“Did he really do that, Mr. Sanders?” A wide-eyed Trudy asked, standing at her mother’s side with her skinny arms wrapped around her waist.
“Well, mebbe not that early.” Harold winked at the girl and grinned.
About a dozen chickens scattered when he neared the wagon after bidding the family farewell. He hadn’t noticed them before, but it eased his mind that the food in his belly hadn’t caused too much of a hardship. As he sat alone in the moving wagon, Harold wondered at the odd feeling that had overtaken him at some point today. Peaceful—as if he was sitting on a cloud. All his life he had sneered at folks who helped others, like Mercy helping Mrs. Brent when the old woman was dying, but he was beginning to understand it a little better. Because if it made folks feel good to do such things, why wouldn’t they keep it up?
He was feeling so at peace with the world that by the time he reached home, he had decided that when he got his own place, he would do more for Mrs. Meeks and that brood of children. He didn’t think Miss Clark, who would be his wife then, would mind their spending a little money on a poor family. After all, she had bought spectacles for Phoebe.
Chapter 33
“Good evening, young man!” Mr. Clark greeted from his cottage doorway Monday night. “Were you able to work on the hill today?”
“Yes, thankfully,” Jacob replied, smiling as he entered the cottage. His spirits were lighter than they had been since Saturday, for finally this evening Eugenia had come down to supper in a talkative mood, even telling him about a plot she was spinning for her next novelette.
“And what did you find, pray tell?” Mr. Clark asked.
He had anticipated that question from at least one of the three Clarks and dug into his pocket. “We found a number of these in the remains of a wooden box.”
“Why, it’s a spoon!” Mr. Clark exclaimed, closing one eye and holding it away from his face. “It’s hard for me to see up close anymore. Bronze, isn’t it?”
“It is. The upper classes used silver, but we’ve found but two of those so far.”
“What did the poor use?”
“They carved them from wood, usually.”
“How fascinating.” Turning to take four paces back toward the other door, he called out, “Lydia! Oriel!”
Jacob smiled again. He could imagine his own father calling out for help from the bakery counter. Presently the two women came into the room with warm greetings for him. Mr. Clark had no sooner given them a chance to admire the spoon when he handed it back to Jacob and said, “Well, Oriel and I have chores to attend. You’d best get on with your book meeting.”
Soon Jacob was seated on the sofa with Miss Clark, the cat dozing between them, and a copy of Venitia and the Highwayman in her lap. “Do you think I could examine the spoon for just a moment?” she asked. “My father sort of whisked it away in there.”
“But of course.” Jacob took it from his pocket again and handed it to her. “We found several today.”
“How exciting,” she said, turning the spoon to catch the lamplight. “I can just imagine a Roman soldier sitting down to have his…whatever he ate with this. But no forks?”
“They weren’t used until the eleventh century. And only rarely then. Those early ones had only two prongs, by the way.”
“But how did people manage before forks? Not all foods can be eaten with a spoon.”
Jacob smiled, held up his hands, and wiggled his fingers.
“I should have guessed,” Miss Clark said, returning his smile. Her expression then altered, as if she were weighing a question.
“Is there something else you’d like to know?” Jacob asked her. He could talk about antiquities for hours on end. It was only fear of becoming a bore combined with his natural timidity that restrained him.
She hesitated. “We’re having our last week of school, Mr. Pitney. My students would enjoy seeing this. Do you think…?”
“But of course. Take it with you tomorrow, if you like. I know Mr. Ellis would concur. We’re delighted to show off our finds.” Frowning, he added, “We shipped our most recent batch this morning, or I would offer some other items as well.”
“There is always next year, if the offer still stands,” she told him with a hopeful expression.
“Absolutely.”
“Thank you. I can’t think of a more interesting way to supplement a history lesson.”
“Your students enjoy history?”
“I’ve some very motivated students, but most would rather be outside playing a game of rounders, I fear.”
