The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

  We should have done this yesterday, she told herself, for the children would have been at school. She and Andrew had definitely been lax about their chatting at the table. With fewer people present, surely Vicar Treves and Mrs. Somerville would be more inclined toward conversation with each other.

  “Tell me, Mr. Coggins, how did you become interested in the dulcimer?” Andrew asked.

  The boy looked at Vicar Treves as if asking permission to answer, then encouraged by his nod stared again at his plate and replied, “My mother bought it for me from a peddler last year.”

  “Had you any instrument before then?”

  Israel simply shook his head, prompting Vicar Treves to say, “Israel has never even taken a music lesson.”

  “It must be a miracle,” Grace said with awe in her voice. Aleda nodded in wide-eyed agreement. Julia could feel knots in her stomach. She looked helplessly again at Andrew, who this time sent her an unmistakable message with his eyes.

  Calm down.

  For the first time since their guests’ arrival, Julia realized she was acting as if the fate of the whole world hinged upon a romance developing between Vicar Treves and Mrs. Somerville at lunch today. She drew in a deep breath. What had Andrew said? If they’re meant to be together, God will see to it that it happens. Since when did the Almighty require her help?

  Taking in a deep breath and holding it, she willed her tensed muscles to relax. She had given the two an opportunity to renew their acquaintance. The rest was up to them and God. And as for her first attempt at matchmaking—she had had enough of it. From now on, she hoped she would have the sense to leave it to people like Mrs. Bartley, who had stronger nerves.

  Feeling as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, Julia smiled at Israel. “Your mother must be very proud of you.”

  After the meal, which Noelle had actually enjoyed because she didn’t think of Quetin even once, Vicar Phelps suggested that they sit out in the garden. The wicker chair offered to Israel Coggins was turned to face the others, and more chairs were carried from the dining room. “May I invite Elizabeth and Jonathan?” the auburn-haired Aleda asked her mother.

  Mrs. Phelps hesitated, seeming to struggle over what seemed to Noelle should be a simple reply. In that space of silence Vicar Treves said to her, “Please do, Mrs. Phelps.”

  The glance the two exchanged was rapid but fraught with meaning. Noelle realized the “Elizabeth and Jonathan” in question were the couple she had met at the May Day picnic. The vicar’s daughter and son-in-law. Raleigh was their name, she actually remembered. Why weren’t they invited to lunch? Of course. Vicar Treves had said something on the train about losing someone in the past, but not to death. You should be a detective, Noelle told herself.

  While Philip was commissioned to hurry over to the Raleighs, Vicar Phelps sent the youngest girl inside to invite the servants, resulting in more chairs being brought outside. Meanwhile, Israel Coggins sat in his chair and stared at his hands.

  “It’s a wonder he has the nerve to play in front of people,” Noelle said in a low voice to Vicar Treves, who amazingly enough had asked permission to share her bench after lending a hand with hauling chairs.

  Noelle assumed it was for Elizabeth Raleigh’s benefit, if her supposition about the two of them was correct. But she didn’t mind and even took it as a compliment. If a man wanted to make another woman jealous, or at least prove to her that he wasn’t miserable without her, he would of course pay attention to the most beautiful eligible woman in the vicinity.

  “The music does something remarkable to him,” the young vicar said in response to her comment. “It’s as if God gave him the talent to compensate for his lack of conversational ability.”

  The compassion in his voice made her a little ashamed of her earlier discomfort at sharing the same table with Israel. Well, he could have drooled, she rationalized. “What do you think would have happened if his mother hadn’t bought him the dulcimer?”

  “I suppose we would have all missed out,” Vicar Treves replied. He shook his head. “You know, until his talent was discovered, he was dubbed the village idiot.”

  “How cruel,” Noelle said, ignoring the little stab in her own conscience.

  “I’m afraid I was just as uncharitable with my thoughts.”

  “At least you didn’t voice them.”

  “But it was wrong, just the same. Judgment is judgment, whether it’s spoken or thought.” With a self-conscious little smile, he added, “Forgive me, Mrs. Somerville. I sometimes forget I’m not in the pulpit.”

