The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

  Anyway, she rather liked to be noticed. She certainly was a step above the other women in fashion, excluding Mrs. Clay, whom she grudgingly conceded had looked stunning this morning in a gown of green brocaded silk with a collar and cuffs of Maltese lace. Many of the women still wore the sausage curls of the sixties peeking from the sides of their outdated bonnets and wide skirts without a hint of a bustle. Didn’t they have access to fashion magazines? Surely Godey’s Lady’s Book was available by post.

  The reverent atmosphere in which she was seated was beginning to have some influence over her, for she found herself feeling a little ashamed for being uncharitable. This was a dairying village, and it was likely that most of these woman spent a good portion of their time milking cows. Who would have time to keep up with fashion, in that case? She rather liked the strange inner glow that those magnanimous thoughts produced, so she took them one step further. And not everyone has as generous a benefactor as Quetin.

  Her feelings of good will—the first she had experienced since coming to this dreadful town—grew even stronger during the song service. For a congregation made up of mostly country people, their voices harmonized nicely, and the organ and violin accompaniment was surprisingly polished.

  The choir sang next, also accompanied by both instruments.

  Near the cross, a trembling soul

  Love and mercy found me;

  There the Bright and Morning Star

  Shed his beams around me…

  Noelle found herself so moved by the words, by the pure adoration evident on the face of each singer, that tears stung the corners of her eyes. If only it were that simple! She had never stopped believing in God, but when guilt over her relationship with Quetin threatened to consume her in the early days, she had had to push Him out of her mind or lose her sanity. It became easier and easier to do so as time passed, especially with Quetin assuring her that guilt was a tool that the church hierarchy had used to control the populace since medieval times. And because he was so well educated and able to reason away her misgivings, it was easy to trust him.

  It was only during the space between wakefulness and sleep each night that she sometimes wondered if she had hardened her conscience irreparably. Even if she were to end her relationship with Quetin—which even the thought of filled her with panic—would she ever have the same longing for God that she had as an eleven-year-old girl?

  The vicar stepped up to the pulpit when the music was finished. Noelle shifted in her seat and wondered again why she had talked herself into coming. What was his name…Philips? After prayer he began telling a story that was all too familiar to Noelle—of how King David had committed adultery with Bathsheba, then caused her husband’s murder when his attempt to cover their sin failed.

  Noelle’s heart began to pound in her chest so violently that she feared Mrs. Durwin and Miss Rawlins could hear it. But Quetin and I haven’t hurt anyone, she rationalized. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Miss Rawlins studying her curiously, which made her realize she was tapping her foot. She stopped and shifted in her seat again. She certainly had never taken anything away from Quetin’s wife, for his duties would have taken him to London whether she spent time with him or not. And while Bathsheba’s husband had apparently been the decent sort, Averyl Paxton was a nagging shrew. If she were any kind of a wife, her husband wouldn’t feel the need to stray.

  She had just convinced herself that David and Bathsheba’s situation had nothing to do with her when the vicar looked out across his congregation and, it seemed, directly at her. “Never assume that because God is patient, He has turned a blind eye to your sin. The consequences of David and Bathsheba’s moment of pleasure plunged his family and, eventually, an entire nation into generations of conflict. Is the pleasure you derive from your hidden sin worth the price you will have to pay for it one day?”

  Heat rose to Noelle’s cheeks. She was certain that the eyes of every person behind her were trained upon her at that very moment. How did he know? Mr. Radley wrote and told him. That was why he was so smug at the station! She wished he were sitting beside her right now—she would gladly slap a whelp upon his leering face. Why, she would deliver it to him in London, for Averyl or no Averyl, she was determined to leave this village as soon as she could procure a ride to Shrewsbury. She reckoned she had just enough money for a ticket—if not, she would ask Mr. Jensen to refund the rest of her lodgings.

  And then you’ll make Quetin furious, she told herself, trying to calm down. Where could she go if he decided she wasn’t worth the trouble anymore?