“How do you keep them dedicated to their studies?”
“By making the subject matter relate to their own lives as much as possible. And yet also attempting to expand their horizons so that they’ll develop a thirst for new ideas and experiences.”
“You must be a very good teacher,” Jacob said. Anyone whose eyes lit up like hers just did had to have a passion for her profession, he thought.
“Thank you, Mr. Pitney.” She smiled again as she set the spoon down on the sofa arm. “I do give it my best. As you do.” As if suddenly remembering the reason he was there, she picked up the book from her lap. “But we’re wasting your time, aren’t we?”
Jacob hadn’t thought so, but he had to remind himself that he was there to study novelettes and not waste Miss Clark’s time. So he turned his attention to the passages she had marked with slips of paper. And when they had ferreted out any potential symbolism, he cleared his throat and gathered up the courage to make another request.
“Would you consider teaching me poetry, Miss Clark?”
“Poetry?” she repeated, tilting her head as if she hadn’t heard correctly.
He cleared his throat again. “Romantic poetry is what I’m chiefly interested in.”
A corner of her mouth twitched, yet it seemed as if a shadow had passed across her face. “Chiefly interested in, Mr. Pitney? Along with what other kind?”
“I beg your pardon?” But then the meaning of her question dawned upon him. “Well, no other kind, actually. So it would be only romantic poetry.” He had trouble looking into her green eyes for some reason, so he stared at the cover of Venitia and the Highwayman and counted the ticks of the chimneypiece clock.
“I’ll not be able to help you with that, Mr. Pitney,” she said at length, folding her hands upon the closed novelette.
Perhaps she had mistakenly assumed he would not offer compensation, he told himself. “I would pay you extra, of course.”
She gave him a little smile but shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“I understand,” Jacob assured her, although he didn’t, for he had the uneasy impression that her declining had more to do with disapproval than disinterest. But surely a person who taught poetry in a classroom wouldn’t disapprove of anyone wishing to learn it. He wished he had the nerve to ask her if he had somehow offended her. Just ask, he urged himself. She won’t be angry. Indeed, he was beginning to consider Miss Clark a good friend, and couldn’t one friend be frank with another?
But years of timidity were not easily shaken, so he nodded and said he should be leaving. He held out a hand to assist her to her feet, and she accompanied him through the cottage. “Good night, Miss Clark,” he said at the door. Remembering the copy of Madeleine’s Quest, he dipped his hand into a coat pocket. “Oh, and here’s the next one. You still wish to continue, don’t you?”
“Of course, Mr. Pitney.”
She looked as if she wished to say something else, or was he just imagining it? He shifted his weight upon his feet. “Thank you. Well, good night, Miss Clark.”
“Good night, Mr. Pitney.”
Jacob had only gone three steps across the porch when he stopped abruptly. You have to know, he told himself, turning.
She answered his knock almost immediately. “Did you forget something, Mr. Pitney?”
“What is wrong with my studying poetry, Miss Clark?”
With no expression that he could fathom, she stared at h
im for a second or two, then took a step backward. “Do come inside, please.”
The door closed behind Jacob. “Correct me if I’m mistaken,” he said in a humble tone. “But I have the distinct impression you disapprove.”
“May I ask why you wish to study poetry?”
“Why, yes.” He could feel warmth in his cheeks, even though she was already aware of why he studied the novelettes so carefully. “Eugenia…Miss Rawlins…mentioned that men who quote poetry…”
“I see,” she said, sparing him from having to explain further.
“What do you see, Miss Clark?”
With quiet frankness she replied, “I see a man having to jump through hoops like a circus pony to gain the favor of a woman who can’t appreciate him for the decent, kind person he is. And that is why I’ll have nothing to do with your poetry quest, Mr. Pitney. It’s bad enough that I’m party to studying the novelettes.”
Jacob’s jaw dropped. “But, Miss Clark, why is it so wrong to try to please the person you—” He meant to say love because that was what he felt for Eugenia in his heart. But his tongue would not cooperate, so he finished with, “care for?”
