The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

  “In which case I qualify. Would you want to meet weekly to discuss the stories?”

  Jacob raised his eyebrows hopefully. “You’ll do it?”

  “It sounds intriguing.”

  “Thank you.” Remembering that he had yet to discuss compensation, he asked, “Would one pound per book be satisfactory?”

  “Didn’t you say these were novelettes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Half-a-crown would be more than enough. As I said, I make time to read anyway.”

  Jacob asked if she was sure, and she replied that she was quite sure. He was about to thank her and stop imposing upon her time, when one more thought occurred to him. “Uh…about our meetings…?”

  “Yes, Mr. Pitney?”

  “Is it possible we could hold them in the evenings?” Now he became aware that he was drumming his fingers upon his knees. He considered sitting upon his hands but discarded that notion right away. Focusing his eyes somewhere in the vicinity of her chin, he said, “Sundays are my days off, but people are sure to notice if I come here every week in broad daylight. I don’t intend to deceive Miss Rawlins, but I’d rather her not find out that I’m being tutored. Her opinion of me is low enough as it is.”

  “I see.”

  Miss Clark was thoughtfully quiet for a second. Jacob looked at a potted geranium in one window, the bookshelves, anywhere but her intelligent green eyes.

  “Then how about Monday evenings after supper, Mr. Pitney? Excluding tomorrow, of course.”

  “After supper? Wouldn’t that be too late for you?”

  “Not at this house,” she assured him, smiling. “We tend to stay up later than what most people would deem sensible.”

  He returned her smile and let out a relieved breath. “That would be fine, thank you.”

  “What did the young man want?” Lydia’s mother asked as soon as the door closed behind Mr. Pitney.

  The hope in her expression saddened Lydia, for she knew what was going on in her mind. For it was the same thought that had occurred earlier in her own mind—that Mr. Pitney was calling upon her simply because he had enjoyed their exchange of conversation at the end of the carriage drive on Friday past. It was a silly notion, she realized now, because she had never before had a gentleman caller. And as it turned out, he was only seeking help in impressing the writer, Miss Rawlins. Lydia couldn’t help but wonder why he thought it necessary to go to all that trouble. Surely his thoughtfulness and obvious decency were enough to impress any woman.

  “He has hired me to read some books for him,” Lydia replied.

  “Surely he can read, if he’s an archeologist,” her father said, his eyes fixed upon the canvas as his brush moved with confident strokes.

  “Not read to him, Papa.” She decided she would have to tell the whole story if Mr. Pitney would be showing up here every Monday. Of all people, she knew she could rely upon her parents’ discretion. And she certainly didn’t want them to get their hopes up by assuming that this business arrangement was anything resembling a courtship. For the only men who seemed to have an interest in her were a widower looking for a sizable dowry and a brawler with a prankster in his family.

  “Mrs. Herrick tells me you haven’t asked her to prepare baskets for tomorrow,” Mrs. Dearing said to Noelle and Miss Rawlins at supper Tuesday night, the eve of May Day. “Surely you’ll want to take part in the auction.”

  Noelle exchanged amused glances with the writer before replying, “It would be too embarrassing, I think. What if no one bid on mine?”

  “That’s very unlikely,” Mr. Ellis spoke up while cutting his roast beef with a fork and knife. “I daresay there are several young swains who are counting on sharing lunch with either of you.”

  He was probably correct, Noelle thought, at least concerning herself. But there was no man in this village whose company she desired, even just to share a lunch. Her heart was still heavy for Quetin, who had yet to send a letter or wire, though she had been here a whole week. “I believe I’d rather watch the goings-on,” Noelle demurred.

  On second thought, she didn’t think she would mind a friendly chat with Mr. Clay, but of course that was impossible with his Irish wife always clinging to his side like a barnacle. She glanced over at the couple now. It was odd, how the actor was less than his usual self tonight. Shadows lurked beneath his slate gray eyes, as if he were feeling out of sorts. Perhaps he was dying, she thought, but discounted that notion, for how would that explain the energy and gregariousness he had displayed up until now?

