The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

  With that, he snapped the reins unnecessarily hard, prodding the ill-groomed horse north up Market Lane. And when the wagon moved away, a tall, broad-shouldered figure stood watching Lydia with a perplexed expression. Mr. Pitney. Tears blurred Lydia’s eyes. No matter how little she cared about Mr. Towly, the words had stung. And much more so, now that she knew they had been witnessed.

  She started again for the crossroads, but Mr. Pitney moved rapidly across the lane and came to her side.

  “Miss Clark?” he began in a hesitant voice, as if he was unused to confronting women who had just been insulted in the center of town. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.” Lydia increased her pace, but the long legs of the man beside her did the same. She sent a nod in his direction while chiding herself for not bothering with carrying a reticule, as did other women, for she was in dire need of a handkerchief. “Really.”

  “You don’t look fine, if you’ll forgive me for saying.”

  “Why not say it? It’s been said before.”

  “No, I meant…” From the corner of her eye Lydia watched him withdraw a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his tweed coat. “Please, take this.”

  She had reached Church Lane and turned westward, and still he accompanied her. Practicality soon overcame Lydia’s pride, and she stopped to take the handkerchief from his hand. He was gentlemanly enough to look elsewhere as she blew her nose into it. Lydia felt grateful for that, and especially thankful that the Worthy sisters had not yet returned from church and did not spin lace on Sundays.

  “Thank you,” she said as she folded the handkerchief.

  He turned to look at her again. She had never really noticed how handsome he was, with his dark brown hair and eyes. Not that it mattered. She was the last person to judge a book by its cover. True, Mr. Towly’s cover had not impressed her, but she could have possibly overlooked it had the book been worth reading.

  “Are you better now?” Mr. Pitney asked.

  “Much better. I’m just mortified about the little scene.”

  “Please don’t be. The man was rude.”

  She didn’t want to think about Mr. Towly anymore. “May I return the handkerchief when I’ve had it cleaned? I don’t think you want it back in your pocket.”

  He smiled, somewhat bashfully. “Of course. But there’s no hurry, mind you. My mother gives me three dozen every Christmas. She’s certain that digging about in damp ruins causes head colds—never mind that I’ve not had one in years.”

  Lydia suspected that he was attempting to cheer her. And it worked, for she found herself returning his smile. “It must be very interesting work.”

  A spark lit his brown eyes. “Actually, I seldom think of it as work. Is teaching like that for you?”

  “From the first day, Mr. Pitney. So we’re both blessed in that regard.” She realized his dinner was waiting, so she offered her hand in farewell. “And it was very kind of you to see about me.”

  “You’ll be all right, then?” he asked as they shook hands.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  They wished each other good-day, and Lydia turned to continue her walk home. Even when she was a schoolgirl, a frank acceptance of reality had kept her from being schoolgirl-ish, with a head full of romantic notions. And at the age of thirty-four, romance seemed as unattainable to her as the moon. But it was quite a while before she could drift into sleep that afternoon, for she could not stop imagining a pair of kind brown eyes.

  Good—she’s here, Jacob Pitney thought, pausing in the doorway leading into the hall that evening. Miss Rawlins, looking like an Egyptian princess in her beige gown and straight, short dark hair, sat in one of the chairs. At half-past ten, the Clays and Mr. Ellis had retired to their chambers for the night, but Mrs. Dearing and the Durwins were usually inclined to visit in the hall until later. Miss Rawlins had no set pattern for appearances—when she tired of sequestering herself in her room, she came downstairs for some companionship.

  But not his companionship, Jacob was sadly aware. That would soon change, however. He had just finished reading Jewel of the Empire not only for content, but he had studied every phrase, every word. And he had routed out every symbol as meticulously as if it were a buried artifact waiting to be discovered.

  “Why, good evening, Mr. Pitney,” Mrs. Dearing greeted from the sofa as he walked into the room. “Did you have trouble sleeping?”

  The motherly concern in her voice put him more at ease, and he smiled back at her.

