The project required more stamina then she had imagined, especially with her having to move aside every time Mr. Trumble assisted a customer. “I cannot find anything, Mrs. Somerville,” he complained an hour later, surveying with a dazed look upon his face the tins and jars and boxes that covered every inch of his counter.
“Well, I haven’t finished.” But Noelle was running out of steam and wondered whatever had possessed her to begin in the first place. “And what about the mail?”
Now his expression grew fearful. “I’m sorry—there’s no letter for you.”
That was enough to sap her strength completely. She sat back on the stepladder, propped her elbows on her knees, and buried her face in her hands. “I just don’t understand…”
“Mrs. Somerville?” Mr. Trumble came hurrying around the counter. “Are you all right?”
Looking up at him through blurry eyes, Noelle muttered, “May I have some privacy, Mr. Trumble?”
“But this is my shop.”
“Oh, very well.” She rose to her feet and waved him aside. “If you’ll be so kind as to give way.”
“Give way?” He blinked several times, his mouth gaping. “Mrs. Somerville, you can’t leave me like this.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I’m in no condition to finish. But I’ve gotten you off to a good start, so—”
“A good start?” Pink spots rose in his cheeks. “I asked you not to go tearin’ apart my shelves, Mrs. Somerville. But now that you’ve started, you’ll have to finish.”
She could hardly believe he was speaking to her this way—and with her heart broken from the disappointment of no letter. After I spent all that time trying to help him.
Before she could remind him of that fact, he drew in two deep breaths that sounded like bellows. “Mrs. Somerville,” he said afterward with surprising calm.
“You’re still in my way, Mr. Trumble.”
He moved aside. “I aim to be a gentleman at all times, Mrs. Somerville. But if you don’t put my shelves to order again, I’ll not allow you back in my shop.”
“But I’m your best patron.”
“Patrons spend money, Mrs. Somerville! All you’ve done since you moved to Gresham is come in here and imitate me, day in and day out.”
Noelle was opening her mouth to argue when his words registered in her mind. Imitate? The picture that came to her mind was so ludicrous that a little chuckle escaped her.
“And what’s so funny?” the man asked suspiciously.
“Nothing, Mr. Trumble.” She suppressed her smile and picked up a jar of pickled beets. It was rather cruel of her to leave him to finish alone, she supposed. And he’s likely to pile everything up there every which way. Besides, she had not thought to brood during the time she had already spent on the task. That in itself was reason enough to continue. Meekly, she asked, “Will you at least help me?”
“I’ve no choice, have I? If I want to close up shop by suppertime, that is.”
“We’ll have it done by then,” she promised.
They were finished by half-past six. In silence she and the shopkeeper stepped back to survey their work. Noelle had always considered it a matter of pride that she had never spent a day of her twenty-one years laboring with her hands. She had never even swept the floor of her own flat. But the pride she now felt as she looked at the orderly rows of merchandise was inexplicably satisfying.
“Well, what do you think?” she asked Mr. Trumble, whose face wore no expression that she could recognize.
He turned to her and smiled. “It’s some change, Mrs. Somerville.”
“Does that mean you like it?”
“I like it fine. I’m going to fetch Mrs. Trumble right away, in fact.”
“Tomorrow you’ll tell me how she liked it?”
“Wouldn’t you care to wait and see for yourself?”
Noelle shook her head. “I’m a little tired now.”
“Then I’ll wait to tell you.” Still smiling, he walked her to the door. “I hope you get your letter tomorrow, Mrs. Somerville.”
The glow of accomplishment stayed with her all through supper, tempering her disappointment over Quetin’s failure to write. She even sat with the others in the hall. But when the discussion drifted over to a book circulating throughout England, written by an American named Charles Russell and stating positively that Christ would return in 1874, she excused herself for her room. Such talk was terrifying—it was easier to store in the back of her mind the notion that one day Quetin would make an honest woman of her and she would reconcile with God. The last thing she wanted to think about was facing Him in the near future.
