“Ah…it’s Ellis.”
“Do forgive me.” She gave a sheepish little shrug. “I’m afraid I’ve never been good with names.”
“Oh, but you must use my wife’s little technique,” he said as they walked toward the staircase side by side. “Whenever she meets someone new, she repeats the name under her breath seven times. It’s very effective.”
“Indeed? Why seven?”
“She read somewhere that it takes seven repetitions of any action to form a habit. And she has always been quite adventurous about trying new ideas.”
It was a relief to Noelle that he would mention his wife at length, for men entertaining the illusions of a romance never mentioned their wives unless in the negative sense. “Is your wife downstairs?” she asked.
“Alas, but she resides in Bristol, where our home is. I’m on assignment for the Archeological Association, you see. But I try my best to go home one weekend every month. I do miss her terribly in between times.”
The sentiment in the old man’s voice was touching, yet it sent a stab of pain through Noelle’s heart. Would Quetin miss her as much? A year, or even six months ago she wouldn’t have had to ask herself that question. She lapsed into a melancholy silence as they walked downstairs. At the dining room door he courteously stood aside to allow her to enter. A long table stretched out before her, covered with a white cloth and set with Blue Willow china. Most of the chairs on either side were filled with people engaged in chatter. Noelle recognized, besides Mr. Jensen at the head of the table, the three people she had met in the hall—though she couldn’t recall their names. And she was surprised to discover two people closer to her own age, sitting on opposite sides of the table and four chairs apart. One was a giant of a man with dark hair, and the other a curiously short-haired woman wearing eyeglasses over an angular face.
“Good evening, everyone,” Mr. Ellis said from Noelle’s elbow. “Have you met Mrs. Somerville?” This brought conversation to a pause. Faces turned her way, and the men pushed out their chairs to stand.
“Not all of us,” Mr. Jensen responded, stepping aside from his chair. He introduced her to Mr. Pitney, the giant, and Miss Rawlins, the bespectacled woman. After Noelle had returned their greetings, the manager led her to an empty chair between the woman who had played the piano and the man who had advised her to stuff periwinkle leaves up her nose should it bleed. The dark-haired giant was directly across from her. Remarkably, besides sending her a bashful smile as she took her chair, he did not attempt to flirt with her.
“Did you find your room agreeable, Mrs. Somerville?” the woman with the braid asked from beside her.
“Quite so,” Noelle replied. It was a lie though, not because the room was lacking in comfort, but because it wasn’t home.
“Tomorrow you must acquaint yourself with Gresham. It’s a charming little village.”
“Is there a place from which I could send a wire? I would like to inform my parents that I’ve settled safely.”
“Trumbles general merchandise shop,” Mr. Jensen offered from the head of the table. “If you care to write your message, I shall be happy to have it delivered over there first thing in the morning.”
“That’s very kind of you, but I’m looking forward to exploring,” she lied again. She certainly didn’t want to have anyone read what she would have to say to Quetin.
“Have you lived in London long, Mrs. Somerville?” the periwinklegathering woman asked from Noelle’s left, leaning forward a little to see past her husband.
“All my life,” Noelle replied cordially, while wondering exactly when these people intended to eat. In spite of the sandwich she had consumed three hours ago, the aromas wafting from the sideboard were becoming irresistible. She glanced to her left and noticed that two places farther down on the opposite side were still empty.
“Do forgive me for asking, dear, but you’re so young…” said the woman with the braid, studying her with sympathetic eyes. “How did your husband pass away?”
All attention was focused somberly upon her, even from the two maids flanking the sideboard. Noelle decided that if she was unable to eat, she could at least attempt to chase away the melancholy by amusing herself. With a brave little smile she replied, “John—Major John Somerville—was assigned to the Royal Guard.” She had told the Shipleys on the train that he was a captain but decided the story could use some embellishing. “Almost two years ago a man armed with a pistol somehow managed to slip into Buckingham Palace. John discovered him in the corridor just outside the Queen’s bedchamber.”
