The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

  “You can put me out here,” Mr. Sanders said after Castle turned into Saint Mary Street.

  By now, Lydia knew more than she cared to know about how unfairly life had treated him, so it was with great relief that she reined the horse to a stop. He jumped down from the carriage.

  “Thank you kindly, Miss Clark. When will you be passing back this way?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “My business won’t take too long, I shouldn’t think.”

  As much as Lydia revered courtesy, she had also absorbed from her parents that in matters that weren’t life-and-death, one had to put limits upon how far one must allow oneself to be imposed. And she had had quite enough of the man.

  “Mr. Sanders, I’ve no idea how long our business will take. So I suggest you ride back on one of the cheese wagons.”

  “But they won’t—”

  “Not all the drivers are Baptists, Mr. Sanders. But it might behoove you to watch your language, in any case.”

  She gave him a nod and snapped Wellington’s reins, leaving the man standing in the street. Moving back into the space he had vacated, Phoebe twisted around to squint in that direction. “I think he’s still watching us, Miss Clark.”

  Lydia felt compelled to explain her harshness. “He’ll find a ride easily enough if he minds his manners. That’s how the cheese wagon drivers make a little extra money, you know.”

  “But what will you do if he’s there when we leave?”

  “Oh my.” Lydia hadn’t considered this. “I couldn’t very well pass him by. We’ll just have to loop around to Dogpole Street on our way out.”

  Doctor Rhodes had recommended an oculist on High Street, a German by the name of Mr. Rosswald. “You’ll pay more than at some places, but his spectacles are custom made,” Doctor Rhodes had said. This sounded good to Lydia, who had only known of shops with racks of spectacles from which one could only choose the pair that worked best.

  As it turned out, Mr. Rosswald had built up a reputation. A dozen somber-looking people were already seated in ladder-back chairs against the walls of his waiting parlor. Phoebe began to look a little pale after about fifteen minutes of waiting, and Lydia asked her if she felt ill.

  “No, ma’am,” the girl answered, but shortly afterward she turned to her and whispered, “It won’t hurt, will it?”

  “No, not at all,” Lydia whispered back. “And I’ll go with you.”

  That seemed to reassure her somewhat, for the tenseness drained from her expression. An hour later Lydia accompanied her young charge into a long, narrow room. Attached to the far wall was what the oculist explained as the Snellen Chart for Distance Testing. Mr. Rosswald, a bespectacled, bearded man with only a faint trace of accent, had Phoebe read the letters to him as he covered alternating eyes with squares of dark pasteboard. It was no surprise to Lydia, who sat in a corner chair out of the way, when the girl could not read the bottom three rows. The oculist then used a retinscope and looked into each of Phoebe’s eyes to determine if she suffered from an astigmatism.

  “She has the astigmatism,” Mr. Rosswald said when the examination was finished. “Her eyeglasses will correct that as well. You must bring her back here in two weeks to have them fitted.”

  “I’ll be able to see?” the girl asked.

  “You’ll be able to count the leaves on the trees, Fraulein,” he said, patting her shoulder.

  They lunched on fidget pies at the Lion Hotel, which was crowded with patrons, giving them ample opportunity for peoplewatching without being rude. Lydia bought her father some paints and linseed oil afterward in a dusty little art supply shop. To her disgust, her conscience would not allow her to bypass Saint Mary Street on her way out of town again, but at least her conscience did not prick at her when she did not rein Wellington over to wait in case Mr. Sanders was to show. They rode in silence for a quarter of an hour, and then Lydia turned to Phoebe. “You’re not looking forward to the eyeglasses, are you?”

  “But I am, Miss Clark,” Phoebe replied while aiming her eyes just under Lydia’s eyebrows. “I’ll be able to see everything. Thank you for buying them for me.”

  “I’m asking you to be honest with me, Phoebe.”

  When the girl did not speak right away, Lydia turned her attention back to the horse and road to give her some time.

  Finally a small voice replied, “No, ma’am.” She sent a worried look sideways to Lydia. “But it’s still very kind of you, Miss Clark.”