Oh, Quetin, I need to be with you, she thought, biting her lip as she took pen and vellum paper from her writing table. She needed his soothing assurances that she wasn’t a bad woman just because she loved someone.
Dearest Quetin,
It has been two weeks now, and I so long to hear from you.
And then because she knew he would become irritated if she dwelled upon her misery too much, Noelle forced herself to inject some lightness into the letter. She told him of coming to the aid of the vicar and his wife in Shrewsbury, of the May Day auction, and helping Mr. Trumble organize his shelves. She even described the lodgers and the servants at the Larkspur.
In closing, Noelle could not resist one more plea.
It’s not knowing what to expect in the future that casts a shadow over everything. Is Averyl living in London now? When do you expect I can come home? Will you visit soon? I realize that your Parliamentary duties consume large portions of your time, Quetin, but please respond to this letter as soon as possible.
With undying affection,
Noelle
She folded the pages and was about to put them in the envelope when a more practical matter caused her to pick up her pen again and add a postscript:
Forgive me for calling attention to this matter, but I am almost completely out of money.
The words looked so pathetic, even in her practiced flourishing script, that she felt her eyes begin to burn again. Hastily she folded the letter and stuffed it in the envelope, lest a tear blur the words and give Quetin evidence of how truly desperate she was. Then she recapped the ink and rested her head on folded arms upon the table. Like the proverbial eggs in one basket, her whole emotional and material well-being was in the hands of one person—one who certainly wasn’t as dependent upon her.
Late the next morning, Fiona accompanied Ambrose to the vicarage, bringing a pan of Mrs. Herrick’s butterscotch custard. Though Andrew’s cheek was still quite swollen, he was in good enough spirits to sit out in the garden and even told them of a parishioner in Cambridge who had once brought him a cherry pie.
“She was proud of her baking ability and rightly so,” he said. “But in this case she forgot to remove the pits. My cook feared one of us would choke or break a tooth, so all we could do was consign it to the dustbin.”
Julia slanted a mock suspicious look at him. “I suppose she was one of your pursuers?”
“She was twenty years my senior and happily married, my dear.”
“Did I hear one of your pursuers?” Ambrose asked with raised brows. “And wouldn’t that be pursueresses?”
Giving a crooked swollen grin, Andrew replied, “Two would be more accurate, though I venture if either could catch sight of me now, she would be happy for her lack of success.”
“Did the lady who gave you the pie ever ask about it?” Fiona asked the vicar.
“The very next Sunday. And with me standing in the doorway of the church. Of course location has nothing to do with the gravity of a sin, but you can understand that I was at a loss for words.”
“What did you say?” asked Julia.
“I finally told her, ‘A pie like that doesn’t last long at our house.’ ”
Ambrose chuckled over it again as they strolled arm in arm across the green an hour later. Four women were gathered at the pump, one holding a chubby infant who cackled wit
h delight every time someone worked the handle. “Do you believe laughter is a gift from God, Fiona?”
“Oh, most definitely, Ambrose. And so are tears, I think.” Fiona smiled at him. “But I enjoy the laughter most.”
“So do I,” he agreed.
We’ve had both in our marriage, Fiona thought. Laughter that could spring from the smallest occurrences, simply because they experienced them together. And prayerful tears—hidden from her husband—during some of his darkest moods. Still, she was content.
They met Mr. Jones opening the letter box at the Larkspur’s gate. “Shall I bring those inside?” Ambrose asked with a nod toward the envelopes in his hand.
“Very well, sir.” The postman handed them over and touched the bill of his hat to Fiona. “Jolly keen weather we’re having, wouldn’t you say?”
“Indeed it—”
A slamming sound cut into her reply, and all three heads turned toward the Larkspur’s door. Mrs. Somerville, wearing a burgundy silk wrapper and with her hair disheveled about her shoulders, hurried up the garden path. “Oh, Mr. Jones?” she called, waving an envelope.