  Miss Rawlins’ voice cut into her thoughts. “There aren’t any swains in Gresham with whom I would care to keep company,” she was saying to Mr. Durwin with a trace of disdain in her voice.

  For all her talent, Noelle thought the woman foolish for not giving Mr. Pitney at least a little encouragement, for he was clearly infatuated with her. She was certainly not attractive, with those sharp cheekbones and spectacles and awful mop of short hair. Noelle would have imagined the writer to be grateful to have any man interested in her.

  While reaching for the salt cellar, Noelle glanced at Mr. Pitney and felt a little sorry for the hurt evident upon his handsome face. Why, she would consider him for herself, if she were not so attached to Quetin, and if archeologists commanded much higher wages than she suspected they did.

  May Day dawned cool and breezy, with benign white clouds like lace curtains against the blue sky. On the green, a Maypole, decorated with daffodils, bluebells, cowslips, and violets rose up between two long tables, garlanded with flowers and bearing punch, cake, and biscuits. Near the platform for the brass band—in which her father played trombone—stood a table of picnic baskets that would be auctioned. Mrs. Raleigh, Vicar Phelps’ daughter, sat in a chair at one end with a stack of little cards and pencils as one by one some blushing milkmaid, farmer’s daughter, or factory worker brought over a basket to be labeled.

  And Lydia could not blame them for their self-consciousness, for some eight feet away a gang of male wagsters from the cheese factory nudged one another into calling out comments such as, “Does a kiss come with that lunch, Nellie?” and “Will you give us a peek at what’s in the basket, Abigail?” until Mrs. Raleigh shooed them away.

  Mrs. Trumble, the former Miss Hillock, who still taught at the infants’ school since her marriage to the shopkeeper last September, had asked Lydia’s assistance in posing the children for the photographer. Excusing herself from her family, Lydia queued some three dozen freshly scrubbed children in rows from shortest to tallest. Her secondary school students fancied themselves too old for such goings-on, but she noticed that a handful watched younger brothers and sisters from a distance with traces of envy in their expressions.

  After the photograph was taken and the odor of sulfur hung heavy in the air, the children assembled under the direction of Mrs. Trumble and several mothers to begin their procession. They would take turns carrying a garland of flowers fixed to a light circular frame—crafted by grammar schoolchildren the day before—and a box in which money would be collected for the poor of the parish.

  Lydia watched the giggling and singing group start off toward the vicarage. She turned to rejoin her parents and nearly bumped into Harold Sanders.

  “Pardon me, ma’am,” he said, jumping backward.

  Lydia wondered how long he had stood there at her elbow. “That’s quite all right, Mr. Sanders.” But there was little chance of passing him by, for he seemed determined to speak with her. She was a little amused to note that the straw-colored hair showing beneath his cap was plastered so thickly with macassar oil—or at least she hoped it was macassar oil and not bacon grease—that the comb marks resembled a plowed field. The stubble was gone from his cheeks, leaving a nick on one jaw to which a dried drop of blood clung. A new-looking tweed coat topped a pair of checked trousers in a curious combination of chartreuse green and tomato red.

  He doffed his felt cap, causing several strands of oiled hair to spring apart from the others. “Mrs
. Raleigh says you’ve no basket on the auction table, Miss Clark.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Oh.” His deep-lidded eyes glanced down at a rock he was pushing with the toe of his shoe. “Well, are you gonter?”

  “No, Mr. Sanders,” she replied with a polite smile. “But there are several others from which you can choose. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  But he simply turned to accompany her. “I bought this suit in Shrewsbury yesterday,” he declared. “There is a shop with clothes ready-made.”

  “It’s very original,” Lydia told him.

  “Thank you.” Setting his cap back on his head, he continued, “I were thinking about getting some new working clothes too, but since I only get ’em dirty, I couldn’t decide if it would be a waste of money or not. My papa fusses if we ask for too much money.”

