

  Under a sky of pure lucid blue that same afternoon, Jacob Pitney knelt among the ruins and carefully brushed dirt from the area that had already produced a hardened leather shoe and a broken perfume container. A bit of metal caught the sunlight and his attention at the same time. He concentrated his brush in that one particular spot and held his breath as more of the metal—gold, he realized—was revealed.

  “Have you something interesting there, Mr. Pitney?” asked Mr. Ellis, who was also on his knees some six feet away.

  Jacob smiled. “You might want to come and see this.”

  With the older archeologist at his elbow, Jacob brushed the last bit of dust from what he knew now to be a bracelet. Carefully he picked it up. Several chips of what appeared to be jade were missing from an ornamental design, but it was in good shape otherwise.

  He handed it to Mr. Ellis, who removed his spectacles and held it close to his eyes. “Must have cost a tidy sum back then.”

  Jacob nodded. “Probably belonged to one of the senior officer’s wives—or more likely, a daughter. It’s small for a woman’s wrist.”

  “I agree. Unless she was unusually small boned.” Bringing it again to his eyes, Mr. Ellis squinted. “Why, there appears to be a name among the jade leaves.”

  “May I have a look?” Jacob asked. Mr. Ellis surrendered it with relief in his expression. Jacob knew that his senior partner was sensitive about his difficulty with reading items close up, and tried to spare him embarrassment whenever possible. The Latin word etched into the metal was so delicately scrolled and worn by time that he also had to squint. Presently he smiled and looked at Mr. Ellis. “Didn’t Cerealis have a daughter named Vernita?”

  “Vernita.�
�� Mr. Ellis tilted his head thoughtfully. “Meaning, born in the spring. His only daughter after five sons.” Replacing his spectacles, he said, “And his family accompanied him when he assumed governorship of Britain England. But it has always been assumed that he never traveled west of the River Trent.”

  Jacob looked over the ruins—their workplace for the past two years. So far their careful, back-wearying brushing away of barely a quarter-inch of dirt at a time had yielded the usual artifacts—pottery, combs, spearheads, and the like. Interesting and important, but nothing as promising as this find. For if they gathered enough evidence to prove that the Roman Commander Cerealis, generally regarded as complacent, had at least attempted a push toward Wales, history texts would have to be rewritten.

  It never ceased to amaze him that the earth could yield such clues about civilizations long dead for centuries. Before archeology had become his passion, one mound of dirt looked like another to Jacob. Now he was consumed with knowing what lay beneath it waiting to be discovered. If only he had a better command of the English language, he would be able to explain to Miss Rawlins that his life was occupied with fascinating stories too. But it probably wouldn’t matter, he thought sadly. He realized then that Mr. Ellis had spoken. “I beg your pardon?”

  Mr. Ellis, wrapping the bracelet reverently in a handkerchief, was smiling. “And to think my father wanted me to be a chemist.”

  Jacob smiled back, grateful for this reminder that at least there was one love that remained constant in his life—archeology. “Mine is still waiting for me to come to my senses and work at the family bakery.”

  Chapter 8

  “Why did I teach in Scotland?” Lydia repeated the question she had been asked by Phoebe Meeks, who was seated beside her in the trap on Saturday morning. She had enjoyed a breakfast of sloeberry scones and tea with the girl’s family earlier, and now they were on their way to Shrewsbury. “Well initially, Gresham already had teachers for the grammar and infant schools. And having never traveled outside of Shropshire, I was anxious to see a bit of the world. But I never intended to stay there for fourteen years.”

  “Then why did you?” Phoebe asked in a hesitant voice, as if she feared Lydia would consider her cheeky for asking so many questions.

  “I was needed.” She smiled. “It’s a long story. And I did come home for Easter and Christmas every year, mind you. But it’s good to be here to stay.”

  And it was good to be under the sun that morning and holding the reins to her father’s high-spirited chestnut hunter, Wellington, who was feeling his morning oats and pulled the trap along the macadamized roadway as easily as if it were a paper kite. On impulse Lydia had put on one of her favorite Sunday dresses, a sea green organdy, and fastened a straw bonnet with a little sprig of silk forget-me-nots over her chignon. She pointed to a large field at their right at the foot of the Anwyl, carpeted with dewy pink knapweed and playing host to hundreds of butterflies. “Now, doesn’t a sight like that make it worth getting out in the morning?”

  “It’s all beautiful,” the girl replied while admiring the scene, then admitted, “I’ve never been outside of Gresham.”

  “You haven’t? Then today will be an adventure, won’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  They rode in silence for some five minutes longer, until Lydia caught sight of a figure up ahead. “Can you tell who that is?”

  The girl sat up and squinted short-sighted eyes in that direction. “Where?”

  “Never mind.” Lydia could tell now that the person was a man, walking toward Shrewsbury with his hands in his pockets. He turned to wave at her, so she reined Wellington to a walk, then a halt.

  “I see him now, Miss Clark,” Phoebe whispered as the man approached. “It’s one of the Sanders.”

  Of course Lydia recognized the strapping build, the shock of straw-colored hair jutting around his ears from under his cap, and the deep-set forest green eyes. Harold Sanders was about three years younger than was she, but the sun combined with a boisterous lifestyle had aged his face considerably. He had not attended the grammar school or Saint Jude’s during their childhoods, but Lydia had seen him in town now and then over the years. And she knew of his family’s reputation—one didn’t have to indulge in gossip to gather that most of the males were as rough as a rat-catcher’s dogs.