The postman mumbled something Fiona couldn’t decipher, but when she looked at him, he was hefting his satchel upon his shoulder again. She and Ambrose traded curious glances.
“Forgive my dressing gown,” the young woman pleaded at the gate, “but I’ve a letter that simply must go out today.”
She was close enough now for Fiona to notice the circles under her eyes. “Have you another headache, Mrs. Somerville?” she asked.
“No, thank you.” Mrs. Somerville sent a quick preoccupied smile in her direction while handing the envelope to Mr. Jones. As she watched it disappear into the satchel, she said, “Have you anything for me today?”
“Mr. Clay has all of the Larkspur’s mail, madam.” There was no mistaking the relief in the man’s expression as he touched the bill of his hat again. “I must attend to my rounds. Good day to all of you.”
Mrs. Somerville paid him no attention, for she was now at Ambrose’s elbow. “Are you going to stand there holding them all morning, Mr. Clay?”
“Be my guest,” he offered affably, handing over the stack of envelopes.
She scanned each address, her face losing a little of its composure with each that was flipped to the back. Then she sorted through them again. “It’s not here.”
“Well, perhaps tomorrow—”
Face clouding, she shoved the envelopes back into his hands. “Yes, perhaps.” She turned and hurried back to the house with her wrapper flowing about her ankles.
Fiona took a step in that direction but felt Ambrose’s hand upon her arm.
“You don’t want to get involved, Fiona.”
“But she’s upset, Ambrose.”
“Then she’ll have to find solace from someone else. The house is full of people.” He gave her a tender smile, but his gray eyes were serious. “I still have an uneasy feeling about her.”
Though she trusted his instincts, Fiona had to wonder if he was overreacting. “We practically live in the same house.”
“I don’t propose that we ignore her completely.” Ambrose glanced at the Larkspur and then lowered his voice. “Please. She’s been here only a fortnight. Let’s wait a little while longer before you go reading each other’s diaries and all that.”
Though she felt much sympathy for the lonely young woman, her first loyalty was to her husband. She resolved to pray that Mrs. Somerville would find the solace she needed, then said, “Reading each other’s diaries, Ambrose? First I would have to write one.”
Offering his elbow, he walked her along the garden wall again, around the corner, and toward the carriage drive. “Surely you kept one when you were a girl. I thought young ladies liked that sort of thing.”
“I didn’t learn to read until I was eighteen. But perhaps I’ll start one someday.”
“You’ll mention me every now and then, won’t you?”
Pretending to think this over, Fiona replied, “I suppose I would have to. After all, I do see you fairly often.”
He chuckled. “And what will you write, pray tell?”
“Ah, but diaries are supposed to be secret, Ambrose.”
“That’s so, Mr. Clay,” came a grating voice from across the lane.
A sweeter voice added, “I’ve even heard of some with locks and keys.”
Caught up in each other’s company, they had forgotten about the dear old village sentries. They turned to greet the Worthy sisters across the lane, and Ambrose asked them, grinning, “Surely you don’t believe a wife should keep secrets from her husband, do you?”
Jewel Worthy nodded enthusiastically. “Indeed she should. I didn’t tell my Silas every thought that rattled through my head. A woman’s got to have a little mystery about her if she wants to keep her man interested.”
“Why, Mrs. Worthy.” Ambrose cocked his head to study her. “There is more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there?”
Giving him a beatific smile, the elderly woman replied, “Begging your pardon, Mr. Clay, but if I didn’t tell my husband all there was to me, I’ll not be telling you.”
Jewel’s dry laughter filled the air, and soon Fiona and Ambrose and Iris were joining in. Minutes later, when Fiona and Ambrose had reached the staircase leading up to their apartment, her husband realized the letters were still in his hand. “Go on up, why don’t you?” he said. “I’ll bring these inside.”
“See if there’s anything for us first,” Fiona suggested.