  She was strangely moved that he would allow himself to be so transparent. “I can’t imagine you being anything less than kind,” she told him in all honesty.

  “Thank you, but if only that were so. Unfortunately, there was a time when I was full of myself just because I had so much Scripture committed to memory. I didn’t realize God still had much to teach me through other people.” He shook his head ruefully. “And I’m afraid I have a habit of monopolizing the conversation when I’m in your company.”

  “I like people who will speak up,” Noelle confessed. “Unless they’re describing wedding gowns.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She smiled. “I was thinking of a couple of women I met on my first train from London. If the person I’m with will talk, I don’t feel so pressured to tax my brain for something intelligent to say.”

  “Why would that pressure you?” he asked, giving her a curious look. His voice was frank, with no hint of flirtatiousness. “You’re an intelligent woman.”

  For the first time in her near memory, Noelle felt a blush steal across her cheeks. Odd that the compliment would please her, when she had always considered beauty her most important quality. Didn’t every woman wish to be beautiful? How many heroines of songs or fairy tales were described as intelligent? Not only had she never minded that Quetin treated her as if she were a simple child, but it had never occurred to her to question that it should be any other way. He was older and wiser and definitely more experienced with the ways of the world. What did she know?

  “You’re too kind,” was all she could think to answer.

  “Truthful, you mean.” And then, as if concerned that he had overstepped his bounds, he became silent until Vicar Phelps, seated on the bench beside him with his wife, asked him if he had received a recent copy of a diocese newsletter. Behind Noelle the servants chatted, and presently the Raleighs arrived with the older girls and two women wearing aprons over their dresses.

  “Mrs. Somerville, how good to see you again,” Elizabeth Raleigh said as she approached Noelle’s bench. “Are you enjoying your stay in Gresham?”

  “Very much so,” Noelle responded automatically before realizing that it was true, if only for the past couple of hours.

  “I’m so glad to hear it.” Then with just enough nervousness to confirm Noelle’s earlier suspicions, Mrs. Raleigh looked at the man beside her and said, “It’s good to see you again, Vicar Treves.”

  At his feet now, he took her offered hand. “You’re looking well, Mrs. Raleigh,” he said warmly, with no trace of artificial exuberance.

  “Thank you.” She beckoned to Mr. Raleigh, who had stopped to speak with Vicar Phelps. “May I introduce you to my husband, Jonathan?”

  “But, of course.”

  The man walked over, and after making a little bow over Noelle’s hand and exchanging pleasantries with her, he shook hands with Vicar Treves. “I’m so pleased Lockwood has decided to participate in the tournament this year.”

  “Our students are almost beside themselves,” Vicar Treves replied. “And according to our schoolmistress, Mrs. Mobley, their marks rose dramatically when the team was formed.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that,” Mr. Raleigh said, a glint of humor in his gray-green eyes. “Archery saved my sanity during my first year as schoolmaster. I shall have to tell you that story one day.”

  “I look forward to hearing it,” Vicar Treves replied, smil
ing, but when the Raleighs had moved on to settle into chairs on the other side of the Phelps, his hands were trembling slightly.

  As Israel Coggins began strumming the first chords, she felt compelled to lean closer and whisper, “You handled that very well.”

  “Thank you,” he whispered back.

  The strains of “Abide with Me” were surprisingly sweet and fluid. Closing her eyes, Noelle rested her head against the high wicker back of the bench. The story of young David came to her, how his lyre music soothed King Saul’s tormented mind. If only Israel Coggins could play his music for her every day. Perhaps then her own mind could find such solace, instead of having to work so hard to keep at bay a growing suspicion that she had given up her family and her God for a security that was beginning to feel nebulous.

  Without missing a stroke of the strings, Israel began playing “Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me.” One of the maids seated behind Noelle began humming. Grace Phelps started singing softly in a pure little voice, and before long it seemed as if everyone was singing. Even Vicar Treves, in a pleasant baritone. For all his earlier nervousness, he seemed at peace.