  “I was just upstairs reading.” He casually folded his limbs into the chair beside Miss Rawlins’ as if it was the most convenient one—when in fact, he had to cross the carpet and pass five other empty ones to reach it.

  “Some archeological text, no doubt?” Mr. Durwin queried.

  “A novelette, actually.”

  “Well, the mind needs recreation as well as the body. Although I was never fond of novels. Nonfiction has always been my cup of tea, such as The Stones of Venice by John Ruskin.” The elderly man inclined his head toward Miss Rawlins. “No offense to you, Miss Rawlins.”

  “None taken,” she replied, smiling. “My father happens to be of the same persuasion.”

  Jacob sat in silence, hoping the conversation would drift back to the subject they had been discussing when he stood in the hall doorway—the properties of the catmint plant and its fascination to felines. He could have kissed Mrs. Durwin when she said, “I just don’t understand. Why will a cat avoid catmint if it’s planted from seed? And how does he know the difference?”

  “That’s a mystery all right,” replied her husband. “But I’ve noticed it myself. Surely you’ve heard the old axiom…If you sow it, the cats won’t know it.”

  “Then why would anyone care to plant it?” Mrs. Dearing asked. “Of what use is it, if not recreation for one’s cat?”

  Mr. Durwin smiled, clearly in his element. “Because the tea is an effective remedy for stomach upsets and children’s colic.”

  To Jacob it seemed a perfect time to draw Miss Rawlins into a discussion. “Jewel of the Empire was the book I just finished,” he told her quietly.

  The author turned her attention from the ensuing conversation and raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

  “I was in complete awe over the symbolism.”

  “Such as…?”

  Shaking his head at the wonder of it, Jacob said, “Where do I even begin? I must confess—I’ve been grossly imperceptive not to notice such things before now.”

  She actually straightened in her chair, and it seemed that a flicker of interest flashed in her smoky gray eyes.

  He went on. “When the butler had to use three matches to light the drawing room lamp, I could tell right then that the courtship of Jewel Stuart and Major Adams was doomed to failure because he hadn’t told her about the three years he spent in indentured servitude in the States as a young man. And the ruby pendant the evil Lady Beatrice refused to remove from her neck—that one was the most difficult to figure, but I understand now that it was a symbol of the hardness of her heart.”

  He thought he should pause and allow her space to comment. It had been worth it, staying up until the wee hours every night last week until the words on the pages ran together in front of his eyes. For her eyes now studied his face intently.

  “Incredible.”

  Jacob lowered his chin modestly. “Thank you.”

  “I’m inclined to believe that imagery is wasted on certain readers who lack imagination.”

  “Ah…I beg your pardon?”

  Drawing in a deep breath, Miss Rawlins said, “The butler needed three matches because the room was damp. Remember, it was the monsoon season? I simply wanted to remind the reader of that dampness, so later, when Lord Helmsly announces he must transfer to a drier climate because of his gout, the reader is not taken completely by surprise. It’s a writer’s technique called foreshadowing. And as for the ruby pendant…Lady Beatrice wore it constantly because she did not trust
the Indian servants. Criminals are very suspicious of others’ motives, you know. That was the only reason.”

  Jacob refused to give up. He had labored too hard at this and had to redeem himself. “The four out-of-tune keys on the piano—”

  “The dampness, remember?” she cut in wearily. “Simply a vehicle to introduce Kalari, the piano tuner who unwittingly saves Jewel’s life later. What did you think the out-of-tune keys meant, Mr. Pitney?”

  What he had thought after several hours of deliberation was that because the keys were the notes g-a-c-e, which rearranged formed the word cage, they were a clear signal that Lady Beatrice would be going to prison—which indeed happened near the end of the story. Aware that the three other lodgers were now blatantly eavesdropping, he mumbled, “Never mind.”

