The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Mrs. Phelps?” she called when she had almost closed the gap between them.

  The woman paused and turned, her expression puzzled. “Mrs. Somerville?”

  Raising a hand to her chest while she caught her breath, Noelle asked, “May I be of any assistance?”

  Mrs. Phelps smiled. “God must have sent you, Mrs. Somerville. I was just wondering if Andrew will be able to sit up in the trap.”

  “Then let’s go, shall we?” Noelle urged when the other woman did not move.

  “But I just remembered—what about the carriage you hired?”

  “I’ll be back before he leaves Gresham.” But I just may not tell Mr. Greedy-pockets.

  They walked together, turning the corner at High Street and arriving at a two-story red brick building connected to a row of other shops and businesses. The signboard boasted a white molar tooth about the size of a hatbox—hideous in Noelle’s opinion. The waiting parlor was empty, and after a moment of staring helplessly at an inside door, Mrs. Phelps suggested that they sit. “There were other patients here when I left. Mr. Beales may be with one now.”

  Mrs. Phelps seemed in no state to chat now, and she kept glancing at the back door as if she were second-guessing her decision to stay put. After ten or so minutes Noelle assured her, “Your husband will be out shortly. It’s as you said, the dentist is tending someone else.”

  Turning a grateful smile to her, Mrs. Phelps replied, “Thank you, Mrs. Somerville. Now I know you were sent by God.”

  “Somehow I doubt that,” Noelle told her. She wished God wouldn’t keep cropping up into their conversations.

  The back door opened and two men came through it—neither was Vicar Phelps, but it was easy to tell which one was the patient, for the shorter of the two held a handkerchief to his mouth. He gave a muffled reply to the taller man’s farewell and made for the front door.

  “Your husband is just now stirring, but I believe he can walk,” the dentist said while approaching Mrs. Phelps, now on her feet.

  “May I take him home? I’m sure he’d rather be in his own bed, and our children have no idea where we are.”

  “Is your carriage out front?”

  Mrs. Phelps replied that it was, and the dentist asked her to wait there before disappearing through the doorway again. He returned three minutes later. Vicar Phelps, at his side, was indeed walking, but appeared unsteady on his feet and liable to topple over any minute. A strip of white cloth was wound tightly around his head from chin to the crown, the ends tied off at the top and comically resembling a girl’s hair ribbon. In his right cheek something bulged.

  “I feared he wouldn’t keep his jaw closed as he slept,” the dentist explained. “He must keep pressure on the cloth in his mouth to stem the bleeding, so I would advise keeping the bandage on during the ride home as well.”

  He spoke as if his patient wasn’t in the room, and judging by the vicar’s glassy-eyed expression, Noelle gathered it was a fair assessment. With the dentist holding the door, Noelle took the vicar’s left arm and helped Mrs. Phelps walk him through it. Inside the trap, he sat quietly between them with his hands tucked between his knees as Mrs. Phelps reined the horse through Shrewsbury’s streets. Occasionally he swayed to one side or the other. The first few times that he leaned against Noelle he righted himself immediately and mumbled an apology. But just as the trap was leaving the city for the road to Gresham, he slumped against her shoulder and stayed there.

  “Andrew?” Mrs. Phelps asked in a worried tone.

  “He’s asleep.” Noelle turned her head as far to the right as was possible to look at her, causing the loose bandage ends to brush against her nose. “I don’t mind.”

  “Again, I’m in your debt, Mrs. Somerville.” But after a hesitation she added, “Are you positive he’s just asleep?”

  The chloroform, Noelle thought. With her shoulder held as rigid as possible, she took up one of his hands and found a steady pulse in his wrist. “He’s asleep.”

  “I shouldn’t have hurried him,” Mrs. Phelps fretted. “We could have even booked a room for the night. I could have asked you to send word to the children.”

  “Mmm?” the vicar murmured.

  “He would want to be at home, as you said,” Noelle reminded her.

  “Yes…thank you.”