“My goodness!” The short-haired woman, who had not spoken except to greet her, raised a hand to her collar. “He shot your husband?”
“Yes, as they struggled for the pistol. John was attempting to disarm him without using his own pistol, you see, for fear of stray shots causing harm to Her Majesty or any of her children.”
“What happened to the murderer?” Mrs. Periwinkle asked from her husband’s other side.
Noelle allowed herself pause, noting with satisfaction that no one seemed to breathe while waiting for her answer. “Even though wounded, John did manage to wrestle the gun away and shoot the man through the heart. But my husband passed on an hour later.” She looked wistfully just over the giant’s shoulder, as if her imagination was taking her back to the scene. “Only minutes after I was brought to his side. It was as if he was hanging on to life until he could say good-bye.”
A couple of dinner napkins were raised to eyes, so Noelle decided it would be a nice touch to raise her own. “We had only been married three months when it happened.”
She was sent pained and sympathetic looks from all directions as a hush settled over the room. From one of the maids Noelle heard a sniff. And then a voice with the faint trace of a Cornish accent came from the doorway, “Please forgive us for keeping you.”
Noelle looked to her right. An aristocratically handsome man had just entered the room with a beautiful dark-haired woman upon his arm. As they walked toward the two empty places, he explained, “We were reading and didn’t think to mind the time, I’m afraid.”
The men at the table rose until the woman was seated. “We didn’t mind waiting, Mr. Clay,” Mr. Jensen assured him in a somber tone, then gestured toward Noelle. “Have you met Mrs. Somerville?”
“Why, no, we haven’t,” the man answered, sending a warm smile across the table while the woman with him did the same.
Noelle searched her mind for when she would have seen the man before, for he looked incredibly familiar. Did he call him Mr. Clay?
“Ambrose Clay, Mrs. Somerville,” the man said. “And this is Fiona, my wife.”
“Welcome to the Larkspur, Mrs. Somerville,” his wife said in a soft Irish lilt.
“Ambrose Clay?” Noelle was stunned silent until she became aware that her mouth was gaping in an unladylike fashion. Quetin was as fond of the theatre as he was the opera, and she could very well recall seeing Mr. Clay onstage. “You’re the actor?”
“Guilty,” he replied, still smiling.
“Why, I saw you in The Barrister.”
“Yes? How delightful. I’d like to hear your impression of it.” He sent a guilty glance around the room. “But as I tend to wax verbose when discussing theatre, perhaps we shouldn’t allow the food to get cold.”
Why is he here? Noelle wondered.
Meanwhile, the male lodgers who had stood for Mrs. Clay began assisting the women from their chairs. Mr. Periwinkle pulled out Noelle’s chair after helping his wife to her feet. But still no one made a move toward the sideboard. “Mr. Durwin, would you lead us in prayer this evening?” Mr. Jensen asked.
Noelle bowed her head and squeezed her eyes shut. Of course her family had prayed before meals when she lived at home, but it had been so long ago that she had almost forgotten that people did this.
“Our Heavenly Father,” the man next to her began, just as Noelle was beginning to wonder if he had heard Mr. Jensen’s request.
> “We thank Thee for this food and ask that you bless the hands that prepared it. May it nourish our bodies, providing strength to do Thy will. Forgive us where we’ve failed Thee, and we give thanks that Mrs. Somerville’s journey was a safe one. In the name of Jesus Christ our Savior, amen.”
“Amen,” was echoed softly by the others at the table, and then the men allowed the women to queue up first at the sideboard. As the newest lodger, Noelle was urged to take the lead. Her protests were to no avail.
“Now, enjoy being pampered while you can, dear,” the soft-eyed woman said with a pat to her shoulder.
Durwin, Noelle thought, recalling that Mr. Jensen had addressed her husband by such when asking him to pray. Not that it mattered.
“We fairly trample over each other most other times.”
“As if you would trample anyone, Mrs. Durwin.”