  Her thoughts were in such a tumult that she could no longer concentrate upon what the vicar was saying. But between catching occasional familiar words like propitiation and atonement, she took three deep breaths and forced herself to sort out the situation. Mr. Radley, reptile that he was, surely wouldn’t do anything to cause her to leave Gresham after he had gone to the trouble of manufacturing a background for her that would evoke sympathy so she could stay. And as Quetin’s solicitor, he had not the liberty to act upon his own dislikes.

  She breathed easier now. She of all people knew that ministers were still human. There was no way Vicar Phelps could have known her situation. If he had happened to look her way while stressing a point, well, she noticed that he looked out to the congregation through his whole sermon. And he certainly couldn’t help making eye contact—what was he to do, stare at the back wall?

  Her self-reassurances were realized at the end of the service when he again clasped her hand warmly at the door. “Mrs. Phelps will want to meet you. Would you mind waiting a minute? It takes her a little time to make her way from the front.”

  That’s it—Phelps. “I’m afraid I’m in rather a hurry to get back to the Larkspur,” Noelle replied, bestowing upon him a chaste smile. It was enough that she had agreed to attend church in an attempt to fit into village life. She certainly had no desire to stand in front of the church and make small talk with the vicar’s wife. “I have this beastly headache, you see.”

  Something’s rotten in Denmark popped into Andrew’s head as Mrs. Hayes regarded him with tight-lipped disapproval, while offering her hand as stingily as if it held gold in the palm. And Mr. Hayes, standing beside her with a pained expression on his ruddy face, looked as if he wished the smithy shop opened on Sundays.

  The couple sat in a back pew and usually were among the first to exit, but they had apparently stayed on purpose until no more parishioners waited to shake his hand at the door.

  “I pray you have a pleasant afternoon,” Andrew told them both in spite of his apprehension.

  Mr. Hayes held out a work-worn hand. “And you as well, Vi—”

  “We wish to speak with you, Vicar,” Mrs. Hayes’ high-pitched voice cut in.

  Andrew’s smile did not fade. He reckoned he could smile while being horsewhipped after over two decades in the ministry. “Very well. Why don’t I stop by tomor—”

  But she was shaking her severely combed head. “This can’t wait. I spent the whole sermon looking through the hymnal for that choir song, and it wasn’t in there.”

  “You mean ‘Near the Cross.’ ” Relieved that this issue was a relatively minor one, Andrew nodded understanding. “That’s because I happened upon it in a recent issue of Christian Observer. It was written by an American woman, a Fanny Crosby. Very moving, wasn’t it?”

  “And what’s wrong with the old hymns, pray tell?” the woman demanded. “Vicar Wilson never brought newfangled songs into the church. He understood the importance of tradition!”

  The two turned to leave then, Mr. Hayes sending an apologetic look back over his shoulder. Struck speechless, Andrew could only stare after them until he felt a touch upon his left sleeve and turned to rest his eyes upon more pleasant scenery.

  “I’m sorry I was held up,” Julia said. “Mrs. Rhodes has asked us to supper tomorrow—she had to leave out the side door to assist with a calving.” She looked past him, out into the yard where several of the con
gregation were still milling about. “I hope Mrs. Somerville doesn’t think me terribly rude. Will you show her to me?”

  “She asked me to give you her apologies. She was suffering a headache.” Rubbing a spot that had begun to throb over his right eyebrow, Andrew added, “I never realized they were contagious.”

  “Oh dear,” Julia said sympathetically. “But surely you don’t think you caught a headache from Mrs. Somerville.”

  He gave her a wry smile. “No…not from Mrs. Somerville.”

  Chapter 18

  Later that afternoon, Jacob took a leisurely stroll up Walnut Lane. He was relieved to see that the Worthy sisters weren’t in their usual spot in the sunlight—they didn’t spin on Sundays, he supposed. Had he seen them, he would have altered his route accordingly.