  Jacob felt very much like a child who has been chastened by his mother for tracking mud into the house, for he had sullied up Miss Rawlins’ story with ridiculous assumptions. He needed an escape now and covered a feigned yawn with his hand. “Well, morning arrives early,” he said for lack of anything better and then winced at the inaneness of that statement. Stupid, stupid, stupid! he told himself under his breath.

  “Good night, Mr. Pitney,” the elderly lodgers said as he got to his feet and walked across the carpet. And when Miss Rawlins bade him the same, he knew he had not imagined the relief in her voice.

  Chapter 10

  On Monday the twenty-third of April, twenty-one-year-old Noelle Somerville paced the floor of her Compton Street flat in London, alternately staring out the parlor window and appraising herself in her bedroom full-length mirror. The image peering back at her met with her approval every time, from the mass of strawberry-blond ringlets to the silver gray silk gown that complemented the jade green of her eyes—but still she felt compelled to reassure herself again and again.

  He has to come today. She had taken great pains to dress herself this morning in addition to having to teach the new girl Quetin had hired for her how to tighten the stays of her corset without cutting her in two, and how to apply the curling iron without burning her scalp. How someone so featherbrained could even negotiate the streets of London without ambling into the path of a hansom was beyond her. And she’s likely hiding somewhere now to keep from working.

  As if to prove her wrong, the girl eased the door open and stuck her head tentatively through the opening. Hope quickened Noelle’s pulse. “Yes, Zelda?”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon missus, but me name’s Nelda. Named after me papa’s sister that lives in Stepney on the east—”

  “Fine!” Noelle snapped, then drew in a deep breath to calm herself. “Nelda. What is it you want?”

  “Would missus care for a cuppa?”

  “No,” she replied, irritated that the girl wasn’t announcing Quetin’s arrival. “And what have I told you about knocking?”

  The girl rolled her eyes sheepishly. She was thin as a cat’s elbow, with stringy ginger-colored hair—most of which hung loosely about a topknot. “I do beg pardon, missus. I tries to remember, really I do. But me missus I had afore, Missus Farris, never wanted me to knock, with her havin’ such frightful headaches all the time. So’s I sometimes fergets it’s you I’m seein’ about and not—”

  “That’s enough! Mercy, you do go on and on!” Noelle felt an acute throb in her temple and wondered if the reason this Mrs. Farris had been afflicted with headaches was because of the frowzy girl standing at her door. Ignoring the wounded expression on the maid’s face, she said, “Yes, I’ll have some tea. And remember to send Lord Paxton up here as soon as he arrives.”

  “Yes, missus.”

  Before the door could close all the way, Noelle thought to add, “And do pin up your hair before you tend to my tea.”

  She was in no hurry for refreshment—indeed it was only to provide a distraction that she had even agreed to take some—and she couldn’t stomach the idea of finding another red hair in the leavings of her cup. A half hour later she sat perched in the window seat, weary of haunting the mirror, when a familiar set of footsteps sounded on the stairs. Resisting her initial impulse to fly to the door, Noelle took another sip from her cup and waited for the knock. “Who’s there?” she asked unnecessarily, because the knock was as familiar as his footsteps.

  “As if you have to ask,” a masculine voice exclaimed as the door opened and the Honorable Lord Quetin Paxton, Member of Parliament, entered. Noelle forgot her resolve at once, set her half-filled cup precariously on a tuft of the velvet cushion, and flew to meet him. Their embrace lasted several seconds, and then she pressed kisses upon his cheek until he laughingly pushed her away to hold her at arm’s length.

  “Now let my sore eyes have a look at you,” he ordered. He let go of her shoulder just long enough to toss his silk top hat on the nearby settee. “How do you manage to grow more beautiful with each passing day?”

  “You don’t see me every day, so how would you know that?” she replied with just enough pout to show she wasn’t so easily pacified by his compliments.

  A smile curled under his dark mustache, and he tapped his jutting chin with a forefinger. “You forgot a spot.”