This was said by the Irish woman, Mr. Clay’s wife. Noelle found herself a little envious of the camaraderie of these people. There was no evidence of the one-upmanship that permeated her own friendships. Even the two maids were asked about their families as they helped to serve plates. After taking servings of medallions of beef with wild mushrooms and vegetables, Noelle went back to her chair, which Mr. Ellis stepped away from the queue to pull out for her.
When the meal was finished, topped off with an almond-andcaramel tart, Noelle was invited by one and then another to join them in the hall. As weary as she was, she decided that it wouldn’t hurt to show a little cordiality. And besides, it would take her mind off Quetin for a while.
“Here, come sit with us,” the braided woman invited, taking her arm and leading her to a place on a sofa between her and the bespectacled woman. On the facing sofa sat the periwinkle-gatherers and Mrs. Clay, while the men settled into the chairs close by. The giant had quietly slipped away.
“Mrs. Somerville was telling us about her late husband’s untimely demise two years ago,” the braided woman said quietly to the Clays. “Before you came to supper.” She turned to Noelle. “Still, it must comfort you that he gave his life so courageously.”
“Oh, it does,” Noelle assured her, eyes wide with sincerity.
“He saved the queen’s life.” Mrs. Periwinkle’s eyes were as wide as Noelle’s as she related the whole story to the Clays.
“How terribly tragic that he had to lose his own,” Mrs. Clay said in the soft brogue while her husband nodded somberly from the chair beside the sofa.
Noelle noticed how they managed to hold hands upon the upholstered arm between them. A twinge of envy pricked at her. Though Quetin had been good to her, he never displayed affection in public like that, even with a simple gesture such as holding hands. Noelle found herself resenting the delicate beauty of the woman across from her. No doubt she’s been pampered and doted upon her whole life.
“Did he receive a medal, Mrs. Somerville?” Mr. Jensen was asking. “Posthumously, I mean?”
Noelle nodded, ignoring an annoying little warning voice that told her she was taking her story too far. “A beautiful gold one in the shape of a star. I sleep with it under my pillow.”
“May we see it, do you think?” Miss Rawlins asked from Noelle’s left, with admiration in her voice. “Forgive me for saying so, but Major Somerville is the embodiment of the courage and dashing that I attempt to portray in my heroes. I compose novelettes, you see, and would love to base one on the events of your husband’s life.”
“I’m flattered, but I’m afraid I left the medal in my father’s safe in London. I feared I would lose it somehow while traveling.”
“I wonder why the incident never made the newspapers,” Mr. Clay commented. His expression gave no sign of his having misgivings about her story. “Surely this would have been front-page news all over England.”
“Why, in every newspaper in the world!” Mr. Durwin corrected.
That reptile Mr. Radley couldn’t leave well enough alone, Noelle fumed. He had to go and present her as a widow, and now she was forced to invent a past that was beginning to sound overbaked even to her own ears, never mind that Miss Rawlins was staring at her with awe.
What does it matter? You’ll be leaving as soon as Quetin finds another place. “It was kept quiet by request of the Queen,” she replied finally. “Her majesty didn’t want it made known that security could be breached so easily.”
“Well, I would hope precautions were taken so that it doesn’t happen again,” Mr. Ellis declared.
Noelle nodded. “The guard was doubled that very same day, in fact.”
Mr. Durwin made a tsking sound. “The man must have been out of his mind.”
“Or a political zealot,” Mr. Jensen offered.
“He was a member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood,” Noelle said. She had heard Quetin mention the terrorists once or twice and could not resist the covert little stab at Mrs. Clay, sitting there so doted upon by the man who any woman in London would give anything to have holding her hand. But she was also careful to send the woman a meaningful look that said, But, of course, I don’t judge you by your nationality.
For all the discomfort in the Irish woman’s expression, Noelle could have declared that the would-be assassin was a leprechaun. In fact, Mrs. Clay gave Noelle a grateful little smile, as if she appreciated her feigned reluctance to spare her feelings. Was she really so naive? Didn’t she realize that by being so beautiful and beloved she would immediately incur the dislike of any other beautiful woman in her vicinity?