  Archery practice was the best thing ever invented, Harold Sanders decided. For by bullying Fernie, Dale, and Oram out of their turns to collect Jack and Edgar, he had a reason to be in the grammar school yard every time Miss Clark came walking by on her way home. He had failed the first couple of times by getting so involved with spinning children on the merry-go-round that he forgot to keep watch for her. Now he had formed the habit of taking a few steps to peer down Church Lane every time he stopped to collect his breath.

  And she would be by any minute now, he thought as he took another look that Monday afternoon of May twentieth. The lane was still empty. He felt a tug at his cuff and looked to his right.

  “Mr. Sanders?” Timmy Casper said through a gaping tooth.

  “Give me a minute,” Harold told him sternly on his way back to the half dozen children who waited for siblings at practice. “I’ve told you how taxin’ this is to a grown man’s body.”

  “Yes, let him rest,” Phoebe Meeks scolded.

  “Why don’t we give you a turn, Mr. Sanders?” asked Lester from the merry-go-round.

  “Give me a turn?” Harold chuckled. Wouldn’t that be a sight? “I’m too heavy for the likes of you.”

  “No, you ain’t, Mr. Sanders.” Lester let go of the iron bar and let himself to the ground. “We’re strong enough. Do get on.”

  “Please?” another child pleaded. “You don’t have to be afraid. It won’t hurt you.”

  Hurt me? Did they really think he was afraid? Throwing up his hands, Harold declared, “All right. You can give me a spin.”

  There was much giggling as children scattered from the contraption and took up positions at the bars. Trudy looked for a place from which to push but was admonished by Phoebe to move out of the way lest she get trampled. That led to tears, so Harold intervened.

  “Here, now,” he said. “You can ride with me.” So when he was satisfied that the giggling girl’s arms were securely wrapped around a bar, he made a face at the children waiting to push. “Go ahead—if yer able, that is.”

  With a whoop they were at it, their legs pumping slowly at first as the merry-go-round squeaked into action. “I told you I was too heavy,” he taunted. But in just a few seconds they had built up a surprising speed. The school building, trees, his papa’s horse and new wagon—they all whizzed by him. He clutched the bar a little tighter, while beside him Trudy squealed and begged to go faster.

  Why do they like this so much? he wondered as queasiness rolled up in waves from his stomach to the top of his head. He thought that maybe the scenery flying past was the problem, so he closed his eyes. That made it even worse.

  “Wheee!” Trudy cried.

  “Stop!” Harold shouted.

  When the contraption was mercifully still again, Harold flung himself out of it. Only the ground was spinning just as fast, and he pitched forward to his hands and knees.

  “Mr. Sanders?”

  The little monsters were all around him now, staring with wide eyes.

  “I’m all right,” he muttered.

  “Shall I fetch you some water, Mr. Sanders?” asked Phoebe.

  “No. Just leave me alone.”

  “Miss Clark is coming,” Lester warned.

  “Oh.” Harold pushed himself to his feet. He took a few unsteady steps to look past the corner of the schoolhouse. Sure enough, she was walking up the lane. With his stomach still in his throat he wove toward the wagon and shimmied up into the seat.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Sanders,” he heard a minute later.

  He tore his eyes from the fingernails he was pretending to study, looked down at the lane beside him, and replied nonchalantly, “Oh…good afternoon, Miss Clark, I didn’t know you was there.”

  As usual she did not stop to chat, but he was positive that her steps slowed a little. Was she hoping he would chat some more? You’re supposed to be distant, he reminded himself. So he gave his attention again to his fingernails. He did not look up again until she had had time to go beyond the crossroads, for it would ruin his plans for her to look back and catch him staring at her.

  The children were still milling about the merry-go-round and sent him remorseful looks as he approached.

  “We’re sorry for making you sick, Mr. Sanders,” Timmy apologized.