  “Indeed?”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  Lydia paused, her mother in sight chatting with Noah and Beatrice. She certainly didn’t care to have him follow her to them, for her mother would give him a gracious smile and ask about his health or some such pleasantry, and then Mr. Sanders would presume that he was welcome to spend the rest of the day with her family. Turning to the man beside him, she said, “What should you do about what, Mr. Sanders?”

  “Should I buy some more working clothes?”

  “Why are you asking me this?”

  “Because I figgered a woman as bright as you would give good advice.”

  Stifling a sigh, Lydia said, “Then buy a set to have ready when you need to go to town and don’t want to dress up, but keep using the others for work until they wear out.”

  After a thoughtful purse of his lips, he grinned and bobbed his head up and down. “That’s real bright of you, Miss Clark. I’ll do that!”

  “Ah…good. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

  “Did you like the flowers?”

  Lydia’s breath caught in her throat. “You put them on my desk?”

  He actually blushed. “I went to the schoolhouse before milking, when I knew nobody would be there.”

  “And the note?”

  “Edgar. Mercy says he has the best penmanship. But I told him what to write.”

  Now Lydia had to restrain herself from smiling. While a prank was still involved in the whole situation, it had not been intended as a reflection on her undesirability as a sweetheart. “The flowers were beautiful, Mr. Sanders. Thank you. But may I ask why you brought them?”

  He stared down at the toe of his shoe again. Off to the east, Lydia could hear young voices singing for a penny at the vicarage door. “I thought you might be willin’ to court me if you liked them.”

  “I see.” Drawing in a sigh, Lydia wondered at the irony of going thirty-four years with no man showing interest in her, and then having two men, whose company she did not desire, pursuing her at the same time. But because Harold Sanders was a human being with feelings—at least she supposed he was capable of sentiment—she attempted to soften the blow she was about to deliver with an understanding smile.

  “Mr. Sanders…”

  “You can call me Harold if you like,” he offered hopefully.

  That was going a bit too far. She shook her head. “Mr. Sanders. It was kind of you to bring me flowers, but I’m sure there is some nice girl who would love to spend time with you.” She winced inside after the words left her mouth, for it was highly unlikely that any nice girl would be interested. But she certainly couldn’t correct herself without damaging his pride even more, so she sent up a quick silent apology to God for not weighing her words.

  Anger flashed in his leaf-colored eyes, only to be replaced by determination. “Is there someone else?”

  “No, there isn’t.” But ask me next week, she thought wryly. Perhaps an ax murderer will escape from prison and propose to me. “It’s just that we are totally incompatible, Mr. Sanders.”

  “Incom…”

  “We have absolutely nothing in common.”

  Now it was Mr. Sanders who sighed. After the third sigh, Lydia wondered if she should slip away and leave him to himself.

  “You won’t change your mind?” he asked with surprising meekness. This time Lydia was determined to weigh her words. It would be kinder to nip any feelings this man had for her in the bud than to give him false hopes of any chance at a relationship. “We can be cordial when we happen to see each other, Mr. Sanders. That’s all I can promise.”

  He seemed poised to ask her something else but then shrugged. “I expect you wanter go back to the picnic?”

  “Yes, Mr. Sanders,” Lydia answered frankly. She extended her hand and bade him a pleasant day. After shaking her hand, he mumbled a farewell and turned away from the picnic to hurry off in the direction of Market Lane.

  “Well, at least that’s over with,” she said to herself. And she could go to her grave with the knowledge that even though she was a spinster, she had broken two men’s hearts in her lifetime—or at least bruised them a little.

  There was only one thing Harold knew to do—find the brightest man in Gresham and ask whether or not he still had any chance of courting Miss Clark. And of course that man would be Mr. Trumble, who could sling big words around as easily as Papa could swear. And he was likely in his shop waiting for the children to come by.

  He frowned at the thought of Jack and Edgar and his nephew, Thomas, parading around carrying flowers. Foolishness, he thought, shoving both hands into his trouser pockets as he walked across the green. They wouldn’t be singing and carrying on so happily if they had an inkling of how soon they would be grown and doomed to lives of drudgery like his own.