“Every cause seems to attract its extremists,” the braided woman was commenting from Noelle’s left. “Why, just look at Mary, Queen of Scots.”
Talk ventured in that direction, and Noelle found herself at a loss. If the queen of Scotland was burning people at the stake, shouldn’t she be stopped somehow? The world outside London was just too complicated. Her earlier fatigue returned, and she excused herself to retire for the evening.
“Will you remember the way to your room, dear?” Mrs. Durwin asked after the others bade her good-night. “I’ll be happy to accompany you upstairs.”
Noelle’s irritation at the implication that she was simple-minded evaporated as she realized the elderly woman was genuinely concerned about her. These were peculiar people who seemed to have no hidden agendas behind their words. “No, thank you,” Noelle replied, even giving her a smile. She went upstairs to find the bed sheets turned down for her and a low lamp burning on her night stand.
Perhaps I should wait before sending that wire, she told herself after changing into a nightgown and slipping into bed. She wouldn’t want Quetin to think she was a spoiled child who couldn’t at least give the place a chance.
“Well, what did you think of Mrs. Somerville?” Ambrose asked Fiona as he stood behind her at the dressing table and brushed her hair. Fiona wasn’t sure when it had become a nightly ritual, but she liked it very much.
“I thought she was pleasant,” she replied.
“I suppose.”
“Suppose?” He had been in a good mood for the past week, so she hoped this wasn’t a sign that the despondency was returning. “You’ve some doubts about her?”
He pulled the brush gently through her hair again. “The remark about the Irish Republicans. Surely she could tell that you are Irish.”
“But if it’s the truth, why shouldn’t she say it?”
“I hope I’m mistaken, but it seemed to me she rather enjoyed giving out that tidbit of information.”
“Ambrose.” Fiona directed a reproving look at him through the mirror. “She was describing the person who murdered her husband, and only because we asked. No woman would enjoy speaking of such matters.”
“All I’m saying is that I thought I caught something in her expression that made me think she wanted to hurt you.”
“She doesn’t even know me.”
“She knows you’re more beautiful than she is.”
“But I’m not—”
“Oh yes, you are,” he said in a tone that made it clear a
ny further debate would be useless. The brush flowed through her hair again. “That’s enough to make her dislike you.”
“That would be so shallow,” Fiona protested. “Even if that were the case.”
“You’ve never met any shallow people in your twenty-eight years?” Before she could answer, her husband put the brush upon the table and added, “I’ll grant I very well may be wrong. But you, my ravenhaired beauty, are too noble for your own good. You assume everyone is as decent as you are, so you’re blinded by their faults.”
“You exaggerate, you know.” Fiona rose from the bench, turned, and put her arms around his shoulders. Raising an eyebrow, she said, “And I do seem to recall certain scriptures warning against judging others.”
“Touché, dearest,” Ambrose grinned as his arms went about her waist. “But I also recall one about being as wise as serpents and harmless as doves.”
“Then I won’t lend her any money until I know her better.”
“It’s not your money I’m worried about.” He brushed a kiss upon the tip of her nose. “It’s your heart.”
Kissing his clefted chin, Fiona smiled. “I’ll not be lending my heart to anybody, Ambrose Clay. It belongs entirely to you.”
Chapter 15
“I don’t like my eggs runny,” Harold Sanders complained Thursday morning to Mrs. Winters, the cook they had hired when his sister, Mercy, married and moved down the lane. Though she didn’t take meals with Harold or his father and five brothers, Mrs. Winters had no qualms about using the foot of the table for a work space, even while the family was seated to eat. Especially while they were eating lately, for she was determined to torment Papa until he built the little worktable she insisted she needed.
“You’ll eat ’em or do without,” Mrs. Winters replied gruffly, her broad shoulders bent over the lump of dough she was kneading. With her every motion the table rocked, and the undercooked yokes of his four eggs quivered upon Harold’s plate.
The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark Page 15