“It just is, if you have to become a completely different person to do so, Mr. Pitney. And now I’m quite fatigued, so I must bid you good-night.”
In less than a minute he was crossing the porch again, both hands in his trouser pockets. The sun had been completely swallowed up by the Anwyl, and he was glad for it, for any passersby would surely notice his flaming cheeks.
By the time he reached the Larkspur’s courtyard door, he had realized that he held no resentment toward Miss Clark. Indeed, he appreciated her frankness and that she had even called him decent and kind. But he was embarrassed that he had even mentioned the poetry, for the notion now seemed foolish.
Not foolish enough to deter his plan, however. There was one thing Miss Clark didn’t understand—how the happiness he felt when Eugenia looked at him with approval was worth any amount of trouble.
Harold spent all Wednesday morning waiting for a chance to slip away to the horse farm at the end of the lane, but his papa seemed determined to watch his every move. And it was Dale’s fault, for he had snipped most of Mrs. Winter’s sweetbrier roses on Saturday past to bring to his girl in Myddle. The cook was so furious upon making the discovery that she threatened to pack up and leave, until Harold’s father had had to promise to build her that worktable.
But Harold couldn’t hold too much of a grudge against Dale, for the meals had suddenly taken a turn for the better. At lunch, Harold barely dared look at the head of the table for fear some new chore would be laid upon his back. With the archery practices at an end and school almost over, he needed advice in the worst way.
“Harold,” Papa grunted around a mouthful of buttered rhubarb.
Harold held his breath.
“Nip over to Seth’s and borrow his bench claw when you finish. We need to get started on thet table.”
Letting out his breath again, Harold nodded. “That’s a right good idea, Papa.”
“Aye, and you’ll be sure to make it so’s the legs is even,” Mrs. Winters called out from the stove. Another good thing about her and Papa settling their differences was that she had stopped pounding bread dough and chopping onions at the table during meals. “I can’t abide a table what rocks to and fro.”
“You’d best get his level too,” Papa said with a weary expression.
Harold hurried through his lunch and took off on foot. He walked through the Langford cottage calling his sister’s name, but no one answered. Just in case, he decided to check the stables, and there he found Seth using a hoof hook on the hoof of a yellow Cleveland bay about sixteen hands high.
“Afternoon, Harold,” his brother-in-law greeted, looking up for a second.
“Where’s Mercy and Amanda?” Harold asked, for Thomas would be at school.
“Shopping in Shrewsbury with Mrs. Bartley.”
It didn’t seem fitting that his sister would run off with the squire’s wife and leave her husband to starve. “Well, what about your lunch?”
Seth looked up again. “She left me some sandwiches. Women need to do things with other women sometimes, Harold.”
He shrugged. “That a new horse you got there?”
“Bought her yesterday from a fellow in Whixall who wanted to sell off his stock. I’ve put the word to Mr. Trumble that we’re looking for a couple of stable hands, if you know anybody interested.”
Harold was interested himself. If he had to break his back working, it might as well be for wages. But he knew what his papa would say to that, which was another reason he had to get his own place. He sure envied Seth Langford’s freedom to run his farm according to his own wishes.
“You’ll make a good profit?”
“A decent one,” Seth replied, still working on the hoof.
“That’s good.” Running his hand along the animal’s velvet flank, Harold asked impulsively, “If I ever marry and get my own place, will you sell me a team cheap?”
His brother-in-law sent him an understanding smile. “I’ll give you a team as a wedding gift. How about that?”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
“Why would you do that?” he had to ask, considering how hateful he and his papa and brothers had been to Seth before he married Mercy.
“Because you’re family, Harold,” Seth replied, back to work at the horse’s hoof. “Families don’t profit from each other.”
Harold was touched, and searched for the words to tell him so. When they wouldn’t come, he simply said, “That’s right decent of you, Seth.”