  Lydia had to smile at her. “Some favors we can do without, yes?”

  Phoebe’s green eyes clouded. “I’ll be ugly.”

  “That’s not so. Do you really think a bit of wire and glass could detract from such a lovely face?”

  “I’m not lovely. And everyone will laugh.”

  Please help me again with this, Father, Lydia prayed while drawing in a quiet sigh. She wouldn’t lie to the girl, for even though she didn’t allow her students to ridicule one another, she couldn’t monitor them every hour of the day. And children nowadays were no different from when she was in school.

  “It’s not fair,” the girl whispered.

  Lydia nodded. “I know, Phoebe. And if it were in my power to change that, I would. But you can’t allow this to ruin your life.” She let go of the reins with one hand long enough to touch the girl’s shoulder. “Every person has his own burden to carry. Remember Captain Powell? He didn’t allow the loss of an arm to hinder him.”

  “But he was an adult. I’m the only one in the school with a burden.”

  “Some burdens you can’t see, Phoebe—and some will come later. That’s the way of life. But God helps us to bear them, if we ask Him. And we can still have happiness in spite of them.”

  “Did you have a burden when you were a girl?” Phoebe asked after a thoughtful hesitation.

  “Oh, I thought I did. My height and ears.”

  The girl gave her a blank look. “Your ears?”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

  “But I haven’t. Honestly, Miss Clark. You’re almost as beautiful as Miss Raleigh.”

  Lydia remembered then that the girl was short-sighted and smiled. “Thank you, Phoebe.”

  A silence lapsed between them for several minutes, and then Phoebe turned to her again. “People teased you?”

  “Oh, unmercifully.”

  “What did you do about it?”

  “Somehow I realized that my height and ears weren’t all there was to me—if they had been given to someone else, that person would have suffered the same teasing. That helped me not to take it so personally. And by the way, when the teasing stopped mattering so much to me, it eventually faded away.”

  “Have you a burden now?”

  As unfair as it was that she should hear the girl’s innermost angst and then not confide her own, Lydia could not go burdening a child about the ache that sometimes stabbed her heart at the sight of a happily married couple, like the vicar and his wife. She replied lightly instead, “I have a dear student who would rather go through life running to second base and bumping into things than wear a pair of spectacles on her lovely face.”

  Finally a smile touched the girl’s lips. “I’ve never bumped into anything, Miss Clark.”

  Lydia smiled back. “Well, it was just a matter of time.”

  Chapter 9

  The following Sunday, Jacob Pitney mustered up enough courage to plant himself two rows behind Miss Rawlins during the morning worship service at Saint Jude’s. Vicar Phelps delivered a fine sermon centered around the parable of the laborers in the vineyard, but sitting so close to the object of his affection made it difficult for Jacob to keep his attention from straying to the back of Miss Rawlins’ head.

  During the closing prayer Jacob added a petition of his own that she would walk back to the Larkspur unaccompanied. He pretended to fuss with the cuff-fastener of his tweed coat while she passed his pew on her way toward the front, counted fifteen silent seconds as planned, then stepped out
into the aisle himself.

  But he hadn’t planned on Mr. Trumble cornering him in the vestibule.

  “I’ve been meanin’ to ask you about a collection of marbles I’ve got from the ruins uphill.” The shopkeeper held up both palms as if to head off any accusation. “I got them before you and Mr. Ellis started your escallation up there, mind you.”

  Escallation? A fraction of a second later it dawned upon Jacob that excavation was likely the intended word. He darted a helpless glance in the direction of the open front door, where the vicar was shaking hands with Miss Rawlins. “Why don’t you bring them over this afternoon and we’ll have a look?”

  “You sure it’s no incompetence?”

  “Incompetence?”

  “You know…too much trouble?”

  “I would be very interested in seeing them,” he assured the shopkeeper before bidding him good-day and exiting the church. He sent a silent thank you heavenward at the sight of the writer strolling along the willows alone.

  “Miss Rawlins?”