  Their journey to Gresham was tediously slow, and by the time the trap stopped in front of a stone cottage behind Saint Jude’s, Noelle’s shoulder was aching. A man, presumably the caretaker, gave them a puzzled look from just outside the stable and hurried over.

  “What happened to the vicar, Mrs. Phelps?” he asked, a faint whistle trailing his question.

  “His tooth, Luke,” she replied. “He’s been drugged, so do be gentle about him.”

  Hurrying around to Noelle’s side of the trap, the caretaker gave her a somber nod and eased his hand between her shoulder and the vicar’s head, allowing her to slip to the ground. “Hmm?” the vicar murmured, blinking.

  “You’re home now, Andrew,” his wife said from the caretaker’s elbow.

  He shook his head as if to clear it. “Home?”

  The auburn-haired boy from the picnic appeared out of nowhere and dropped the cricket bat he carried. He helped the caretaker lead the vicar through the garden gate while Mrs. Phelps held it open for them. But the vicar’s wife then turned to face Noelle. “Please come inside and have some refreshment, Mrs. Somerville.”

  Noelle smiled but shook her head. “You have enough to do without entertaining.”

  “Then at least come inside until Luke can deliver you home.”

  “I would rather walk, thank you.” She had ridden enough for one day. After Mrs. Phelps had thanked her warmly again, Noelle set out across the green. A perplexing sense of well-being accompanied her. She had proved herself useful—and to a vicar and his wife of all people! Wouldn’t Quetin chuckle when she told him.

  The sight of the Larkspur ahead dampered her spirits—even after ten days it was no more of a home to her than it was when she first arrived. But her spirits lifted considerably as she crossed Market Lane, for off to her left she could see a familiar carriage and horse leave the Bow and Fiddle to head toward Shrewsbury.

  “Blindman’s buff?” Lydia whispered to Phoebe from where they stood on the castle grounds. She had to smile at the sight of Harold Sanders wearing a bandana over his eyes and attempting to catch the giggling children under his charge.

  “They play it a lot at home.” Wire-rimmed eyeglasses securely in place, Phoebe watched her siblings without having to squint.

  The girl had been almost effusive in her thanks after leaving the oculist’s, but Lydia caught a glimpse of disappointment in her reflection as they passed the window of a glover’s shop. She decided to allow her to adjust to the new situation without offering any motivational homilies. “He looks as if he’s enjoying himself,” Lydia said, still smiling.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s time to break it up.”

  She and Phoebe had taken a few steps forward when they were spotted by Lester, who called out “Miss Clark and Phoebe are here!” The bandana was whisked from Harold Sanders’ face as quickly as if it were on fire.

  “I were just tryin’ to keep them from straying all over the place,” he explained sheepishly. “Besides, they begged on and on until I feared little Trudy would cry.”

  “That was very good of you, Mr. Sanders,” Lydia told him.

  He shoved the bandana into his coat pocket. “It weren’t nothing.” Then as if grasping for something to steer the conversation away from his frolicking, he said to Mark in a mildly gruff tone, “Well, don’t just stand there. Go fetch the basket from the wagon.”

  “That’s not necessary, but thank you,” Lydia told them before the boy could obey. “Phoebe had a meat pie on the way here, and I had a big breakfast.”

  At this point Lester noticed his sister’s eyeglasses. “You can see, Phoebe?” he asked, causing the other two to c
rowd close to Phoebe and ask for turns to try them on. Meanwhile Lydia moved over to Harold.

  “I would like to show Phoebe the castle, Mr. Sanders.”

  A flicker of discouragement crossed his face. “Uh-huh?”

  “So why don’t you take the wagon to the clothing store? We should be finished by the time you return.”

  If he seemed disappointed before, he looked crushed now. “It ain’t that important that I get them clothes today.”

  “Surely, it is, if you were prepared to walk all the way to Shrewsbury for them.”

  “But—”

  “Now, now, Mr. Sanders.” With an encouraging smile she insisted, “I shall feel simply awful if you don’t. Go on and make your purchases.”

  “Where are you going, Mr. Sanders?” Mark called as the man walked away with hands shoved dejectedly into his pockets.