  “Will you give me a lift to Shrewsbury?” the man asked upon reaching Lydia’s side of the carriage.

  Lydia replied that she supposed she could. While he and his brother Dale were brawlers, they had never assaulted any woman to her knowledge. She motioned for him to go around to the other side, while Phoebe sidled over to the middle of the seat.

  “I’m Harold Sanders,” he said when Wellington began moving again. “You teach at that new school?”

  “I do,” Lydia answered with a polite smile directed toward the horse’s tail. “I’m Lydia Clark. And this is Phoebe Meeks.”

  “Your papa has the foundry, don’t he?”

  “Yes. But my brother, Noah, runs it for him now.”

  “Noah Clark,” the man mused. “Can’t recall ever fightin’ no Noah Clark.”

  “You haven’t,” Lydia told him.

  “No? How do you know that?”

  “You’re still alive, aren’t you?” She regretted saying it as soon as the words left her mouth. All Noah needed, with all his other responsibilities, was to have a Sanders following him around intent on defending his reputation as a brawler. With a sigh she leaned forward a little to look past Phoebe. “That was a joke, Mr. Sanders.”

  He grinned back at her. “That was a good one, Miss Clark. You know, I said to myself that you was jokin’, but being as we’ve never talked before, I weren’t sure.” With an appreciative chuckle he added, “And I know a good joke too. You wanter hear it?”

  “Is it fit for decent company, Mr. Sanders?”

  “Oh.” He sat in silent disappointment for a few seconds, then brightened again. “This one is—I made it up myself last year. When is a merry-go-round most like a spinnin’ jenny?”

  “When they’re both going in circles?” Lydia guessed at length.

  “No, that’s not it,” Mr. Sanders chortled with a pleased tone, then asked the girl in the middle, “Do you know?”

  “No, sir.” Phoebe moved just a little closer to Lydia.

  “When the merry-go-round is…a-spinnin’ Jenny!”

  “That’s very clever, Mr. Sanders.” Lydia sent another polite smile toward Wellington’s hindquarters. Why was he walking anyway? For just a half-shilling, a person could ride on one of the cheese wagons on one of its twice-daily rounds.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I was walkin’,” he said, as if he had read her mind.

  “Why, no,” Lydia lied, loathe to admit that any facet of her passenger’s life held any interest for her. An immediate stab of conscience compelled her to admit, “Actually, the question did occur to me.”

  “I had a ride on a cheese wagon, but the driver put me out.”

  “He did?”

  “We hit a bump, and I bit my tongue and let out a swear word. I didn’t know the driver was a Baptist. They’ve got no humor about such things.”

  Wonderful! Lydia thought. She leaned forward again to send him a meaningful look. “I’m not Baptist, but I’m inclined to be that way too, Mr. Sanders.”

  “Oh, but you don’t have to fret yourself about that,” he assured her after a chuckle. “I don’t swear in front of women and girls. Used to around my sister, Mercy—only if I was galled about something, mind you—until she married that horse farmer, Seth Langford. He won’t allow us to say so much as a—”

  “Mr. Sanders…” Lydia warned, tightening her hands around the reins.

  Harold Sanders’ ruddy face assumed a wounded expression. “I weren’t gonter swear, Miss Clark.”

  “That’s good to hear, Mr. Sanders.” Lydia relaxed, sat back, and hoped for silence for the rest of the ride. But within seconds Mr. Sanders leaned forwa
rd again.

  “I s’pose you’re wondering why I’m going to Shrewsbury.”

  “I wasn’t wondering that at all,” Lydia replied, this time in all honesty.

  This did not discourage him. “Well, our wagon’s been patched to death and ain’t reliable for making milk deliveries to the factory, so my papa is sending me to see if he can get a new one made cheaper down there than he can from Mr. Mayhew. He’ll waste a whole day o’ my time just to save tuppence.” He gave another little chuckle. “If he knew how tickled I am to get out of milkin’ cows, he’d send one of the others.”

  “Hmm,” was Lydia’s only response.

  “That’s the trouble with working for your own papa,” he sighed. “Mine kicks us out of bed at the break o’ dawn. I’d give anything to have the money to get my own place.” They happened to be passing a large stone farmhouse with thatched outbuildings and vast hedged pastures. Harold gestured toward it. “Like that one. And I’d have enough workers so’s I could take it easy onest in a while.”

  “Indeed?”

  While the man’s attention was still drawn covetously toward the farm, Lydia sent Phoebe a wink, which caused the girl to bite her lips to keep from smiling. Harold went on, pointing out that life was unfair, that he worked just as hard as any worker on any dairy farm, and should be rewarded accordingly.

  Some three-quarters of an hour after taking Mr. Sanders as passenger, they rode down Berwich Road into northern Shrewsbury. It was a jewel of a large country town, nestled on a peninsula of rising ground formed by a loop of the River Severn. The steep, winding cobbled lanes were flanked with angular black-and-white half-timbered Tudor shops and dwellings, symmetrical buildings of red Georgian brick, and modern Victorian gingerbread houses. Each dwelling had its own small garden plot, with spring flowers blooming among early vegetables. The shops also boasted flowers in window boxes and in any available inch of ground. Beside her, Phoebe took in as much as her weak eyes would allow. I should bring her sister and brothers here one day, Lydia thought. Mrs. Meeks too, she added mentally, for surely there had not been much time for leisure in the woman’s life.