  Jacob was chagrined to hear his own voice break as he spoke—like a half-grown schoolboy’s, but she turned and smiled. His breath caught in his throat. She looked so elegant with her salmon-colored gown billowing about her slippers in the breeze.

  “Mr. Pitney,” Miss Rawlins said as he caught up to her. “Where is Mr. Ellis?”

  This deflated his confidence. Did she only see him as part of a team? We work together, we’re not married, he thought but of course did not say. “He’s visiting his family in Bristol and should return by late afternoon.” Jacob had carried on as usual atop the Anwyl yesterday, because they did not normally take Saturdays off unless visiting their families.

  “Would you mind if I accompanied you?” he asked, holding his breath.

  He let it out again when she replied, even pleasantly, “That would be nice.”

  This encouraged him to press on in his quest to deepen their nonexistent relationship. “I’ve recently finished reading Rachelle of Chamonix.”

  “Indeed?” Looking at him with new appreciation in her expression, she said, “Tell me, what did you think of it?”

  “I liked it.”

  “You liked it?”

  Jacob wondered if he had imagined the little edge to her voice. What did I say? Perhaps like was too weak a word. Too late to take it back now, but he could amplify it. “Very much, I meant to say. I liked it very much.”

  He didn’t imagine the sigh that came from her rose-colored lips. “But how did it make you feel, Mr. Pitney?”

  How did it make me feel? Clearing his throat, he replied, “Uh…good?”

  She stared at him as if he had belched. “And that’s all you came away with after reading it? You felt good?”

  Jacob could feel his cheeks getting warm. “Rachelle and General Massena ended up marrying. Shouldn’t I feel good about that?”

  “But did you understand any of the symbolism?”

  “Symbolism?”

  “The bowl of chrysanthemums at the table…the sudden hailstorm on the night Rachelle wrote in her diary…the rip in the scullery maid’s apron…” She lifted a slender hand in a helpless gesture, then allowed it to drop to her side. “I could go on and on, Mr. Pitney. Didn’t you see anything below the surface?”

  “Well, of course.” Though an indulgent mid-April sun sent down only mild rays, he was beginning to sweat beneath his tweed coat. He tried to think fast, for he could sense her opinion of him diminishing every second that he delayed his reply. Finally an answer popped into his head and came to his rescue. “I learned that one shouldn’t pay attention to other people at dinner parties, if one is in love with someone else. But then Rachelle de Beaufort was at fault too, because she didn’t give the general an opportunity to explain.”

  “And that is what you consider symbolic, Mr. Pitney?”

  “Well, yes.” He ran a finger along the inside of his collar. “Shouldn’t a person know how to behave properly at dinner parties?”

  “Oh, unequivocally. Proper etiquette at the dinner table is the foundation of our empire.”

  Was she being sarcastic? Jacob had dug a hole so deep with his answers that he decided silence was now his safest defense. Apparently she did not mind, for she did not speak to him again until he held the Larkspur’s door open for her.

  “Thank you for the company, Mr. Pitney,” she said politely before retiring to her room. She did not come down for lunch, which wasn’t unusual when she was finishing a manuscript. Miss Rawlins had donated copies of her two dozen or so novelettes to the inn’s library, so Jacob picked up a copy of Jewel of the Empire and took it up to his room. He resolved he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He would study this story as thoroughly as if it were an archeology text and be prepared the next time with the right answers.

  And the next time, she would look at him with awe—not as if he had egg in the corner of his mouth.

  The following Sunday, Vicar Phelps delivered a stirring message on the memorial of twelve stones on the banks of the Jordan. Still, Lydia could barely keep her eyes focused on the minister. You’ve the self-discipline of a gnat! she lectured herself.

  She would not think of showing up at school too groggy to perform her duties competently, yet she had come to church in that condition, as if God didn’t matter as much as her occupation. Yesterday Mrs. Summers had informed her that Thomas Hardy’s Under the Greenwood Tree had just arrived by post at the lending library, and Lydia could be the first to borrow it. She had not intended to stay up all night reading, but one chapter led to another, and then another, until she became aware of the downstairs clock chiming four in the morning.