  Behind a white picket fence sat the two-story Clark cottage, built of the same sandstone and slate as the Larkspur. A sixtyish woman answered the door, short and rounded, with gray hair and serene brown eyes.

  “Mrs. Clark?”

  “Yes,” she replied with a smile. “And who might you be, young man?”

  He swept the hat from his head. “Jacob Pitney, Mrs. Clark.”

  “Ah…you’re one of those archeology men.” A contemplative frown furrowed her brow. “Am I saying that correctly?”

  “Actually, it’s archeologist. But either title is fine with me.”

  “Yes? Well, I do like people who are easy to please. What might we do for you, Mr. Pitney?”

  Suddenly the nature of his call seemed ludicrous. But it was too late to excuse himself without appearing more foolish, and he couldn’t think of any other reason to give for knocking on the door of virtual strangers. “I was wondering…ah, may I speak with Miss Clark?”

  “Why, certainly.” Thankfully, she didn’t look at him as if he was odd but ushered him on in through the doorway into a parlor of overstuffed chairs set about a multicolored oval rug. Landscapes and still life portraits hung from every wall, and near an open window a bearded man stood in front of an easel holding a palate of paints. Over his shirt and trousers he wore an apron spattered with every color imaginable. There was even a tiny streak of blue in his long gray beard.

  “This is Mr. Pitney, Papa,” Mrs. Clark said to the man, though it was obvious from their ages that he was her husband and not her father. “One of the…ar-che-o-lo-gists.”

  She looked at Jacob for approval after sounding out the last word, and he smiled and nodded.

  “Lydia is upstairs. I’ll fetch her.” She was gone before Jacob could apologize for troubling her.

  “Archeologist, eh?” Mr. Clark angled a curious look at him. “Lodging at the Larkspur?”

  “Yes, sir.” A nutmeg-colored cat came from seemingly nowhere and began rubbing its fur against Jacob’s trousers’ leg. He reached down to stroke its back, but the animal apparently thought little of this familiarity and went in the direction Mrs. Clark had gone.

  “Nice house, the Larkspur,” Mr. Clark was saying. He held up a paintstained hand holding a brush. “I’d offer to shake hands, but…”

  “That’s all right, sir.” Jacob had never been adept at small talk, so the only thing he could think of to say next was, “I didn’t know that you painted.”

  “Well, being as how we just met, anything I do would be a surprise to you, now wouldn’t it?”

  Feeling the warmth rising to his cheeks, Jacob stammered, “Uh…y-yes, sir.”

  Mr. Clark gave him a mirthful wink. “Just funning with you, young man. Would you care to have a look?”

  “I would, thank you,” Jacob replied and relaxed a little. The man stepped back from the easel as he approached. On the canvas was portrayed a wattle-and-daub cottage with a thatched roof and cheery garden. One of the several trees surrounding the cottage had yet to be filled in with leaves, and in front was a small expanse of blank canvas.

  “I’ll be putting my grandmother there, washing clothes in a kettle,” Mr. Clark said, nodding toward the white space. “People are the most difficult, so I save them for last.”

  “They are?”

  “Why, yes. You can paint the eaves of a cottage an inch longer than it should be, and no one will be the wiser. But a chin or nose, well…”

  Jacob could see his point. “Is that your grandmother’s home?”

  “Aye, but I’m forced to go from memory. It was torn down some thirty years ago. The greengrocery now sits on the plot. Cyril Sway is my cousin, you see.”

  “It’s remarkably good,” Jacob told him.

  “Thank you.” The elderly man stepped forward and began dabbing green leaves upon the unfinished tree. “Talent’s a gift, though, so I can’t rightly take all the credit.”

  “But you use your gift. Some people don’t, I expect.”

  “Now you sound like the vicar.” The man grinned, though he didn’t take his eyes off the canvas. “But that’s true. I had scarce time to devote to it over the years until my son took over the foundry. Feeding the family had to come first, you know.”

  “Of course.”

  “Have to confess I don’t know anything about archeology. What sort of things are you finding up there?”