“Certainly.”
As it turned out there was one for her from Ireland, addressed in the uneven print of her sister, Breanna. She went upstairs and sat down on the parlor settee, broke the seal, and straightened the page.
Dearest Fiona,
Aileen is soon to be marrying the Mooney boy who tends sheep. Our mother longs to see you, as we all do…
“Mother…Ireland,” Fiona murmured.
Chapter 26
There was no sign of Mrs. Beemish or Mr. Jensen as Ambrose walked up the back corridor, and the noises from the doorway suggested that the kitchen servants were too busy with lunch preparation to be troubled about letters. He walked on to the hall, exchanged greetings with Mrs. Dearing, who was squinting at an open exercise book at the piano, and fanned the envelopes out on a tea table where they could be seen.
“I believe there is a magazine here for you,” he said to the elderly woman. “Would you like it now?”
“I’ll see to it later, thank you.” Mrs. Dearing glanced toward the corridor doorway and lowered her voice. “Have you happened to see Mrs. Somerville this morning?”
“Why, yes. Just a little while ago.”
She hesitated before continuing. “I was just upstairs when she came bounding up the steps with her face flushed as if she’d been crying. But when I asked about her, she ignored me, went into her room, and slammed the door.”
After sending a look to the doorway himself, Ambrose said, “I’m certain it had nothing to do with you, Mrs. Dearing. It seems she was expecting an important piece of mail.”
The older woman breathed a sigh of relief. “Here I’ve been wondering if I’ve done something to offend her. Hopefully she’ll get her letter tomorrow.”
“Yes, hopefully.” On his way back down the corridor, Ambrose thought about the woman who was no doubt weeping upstairs. He could not help but feel sympathetic, his having had more than a nodding acquaintance with despondency. But when weighed against his wife’s welfare, Mrs. Somerville’s troubles did not even make the scale.
And he was positive by now that the Larkspur’s newest lodger had something against Fiona. More than once Ambrose had caught a look of contempt in her eyes when she looked at his wife. Whether from jealousy or prejudice against the Irish, he didn’t know or particularly care. He only knew that if Fiona allowed her innate compassion to draw her close to this woman, she would eventually be hurt.
His wife was standing at the window when Ambrose
walked into the parlor of their apartment.
“You’ve delivered the letters?” she asked.
“As far as the hall. They’ll find their way to the owners soon enough.” He noticed the creased page on the settee. “How is your family?”
“Very well. There is to be a wedding in four weeks—my sister Aileen.”
She turned back to the window, prompting Ambrose to walk over to stand behind her and put a hand upon her shoulder. “You want to go, don’t you?”
“No, of course not.” But then she turned, and he could see the sheen in her eyes. “I never thought I would, after what my father did,” she murmured.
Ambrose knew the story. At the age of fourteen Fiona was married off to a cruel older man. Bartered, actually, because her father gained a horse and wagon from the arrangement. But he understood how enduring family ties could be. Though his father’s drinking and mood swings and his mother’s complacency had strained their relationships, he would want to see them were they still living.
“It’s been ten years since I left Ireland,” she went on with the most melancholy of expressions. “I’ve nieces and nephews I’ve never seen.”
“Then we’ll go, Fiona.”
“I don’t see how.”
“Why, we simply take the train to Bristol and catch a boat,” he teased.
Her eyes were still somber in spite of a grateful little smile. “May I be perfectly honest with you, Ambrose?”
“When have you ever been otherwise?”
She sighed. “You would despise every minute of it. Whether we stayed with my family or Breanna, there are too many people living in too close quarters to allow for any privacy. Especially with the wedding. I daresay we wouldn’t have a room to ourselves.”
“Surely there is an inn….”
“Not for thirty miles. What if you slipped into a dark mood while sharing a room with some of my brothers or Breanna’s boys?” She shook her head and said in a resigned tone, “It’s just too impractical to consider.”
The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark Page 27