  Harold turned long enough to mutter with as much enthusiasm as if he were heading for his own hanging, “To buy a suit of clothes.”

  You’re a heartless woman, Lydia told herself while herding children toward the castle’s main entrance. It had occurred to her, during the long wait in the oculist’s parlor, to wonder why Harold Sanders would be walking to Shrewsbury. True, she had come upon him on foot once before, but surely by now he would have learned to watch his tongue in the cheese wagons. What she suspected was that he had somehow found out when she would be traveling in that direction again.

  She did appreciate his help with the children. But to allow him to set himself up again for future rejection seemed a poor return for a favor. Best to continue to keep the man at a distance and pray that whatever affection he had for her would wane—and the sooner the better.

  Just inside the stairway of the west tower, Phoebe stopped to remove her spectacles and rub her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Are you all right?” Lydia asked, switching Trudy’s hand to her left so she could take the eyeglasses.

  The girl blinked. “Yes, ma’am. My eyes just feel a little tired.”

  “Mr. Rosswald said it would take some time to get used to them, remember?” After giving the girl a minute or two she handed the eyeglasses back. “Wear them for now so you don’t go taking a wrong step. But on the way home you should take them off and rest your eyes.”

  Surely Harold wouldn’t mind watching the other children in the back of the wagon again.

  Chapter 23

  A pink-cheeked curate, a Mr. Mitten or Mutton, from a village he called Bomere Heath delivered the sermon Sunday morning, which Noelle was relieved to learn was not about David and Bathsheba’s adultery—or anyone else’s. Actually it was a hodge-podge of subjects ranging from Gideon’s faith to Ruth’s loyalty, and from Paul’s sermon on Mars Hill to Queen Jezebel’s treachery. After an hour had passed, Noelle could hear shifting in the pews, mothers whispering admonishments to wiggling children, and from a far corner of the sanctuary, faint snoring. Miss Rawlins, beside her, glanced at her watch every ten minutes or so.

  Having been practically raised in church, Noelle was aware of what was going on. Young curates were so pleased to be given the opportunity to preach that they invariably found it difficult to settle on one particular subject. As had happened on Sunday past, Noelle found that the atmosphere of Saint Jude’s caused her to feel a little more kindhearted. Perhaps because she bore no grudge against this particular church for intruding into her family. And so for the sake of the poor curate, she sat at attention—though her thoughts strayed often.

  During the closing prayer, she found herself adding a silent plea that Quetin would write, but she stopped herself short. To disobey God’s law was one thing, but to enlist His aid in doing so was surely a sin worthy of the worst kind of punishment.

  Mrs. Phelps drew her aside in the yard while the Durwins and Miss Rawlins were chatting with an elderly couple they had introduced to her as Squire and Mrs. Bartley. “My husband was so grateful when I told him how you helped us. He remembers nothing about the trip home.”

  Noelle nodded understandingly. “And how is he?”

  “Swollen, as you warned. But salicin helps to ease the pain.”

  “I’m glad.” She corrected herself. “About the salicin, not the swelling.”

  “I knew what you meant,” the vicar’s wife assured her, smiling. “And I wonder if you would care to take lunch with us on Saturday? My husband would like to thank you in person.”

  Immediately Noelle’s mind began racing. While she liked the woman standing before her, the fact that she was a vicar’s wife made any hope of friendship impossible. Watching her tongue to make sure none of the details of her private life slipped out was taxing enough at the Larkspur.

  “Surely he’ll need more time to recuperate,” she hedged when no other excuse came to mind. That was another thing she mentally added to her list of things to dislike about Gresham—there were few activities available for excuses. In London one could always claim to have theatre tickets or an invitation to some social function.

  “Doctor Rhodes looked at him yesterday evening and said the swelling should be gone in another three or four days,” Mrs. Phelps replied. “Of course we may have something soft for lunch, but Mrs. Paget cooks a wonderful mulligatawny soup.”

  Just tell her you’re too busy, Noelle urged herself. What does it matter if she’s offended? You’ll be gone in a few months.