  Obediently Noelle planted a kiss, and then another upon the face she had come to know so well. It wasn’t a handsome face. The azure pupils of his oversized eyes were so transparent that they made him appear almost blind, and a once strong jawline was beginning to soften with his forty-two years. But the power and vitality behind his features more than made up for any lack of aesthetic proportion. And as Quetin had always maintained that a well-cut suit could make even a troll look attractive, he paid his tailor well to perform miracles—such as the frock coat of fine-milled wool he wore over a waistcoat of gold and black brocade.

  “Now, why has it been a whole week?” she asked him.

  “Parliament is as demanding a mistress as you are, my dear.” There was a slight irritation to his voice, though his arms still encircled her. “Surely your friends keep you busy enough so that you aren’t pining away for me.”

  “One can only play so many games of Speculation before it becomes a bore.”

  “But I take it shopping isn’t quite so boring?” An eyebrow arched over a pale eye. “If the bills your dressmaker sends me are any indication.”

  Noelle did not look for any hidden resentment in his statement because he had never begrudged her anything in the three years they had been together. “Do you like this one?” Stepping back from his arms, she flounced a ruffle on the pagoda sleeve. “I thought I would wear it to the theatre.”

  “Yes, it’s fine.” But an odd discomfort crossed his face, and he stepped back to lower himself onto the settee. “We must talk, Noelle.”

  “Now?”

  “I can’t stay.”

  “Quetin! You promised…”

  He patted the seat beside him. “Sit down.”

  The tone of his voice did not invite argument. Reluctantly she settled next to him, raising a hand to trace the lion design on one of the brass buttons of his coat. He took the hand in his and sighed heavily.

  “What’s wrong, Quetin?”

  “It’s Averyl. Now that the girls are all married off, she wants to start spending the seasons here in London. In fact, she’s due to arrive in another three days.”

  The very mention of that name was enough to cause a vein to throb in Noelle’s temple, but since he did not usually care to discuss his wife with her, she restrained from making a scene.

  Their arrangement had been so perfect. She and Quetin were able to be together often during the season when Parliament was in session from March through mid-August, even though for appearance’ sake he had to maintain his own flat on Grosvernor Street as well. And when Parliament wasn’t in session, his home in Reading was only two hours away by railway. Quetin’s position in government gave him more than enough excuses to visit the city during the off-season to see Noelle. Why can’t she stay in Reading and crochet or something?

  “Can’t you talk her out
of it?”

  He shook his head. “She won’t listen to reason. She’s even considering looking for a townhouse.”

  Noelle pressed her lips together. Her most fervent wish was that Lady Paxton would die. It was obvious that the former widow had married Quetin only for his title, and she held her vast fortune over him like a carrot dangled before a donkey. What right did she have now to demand his company, when she had spent the fifteen years of their loveless marriage doting over her four spoiled daughters, excluding him so that he was forced to seek companionship elsewhere.

  At least the odious woman had never had children by Quetin. That would greatly hamper the divorce he promised Noelle as soon as his private investments brought in enough to keep her in the lifestyle to which she had become accustomed. She had assured him many times that the money didn’t matter, just because she knew he liked to hear it. But they were both very aware that it did.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked as the tears in her eyes blurred his image.

  “There, there now.” He kissed her hand. “I’ve already taken care of that, my sweet. We must move you out of the city for a while.”

  “Leave London? But—”

  “Just until August or so. Or until Averyl discovers that she has no liking for the social life here. And we certainly can’t afford to be seen together while she’s here. People will turn blind eyes to certain things when the wife is away, but if she discovers evidence to divorce me on grounds of adultery, I’ll lose everything.”

  Noelle knew next to nothing of the law, even after spending three years as a lawmaker’s courtesan, but that sounded likely. Especially considering that Quetin was bankrupt at the time he married his much-older wife.

  “When? And where?”

  “You’ll be out in the country where no one knows either of us. It’s a charming little village, Mr. Radley tells me.”

  “Who?”

  He sighed. “My solicitor, Noelle. You’ve met him several times. You know, it’s an irritating habit you have, forgetting names.”