The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

  “I like the eyes raking across his face like talons,” he ventured cautiously. “It’s very good…imagery.”

  “Thank you. It makes one think of a fierce bird, doesn’t it?”

  “Like a hawk. Or an owl.”

  “I prefer the hawk image. Owls are not as romantic.”

  “They’re not?”

  Miss Rawlins shook her head but gave him an understanding look. “It takes an artist’s eye to discern such things, Jacob. Certain animals lend themselves more suitably to romantic prose than others. For example, you can imagine a dashing hero riding a thoroughbred horse, but never a donkey.”

  “I see,” he acknowledged with a nod. “Even though the two are related—just as are the hawk and owl.”

  “I’m impressed with how quickly you learn,” she said, smiling.

  He felt the blush steal across his cheeks and wondered if it were possible to die of happiness. “Thank you for saying that, Eugenia.”

  “You’re welcome, Jacob. And the same applies to human characters. I’m sure you’ve realized from my stories that certain types of people are more romantic than others.”

  “Attractive people are more romantic,” came to his lips at once, for which of her heroes and heroines had not been so?

  “Of course.” Placing her manuscript in her lap for the first time since they seated themselves an hour ago, she peered at him seriously through her spectacles and explained, “But it goes beyond mere attractiveness, Jacob. The heroine must be young and beautiful, of course, but she should also be titled, or at least related to someone of the peerage. If she lives in poverty, as Kermillie does, it must always be because the family fortune was somehow lost or stolen in the past.”

  “Why is that?”

  She shrugged. “There are some things I can’t explain. A writer just knows them instinctively.”

  “Instinct,” Jacob echoed thoughtfully. Though he admired Miss Rawlins’ immense talent, he was glad he had decided upon archeology as his life’s work and not writing, for he would have never figured out the rules on his own.

  “The man is always older,” Miss Rawlins went on, “and if he is to be romantic, he must be tall. That’s practically set in stone.”

  “But wasn’t Napoleon short?” Jacob asked before thinking, then winced. “Forgive me. I just assumed he was thought of as a romantic figure—but I’m sure I’m mistaken.”

  “Don’t apologize, Jacob. It’s good that you have a questioning mind. Someone such as Napoleon would be an exception because of his military and political power. If I ever write about a short hero, he will have to be extremely powerful to make up for his lack of height.”

  She gave him a frank smile. “But to be truthful, Jacob, I can never see myself doing that. Why write about a hero for whom you have to compensate? A tall man is simply more romantic.”

  Being well above average in height himself, Jacob was overjoyed to hear those words stated so adamantly. He straightened his shoulders and sat a little taller. “Yes, of course.”

  “Especially if he has dark eyes.”

  His heart leapt in his chest just as another cheer came from Bartley Lane, for surely she had noticed that he had brown eyes, and hadn’t his sister, Gloria, always told him that he should have been a girl, with his dark eyelashes?

  “He should also have a mysterious, quiet way about him,” Miss Rawlins continued.

  That was a bit discouraging, for Jacob reckoned there was nothing mysterious about himself. But he had always been on the quiet side.

  And as he had three of the romantic qualities—tall, dark-eyed, and quiet—wouldn’t they make up for the lack of mystery? He wished he had the nerve to ask without revealing it was himself about whom he was concerned.

  Suddenly a way presented itself to him. Jacob cleared his throat. “If the man—in one of your stories, of course—isn’t particularly mysterious, but is tall and quiet with dark eyes, may he still be considered romantic?”

  “Hmm.” Pursing her lips, she stared out at something in the distance. “I’ve never written about a hero who wasn’t mysterious. But as would be the case of great power compensating for Napoleon’s short stature, I suppose some other quality could be substituted for a lack of mystery.”

  Almost afraid to breathe, Jacob asked, “Such as…?”

  “A poetic soul, I should think.”

  “Poetic soul?”