  Even the bell’s merry tinkle over Mr. Trumble’s door irritated Harold. The shopkeeper turned from a table where he was straightening some bolts of cloth and smiled. “We’re closed today, Mr. Sanders. I just came back to hand out pennies and treats.”

  “I don’t wanter buy anything,” Harold told him. “I came to ask you something.”

  “Yes?” Mr. Trumble leaned against the table edge and hooked both hands under his armpits. “Well, then I’ll answer if I can.”

  Rubbing his forehead, Harold tried to recollect exactly what Miss Clark had said. When it came to him, he nodded. “What does ‘coor-dile’ mean?”

  “Coordile…hmm.” Mr. Trumble blew out his clean-shaven cheeks, quivering the hairs of his walrus mustache. “I have to confess I don’t rightly know, but I do know how we can find out.”

  “You do?”

  The shopkeeper was already on his way to the curtained door leading to the back. He returned with a thick book of some sort in his hands and set it on the counter with a thud. Motioning Harold over, he told him, “My wife says I should try to improve my vocationary.” He rolled his eyes and grinned. “That’s what happens when you marry a schoolmistress.”

  I wish that would happen to me, Harold thought on his way to the counter.

  Tapping the lettering etched into the leather binding, Mr. Trumble went on. “A Dictionary of the English Language, by a Mr. Samuel Johnson.” He looked up at Harold. “No relation to Josiah Johnson, I don’t think.”

  “And this book will tell you what coor-dile means?” Harold asked warily. He didn’t really have the time or inclination to stay and listen to a whole book being read.

  The man chuckled and opened the cover. “It has in here every English word ever spoken from the time of Adam and Eve on.” For several minutes he rustled through the thin pages, occasionally licking his thumb. And then when he seemed to have found the page he wanted, he ran his forefinger slowly down it.

  “Hmm,” Mr. Trumble finally murmured.

  “What is it?”

  The shopkeeper leaned closer to the open book, squinting his eyes. “I don’t see a coordile here. But here’s a corrigible.” He looked up. “Could it be that’s the word you’re wanting to know about?”

  That sounded about right, so Harold nodded.

  “Capable of being corrected, ref
ormed or improved.”

  “What does that mean?” Harold asked, leaning over to look at the upside-down page as if the mystery would somehow show itself to him.

  Mr. Trumble raised himself again and rubbed his chin. “Well, I believe it means it could be better. Whatever it is that’s corrigible, I mean.”

  “So if a woman says you and her could be corrigible, what’s she really saying?”

  “Why, it means she wishes you and she was better friends.”

  “Better friends.” Casually, Harold asked, “What if she was someone you wanted to court?”

  “Well, you can’t court a woman who doesn’t want to be your friend, Mr. Sanders.”

  He raised a hopeful eyebrow. “So corrigible is good?”

  Giving another chuckle, the man closed his book. “Sounds good to me.”

  Chapter 19

  Their duty of dispensing a penny to the youthful parade finished, Andrew and Julia strolled back to the green from the vicarage. Julia had joined the others from the Women’s Charity Society in the manor kitchen to assemble sandwiches yesterday and would be taking her turn at the refreshment table after the auction.

  “Of course, Grace had the sweetest voice of the whole group,” Andrew commented.

  “But you wouldn’t be prejudiced, would you?” Julia gave him an indulgent smile, although she had always thought Grace had a melodious little voice.

  “Why, not at all. Just because she’s my daughter doesn’t mean I have to overlook her talent.”

  Moving her hand from the crook of his arm long enough to flick a grasshopper off the sleeve of her cream-colored organdy gown, Julia said, “You know who you sound just like, don’t you?”

  “Don’t say it, Julia.” He gave her a sidelong look. “Don’t even think it.”

  Julia smiled again, not shaken over his mock severity. “Very well. There are worse vices, I suppose.”