  While watching the foliage of the tree take shape, Jacob told him about some of the artifacts he and Mr. Ellis had uncovered. Presently he heard footsteps and female voices on a staircase he could see just outside the parlor door. The two women entered the room and smiled at him.

  “Mr. Pitney,” Miss Clark said, stepping forward with hand outstretched. “How nice to see you again.”

  “Thank you,” Jacob replied as they shook hands. Now that Miss Clark stood close, he realized her right cheek was scarred with a pattern, as from the texture of a bedspread. “I’ve awakened you from a nap?” he asked and then felt his face flame again, for a gentleman wasn’t supposed to point out physical flaws to a lady, even temporary ones, and he was almost certain that napping was also an inappropriate subject.

  But she smiled and touched her cheek. “Does it show? I was just resting my eyes, so you didn’t wake me.”

  Her mother spoke up. “Mrs. Tanner—she’s our cook—made some wonderful cinnamon scones this morning, Mr. Pitney. Would you care for some, with tea?”

  “No, thank you,” Jacob told her. Such warm hospitality to a stranger who had knocked upon their door uninvited was unexpected and gratifying. He was reminded of his own family in Dover.

  “Then why don’t you two visit in the back parlor?”

  “Uh…fine,” he replied to Miss Clark’s questioning look. He followed her through the house to a smaller room that was more a library than a second parlor, for the shelves against three walls were practically groaning with books. I’ve come to the right place, Jacob thought. He waited until she had seated herself on an overstuffed green sofa before taking a seat in a nearby chair.

  “You must be wondering why I’m here,” he told her.

  She was seated with the prim posture that Jacob imagined was required of every English schoolmistress—carriage erect and hands folded in her lap. Yet a mischievous little smile curved her lips.

  “You aren’t here to console me again over Mr. Towly’s removed affections, are you?”

  Jacob returned her smile, the shared humor calming his nerves somewhat.

  “Not that, I promise. You’re acquainted with Mrs. Dearing, aren’t you?”

  “From the Larkspur.” Miss Clark nodded. “We’ve enjoyed several book discussions at the library.”

  “She suggested that you might…” Jacob became aware that he was drumming his fingers on a chair arm as the nervousness returned full force. This was just a potential business transaction, as Mrs. Dearing had explained it. So why couldn’t he simply say what was on his mind?

  “Might what, Mr. Pitney?”

  Just say it. He cleared his throat. “I wonder if you would help me to understand some books—for pay, of course. I do realize that your school duties take up most of your time, so if you have to decline I’ll tak
e no offense.”

  “I make time to read no matter how busy I am, Mr. Pitney. But I’m afraid I would be lost in an archeology text.”

  “Oh, not that. These are stories or novelettes, as they’re called. Have you heard of Miss Rawlins? She writes under the name Robert St. Claire.”

  “I’ve seen her at church. She also lives at the Larkspur, yes?”

  “Yes.” He noticed that he was drumming his fingers again and moved his hands to his knees. “It’s her books I would like to have explained to me.”

  “I see,” she said with a nod.

  Mercifully she spared him further embarrassment by refraining to ask his reason. He had a feeling she had already figured it out anyway.

  A slight wariness crept into her expression. “Forgive me for saying this, Mr. Pitney, but I would want no part of any deception.”

  “Deception?”

  “Again, forgive me, but you’re not asking me to tell you the plots so you can pretend you’ve read the books, are you?”

  “Oh no,” he hastened to reassure her. “I would read them first, then pass them on to you. I’ve already finished two, so I could deliver those to you first, if you were agreeable.”

  “And what is it that you didn’t understand about those two?”

  Jacob raised a hand and let it fall back to his knee. “Everything, apparently. The symbolism in particular. I’m quite dense when it comes to all of that.”

  She smiled. “I never realized density was a prerequisite for becoming an archeologist.”

  It took him a second to realize that she had given him a compliment. Returning her smile with a grateful one of his own, he said, “I suppose a female author would be better understood by women.”