“You’re welcome.”
He remembered then that Papa was waiting and got to the most important reason for his visit. “I tried what you said about being distant with Miss Clark. It didn’t work.”
“Then I expect you should give up.”
That was the last thing he wanted to hear. “Don’t you have any other ideas?”
Letting down the hoof again, Seth hung the hook on a nail. “Why do you even ask, when you ignore the most important advice we’ve given you?”
Harold winced. “You ain’t gonter go on about church again, are you?”
“Nope.” Seth unlatched the stall door and slapped the horse’s flank, sending it into the paddock where several others were gathered. “I’d just as soon waste my breath talking to a hitching post.”
“Now, that ain’t a nice thing to say, Seth.”
Turning to him, his brother-in-law crossed his arms across his thick chest. “Harold, I’ve work to do, as you can see. So I’m going to say this just once. If you aren’t willing to endure an hour of church every week for Miss Clark, maybe you had better ask yourself if your feelings for her are genuine.”
“Genu…”
“If they’re real, Harold. And if they’re not, you’d be doing yourself a favor by forgetting about her.”
Though he was fuming inside, Harold couldn’t bring himself to stand his ground. Not after what Seth had said about giving him a team of horses. “Got to get back home,” he mumbled with a halfhearted wave of the hand. He had gotten halfway before remembering the tools. By the time he reached home and had to endure his papa’s swearing fit for taking so long, he was in such a foul mood that his teeth began to ache from the grinding.
It was during the afternoon milking that Harold’s temper finally took a turn for the better. He sat on a stool beside Juneberry, who delighted in whipping her tail back to slap his face, and recalled the many times he had happened to be in the vicinity of Saint Jude’s just as Sunday morning services let out. Folks milled around the grounds visiting afterward—dozens and dozens of them. If he happened to be there too, dressed in his new tweed coat and checkered trousers, who was to know that he hadn’t been in church?
Just then Juneberry let fly with her tail again, but it didn’t wipe the grin from Harold’s face.
Should I? Paul Treves asked himself again
as his train left Birmingham Station on Thursday morning. Sunday activities and his scheduled visit home the next day had prevented him from seeing how Mrs. Somerville was faring. But he was glad for the hindrances, for he needed some time to think. Had he not realized at the archery tournament how much he enjoyed her company, he would have had no inner struggle. It would be a simple matter of paying a courtesy call.
The fact that he and she were both eligible, however, complicated matters. For a visit, combined with the fact that he rather liked her, could be the first step on the road to a courtship. Providing she showed some sign of interest in him, of course. And he believed even that first step should not be taken lightly, for the road ended in marriage. The farther down it a person walked, the more difficult it was to turn aside—or the more painful it was when the other person chose to do so, as had been the case for him with Elizabeth.
He had prayed for direction for the past four days, but with no clear answer. That evening as he readied himself for bed, his prayer changed. If for some reason God chose not to reveal His wishes in this, Paul could accept that. God saw the entire picture—even how the picture would alter in years to come, and sometimes silence was His instrument. But, Father, if Mrs. Somerville would be adverse to my calling on her now and then, please have her give me some sign.
He didn’t want to make a fool of himself, and he surely didn’t want her having to endure his company only for the sake of politeness.
On Friday, Julia and Andrew joined the squire and Mrs. Bartley for lunch in the manor house garden. They sat at a wrought-iron table, surrounded by a kaleidoscopic mixture of blue delphiniums, scarlet Oriental poppies, mauve and white foxgloves, and golden feverfew, as they feasted on an excellent Filet de Porcelet aux Pois Nouveaux, along with herbed cucumber-and-tomato salad.
“Well, I don’t see what you have to worry about,” Mrs. Bartley was saying as she refilled Andrew’s teacup. She waved away a curious bee, causing the gold bracelet on her wrist to flash with reflected sunlight. “Ben Mayhew is a fine young man.”
The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark Page 35