  She found herself almost nodding off while standing during the closing prayer, which was mercifully brief. All she could think about during the hymn, “Now Thank We All Our God,” was the comfort of her bed and the softness of her pillow.

  Outside the church, she and her parents were approached by her brother, Noah, and his wife, Beatrice. They always sat in the second row with Beatrice’s mother, Mrs. Temple, who was hard of hearing and needed to be close to the pulpit. Noah and Beatrice’s marriage had been childless for eighteen years, and then, like Hannah, Beatrice gave birth to a son they appropriately named Samuel. A daugher, Mary, followed a year later. So in their early forties, the couple had two children not even old enough for grammar school. And they delighted in this new stage of their lives.

  “Mother is asking us all to lunch,” Beatrice said. She was a handsome woman, with jet black hair still showing no signs of gray. “Will you come?”

  Lydia’s parents readily agreed. Sundays were Mrs. Tanner’s day off, so they usually had their noonday meal at the Bow and Fiddle. But Lydia begged off. “I just want to sleep all afternoon,” she told them apologetically. Fortunately she had an understanding family. Her brother, one of the few people in Gresham who towered over her in height, even squeezed her shoulder. “Stayed up all night reading again, did we?”

  “What do you mean…again?” Lydia demanded with an affectionate smile. “I haven’t done that since I was a girl.”

  “Not counting last night?”

  She covered a yawn. “Not counting last night.”

  Bidding them farewell, she started across the green alone. Dark clouds loomed overhead, and the air smelled heavy with rain. She reached Market Lane and was just passing in front of the Larkspur when she noticed the wagon coming from Church Lane and pausing in the crossroads ahead. Mr. Towly sat at the reins, clad in a black suit that looked newly tailored. But even a suit of golden armor wouldn’t have impressed Lydia.

  “Good day to you, Miss Clark!” the man boomed. Apparently not used to courtesies, he forgot to remove his hat this time. He could have removed it a hundred times, and still, Lydia wouldn’t have been impressed.

  “Good day, Mr. Towly,” she mumbled as she continued her walk along the low stone wall of the Larkspur’s garden. The crossroads were getting nearer, as was her opportunity to turn to t
he right and head for home.

  “I was wonderin’ if you wanted to have some lunch at the Bow and Fiddle—as long as you don’t spend more than half-a-crown.”

  Lydia halted in her tracks. The man, horse, and wagon were only ten feet away from her now. “Mr. Towly,” she said wearily, “where are your children?”

  “Why, I sent them on home.”

  “And what do you plan to give them for lunch?”

  He sat a little straighter and replied, “We’ve a cook, Miss Clark. I had to hire one when the missus passed on….” Now at the mention of his wife, he thought to remove his hat. “God rest her soul.”

  And she’s likely enjoying that rest, Lydia thought. Sighing, she looked about her. Families strolled toward cottages, but no one appeared near enough to witness their discourse. Best get it over with now.

  “Mr. Towly,” she said.

  “Yes?” he replied hopefully.

  “Your children need you. They aren’t so quick to get over the loss of their mother as you obviously are. And while I’m flattered by your attention, I’m not interested.”

  His stubbled jaw dropped. “Huh?”

  Sighing again, Lydia said, “I presume you wish to court me, Mr. Towly. But I do not wish to be courted by you.”

  “But you don’t know aught about me. If we had lunch—”

  When cows write poetry, she thought. “I prefer to keep it that way, sir. Please pay me the courtesy of leaving me alone.”

  The man’s face mottled with anger. “Oh, I’ll pay you that courtesy, all right. And I don’t expect I’ll be changin’ my mind, even if you was to beg me!”

  That was the best news Lydia had heard all day. “Thank you, Mr. Towly.”

  Clearly taking offense at the relief in her voice, he continued in an injured tone, “But as I hear it, there ain’t any other men givin’ you the time o’ day. I was willing to overlook your homeliness, but there ain’t many as willin’ to do so.”