  “If such a hero were well-versed in poetry, I should think he would be extremely romantic.” After more seconds of thoughtful silence, in which she pressed a fingertip against her chin, she mused aloud, “I wonder why it has never occurred to me to do that? I should definitely give my next hero the soul of a poet. Women just adore men who can quote poetry.”

  “My, my,” Jacob said weakly.

  She turned her face toward him again, and it seemed her gray eyes could see into his poetry-deficient mind. “Forgive me, Jacob,” she said, sighing. “This will never do.”

  “It won’t? But—” In a panic, he strained to recall a poem he had memorized in grammar school. How did that go? Water, water everywhere, and all the boards did—

  “You passed up the archery tournament to listen to my manuscript, and here I am going on and on about characterization. You must be bored silly.”

  “Never,” he assured her while relief poured through him like a tonic. “I enjoy listening to you talk about writing as well as hearing you read.”

  “How very kind of you to say.” She smiled, lifting her manuscript again.

  Jacob let out a quiet, long breath. But he couldn’t afford to relax totally. Just because he was granted a reprieve did not mean the subject wouldn’t come up again.

  “The tears in Valentina’s sapphire blue eyes were gone, as if evaporated by a rushing wind,” Miss Rawlins read.

  Jacob smiled at the drama she infused into her voice, making the scene come alive. He would simply have to memorize some poetry, in addition to studying the novelettes. He could do that. She was worth all the trouble, for he had never met anyone like her. He even dared to imagine the two of them in later years, sitting in front of their own cottage while she read her latest stories to him.

  “But the vow her father had made before she was even born weighed upon her, choking her…”

  He just had to find out which particular poems would impress her. Certainly nothing related to shrinking boards and albatrosses. He let out another relieved breath. Maybe he didn’t know where to look, but he knew whom to ask.

  Standing in back of the wagon belonging to Mr. Lawson, his churchwarden, Paul Treves clapped his hands and sent out a long whistle as eleven-year-old Bobby West lowered the bow and turned from the target. The boy had scored only thirteen points with his six arrows, but archery was new to Lockwood, and the team had come more for the practice of competing than with hopes of winning. “Just give us another year or two,” he told Mr. Lawson.

  “Aye, another year or two,” the churchwarden agreed.

  “Vicar Treves?”

  Paul looked down at Holly Wingate, who smiled up at him from under a lace-edged parasol, though the sun had hidden behind clouds all morning. “Good morning, Miss Wingate,” he greeted above the cheers for a girl from Clive who had just stepped up to the target. “Are you enjoying the tournament?”

  “I’m afraid I’m having trouble seeing it,” she replied with a helpless little smile.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear it.”

  Sending a sideways glance to Mr. Lawson, Paul received a raised eyebrow in return, while Israel Coggins continued to stare past him, mesmerized by the competition. Indeed, the boy had cheered for every child who had raised a bow so far, no matter which team.

  Paul looked down again at the woman standing in the lane. A girl, really, though many in Lockwood married even younger than Miss Wingate’s seventeen years. She was lovely to look at, with shiny auburn hair and a fair complexion. And it was clear that she wouldn’t mind his courting her, from the way she smiled at him through lowe
red lashes every time she offered her hand at the church door. He supposed he should start thinking about courting again if he were ever to have the wife and home he longed for. Most men were settled with families by age twenty-four.

  But you don’t want to court anyone just for the sake of courting, he reminded himself. And certainly not just because a woman was comely. Fair looks didn’t last forever, and even if they did, he figured he would grow weary of even the most beautiful face if there was no substance behind it.

  He understood now the reason he had become so enamored with Elizabeth Phelps and why she still crossed his mind—though with much less frequency now that he was heeding Vicar Phelps’s counsel about taking control of his thoughts. Elizabeth not only possessed beauty but an intelligent, questioning mind. And a sense of humor like her father’s. How painfully ironic it was that his inability to appreciate those latter qualities in a woman had ultimately led to the end of their courtship.