  But much to her disgust, she found herself unable to utter the words. “I would enjoy that,” she lied.

  The familiar pang touched Paul’s heart as he tied Caesar’s reins to the hitching post outside the vicarage garden on Monday morning. Before a certain face could form itself in his mind, he took Vicar Phelps’s advice and forced himself to think of something else. The something else he grasped for happened to be the breaded liver Mrs. Coggins had served along with his breakfast eggs. He despised liver but had not the heart to tell her so, for she was adamant that a weekly dose was good for the blood. Paul reckoned it to be so, or else why would anyone ever eat it?

  Dora answered his knock with a welcoming smile, “Why, Vicar Treves, it’s been such a long time!”

  Returning her smile, he replied, “Yes, it has. And how are you keeping, Dora?”

  “Oh, fine and dandy. It’s the vicar that’s hurting.”

  Paul winced and dug into his coat pocket for a cloth bag of dried herbs. “I shan’t disturb him. But Mrs. Coggins sent some bishopswort to make a poultice.”

  “Yes? Maybe that means a promotion will be comin’ for you soon.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re delivering bishopswort.” She shook her head. “I apologize, Vicar, that was a poor joke.”

  “No, it was a good one,” he assured her, smiling. “Do tell the vicar I’m praying for him?”

  “Aye, I’ll do that, sir. You could tell him yourself if he wasn’t asleep. But wouldn’t you like to speak with the missus?”

  “Oh, I’d really rather not intrude—”

  “I’m sure she’d want to see you. And she’s just in the kitchen chatting with Mrs. Paget.”

  Reluctantly Paul allowed the maid to usher him into the parlor. He sat in a chair and eyed the sofa where he had sat with Elizabeth the evening she broke off their courtship. What a thickskull you were back then, he told himself. So smug in his convictions and so condescending in the way he spoke to her. How could he fault her for not wanting to spend her future with such an arrogant lout?

  “Spinning wool, Vicar?”

  The feminine voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Getting to his feet, he smiled sheepishly at Mrs. Phelps, who smiled back at him from just inside the doorway. “Guilty, Mrs. Phelps. But my mother always referred to it as building air castles.”

  She stepped over to offer her hand. “Well, it’s delightful to see you, wool or castles aside. Dora showed me the herbs you brought for Andrew. How did you learn about his tooth?”

  “Mr. Mitton was so overjoyed about being allowed to preach that he has no doubt informed half of Shro
pshire by now.” Quickly he added, “Not that I’m faulting him, mind you. I was the same way when I was a curate.”

  “So was Andrew, to hear him tell it.”

  “Is he suffering much pain?”

  “Considerably less than when the tooth was intact.” She gave him an apologetic look. “But I’m afraid he’s asleep at the moment.”

  “I only came to deliver the herbs,” Paul assured her.

  “You’ll stay and have some tea, won’t you?”

  “No, thank you. I promised Mrs. Coggins I would be back in time for lunch.”

  Mrs. Phelps smiled and folded her arms. “Tell me, does she rule the vicarage as our Mrs. Paget does?”

  “With an iron spoon,” he replied, rolling his eyes.

  Her laugh was gratifying to Paul’s ears. For so much of his life he had held the opinion that sobriety was demanded of ministers of the Gospel. Didn’t the Bible state that men would be held accountable for every idle word? He had never admitted as much to Elizabeth, but there was a period of time when he judged Vicar Phelps unfavorably for his lightheartedness. He would have most likely continued in that vein had she not broken off their courtship. The resulting pain set him on a path of prayerful introspection, which began revealing to him the serious flaws in his way of thinking.

  Though he knew he still had a long path to travel toward maturity, he was learning to appreciate humor as God-given and blessed. For if it was frivolous to laugh, then the Scripture wouldn’t abound with passages such as Eat thy bread with joy, and These things write we unto you that your joy may be full.

  Mrs. Phelps accompanied him out to where Caesar was tied, though Paul had assured her it wasn’t necessary. Luke, hammering a nail into a loose board in the fence, stopped to wave. “I gave him a bit of oats and water, Vicar Treves.”