  “I weren’t sick. I just didn’t care for it.” And Harold couldn’t see how anyone in his right mind would want to spend one minute spinning around like a top. But as the children about him were fond of the contraption, and he had nothing better to do, he asked in a gruff voice, “Well, are you gonter stand there all day or get aboard?”

  Chapter 28

  The Worthy sisters were not alone in their garden when Lydia crossed Market Lane. Her father, wearing a paint-spattered smock over his clothes, stood in concentration behind his easel about six feet away from their chairs.

  Iris noticed her first and gave her a serene, if rather stiff, smile while her fingers continued to spin lace on the cushion in her lap. “Good afternoon, Lydia.”

  At the sound of her name, Lydia’s father looked up from his canvas long enough to salute her with his brush. “Hello, daughter.”

  “Good afternoon,” Lydia said to all three as she drew closer.

  “Did all the children bring their maps to school today?” Iris asked.

  “What maps?” Jewel asked before Lydia could reply.

  “The paper-mache ones. You remember Ben Mayhew showing us his just this morning, don’t you?”

  Jewel frowned. “That were a map?”

  “What did you think it was?”

  “Ladies, please,” Lydia’s father interrupted. “Will you look this way again?”

  Meekly, both obeyed. Lydia went around to her father’s side of the canvas. True to his habit, he had painted the wattle-and-daub cottage and the garden first. A surprisingly good likeness of Jewel stared back at her while he filled in the finishing touches to Iris’s black lace bonnet. “Very nice,” Lydia said.

  “Thank you.” And without missing a brush stroke, he lowered his voice to ask, “Did Harold Sanders snub you again today?”

  Lydia glanced at the sisters, whose expressions had become decidedly more attentive. “Papa…”

  He grimaced. “Sorry.”

  “Well I’m not,” she was unable to resist saying with a little smile before bidding farewell to the three of them.

  Five minutes later as she unlatched the gate in front of the cottage, she saw her mother sitting in the long shade of the elm tree, squinting at a familiar-looking book held close to her face. Countess Lucinda’s Journey, the novelette she and Mr. Pitney would be discussing tonight for their third discussion meeting. “You’ll ruin your eyes,” Lydia warned after leaning down to kiss the proffered soft cheek.

  “The book isn’t that bad, dear.”

  “No, I meant the lighting.” Realizing her mother w
as teasing, she smiled and shook her head. “You and Papa are just alike, you know?”

  “Yes? Is that a terrible thing?”

  “It’s wonderful.” She put her satchel on the ground, and her mother gathered aside the skirt of her gingham gown to make room for her on the bench. “How did he convince the sisters to sit for him?”

  “Oh, they were delighted to do so after your father offered to make them another washpot.” Her mother returned the wave of Doctor Rhodes passing by in his trap and asked, “Will your Mr. Pitney be here again tonight?”

  “He’s not my Mr. Pitney, Mother,” Lydia replied, surprised by the bitterness in her own voice. “Miss Rawlins holds claim to his heart—even though she doesn’t realize it—nor deserve it.”

  “It’s not like you to speak that way, Lydia.” Her mother gave her a pained but understanding smile. “You’ve grown fond of him, haven’t you?”

  Very fond of him, Lydia thought, but replied, “It doesn’t matter how I feel about him. But it grieves me to see a man practically have to memorize her little stories to get her to see his worth.”

  Patting her hand, her mother said, “Infatuation is a strange thing, Lydia. It’s like a spell we cast on ourselves. If he’s so ill acquainted with her, then Mr. Pitney has obviously fallen in love with love itself.”

  “He’s too intelligent for that,” Lydia protested.

  “Unfortunately, that has little to do with infatuation. But sometimes intelligence will bring it to an end, in due course.”

  “How?”

  “If his knowledge of Miss Rawlins’ books does indeed bring them together, he’ll be forced to contend with her true personality instead of the myth his mind has created. Perhaps he’ll find himself suited to her—or perhaps not.”

  Lydia couldn’t help but feel hopeful at the perhaps not. Not because she entertained any hope that he might turn his affections in her own direction. But at least he wouldn’t continue offering his heart to someone unable to see that it was made of gold.