  Paul realized he was ignoring Miss Wingate. “You can see everything from up here,” he told her, hitching a knee over the side and jumping to the ground. He took her parasol and reticule to hand up to Mr. Lawson, then walked to the back of the wagon to remove the plank from between the stakes and prop it against the side. When he turned, Miss Wingate had followed and was standing only two feet away. Paul cleared his throat. “With your permission…?”

  Giving him a demure smile, she moved her arms from her sides so that he could put both hands at her narrow waist. Quickly he hoisted her to sit on the floor of the wagon bed, then stared gentlemanly at the ground while she swung her covered limbs inside. When Mr. Lawson had helped the girl to her feet, and she was staring down expectantly at him, Paul tipped his hat to her.

  “I believe I’ll walk about a bit,” he said with delicate politeness and a smile. “And you’ll all be more comfortable if you aren’t crowded.”

  “But don’t you want to watch the match?”

  “I have height to my advantage. I’m sure I’ll be able to see.”

  As he walked toward the standing spectators, he hoped he had not hurt her feelings. There was no sense in giving the girl false hopes if he did not intend to court her. And he certainly didn’t want to provide any other Lockwood residents with fodder for gossip. They were good people, but they would have the two of them practically betrothed by the time the last arrow hit the target.

  “Does that mean we’re winning?” Noelle asked Mr. Clay after a lad with brown hair scored an impressive nineteen points. She stood on the porch of the schoolhouse with the Clays, Mrs. Phelps, and Elizabeth Raleigh along with about a dozen other spectators. The vicar and Mr. Raleigh were inside the roped area with Gresham’s team.

  Had anyone but the Clays invited her to accompany them, Noelle would have demurred. But the actor had been in a charming, animated mood at the breakfast table, and the thought of spending another day in her room brooding over Quetin was immensely depressing.

  “We won’t know that until it’s over and the scores are tallied up,” Mr. Clay explained.

  He spoke to her with much more warmth than at any time since her arrival in Gresham. At first Noelle wondered if he and Mrs. Clay were at disagreement over something and he was attempting to make her jealous, but that notion was put to rest when she saw them holding hands as they left the dining room. She supposed she must resign herself to the idea that the two were a package. One had to put up with pits if one wished to enjoy plums, and with thorns to enjoy roses. And Mrs. Clay’s company was certainly more tolerable than Meara Desmond’s had been.

  Just the thought of the woman’s treachery was enough to increase the ache in the lump that had lodged itself inside her chest since Wednesday. She had to think about something else, or she would dissolve into tears and make a scene, so she turned her attention back to the match. Another boy was just stepping up to the shooting line. “Where is he from?” she asked Mrs. Raleigh, standing at her right.

  “Prescott,” the vicar’s daughter replied with a smile. “They’ve won for the past two years. Papa was almost beside himself with anxiety this morning.”

  “I would think your husband would be anxious as well, being the schoolmaster.”

  Mrs. Raleigh and Mrs. Phelps exchanged quick glances. Leaning closer, Mrs. Raleigh lowered her voice to explain, “It’s more personal with Papa, you see. A certain vicar lords it over him whenever Prescott wins.”

  “Elizabeth…” cautioned her stepmother.

  “Your secret is safe with me,” Noelle said, giving a conspiratorial smile to both. “I know just how it is. Vicarage walls are made of glass.”

  She had slept only fitfully for the past three nights, so her mind was not functioning as well as it should have been. She did not realize her slip of the tongue until Mrs. Phelps asked with a surprised expression, “Why, Mrs. Somerville. Is your father a vicar?”

  The mind that had betrayed her couldn’t think fast enough to provide her with an escape. And the Clays were watching her curiously now as well. “He is,” she replied in an off-handed manner, hoping that by going ahead and admitting it the subject would wear itself out soon.

  But it was not to be, for Mrs. Phelps was smiling at her as if she had just discovered they were twins who had been separated from birth. “Andrew is well acquainted with several London vicars. I can’t wait to tell him. Perhaps he knows your father.”

  “Wouldn’t that be something?” Noelle agreed halfheartedly.

  “Perhaps we’ve even attended his church,” said Mrs. Clay with the same pleased expression. “Which one is it?”

  Finally Noelle’s mind decided to function. “Oh, but my father hasn’t preached in London for years. I lived there because that was my husband’s post of duty, you see. My family lives in…Truesdale.”

  It worked, for even if such a town existed outside the advertisement in her biscuit tin, no recognition came across any of the faces about her. She felt safe enough to add, “It’s no wonder you haven’t heard of it. It’s a small village in Humberside, smaller than Gresham, actually. But it’s a charming place, and they are very happy there.”

  She was rescued from any further inquiry by Mr. Clay, who pointed out at the match and said, “It looks as if Grace will be next.”

  All eyes in the Clay-Raleigh-Phelps party turned back in that direction. Even Noelle was interested in seeing how the girl performed and not just because of the fortunate timing. The girl reminded her of herself as a child—quiet and thoughtfully somber. But she didn’t think the Phelps’s child’s quiet temperament stemmed from loneliness, as had her own. People were born with different natures, else how could she explain why she was never able to content herself with the upbringing her siblings had apparently thrived upon?

  Grace’s first shot landed in the blue ring to score five points, which brought applause from all over. Most enthusiastic was from the group on the porch, with Noelle contributing as well. One of the girl’s six arrows missed the target completely, but one scored a nine, and so her final tally was eighteen. Not the most impressive score, but still applause rippled through the assemblage.

  The vicar’s two other daughters appeared on the steps from wherever they had been watching the match with faces beaming. “Did you see her, Mother?” Aleda asked unnecessarily.

  “She didn’t look nervous at all,” declared the blond-haired Laurel.

  Both nodding, Mrs. Phelps and Mrs. Raleigh agreed that she had performed well. Noelle imagined their smiles would be no less broad if Grace had scored the lowest of all. Their enthusiasm seemed to be based on the girl being a beloved part of their family rather than on her performance. How strange and wonderful to be accepted and cherished for simply being alive. Would Quetin’s attentions have found their way into her own eighteen-year-old heart so completely had she not been so starved for indications that she mattered to someone?

  When Noelle realized Mrs. Phelps was speaking to her, the two girls were gone from the steps, and a brown-haired lad had taken Grace’s place
in front of the target.

  “I beg your pardon?” she said to the vicar’s wife.

  “Will you join us for lunch afterward?” Mrs. Phelps asked. “The Clays have agreed, and Elizabeth and Jonathan are coming as well. I know Andrew would enjoy trying to figure out if you have any mutual acquaintances in the ministry.”

  Though she had nothing else to do but pace the floor of her room to wait for a letter—which may or may not ever come—Noelle could not afford to accept. For if Mrs. Phelps ever realized she had not been straightforward about her background, she would surely demand she leave the Larkspur. She was a kind woman, but even kind people could be maddeningly stubborn about sticking to their principles.

  Where else could you go? Noelle asked herself. Even if she happened to have enough money left for a ticket to London, she had no place to stay. Though Valerie and Geneva would extend sympathy, there was little else they could do, being the paramours of Quetin’s fellow Members of Parliament.

  It was an odd twist of fate that she found herself clinging to the place she once loathed. But cling she would have to do, until Quetin came to his senses. Noelle smiled gratefully at the vicar’s wife. “It’s so kind of you to ask, but I’m rather fatigued.”

  “Oh dear.” Mrs. Phelps gave her a sympathetic look. “You haven’t a headache, have you?”

  “Not at all,” Noelle was quick to assure her. She was quite pleased with herself when a different one came to mind. “I’m embarrassed to admit I spent most of the night reading. I lose all track of time when I’m in the pages of a good novel.”

  “You too?” Mrs. Phelps looked past her at Mrs. Clay. “I can recall when Fiona would stay up for hours to read. Do you still do that, Fiona?”

  “Oh, sometimes,” was the Irish woman’s smiling reply. “Though I inevitably regret it the next morning. What were you reading, Mrs. Somerville?”